Gospel Story Finder

Jonathan wondered if he was really sure. His parents had talked to him a lot about taking good care of his bike. But when he thought of his parents, he remembered scripture stories they had taught him about helping others. And his dad was always helping people. A lot of the time Jonathan got to help too. He helped his dad get firewood for a family whose truck had broken down. He helped his dad clean Sister Story’s yard when she couldn’t get around very well. That was fun because she had a little dog named Peetie, who liked Jonathan a lot. He remembered his dad driving him to Brother and Sister Call’s house to leave treats on the porch, knock, and run away. They did that several times until the Calls guessed who was doing it. After that, they knocked, took the treats into the house, and stayed for a good visit.
The more Jonathan thought about his dad, the more he was sure he wanted Kevin to borrow his bike so he could finish the route and get to the baseball game. “Sure I’m sure,” Jonathan said. “I’ll push your bike to my house and you can pick it up after the game. Maybe my dad and I can help you fix it.”
“Wow! Thanks again,” Kevin said.
They took Jonathan’s empty newspaper bag off the bike. Kevin put his half-full bag over his shoulder and took off pedaling fast. “See you at the game!” he yelled.
As he pushed Kevin’s bike down the street, Jonathan didn’t stop to splash more cold water on himself. He already felt great!
“The Savior promises great blessings to those who give of themselves: ‘Give, and it shall be given unto you.’”Bishop H. David Burton, Presiding Bishop, “Tender Hearts and Helping Hands,” Ensign, May 2006, 11.

From the first time she came to church, 16-year-old Moema Duberley loved it. “The girls were very receptive and tried to help me get to know everybody,” she says. “It made me feel like the Church was my second home.”
But it became difficult for Moema to come to church when her mother stopped attending a few months after their baptism. Partly because of her calling but mostly because of their friendship, Katarina began calling Moema.
“Sometimes I felt like I was bothering Moema,” says Katarina, “but I kept trying because I felt it was important, and I knew God was going to help because I was also praying.”
After months of Katarina’s and other girls’ fellowshipping, Moema returned to full activity. “I came back because I was missing everything I had been learning at church and my relationship with God and the members.”
Now Moema and Katarina share a special bond. “I’m really grateful because I needed a friend when I was less active,” says Moema. “I’m very thankful for Katarina being like this for me. When you spend time away from the Church, you begin to feel that maybe you won’t be accepted. But when people call, it feels good to know you’re not forgotten.”
As for Katarina, “I feel really happy and thankful that Moema came back,” she says. “And it worked! I prayed and it worked.”

