Gospel Story Finder

Many years ago my husband, Ken, and I moved to Provo, Utah, so he could attend Brigham Young University. Before our move, Ken had traveled there, bought a mobile home, and arranged for water, gas, and electricity to be turned on when we moved in.
We arrived in Provo on a cold December night. All our belongings were packed in the back of a rental truck. We were tired and tense from the long trip. Six months pregnant, I was feeling the effects of cleaning, packing, and traveling. Shawna, our 15-month-old daughter, was tired and crying.
As we opened the door to our home, a blast of cold air greeted us. The electricity and water had been turned on, but for some reason the gas had not. Too exhausted to do anything else, we put a mattress on the floor and plugged in an electric blanket to keep us warm. We tried to sleep with our daughter between us, but she cried most of the night. When morning came we were almost as tired as when we had gone to bed.
After we unloaded the truck, Ken left to return it, check with the gas company, and arrange for a phone to be installed. I dressed Shawna in her snowsuit. Then I placed her in her highchair to play with a few toys while I started to unpack the boxes.
When I unpacked our electric frying pan, I decided to heat water in it to wash out the cupboards. As I turned on the kitchen sink, the faucet came off and water shot up into the air. I tried to turn off the water valve under the sink but could not get it to turn. Frantically, I searched for the water shutoff valve for the house. By the time I found it, the kitchen and living room were flooded.
As I desperately started moving boxes out of the water, Shawna sensed panic and began to scream. Carrying her with one of my arms, I continued trying to lift boxes with the other arm.
At that moment I started into premature labor. Now I was truly panicked. I didn’t know anyone in the neighborhood, and I didn’t have a phone to call for help. Desperately I prayed, “Heavenly Father, please help me!”
I’ll never forget the knock that came at the door minutes later. The woman standing there was shivering, with soapsuds up to her elbows. She introduced herself as Amalia Van Tassel, the branch Relief Society president, and told me the Spirit had sent her.
I would later learn that Amalia had been standing at her sink washing dishes when she felt prompted to check on the new family who had just moved in. Sensing that it was urgent, she called to her oldest daughter to watch her other children and, without even stopping to dry her hands or grab her coat, ran to my door.
Amalia had me lie down, comforted Shawna, cleaned up all she could, and invited our family to dinner. She brought light, safety, and comfort into that dark December day. Rest stopped my premature labor, Ken fixed the sink, the gas man turned the gas on, and portable electric heaters dried the soaked carpet.
I have always been grateful to Heavenly Father for answering my prayer that day and for the loving Relief Society president who quickly followed the promptings of the Holy Spirit.

Two weeks later, as sacrament meeting began, the priests and deacons took their places close to the sacrament table. Because we have a large ward, three priests are required, with one sitting next to the wall serving as a witness. I noticed right away that Scott and Clint had taken the two positions of the priests who did administer the sacrament prayers. I was more than a bit nervous because, to my knowledge, Scott had never offered a sacrament prayer due to his difficulty in reading and speaking. Out of my apprehension, I looked at Clint who, as usual, seemed unconcerned and was calmly looking around the chapel. My inability to attract his attention to the matter worsened my fear, and I nearly arose to straighten out the situation. I did not want Scott to be embarrassed by failing to properly offer the prayer. Yet I didn’t want to disappoint him by asking him to leave.
Before I could decide what to do, the meeting began and proceeded as usual. I thought no one was aware, except the priests and me, of what was going to happen. But when it was time to have the blessing on the water, and Scott knelt before the sacrament, I knew I was not the only one whose heart began to beat faster. Everyone suddenly quieted, even the babies. Scott began to slowly say the prayer, sounding each word carefully and distinctly, occasionally mispronouncing one and having to say it again correctly before going on. The air was electric. It was possible to feel everyone’s attention riveted on that boy, giving him silent support. I followed word by word that familiar and oft-repeated prayer. Finally, after what seemed a long time, he finished with a resounding “Ah-men,” and the relieved congregation responded with an “Amen” that truly was a united voice of gratitude.