In the Crandall family were three redheaded brothers. Matthew and Mark were ten-year-old twins; Luke was eight. The three boys shared everything, including a basement bedroom and the battered blue bicycle with the bright red seat. They often put their three red heads together to make the best and most spectacular plans.
One summer day when the boys had exhausted every idea for adventure, they sat dejectedly in the shade of a maple tree. “If only we each had our own bicycle,” Matthew sighed. “We could explore the whole town.”
“Yeah,” Mark and Luke moaned in unison.
Suddenly Matthew sat up straight. “Listen!” he exclaimed. “There’s our answer!”
Mark cocked an ear. “That’s just Mr. Brown starting his lawn mower.”
Matthew punched the air. “Exactly!”
Mark and Luke exchanged bewildered glances.
“Remember the Petersons’ rummage sale?” Matthew said. “No one bought those two used lawn mowers.”
Mark nodded. “Mr. Peterson said we could have them to make go-carts.”
Matthew continued breathlessly. “Go-carts can wait. We’re going to start our own lawn-mowing service! We’ll earn enough money for three brand-new bikes!”
“Yippee!” Mark yelled.
Luke’s eyes grew as round as baseballs. His very own bike? Just by mowing a few lawns? “When do we start?”
They agreed on a plan: Matthew and Mark would get Mr. Peterson’s mowers humming again. Luke would use Dad’s new mower. Searching through a thick department store catalog, they selected the bicycle of their dreams—the Deluxe Sun Racer for $129.95. Matthew brought out his calculator. With sales tax, each boy would need to mow thirty lawns at five dollars each.
“Thirty lawns? How are we going to find thirty lawns to mow?” Mark asked.
“Tomorrow we’ll go door-to-door,” Matthew explained. He looked at his younger brother, who was nervously biting his lower lip. “Don’t worry, Luke. We’ll all go together. Mom always says that three redheads are better than one!”
Mom was right. People found it hard to refuse the three redheaded brothers with shiny, scrubbed cheeks and sparkling green eyes. By the end of the day, they had appointments for twenty-six lawns. The next day added even more customers, and Matthew announced that the mowing would begin Saturday morning. “Mark, you’re scheduled for five lawns in Jimmy’s neighborhood. I’ll do five in the Petersons’, and, Luke, you’ll do five in our own.”
Luke gulped. Five lawns in one day? Was it possible? “Are you sure we can—?” he began.
“Of course!” Matthew said brightly. “It’ll be easy! Plan on half an hour for each lawn, and we’ll be home in time for lunch!”
Luke still felt doubtful, but when Matthew opened the catalog, now permanently creased at the Deluxe Sun Racer page, his excitement quickly returned.
Saturday morning arrived under a cloudless sky. The first three appointments were for nine o’clock sharp, and the three brothers parted at the corner. “You’ll do great, Luke!” Matthew called over his shoulder. “Just concentrate on that new Deluxe Sun Racer!”
Luke waved and tried to smile. He looked at the list Matthew had given him. “Johnson, Taylor, Parker, Martinez, Hall.” Five lawns. Luke studied Mr. Johnson’s yard. It was nice and square, with one tree in the front yard and one in the back. Easy as pie.
But it was ten fifteen when Luke, red-faced and sweating, finally moved on to the Taylors’.
Dad came by about ten thirty to bring him a snack. “Luke? I thought you’d be at the Parkers’ by now. Are you all right, son?”
Luke nodded and blinked back weary tears. He took a long drink of the ice water Mom had sent, and wiped his face on his sleeve. “Don’t tell Matthew, Dad. I’ll catch up. Look at the Halls’ yard. That one will be a cinch!”
Luke carefully turned the mower around a sprinkler head. Maybe Matthew hadn’t figured on the extra time required for things like sprinklers and flower beds and little toys scattered around that had to be picked up. At this rate, Luke might be finished by dinnertime—or bedtime.
About twelve-thirty, disaster struck. Luke was puffing along the side of the Martinezes’ little red-brick house when something clanged and snapped, and Dad’s mower came to a sickening, grinding halt. “Oh, no!” Luke groaned. It couldn’t be a sprinkler head, and it wasn’t a ball or toy. Making sure the engine was off, he tipped the mower onto its side.
It was horribly terrible. It was terribly horrible. It was worse than anything he could have imagined. There, with a clump of freshly-mown grass clinging to it, was the mower blade, bent and twisted, barely hanging by one crooked bolt to the motor.
The culprit was a gleaming piece of steel the size of a ruler that had lain buried in the blades of grass, waiting to attack Dad’s mower. Luke fell backward on the soft grass and put his arms over his face in horror.
“Luke? What’s wrong?”
It was Mr. Martinez. He looked pale and frightened. Luke stood up. “I’m OK, Mr. Martinez. It’s the mower. I’m afraid it’s wrecked. I’m sorry, but I’ll have to come back another time to finish your lawn.”
Mr. Martinez patted him on the back. “Don’t worry. You were almost finished. I can cut the rest myself.” He tucked a crisp five-dollar bill into Luke’s shirt pocket even though Luke protested. “You earned it, Luke. I’m proud of you.”
Luke shook his head and trudged home. There would never be a Deluxe Sun Racer with his name on it now.
Parking the broken mower behind the garage, he slipped down to his room and curled up on his bed. Why me? he thought.
He wasn’t in hiding very long. “What have you done, Luke?” Matthew yelled bursting into the room. “The best mower we have is now a pile of junk!”
Mark was right behind him. “You only finished four lawns! Now we’ll have to do your last one another day!”
“If there is another day!” Matthew raged. “Mr. Hall said he’d wasted a whole Saturday waiting for some pip-squeak to mow his lawn! You really blew it this time, Luke!”
Luke was sick. He had blown it. That night he had nightmares of metal monsters in a sea of grass. His brothers were flying over him on their slick new bikes as he pushed five, six, seven mowers until—crunch—they all turned into knots of tangled steel.
The next morning, his brothers were still angry. They ignored him as they dressed for church. They ignored him during breakfast. They ignored him when they walked to the meetinghouse.
In class, Luke sat with his eyes on the floor. Sister Harding asked him questions, but he only shrugged in reply. She was talking about Lehi’s travels through the wilderness. She paused a moment, searched Luke’s troubled face, then asked, “Luke, you have older brothers, don’t you?”
Luke’s eyes flashed. “Yes.”
Sister Harding leaned forward. “So did Nephi, Luke. What is it like to be a younger brother?”
Luke looked around at the other kids. “It isn’t always fun. They like to boss me around, and … they get mad if I ruin their plans.”
Sister Harding smiled softly. “You and Nephi are a lot alike, Luke. You see, there were many times when Laman and Lemuel ‘bossed’ Nephi around, especially when there was work to be done. Once, when the family was in the wilderness, it was Nephi’s job to help hunt for food. He had a very fine bow made of steel, but on one of his hunting trips, his bow broke. When his brothers found out, they were very angry at him. Their own bows had lost their spring, and without bows, they were afraid that they would starve. So they were mean to Nephi.”
Luke’s eyes grew wide as he listened to his teacher. Nephi and Laman and Lemuel sounded just like him and his brothers!
Sister Harding went on, “Nephi didn’t yell at his brothers. Instead, he built another bow out of wood and made an arrow out of a straight stick. He also made a slingshot and gathered stones for it.”
Luke listened quietly.
“Nephi asked Lehi where he should go to get food for their family,” Sister Harding continued. “Lehi prayed, and Heavenly Father showed Nephi the place to hunt. When he came back with plenty of meat for everyone, his brothers were sorry that they had been so mean. And Nephi forgave them.”
Luke thought about Nephi and the broken bow all day, especially when Matthew and Mark sneaked off after dinner to make new plans without him. Fine, Luke thought. I have plans of my own to make. And he didn’t forget to say a heartfelt prayer before he climbed into bed that night.
The next morning, he called Uncle Tim, who worked in a salvage yard. He often helped the boys find parts for their old blue bicycle. “Uncle Tim? I need a mower blade.”
Uncle Tim laughed. “One of those old mowers needs a new blade already, huh?”
“No, it’s for Dad’s mower. I sort of … broke it last Saturday.”
“Oh.” Uncle Tim was quiet. Luke could hear him turning the pages of the big notebook where many of the parts in the yard were listed. “It looks like I might be able to find one for you, Luke,” he finally answered. “Come by in about an hour.”
Luke gripped the telephone receiver. “Uncle Tim? How much will it cost? I only have two dollars and thirty cents.”
“Well, I’ll find the best one I can for that price.”
For the next hour, Luke worked on getting the twisted blade off Dad’s mower. It was hard to turn the wrench. The bolt was bent, and he had to pound on it. His arms began to ache, and he felt a blister bubbling on his palm. Still, he couldn’t quit until the blade was off. It finally fell with a clunk to the cement, and Luke sat back, trying to catch his breath.
On his way to the salvage yard, Luke saw his brothers playing kickball with Jimmy in a vacant lot. They didn’t pay any attention to him as he passed by.
Uncle Tim was waiting for him with a blade that looked perfect. “I’ll let you have it for … let’s see—one dollar ought to do it.” He wrapped the mower blade in an old newspaper.
Next, Luke took the twisted bolt to the hardware store. He compared the oily, bent bolt to each bin of shiny, silver ones until he found its exact match. Luke handed over his last dollar for the new bolt and pocketed the change triumphantly. He carried his two packages home like prizes.
All through dinner, Matthew and Mark sulked over their spaghetti while Luke looked impish. “Boys,” Dad announced, “I called the hardware store today. It will cost twenty dollars for the parts to fix the mower. I’ve added five of my co-worker’s names to your mowing list. With two working mowers, you should be able to earn the extra money in a day.”
Matthew and Mark moaned loudly. “It’s too hard! We might as well forget the whole idea!” Matthew said.
“No!” Luke cried. “Dad, I fixed your lawn mower today. Uncle Tim helped me find a good blade in the salvage yard.”
Dad stared at him. So did Matthew and Mark. Mom asked, “Does it work?”
Luke nodded and laughed. “I cut the grass out by the street. It works great!” He looked at his brothers. “I promise I’ll make up the lawn I missed Saturday. From now on, I’ll do my best to keep up with you guys.”
There was silence. Then Matthew looked at Mark and said, “Luke, I’m really sorry we got so mad at you. We know it wasn’t your fault. Mark and I have decided that we’ll only do a few lawns a day. So what if it takes longer to get our new bikes? We’ll still have them in a month or so.”
Mark was nodding. “I’m sorry, too, Luke.”
So, Luke thought as he watched his father check out his work after dinner, this is how Nephi felt when he came back with food.
The good feeling lingered even after the three redhaired Crandall boys had ridden their new bikes around town. When they came back, they perched in the tree in their front yard to make more of the best and most spectacular plans.