Scott was so pleased with himself that for a moment he stood smiling, looking around the chapel before thinking to hand the trays to the waiting deacons. I was so relieved and pleased he had succeeded that I failed to recognize for several days he had helped everyone pay more attention to each word of the sacrament prayer. Because of him the prayer that day had added significance. It truly was a unifying spiritual event for all who were there. After the meeting, as we congratulated Scott, Clint matter-of-factly told of teaching the prayer to him, and they both went their separate ways.

Mandy trudged through the crusty snow toward her grandparents’ cottage. Her knitting bag, a birthday gift from Grandma Birke, swung from her shoulder.
Inside the cottage, Grandpa Birke was putting another log on the fire. “There,” he said, rubbing his hands vigorously before the blaze. “It’s good and warm now. No cold fingers for our little Mandy.”
Grandma Birke was gazing out the front window. “Here she comes!”
They watched Mandy’s red boots rise and fall as she marched through the snow. “She’s wearing the blue hat and scarf you made,” Grandpa Birke observed.
Grandma Birke nodded and smiled. “After today’s lesson, she’ll have a hat made with her own hands.” She paused. “I hope she enjoys these knitting lessons as much as I do.”
“Sure she does,” Grandpa Birke said.
Mandy crunched through the snow, looking down at her red boots. With every step, she asked herself the same question: “Why” crunch “me?” Crunch. “Why” crunch “me?” Crunch. “Nobody knits anymore.” Crunch. “It’s so old-fashioned!”
Suddenly she remembered her mother’s words: “Learning to knit is a tradition in Grandma Birke’s family. It’s a legacy of love that she’s passing on to you.”
OK, Mandy thought. I’ll learn—but I won’t like it. Looking up, she saw her grandparents coming outside to greet her with open arms. Her face flushed a deep red—and not from the cold.
“How’s my little sweetie?” Grandpa asked, giving her a bear hug. Mandy felt his soft flannel shirt against her face and smelled the fragrance of freshly chopped wood.
Grandma ushered them inside. “Hurry in before we all freeze,” she scolded playfully. “Grandpa’s made a big fire—and I made an even bigger apple pie.”
Grandpa sat in his favorite chair by the hearth and patted his stomach. “A big, old-fashioned apple pie,” he added with a smile. Mandy’s cheeks flushed an even deeper scarlet.
“Why, look how red your face is!” Grandma exclaimed while Mandy hung her hat, coat, and scarf on a wooden peg next to the door. “Come sit over here by the fire and warm up those cheeks and hands.” As Mandy sat down on the small sofa and took out her knitting, Grandma leaned toward her and announced, “Today’s the big day!”
“It is?” Mandy forced a half-smile.
“Why, yes. Today you take your hat off the needles and weave the sides together. You’re almost finished!” She was beaming.
“Neat, Grandma,” was all Mandy could get out.
For the next hour, Grandma’s patient hands guided Mandy’s through the weaving process. “Grandma,” Mandy asked as they locked in the last stitch, “you’ve been knitting ever since you were my age, right?”
“Yes, Mandy, when I was just a little older than you, my friends called me ‘the girl who loves to knit.’ You’ll be called that too—sooner than you think.”
Mandy looked down to avoid her grandmother’s eyes.
“In fact,” Grandma reminisced, “I knitted hats and scarves for everyone.”
She sighed at the pleasant memory, but Mandy’s frustration finally broke loose. “Why, Grandma? Why didn’t you just buy them?” Then she added, apologetically, “I mean, it takes so long.” Mandy ran her fingers over the hat in her lap. “And you always make things for other people—never for yourself.”
Before Grandma could respond, they were startled by a knock at the door.
Grandpa, who had fallen asleep, jerked up. Grandma chuckled. “Don’t bother, dear, I’ll get it.” She opened the door.
The voice of a young man said, “Ma’am I’m Jeff Goodwin, and this is my wife, Diane.” He sounded tense. “I’m afraid we hit a slick spot on the road—”
Grandpa was out of his chair in a heartbeat. “Anyone hurt?” he asked as the couple stepped inside.
The young man looked embarrassed.
“No, sir, but I think we’ll need a tow truck to pull our car out of the ditch. May I use your phone?”
“Why, sure,” Grandpa said.
Grandma gestured toward the sofa. “Have a seat, Diane,” she said, “while I get us some pie.”
As Mandy gathered up the yarn to make room, Diane picked up Mandy’s new hat and exclaimed, “Oh, that’s beautiful! Did you make this?” Mandy nodded. “I never learned to knit,” Diane went on wistfully. “I’m all thumbs. Besides, some people are just born to knit, don’t you think?”
Mandy didn’t know what to say.
“Just look at this!” Diane praised the hat. “Feel it. You can’t buy this kind of old-fashioned quality.”
Mandy sat in stunned silence.
Grandma came out of the kitchen and placed a pie-laden tray on the small table near the hearth. She smiled tenderly at her granddaughter. As she returned Grandma’s smile, Mandy began to understand, at last, the value of her grandmother’s lessons—and she knew exactly what to say. “It’s yours,” she told Diane.
The young woman’s eyes grew large. “Oh, no,” she stammered. “I couldn’t … You don’t mean it. …”
“Yes, I do.” Mandy spoke with firm resolution. She put the hat on Diane’s head. “It matches your eyes.”
“Thank you,” Diane said. “But I can’t believe you’re giving this beautiful hat to a complete stranger!” She lowered her voice. “You must love to knit. You must really love to knit.”
“I do,” Mandy said. At least, she told herself honestly, I do now. She looked gratefully at her grandmother. “I really do.”

My husband, Collin, and I became parents in October 2009. By the time our daughter, Eliza, was five months old, we started talking about when we would start including her in family home evening and scripture study. Was it worthwhile to hold family home evening when she was awake? Could she really get anything out of our reading the Book of Mormon out loud?
During the April 2010 general conference, Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles said, “Youth of all ages, even infants, can and do respond to the distinctive spirit of the Book of Mormon” (“Watching with All Perseverance,” Liahona and Ensign, May 2010, 40).
The changes we have made have been simple and gradual. We play a CD of Primary songs for Eliza regularly. We read a few verses from the Book of Mormon with her at dinnertime. We have started having family prayer just before Eliza goes to bed. On walks, I point out the birds and tell her, “Jesus made those birds for us.” She may not understand right now, but she will.
I’ve found that these things have lifted much of my anxiety for the future. I feel that if I do my part by teaching Eliza what she needs to know and by following prophetic counsel, she will be blessed in the future.

I served four and a half years in federal prison for real estate fraud. Most of the women there were quiet and respectful. Then 10 women moved into the cell across from mine.
They would stay up late at night laughing and listening to loud music. They didn’t seem to care how their behavior affected others. My roommates asked me to talk to them, but conversations like this usually don’t go well in prison. Instead, I prayed for these women to change their behavior and for peace to be restored, but things only got worse.
While praying one night, I realized I hadn’t made any effort to get to know my neighbors. I went to their cell the next day and talked with them. They showed me pictures of their families and loved ones. They apologized for being too loud. From then on, they waved and seemed happy when they saw me.
A few weeks before Christmas, they invited me to have Christmas Eve dinner with them. We also planned to share with one another spiritual experiences we’ve had. On Christmas Eve, we gathered together and hung a few paper decorations. We didn’t have a Christmas tree, but we all felt a peaceful spirit. After our simple dinner of tuna fish and potato chips, we shared our experiences. We all had different religious backgrounds and each of our stories were unique, but our hearts were connected and the Spirit was there.
After April shared her story, we all sat quietly with tears in our eyes.
During my time in prison, I poured out my heart in prayer asking our Father in Heaven to watch over and protect my family. But when I prayed for my neighbors in prison, I began to recognize their divine potential and felt more fully the love and mercy of our Savior.