It was the most exciting thing to happen that fall or any fall. “I just have to go, Mama,” Kate insisted. But Mama said no.
“Please, Mama. I’ve wanted to be a magician all my life, well, anyway, ever since I read that magic book Papa brought me.”
“I know, Kate,” Mama said. “I’m truly sorry and I wish it were possible, but Papa has to go into town to see the lawyer about the pastureland, and I have an appointment with the doctor. That leaves only you to stay with Sarah.”
Mama put her hand gently on her daughter’s head. “You know she can’t go outside until she’s better. You heard what the doctor said about keeping her from chilling.”
I heard him all right, Kate thought. It’s just that I hoped I could find a way to see the magic show.
Sarah coughed upstairs in the loft where she lay on a straw bed covered with warm quilts and a comforter. “Mama,” she called.
Mama said, “You go, will you please, Kate, and see what she wants? Papa’s waiting for me in the wagon.”
Kate went slowly up the ladder to the loft. She looked out the window and saw the wagon pulling away, raising a cloud of dust behind it. She felt her eyes sting when she thought of the magic show and all the excitement in town.
She could just see the bright red wagon with its bells and silver trim pulled by prancing white horses. There would probably be a silver awning over the driver, who would be the magician himself. He would be wearing a tall hat with gold tassels, very tight pants, and black shiny boots. And his long, expressive hands would be able to fool everyone who came to watch. Everyone except maybe Kate. She knew from reading her book how some of the tricks were done.
“What is it?” she asked Sarah impatiently.
“I …” Sarah began. Then suddenly she turned her face to the wall, but not before Kate saw the quick tears come into her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Kate apologized. She sat on the bed and took Sarah’s hot hands into hers. “I didn’t mean to be cross. Now what can I get for you? A piece of cloud? A chunk of the barn roof?”
“Kate,” Sarah said, trying to match her sister’s smile, “all I want is a drink of water.”
“I guess I can manage that,” Kate said. She went down the ladder and out to the well. As she brought the sloshing bucket up, Kate thought she heard someone behind her. She turned and was startled to see an elderly man standing there.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” the stranger said. He had a long gray beard and wore a huge floppy hat that let long wisps of hair fly out behind. “I just wondered if you could spare some water for me and my horse over there.”
Kate turned to look where he was pointing. A tired horse and an old wagon stood at the edge of the clearing.
“He’s come up lame,” the man said.
“Here,” said Kate, “you can get a drink from this bucket and your horse can drink from the trough. Then we’ll take him into the barn where I can look at his hoof. I’m pretty good with horses.”
The old man unhitched the old horse and let it drink before leading it to a stall. Kate brought some medicine and bandages. Gently she talked to the horse while applying some ointment. Then she expertly wrapped the leg with white strips of cotton cloth. “He’ll be all right now,” she announced, “but you better let him rest a little while.”
“You’ve done a good job,” he said. “Never saw a horse doctor do better. I’ll just settle down here for a bit and keep him company.”
Kate left the old man in the barn and hurried into the house with the bucket. She explained the delay to Sarah and told her all about the man and the horse. Then she went down to fix dinner. While she was boiling potatoes, she imagined the silken scarves that the magician would draw out of his sleeves, the top hat with the rabbit suddenly appearing under it, the doves that would fly out of his coat and swoop around the tent.
She took a tray up to Sarah and then went to the barn and invited the old man up to the house for something to eat.
“I’d be grateful,” he said. “And look how much better my horse is.”
Kate led the way to the house. Later, when the old man had finished his meal, he patted the front of his vest and said, “That was a fine meal. I would like to pay you for it and also for treating my horse.”
“Oh, I don’t want pay,” Kate told him. “Mama says that we should do whatever we can to help people, and it will come back to us in some way. So don’t you worry about it.”
“There is something I can do if you’d like. I’m on my way to the next town to give a magic show. I’d never have made it without your help.”
“You mean you’re a—”
“I’m a magician, yes. How would you like to ride into town with me and see a free show?”
Kate thought for just one wonderful moment about riding into town high up on the wagon seat with the magician, waving and smiling at the crowd. But then she explained to him about Sarah.
“Ah, then,” he said, “I’ll just put on a show for you right here!”
He folded down the sides of the wagon and opened up the ends to display a stage full of interesting and exciting things—flags, bells, horns, metal tables with “invisible” tops, silk scarves, hats, balls, and balloons.
“Wait until I get back before you start,” Kate said, running to the house. She climbed the ladder and pulled and tugged Sarah’s bed over to the window. “Look out,” she said, “and watch the magic show. The man with the lame horse I told you about is the magician who was on his way to town!”
After she was sure Sarah was comfortable, Kate hurried back outside and onto the porch steps where she sat hugging her knees.
The magician had changed. He no longer looked like a tired old man. He was dressed in a red velvet jacket, a white top hat, and very tight breeches that tucked into shiny black boots. His hands were thin and dexterous, and he used them in ways that even Kate could not follow. He made things appear and disappear and fly and walk and multiply and divide and waver and float until her head was spinning.
And then, too soon, the show was over. The magician bowed, folded up the sides of his wagon, and went into the barn to change. When he came out leading his horse, the magician looked just the same as he did when Kate first saw him. “My horse is hardly limping now,” he said. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You’ve more than thanked me,” Kate answered. “I’ll remember your wonderful magic show all my life. I’m going to be a magician some day too.”
“If you really want to be one, you will, young lady,” the magician said encouragingly. And then, handing her a carved wooden box with a tiny gold clasp on the lid, he said, “Here, this will be your first magic prop.”
Inside was layer upon layer of beautiful silk scarves. They were in shades of palest pink to fiery red to deep purple.
“From me and my horse,” he said. “Take them and learn to use them. I know you can do it.”
“Oh, I will,” Kate promised. “And thank you ever so much.”
As the magician drove off down the road toward town, Kate thought of the excited people who would watch the show. Some were probably already sitting in the tent waiting for the famous magician. But she and Sarah had seen his show already!
Her feet hardly touching the rungs, Kate flew up the ladder to show the box of scarves to Sarah.

Thank you for the article “Praying Our Way to Church” (June 2010). When we are out of town on vacation my family rarely attends church. Recently I spent two weeks at a summer writing program and didn’t plan on attending church while I was away. During the plane ride I came across the article and read it with great interest. I prayed to find a way to go to church that next Sunday. I found out that I had to have a permission slip to be released from the campus, but after a little persistence I was able to attend Sunday meetings.
Samantha F.

Rigmor Heistø was already 43 years old when this story begins. It was 1963, and in many ways Rigmor was leading a comfortable life. She was married to a prominent physician and had three much-loved children. Like most Norwegians, she belonged to the Lutheran Church, the state church of Norway. She also took part in two Bible study groups.
Yet all was not well. Members of her family were struggling with health problems, and her marriage was troubled.
When Elder John Storheim and Elder John Marshall came to her door, Rigmor was immediately touched. She found their message fascinating; then she began to feel it was true. Her conversations with them answered some questions she had always had—and raised some new ones. She took her questions to her Bible study groups. Disturbed by Rigmor’s new questions, the leaders of one of the groups asked her to stop coming to the group’s meetings. Other friends begged her to stop seeing the missionaries. Her husband opposed her conversion. So intense was the pressure, in fact, that Rigmor told the missionaries not to come back, privately determining to remember the truths she had learned from them.
For several months, Rigmor prayed that she would forget the Church if—as her friends had told her—it really were the devil’s church. But the more she prayed, the more she was reminded of the Church. Finally, she went to a meeting at her church where two hymns that she had heard on a Tabernacle Choir album were played. When the pastor rose and exhorted the congregation to “remember them … who have spoken unto you the word of God” (Heb. 13:7), Rigmor knew in her heart that it was the missionaries who had spoken the word of God to her. She decided to follow her new faith, whatever the cost.
Rigmor’s husband had been influenced by an inaccurate, negative description of the Church in a book by a respected Norwegian theologian, Einar Molland. So he first withheld and then grudgingly gave his permission for Rigmor to be baptized. Rigmor was baptized in 1964; three years later, she and her husband were divorced.

“Want to come sliding after school?” “Sure,” I said. I was seven years old and the newest boy at Garnet Hill School in Glasgow, Scotland. I wasn’t sure what sliding meant, but I was eager to make friends.
Soon we stood by an iron fence. Beyond it, a steep concrete slope fell away between high walls to the base of a building. The slope had been polished like glass by countless children’s leather-soled shoes, making it smooth and slippery—perfect for sliding.
I was a little afraid as I followed my new friends over the fence. I knew that we were trespassing. But I quickly forgot my fear as I hunkered down and pushed off on my first thrilling, wind-whistling, world-blurring slide. Getting back up the slippery slope was a lot harder. I had to push away from the building, run as fast as I could, and grab the iron fence when I reached the top to keep from sliding backward.
Sliding and climbing, I lost all track of time until the rain started falling. We took shelter against the building at the foot of the slope, waiting for the rain to stop. Soon it started getting dark. “I’ve got to go home,” I said. “Mum and Dad will be worried.”
But I made it only halfway up the slope before sliding back down. The rain had made the concrete slipperier than ever. After several desperate tries, we all gave up. We were trapped! The night grew darker as rain continued to drizzle. We didn’t dare call for help, because we were afraid we’d get in trouble for being there. Huddled at the bottom of the slide, cold and fearful, we began to cry.
After what seemed like a long time, a beam of light shone down on us and we heard the gruff voice of the local bobby, or police officer: “Get on up here!”
“We can’t! It’s too slippery!” a quavering voice answered.
Climbing over the fence, the bobby took hold of the iron fence with one hand and leaned down as far as he could. One at a time we scrambled halfway up the slope and grabbed his outstretched hand. After pulling us all to safety, he gave us a friendly scolding and sent us hurrying home to our parents.

Until recently, football, school, and church had always been things that I dealt with separately and tried to balance. After the football season, we were having player meetings with my football coach. He talked to me about leadership and how I could be a better leader. He said something interesting I never expected.
He said, “So I know you’re planning on serving a mission. You’re religious, and you’re OK with talking about God. I want you to talk about God with the other players. That’s why I coach—to draw people closer to God. I want to see people’s lives change. I think you’re one of the best players on the team to do this. When you have a chance, why don’t you talk to someone about God? Some people may reject it, but it may change someone’s life. You never know.”
I had never really connected sports and school and religion. But this conversation connected them for me and got me excited and more ready to share the gospel with others. It allowed me to realize that you can be the same person in football and school and at early-morning seminary in someone’s home and still be successful. Now that I’ve connected them it has made things easier.
This has helped me prepare for a mission. I’m getting more used to talking to people about God, sharing the gospel, and bearing my testimony.
Joseph S., 17, Louisiana, USA

The T’ang dynasty lasted from A.D. 618 to 907. And during this important period in Chinese history, block printing was invented, Buddhism became very strong, and certain areas of the surrounding territory were conquered. The rulers were very rich, especially during the early years of the dynasty, when the T’ang emperor, T’ai-tsung, sat on the throne.
The time came when the emperor wished to find a worthy husband for his daughter, Wen-ch’en, who was a very beautiful, intelligent, and elegant young woman. When the emperor’s wishes became known to the ruler of a kingdom adjoining the T’ang empire, he sent his most trusted official, Prime Minister Lu, to ask on his behalf for Wen-ch’en’s hand in marriage. When the prime minister arrived, he found the representatives of four other rulers there ahead of him.
After some thought, the emperor decided to pose five puzzles for the visiting emissaries to solve. “The ruler whose official shows the greatest wisdom will marry my daughter,” he declared. “After all, he must be very wise if he has chosen such a clever official to serve him. Therefore, he should make a suitable husband for Wen-ch’en.”
The emperor assembled the five emissaries, and ordered one of his courtiers to bring in a length of thread and a large ivory bead, with a hole on either side of it. “Here is the first of five puzzles I shall ask you to solve,” Emperor T’ai-tsung explained. “These holes are connected by a zigzag path. Whoever can thread the bead will solve the first puzzle.”
Each emissary took a turn twisting the thread and trying to string the bead. The first four coaxed it gently, then they tried to force it, and at last they gave up. When Prime Minister Lu’s turn came, he lifted up a tiny ant, looped the thread around its body and placed it at one of the openings in the bead. He blew as hard as he could on the ant and it sped swiftly through the zigzag passageway to the other end.
Emperor T’ai-tsung was impressed. “You are a very clever man. Now, if all of you will follow me, we shall see who can find the answer to the second puzzle.”
Out in the courtyard they found a large pile of cut logs. The emperor said, “There are about a hundred logs here. Can one of you tell me which end of each grew closest to the tree’s roots?”
Four of the emissaries frowned and thought hard, but they could not guess the answer.
Prime Minister Lu asked respectfully, “Your Imperial Highness, am I permitted to have these logs placed in the pond of your courtyard?”
“I have no objection,” the emperor graciously replied.
When the logs had been put into the water, one end of each log sank slightly below the surface while the other bobbed on top of the water.
Prime Minister Lu declared, “The ends beneath the surface are heavier and denser because they are nearer the tree roots and the lighter ends are closer to the tops of the trees.”
“You have solved the first two puzzles very cleverly indeed,” the emperor complimented, “but I wonder whether you will figure out the third.” He smiled and led the five men out to the stables. There he pointed out one hundred mares and one hundred foals. “Your next puzzle requires you to pair each young horse with its mother.”
The five officials walked around looking perplexed at the mares and foals.
It cannot be the size or color, thought Prime Minister Lu. The next day when the emperor asked the officials to match the mares and foals, each of the first four replied that the task was impossible.
Prime Minister Lu confidently said, “Let all the mares be taken from the stables and the foals kept inside. The foals may eat as much hay as they like all day long but they may not be given a single drop of water to drink.”
The next day Prime Minster Lu asked that the foals be let out of the stables. Each foal ran to its mother to drink.
T’ai-tsung was delighted at Prime Minister Lu’s ingenuity. He praised him highly and then told the five that there would be no more puzzles to solve that day. Four of the officials spent the day resting, but Prime Minister Lu wandered in the courtyard, speaking kindly to the courtiers and servants he met and inquiring about the life of the court.
That night as all the officials lay sleeping in the guesthouse, they were suddenly awakened by a tremendous noise of gongs and drums. A courtier suddenly appeared and bowed low. “You are summoned to the presence of his Imperial Highness,” he told them. Then he vanished.
Prime Minister Lu was thoughtful, It is strange indeed that we must find our way to the emperor ourselves. I wonder if this is another puzzle. It will be quite easy to reach the imperial quarters by following the noise of the gongs and drums, but it will be quite difficult to return here in the darkness. Trailing behind the other four officials, he carefully made a small mark at every corner so that he could find his way back.
As soon as the emperor had greeted the five emissaries, he dismissed them with instructions to return at once to their guest quarters.
“The first one to find his way back to the guesthouse will have solved the fourth puzzle,” he announced.
The first four officials stumbled and fumbled in the dark and soon were hopelessly lost in the confusion of the many passages. Treading softly, Prime Minister Lu felt for the marks he had notched at each turn and returned quickly to the guesthouse.
“Prime Minister Lu has won again!” the emperor declared. “But there is one final puzzle to solve tomorrow. It is the most important of all.”
When the five officials gathered the next day, they were faced with a long line of beautiful young girls in silken robes. T’ai-tsung announced, “My daughter, Wen-ch’en, is one of these girls. Which one is she?”
The first four emissaries, eager to make up for failing to solve the other puzzles, quickly chose one of the girls and said, “Your Imperial Highness, this is your daughter.”
But Prime Minister Lu had listened to the talk of the courtiers and the servants while the other officials had spent their time resting. He remembered that one courtier had spoken of Wen-ch’en’s long, glossy black hair while another talked of her pearl white skin. Yet someone else admired her graceful figure and the proud way she held her head high. But of most importance, Wen-ch’en’s little maid servant had told the prime minister that her mistress had a tiny mole on her left wrist so he looked for that.
Prime Minister Lu selected one of the girls and said, “Your Imperial Highness, this girl, most beautiful of all, is your daughter.”
“You have performed the task given you by your ruler perfectly,” the emperor said. “This is indeed my daughter, Wen-ch’en. I give her in marriage to your ruler. He is an extremely wise man to have placed you in his service.”