That Christmas Eve in prison was beautiful.

The youth I saw confined to a wheelchair was a startling contrast to the boy I remembered from the year before. I remembered him as a happy, 18-year-old Indian boy whose swift, strong legs had carried him up and down the basketball courts. But that was yesteryear. Today he was in a wheelchair. Today his dark eyes and handsome smile caused me to be amazed at his youthful courage.
I first met Don a couple of years ago and learned that he was a convert to the Church. His widowed mother lived in a remote section of the Navajo Indian reservation, and he was a participant in the Indian student placement program, a program that places Indian children and teenagers in foster homes during the school year so that they may get a better education. His school work was excellent; he played the piano skillfully; and with the same slim brown fingers he could paint beautiful pictures or strum the guitar in accompaniment to his clear soft voice. Don’s personality was pleasant, his standards were high, his testimony strong. He was soon to graduate from high school, and his plans were to spend a short time with his people on the reservation before returning to live with his foster parents, where he would work preparatory to receiving his expected call to the mission field.
Life seems to have a way of changing the most carefully made plans, but no one would have expected the traumatic experience that awaited Don. His fun on the reservation was cut short by painful events, and his mission began in a much different way than one would have imagined.
While riding in the back of a small truck with some of his friends, Don accidentally fell out onto the hard, black pavement and skidded painfully along its rough surface. That was the last thing he remembered until he awoke in a hospital bed, his body in physical torment.
An excruciating pain in his back persisted through the long night, and as the new day began, Don found himself unable to move his arms, hands, or legs. He was paralyzed from his neck down!
Following an emergency operation, he awoke in a recovery room conscious that the pain in his mended back was subsiding; but he was also painfully aware of his helpless limbs that refused to respond to his efforts to move them.
Don’s concerned doctors had little hope that this condition would ever change. As he lay helpless in his hospital bed, fighting back the tears of discouragement, he expressed the feelings of his heart to his Heavenly Father, asking for strength to endure and for a recovery from his affliction if it were His will.
Night after night while others slept, Don struggled through the long, dark hours attempting to move his helpless hands that lay inertly by his side. He would pray and try, pray and try, repeating over and over in his mind, “I can do it, I can do it, I can do it!” Then, as the early morning light filtered softly through the blinds of his window, he would surrender himself wearily to a merciful sleep.
On one such interminable night, Don’s heart suddenly pounded with excitement as an almost imperceptible movement was made by one of his fingers! Holding his breath in suspense, he moved his finger again!
There was no sleep for Don that night. A wonderful, elated feeling of hope buoyed his troubled spirit and gave him renewed determination to regain the use of his hands.
Each night became a new adventure as gradually, with great effort and perseverance, the use of his hands and arms slowly returned to him.
In the meantime, Don’s doctor had procrastinated the unwelcome task of informing him that he must mentally prepare himself to accept his paralysis as an unalterable fact of his young life.
With great difficulty, the doctor told this news to Don. It was a poignant moment for the good doctor who turned quickly to leave the room to conceal his emotion. As he left the room he stole a last glance at Don lying quietly in his bed. Just at this moment, Don reached his arm up to the head rail of his bed and pulled himself into a more comfortable position. The startled doctor could not contain himself. “Do that again, Don! Do that again!” he shouted with excitement. Soon the room was filled with nurses and doctors who came running to learn the cause of the great commotion. It was a moment to be remembered.
Although Don was happy to feel the strength gradually return to his arms and hands, he had to fight back the tears when he looked down at his helpless legs.
In these trying circumstances he began to fulfill his desire to be a missionary. He told his roommate about the Book of Mormon and gave him a copy to read. Charles, a Hopi Indian boy, immediately became engrossed in the book, and when darkness came at the close of the day, he continued reading. He eagerly read the words of this book for three days and two nights, resentful of the time it took to eat or rest. Finally, when he had turned the last page, he rose from his bed and walked over near Don’s side and asked, “Don, where did you get this book? I have shared in the traditions of my people that we hold to be sacred. Many of our traditions are written in this book. Where did you get it?”