After we arrived at our mission assignment in Florida, I said to myself, “What am I doing here? I’m homesick. I can’t stand all of these trees so close in around me; I need more open space. If only I had never told the bishop I’d do this! What good can I possibly do here?” I felt completely out of place.

One evening, the branch president asked us if we could visit a couple who had received the missionary lessons two or three times. They were good people, but they hadn’t joined the Church.

“Take me to them!” I said.

We went over to see them, and in less than thirty minutes we had set a baptismal date with the husband. Three weeks from the time we arrived in our field of labor, we baptized him.

When our mission president heard about it, he was delighted. There hadn’t been a baptism in our mission area for more than a year, and only six in the last five years. This gave me the encouragement I needed.

Things really started happening after that; people started coming to church who hadn’t been there in years; we noticed a greater feeling of love and unity among branch members; and we baptized the wife of that first contact.

I remember watching other kids reading with delight in class. Everyone in my family could read and did a lot of it. I once asked my brother, Rob, what was so great about reading. He smiled when he told me that when you read it’s like a whole new world opens.
I had heard the stories of Joseph Smith only being 14 when he received answers to his prayers. I wanted to experience this new world of reading. I was 13, living in Arizona with my dad. In early October, I prayed, sobbing into the sheets of my bed, begging the Lord to grant me the gift of reading. I promised that if he would grant me this great blessing, I would read the Book of Mormon from cover to cover.
Amazingly, in less than 18 days, I jumped six reading levels and was up to the same grade level as others my age. Once I had been told that was impossible. The miracle happened. I struggled but kept my promise and read the whole Book of Mormon. I have since moved on to the other scriptures.
Now that I am 15, I bear my testimony that the scriptures are so important that Heavenly Father allowed a girl with a learning disability to read. I know it is important to him that all of his children read his sacred books. The scriptures have changed my life forever.

I gazed at the girl sitting alone at the table across from mine. Her long hair hid her face, but I could sense her loneliness as she idly scooted food around her tray. I couldn’t help but feel selfish watching her eat by herself when I was surrounded by friends.
One of my friends suddenly elbowed me. “Sierra! I’m talking to you. Wake up!” My focus snapped back to the conversation at our lunch table.
“Oh, sorry! I wasn’t paying attention. Hey, do you guys see that girl sitting over there?” I nodded toward the young woman eating alone. “Do you know her name?”
My friends shrugged and returned to their conversation. Their laughter muddled into the noise of the cafeteria while my mind wandered back to the girl at the table. The thought came that I should do something to help her. “But what if she thinks I’m weird or if she’s waiting for her other friends?” I silently objected. But the thought returned, and I knew what I needed to do.
I shuffled nervously toward her, and she glanced up when I reached her table.
“Do you want to sit with us?” I asked.
She half nodded, gathered her belongings, and followed me as my friends scooted over to give her room to sit.
“I have two classes with you,” I said, “but I don’t think I’ve met you before. What’s your name?”
“Kelsey,”* she said. Her reply was barely audible.
For the rest of lunch, my friends and I asked about her interests and school schedule, trying to help her feel welcome. I could tell she was relieved not to be sitting alone. When lunch was over, a warm, light feeling filled my heart.
In the following weeks, Kelsey continued to sit with us at lunch. While her face always made it seem like she was fine, I could see pain in her eyes. She didn’t talk much about her background, but I could sense that there was a lot of stuff she was trying to keep hidden or forget about.
Months flew by, and I grew to love Kelsey. We enjoyed each other’s friendship. I was amazed by her lofty dreams and loving personality.
One day in our computer class, the teacher moved me next to Kelsey, who seemed to be struggling with some of the material. We spent hours working together, and I watched happily as her grade inched up to an A. For one assignment, we created time lines that included 10 major events in our lives. When Kelsey completed hers, she tapped me on the shoulder.
“Do you want to see my time line?” She grinned.
“Yeah, sure!” I looked over at her computer. Stifling a gasp, I read some of the sad events that had filled Kelsey’s life. My surprise reached its peak, however, when I read the final event on her time line: I met Sierra.
Stunned, I hugged her and whispered, “Oh, Kelsey. Thank you.”
Toward the end of the school year, Kelsey suddenly moved to California. About a year after that, Mrs. Cummings,* who worked at my school, told me she wanted to talk with me. She hesitantly explained that Kelsey had passed away over the weekend. Tears started pouring down my cheeks. Mrs. Cummings didn’t know—or at least couldn’t tell me—how it happened, but she did tell me some things about Kelsey that I hadn’t known before. Her life on earth was challenging. I cried for several days, but even through my tears, I was comforted because of the plan of salvation.
Back in that lunchroom, when I saw a girl sitting alone, Heavenly Father knew she was a daughter of His who needed a friend. He knows our needs and knows how we can meet the needs of others. Though it’s easy to ignore the promptings of the Spirit at times, I will forever be glad for the day I listened to the Spirit at lunch.

Just a few days ago I visited with President Marion G. Romney, known throughout the Church for his ardent advocacy and knowledge of the welfare program. We spoke of the beautiful passage from Isaiah concerning the true fast:
“Is it not to deal thy bread to the hungry, and that thou bring the poor that are cast out to thy house? when thou seest the naked, that thou cover him; and that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh?” (Isa. 58:7.)
As did President Clark, as did President Lee, President Romney wept as he spoke.
Appearing as a golden thread woven through the tapestry of the welfare program is the truth taught by the Apostle Paul: “The letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life.” (2 Cor. 3:6.)
President Ezra Taft Benson frequently counsels us: “Remember, Brethren, in this work it is the Spirit that counts.”
What has the Lord said about the spirit of this work? In a revelation given to the Prophet Joseph at Kirtland, Ohio, in June of 1831, He declared: “Remember in all things the poor and the needy, the sick and the afflicted, for he that doeth not these things, the same is not my disciple.” (D&C 52:40.)
In that marvelous message delivered by King Benjamin, as recorded in the Book of Mormon, we read: “For the sake of retaining a remission of your sins from day to day, that ye may walk guiltless before God—I would that ye should impart of your substance to the poor, every man according to that which he hath, such as feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, visiting the sick and administering to their relief, both spiritually and temporally.” (Mosiah 4:26.)
When we depart from the Lord’s way in caring for the poor, chaos comes. Said John Goodman, president of the National Center for Political Analysis, as reported this year in a Dallas, Texas, newspaper:
“The USA’s welfare system is a disaster. It is creating poverty, not destroying it. It subsidizes divorce, unwed teenage pregnancy, the abandonment of elderly parents by their children, and the wholesale dissolution of the family. The reason? We pay people to be poor. Private charities have always been better at providing relief where it is truly needed.”
In 1982 it was my privilege to serve as a member of President Ronald Reagan’s Task Force on Private Sector Initiatives. Meeting in the White House with prominent leaders assembled from throughout the nation, President Reagan paid tribute to the welfare program of the Church. He observed: “Elder Monson is here representing The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. If, during the period of the Great Depression, every church had come forth with a welfare program founded on correct principles as his church did, we would not be in the difficulty in which we find ourselves today.” President Reagan praised self-sufficiency; lauded our storehouse, production, and distribution system; and emphasized family members assisting one another. He urged that in our need we turn not to government but rather to ourselves.
On another occasion in the White House, I was asked to present to a gathering of America’s religious leaders an example of our welfare program in action. I could have chosen many illustrations, but selected as typical our response to the Teton Dam disaster in Idaho. The result was dramatic. As the First Presidency stated fifty years ago, “The eyes of the world are upon us.” While this is a most important consideration, let us particularly remember that the eyes of God are similarly focused. What might He observe?
Are we generous in the payment of our fast offerings? That we should be so was taught by President Spencer W. Kimball, who urged that “instead of the amount saved by our two or more meals of fasting, perhaps much, much more—ten times more [be given] when we are in a position to do it.” (Ensign, Nov. 1977, p. 79.)
Are we prepared for the emergencies of our lives? Are our skills perfected? Do we live providently? Do we have on hand our reserve supply? Are we obedient to the commandments of God? Are we responsive to the teachings of prophets? Are we prepared to give of our substance to the poor, the needy? Are we square with the Lord?
As we look back through fifty years and reflect on the development of the welfare program, as we look forward to the years ahead, let us remember the place of the priesthood, the role of the Relief Society, and the involvement of the individual. Help from heaven will be ours.
On a cold winter’s night in 1951, there was a knock at my door. A German brother from Ogden, Utah, announced himself and said, “Are you Bishop Monson?” I answered in the affirmative. He began to weep and said, “My brother, his wife, and family are coming here from Germany. They are going to live in your ward. Will you come with us to see the apartment we have rented for them?”
On the way to the apartment, he told me he had not seen his brother for many years. Through the holocaust of World War II, his brother had been faithful to the Church, once serving as a branch president before the war took him to the Russian front.
I observed the apartment. It was cold and dreary. The paint was peeling, the wallpaper soiled, the cupboards empty. A forty-watt bulb, suspended from the living room ceiling, revealed a linoleum floor covering with a large hole in the center. I was heartsick. I thought, “What a dismal welcome for a family which has endured so much.”
My thoughts were interrupted by the brother’s statement, “It isn’t much, but it’s better than they have in Germany.” With that, the key to the apartment was left with me, along with the information that the family would arrive in Salt Lake City in three weeks—just two days before Christmas.
Sleep was slow in coming to me that night. The next morning was Sunday. In our ward welfare committee meeting, one of my counselors said, “Bishop, you look worried. Is something wrong?”
I recounted to those present my experience of the night before, revealing the details of the uninviting apartment. There were a few moments of silence. Then Brother Eardley, the group leader of the high priests, said, “Bishop, did you say that apartment was inadequately lighted and that the kitchen appliances were in need of replacement?” I answered in the affirmative. He continued, “I am an electrical contractor. Would you permit the high priests of this ward to rewire that apartment? I would also like to invite my suppliers to contribute a new stove and a new refrigerator. Do I have your permission?”
I answered with a glad “Certainly.”
Then Brother Balmforth, the seventies president, responded, “Bishop, as you know, I’m in the carpet business. I would like to invite my suppliers to contribute some carpet, and the seventies can easily lay it and eliminate that worn linoleum.”
Then Brother Bowden, the president of the elders quorum, spoke up. He was a painting contractor. He said, “I’ll furnish the paint. May the elders paint and wallpaper that apartment?”
Sister Miller, the Relief Society president, was next to speak. “We in the Relief Society cannot stand the thought of empty cupboards. May we fill them?”
The three weeks which followed are ever to be remembered. It seemed that the entire ward joined in the project. The days passed, and at the appointed time, the family arrived from Germany. Again at my door stood the brother from Ogden. With an emotion-filled voice, he introduced to me his brother, his brother’s wife, and their family. Then he asked, “Could we go visit the apartment?” As we walked up the staircase leading to the apartment, he repeated, “It isn’t much, but it’s more than they have had in Germany.” Little did he know what a transformation had taken place and that many who had participated were inside waiting for our arrival.
The door opened to reveal a newness of life. We were greeted by the aroma of freshly painted woodwork and newly papered walls. Gone was the forty-watt bulb, along with the worn linoleum it had illuminated. We stepped on carpet deep and beautiful. A walk to the kitchen presented to our view a new stove and new refrigerator. The cupboard doors were still open; however, they now revealed every shelf filled with food. As usual, the Relief Society had done its work.
In the living room, we began to sing Christmas hymns. We sang “Silent night! Holy night! All is calm, all is bright.” (Hymns, 1985, no. 204.) We sang in English; they sang in German. At the conclusion, the father, realizing that all of this was his, took me by the hand to express his thanks. His emotion was too great. He buried his head in my shoulder and repeated the words, “Mein Bruder, mein Bruder, mein Bruder.”
It was time to leave. As we walked down the stairs and out into the night air, snow was falling. Not a word was spoken. Finally, a young girl asked, “Bishop, I feel better than I have ever felt before. Can you tell me why?”
I responded with the words of the Master: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” (Matt. 25:40.) Suddenly there came to mind the words from “O Little Town of Bethlehem”:
How silently, how silently,
The wondrous gift is giv’n!
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of his heav’n.
No ear may hear his coming;
But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive him, still
The dear Christ enters in.
(Hymns, 1985, no. 208.)
Silently, wondrously, His gift had been given. Lives were blessed, needs were met, hearts were touched, and souls were saved. A provident plan had been followed. A precious promise had been fulfilled.
I testify that God lives, that Jesus is the Christ, that we are led by a prophet, that sacrifice does indeed bring forth the blessings of heaven. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

A good example of compassion and service making a difference is the example of Don and Marian Summers, which represents the experiences of many other missionary couples. While serving in England, they were asked to serve the last six months of their mission in the Swindon Branch to teach and assist in activating members. For eighty years Swindon had been a branch with a faithful few and with many good members becoming less active.
Don and Marian recently wrote me, recalling the following:
“Our first visit to Swindon Branch was a bit disheartening as we met with the Saints in a cold, rented hall. The congregation numbered seventeen, including President and Sister Hales and four missionaries. Still wearing our winter coats, we all huddled around a small, inadequate heater while we listened to a Sunday School lesson.”
The letter continued:
“A branch member approached me one day: ‘Elder Summers, can I give you a bit of advice? Never mention the word tithing to the Swindon members; they really don’t believe in it, and all you will do is upset them.’”
Brother Summers said, “We did teach tithing and all the other gospel principles. With example and the encouragement of a branch president, there was a change of heart, and faith and activity started to increase. The membership records were completely updated as we visited every member’s home. When the leaders started caring, the members began to respond, and a whole new spirit pervaded the branch. The members became excited again about the gospel and helping one another.
“Firesides were held in our homes, and we worked closely with stake and other proselyting missionaries. We made a promise to the Lord that we would not let one new or reactivated member fall into inactivity while we were in Swindon.
“One young couple had a difficult adjustment to make as their customs, manners, and dress were different. They became offended at suggestions for changes. The couple twice wrote to the bishop [since by then it was a ward] and asked to have their names removed from the Church records. In the last letter they forbade any of the members to visit them, so Marian and I went to the florist and purchased a beautiful plant of chrysanthemums and had it delivered to the young couple. It was a simple note: ‘We love you; we miss you; we need you. Please come back.’ Signed, Swindon Ward.
“The next Sunday was fast and testimony meeting and our last Sunday in Swindon. There were 103 members in attendance compared to seventeen six months before. The young couple was there and, in bearing his testimony, the husband thanked the Swindon Ward for not giving up on them.”

As a new General Authority Seventy of the Church eleven years ago, whenever I received my stake conference assignments to stakes in North America, all my inadequacies and fears came flooding into my mind. How could I teach people who were born in the Church, who had grown up with the gospel, and knew of Church government through a lifetime of observing their leaders, many of whom were their own parents? What could I possibly say that could make it worth their while to spend their time listening to me? Had they not heard it all before? Where was I to begin?
The preparation for each assignment became marked by one struggle after another, and one abandoned talk outline after another. I remember several times staying up the whole night trying to find a message that the saints would find meaningful during the Sunday general session of stake conference.
During this time of struggle, in a tender mercy that the Lord extended to me, one day I found myself alone with an Apostle. After some hesitation, I gathered the courage to seek his counsel. I was a great admirer of his talks, in which every sentence was to me like scripture. I asked him his secret for composing such compelling messages.
In my situation at the time, his response almost stunned me. He paused for some time and then said that he always felt the weight of the responsibility of his calling towards the Saints, and so he diligently sought the Lord’s help with each message that he prepared. If he felt that the message had been well received, he would go to the Lord with a prayer of thanksgiving. If he felt it had not, he would go to the Lord with a pleading to help him do better next time. He added that this was his experience during the period of over twenty years that he had served as an Apostle of the Lord.
His example and testimony reminded me of the sacred record about prophets such as Alma who “labored much in the spirit, wrestling with God in mighty prayer”5, and Enos who wrote about the “wrestle which [he] had before God”6. The lesson was taught to me again powerfully that striving to connect with the Spirit of God is the measure of true discipleship.

After his brother had fallen asleep and their candle had burned out, Gaelin lay awake. The room was black, except where the moon shone through the window. He was trying to remember something so that he could forget how dark it was and how the shadows looked like wicked giants on the wall.
Only that morning, Gaelin had held the big stallion’s reins as he watched his father, Sir Gareth, swing into the saddle. Equipped with shield and sword, Sir Gareth had smiled at Gaelin through kindly eyes and said, “Now, my little knight, take good care of your brothers and sisters while I’m gone. And remember, Son, that true courage is fear that has said its prayers.” Then he had turned his charger and joined others of King Arthur’s knights as they assembled for a journey.
The next morning Gaelin arose early, dressed quickly, and ran down the stairs. He didn’t think about Sir Gareth’s words again until it was dark. Shivering more because of the eerie shadows than the cold, he went to his room.
That evening about eleven o’clock, a storm blew in from the ocean. The thunder and lightning were the worst part. Loud thunderclaps shook the stone walls of the castle. Gaelin and his little brother shivered under their wolfskins until they fell asleep.
It was past midnight when Gaelin’s mother came into the room and found the boys asleep. She whispered Gaelin’s name, and he awoke with a start. “What’s wrong, Mother?” he asked.
“Your littlest sister is very sick,” she replied. “Get up and dress quickly! The stableboy is saddling your pony. You must ride to the village and fetch old Grimbauld. She can save Leonora if anyone can!”
“The village?” Gaelin stared at his mother in horror. “But it’s five miles away … and it’s thundering and raining so hard!” He bit his lip, terrified of riding in the storm. Then he looked at his mother’s anxious face and whispered, “I’ll go.”
In a few minutes he was on his way, with the wind tugging at his cloak and teasing his pony’s tail. Brennet, his pony, lowered his head and drove himself into the rain while Gaelin held up the lantern his mother had given him. The boy squinted into the wind and bumped the pony’s sides with his heels.
Gaelin was soaking wet and cold even before he reached the forest. Five miles of forest, he worried. It’s dark and howling with wind and full of bears and dragons! Can I make it? His tiny lantern threatened to go out at any moment, and then he would certainly become lost!
The trail through the forest was well worn, and Gaelin urged Brennet into a gallop. The best way is to do it quickly, he decided. Then there won’t be time to be frightened. But the lantern swung wildly, and its moving shadows looked like dark giants bounding from behind old twisted trees to carry him away!
Brennet was strong-winded and had been ridden often, so Gaelin kept him running until he steamed beneath the saddlecloth and his breath came hard. Surely I’m almost to the village, Gaelin thought.
They stopped only once, when there was an explosion and a blinding flash ahead. The pony reared up on his hind legs, snorting. Gaelin didn’t fall, but he felt his heart pounding in his throat. Even so, he encouraged Brennet on.
As they rounded a bend, Gaelin saw the tree. Blackened and still smoking from the lightning, it had fallen across the path. He swallowed hard, gripped the pony’s sides tightly with his knees, and urged him to jump. But Brennet was too tired. He couldn’t spring high enough from the muddy earth, and his front hooves didn’t clear the branches. The pony tumbled headlong on the other side, pitching Gaelin from his saddle so that he struck the ground with the arm that held the lantern.
When Gaelin sat up, he was surrounded by blackness. The lantern was smashed! He couldn’t see the trees, his pony, or even the puddle he’d landed in. Fighting back tears because it was unknightly to cry, he suddenly remembered Sir Gareth’s words: Remember that courage is fear that has said its prayers.
With the storm crashing overhead, Gaelin knelt and prayed: “Please, dear God, don’t let me be frightened anymore! My little sister is very sick, and I must get help. Help me to find the way and not be scared! In the name of Christ our Lord, amen.”
Brennet was snuffling at the boy’s shoulder. Gaelin found the reins, swung up onto the pony, and started off once more. The moon was beginning to show its round face between the clouds, and the storm was moving up the countryside.
In front of old Grimbauld’s cottage, Gaelin tumbled off his exhausted mount and pounded on the heavy door with a hand that no longer shook. The kind peasant woman, wrapped in a thick shawl, brought him in to sit beside her little fire. With a dry sheepskin around him, he delivered his message.
Gaelin was warm by the time she’d gathered her herbs and other things and bridled her mule. She paused in the doorway and looked at him kindly. “You came all that way through the storm, boy? Weren’t you frightened? You must have the courage of a knight!”
Gaelin only smiled as he went out to take care of faithful Brennet. He wasn’t frightened anymore, and he knew that little Leonora would soon be well.

My father had a unique experience when he was the age of a priest. There were no high schools where he lived, and he wanted an education. He received permission from his father to leave the farm and seek his education elsewhere, but he had to make it on his own. Arriving in Salt Lake City, he heard of an employment position being offered in the home of President Joseph F. Smith. He was hired to care for the prophet’s two cows. In our family home evenings we would want Dad to relate experiences about his early life of living in the home of the prophet. We would hear him make reports like this:
Sister Smith instructed my father in his duties, explaining that the cows “were aristocrats, and you must treat them well. You are to keep them so clean and train them so well that if I should ever at any time conclude to move them into the parlor, they would be clean enough to enter.” Dad said he understood milking but not laundering cows.
Before milking each morning and night, they were thoroughly washed and dried with hot water, soap, and towels prepared for that purpose. They were fed the best of hay and milked at exactly the same hour twice a day.
In addition to his duties with the Smith family and their “aristocratic” cows, my father was asked on occasion to do some housework. He would tell us stories like this: “One frosty morning I washed the steps leading to the official residence of the President of the Church. It nearly led to his downfall, for I let the water freeze before drying. Then I had to take boiling water and thaw the ice and take towels to dry the stones. The steps were nearly clean, but my classmates were passing on their way to school before the job was completed. It was a humbling experience.”
By telling these stories, I don’t want to leave you with the impression that my father was a male twin to Cinderella. The Smith family took this poor farm boy from Idaho into their home while he finished high school and attended the University of Utah. They included him in their family activities, around the dinner table, and at family prayer. My father shared with us his witness that the prophet Joseph F. Smith was truly a man of God: “When I kneeled with the prophet, in family prayer, and listened to his earnest supplications for the blessings of the Lord upon his family and their flocks and their herds, I realized that those same humiliating cows were the subject of his blessings, my feet were brought solidly to earth. … Most great men I have known have been deflated by intimate contact. Not so with the prophet Joseph F. Smith. Every common everyday act added inches to his greatness. To me he was prophet even while washing his hands or untying his shoes.”
The lessons learned taught us a great appreciation and love for a prophet of God.

At the outset I mentioned Dr. Willard Richards, whose loyalty to Joseph is so typical. Before Joseph went to the Carthage Jail, he said to Dr. Richards: “‘If we go into the cell, will you go in with us?’ The doctor answered, ‘Brother Joseph you did not ask me to cross the river with you—you did not ask me to come to Carthage—you did not ask me to come to jail with you—and do you think I would forsake you now? But I will tell you what I will do; if you are condemned to be hung for treason, I will be hung in your stead, and you shall go free.’ Joseph said, ‘You cannot.’ The doctor replied, ‘I will.’” (History of the Church, 6:616.)

“Come, Patrick,” the old shepherd called to the boy who was warming his hands by the roaring fire, “time to climb the hill for the night.”
The boy stood up and, wrapping the bearskin cloak around him, answered, “Coming, sir.” Obediently, he followed the old man away from the warmth of the fire into the cold blackness of the surrounding countryside.
“It’s been a hard winter,” the old man said to Patrick as they trudged up the steep hill, “but you’ve learned your job well, and you haven’t complained about the cold or the long nights. When it is time for me to report to our king, I will tell him what a good servant he has in you.”
“Thank you,” the boy replied, “but I like the sheep. Caring for them is not hard for me. As for the cold,” he shrugged his strong young shoulders, “one learns to live with it. No use complaining.”
They reached the top of the hill and approached the fire that the day shepherd had lit as soon as the sun had started to set.
“Ho, Finn!” the old man called.
“Ho, Ober!” came the answer from a man kneeling by the fire. “I am very glad you are here. I fear my old bones are nearly frozen.” He smiled up at Patrick. “Ho, lad. Mind this fire tonight. Don’t let it die down. Listen.”
Patrick strained his ears. Mixed with the low whistle of the icy wind came another sound that made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.
“A-ooooooooo,” it sounded again from the distance, low and ghostly.
“Wolves,” Patrick whispered.
“Yes, boy,” old Finn agreed. “It’s been a hard winter for them too. One or two young sheep would make them a real banquet. Keep a sharp eye out.” He stood up and stretched. “I’m going down now. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Finn. We’ll see you at dawn,” Ober answered.
“You make the rounds to the west tonight, and I’ll make them to the east,” Ober instructed Patrick.
“Yes, sir.” Patrick picked up a pine stick and stuck it into the fire until the end blazed. Using it for a light, he set off into the inky darkness to check his master’s flock of sheep. He whistled his own little tune, so the sheep would know it was he who walked among them and not be frightened. Now and then he stopped to pat a woolly head.
It was on these dark, lonesome rounds that Patrick most missed his homeland and his family. It had been two years now since that night when he had been carried away by the strange and wild boatmen and transported to this harsh land. It had been two years of service to the king; two years of learning, growing, and longing to return to his home. But I must not let myself feel sad, he inwardly scolded.
Patrick finished checking the sheep and started back to the fire. “I must do my job while I look for a chance to get home again—somehow—someday,” he murmured.
Ober was sitting by the fire when Patrick returned.
“All’s well,” he said.
“It may be, lad, but keep the fire up. Those wolves seem bold tonight.”
“Would they come so close to the fire and humans, sir? I always thought wolves were wild and stayed well back in the forest.”
“They do, mostly,” Ober answered, “except when a winter like this one comes along, and there’s no game left in the forest for them. Hunger is a powerful thing, Patrick. I’ve lost many a sheep close to the fire on a winter night such as this.”
Ober and Patrick leaned against the big trees near the fire. Patrick stomped his feet to keep them from freezing. Something caught his eye on the other side of the fire. It was a strange, small gleam of light. No, two small gleams, like summer fireflies. Now there were four, now six!
Patrick’s heart thumped hard in his chest with a sudden fear. He knew what those lights were—firelight glinting in wolves’ eyes.
“Ober!” Patrick shouted. “Look!” As he shouted, a low growling came from where the small, hard lights gleamed.
“It’s a pack of them,” Ober called back. “Run, Patrick. It may be your only chance. It will be impossible for only two people to keep them from the sheep.”
“And leave you alone, sir?” Patrick asked, certain he had misunderstood.
“I’m an old man,” Ober answered, “and a servant like yourself, Patrick. I must stay and defend our king’s sheep, even if it means death for me.”
Patrick looked over at Ober. The old man had been his teacher, but, more than that, he had been Patrick’s friend ever since the king’s boatmen had captured him and brought him to this strange land. Run away and leave Ober here to fight the wolves alone? Run, even if it might mean a chance to escape? he asked himself.
“If you must stay, then so must I,” Patrick said firmly.
He looked up at the brittle black sky where tiny cold stars flashed. “Help me in this strange land,” Patrick seemed to say as he gazed toward the heavens. Then he grabbed a flaming pine bough in one hand and a heavy, club-like stick in the other. Hollering and shouting, he ran toward the growling pack of wolves.
He swung his club. Back and forth he passed the burning stick, all the time stomping and shouting. The startled wolves growled deeper and bared their yellowed teeth at him, but, helped by Ober, Patrick managed to drive them back, farther and farther.
At last the leader of the wolf pack, with a nasty, helpless snarl, turned and ran off into the trees. For a moment the others growled and snapped at Patrick’s club as he swung it at them. Then they, too, followed their leader into the trees.
“Well done, Patrick!” Ober thumped the young boy on the back soundly. “What a brave lad you are. You fought with the strength of ten men, and you saved the sheep. I would not have thought it possible that you could do it. It is truly miraculous!” Ober hugged the boy happily.
“We did it together, Ober.” Patrick smiled at the old man. Then he lifted his face to the stars and said quietly, “Together.”

“About two years ago I was in the same situation as the young man. My job and other interests had taken me away from the Church. Then one afternoon three young women who were members stopped by the ski shop where I worked and brought me a batch of cookies. They said they missed me and cared about me.

“It wasn’t until a month or so later I took one of them to a stake dance. (Or did she take me?) I really had a good time. A little while later, I went to church. At first I had a hard time explaining where I had been, but the warmth of the ward was overwhelming.

“They got me teaching a Sunday School class for the 10-year-olds, and now they’ve got me serving a mission for the Lord! My life has changed tremendously. I love my mission, and I love the Lord. I know there are thousands of missionaries like myself with this type of story. Hopefully, through our love and prayers, your friend will soon be one, too.”
Elder Gary ChristensenAtlanta Georgia Mission