Don happily shared his testimony with his new friend as he told him of the restoration of the gospel and of its special meaning to them as Lamanites, a covenant race and descendants of the Book of Mormon people.
Soon after this Charles was released to go home, anxious to share this new message with family and friends. Don was moved to a rehabilitation center in Denver, Colorado. He was quite unprepared for what he encountered at his new residence in the paralytic ward. Everyone seemed depressed, discouraged, and despondent. Patients could not understand how Don, who was in an equally distressing condition, could seem so happy. Some of them asked, “Why are you always so happy and smiling?” Don replied, “My smile keeps the tears from my eyes, and my laughter keeps away the feeling of unhappiness.”
With courageous determination Don took advantage of the special care he now received. Long after others would tire and leave the gymnasium, he would remain—trying, trying, trying. Through his valiant effort, accompanied by humble prayers to his Heavenly Father, he was finally strong enough to go up and down the parallel bars alone; and then he was able to walk with braces and crutches. His new mobility permitted him to attend church services. This spiritual comfort brought him great joy, but he was totally surprised by the reception he was given upon his return to the hospital. Everyone teased him for going to church! In his characteristic way, Don’s smile merely broadened at their taunting. He resolved to do something about the gloomy atmosphere in this, his new home, so he happily embarked upon the next chapter of his mission.
In the days that followed, he could be seen wheeling himself down hallways and into every room where patients would receive him, preaching the gospel to all who would listen. He became known cheerfully as “the prophet,” a title that he accepted graciously.
In the evenings he often sang as he accompanied himself with his guitar. Others began to join in, and the spirit spread. Friday nights soon became known as the time for singing and entertainment and patients joined together with singing and laughter. Patients began to smile and call each other by name.
All was not happiness for Don, however, for he longed to see his home, his family, and his friends. In spite of his high resolve, his vision clouded when he looked down at his crippled legs. Wonderful Church members tried to fill his hour of need, and Don said, “Through their kindness they put a smile on my face and laughter in my mouth.”
As time drew near for him to be released, he began to worry about his acceptance by friends and family upon his return.
The day finally came when his foster parents arrived. It was an ordeal for Don to get enough courage to ask the question that had filled his mind completely. “Do you want me to come back?” he asked apprehensively. They softly replied, “Of course, Don. We have a bed waiting for you.” The kind response was too much for him! This time his tears flowed freely and mixed with theirs in a demonstration of joy and love.
On the night of Don’s departure, a special program was held in his behalf. His many new friends shook the rafters with a song sung in his honor: “Too Many Chiefs and Not Enough Indians Around This Place.”
The courage and spirit of this young man had affected the lives of others and left an indelible impression.
Two of the residing patients and two members of the nursing staff who waved good-bye to Don had accepted the gospel of Jesus Christ as a result of his influence. Many looked to the future with new hope, and each felt a personal loss at his departure.
Upon his return home, Don’s numerous friends were out to greet him and welcome him back into their circle of friendship. Don soon found a job at an LDS mailbox bookstore that enabled him to meet the payments on his car, a vehicle equipped with special controls that would carry him to his work and to the Mesa Community College where he was enrolled for classes.
As I concluded my visit with him, he handed me a letter. “What is this?” I asked. “It’s a letter from my physical therapist in Denver,” he smiled in reply.
I unfolded the pages and began to read. “Dear Don,” the letter began, “I don’t know how to thank you. Yesterday was the happiest day of my life. It was the day I was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
I hope I will remember the example of Don. I hope I will remember his parting words when I asked about his future. He looked directly at me and spoke with conviction: “I’ll wipe away my tears and let the wind of discouragement blow. I cannot fail, for God is with me.”

This story took place in the USA.
Roy sat down at the table and opened his lunch bag. His family had just moved, and this was his first day at his new school. His mom had made his favorite Armenian food, kofta. He was excited to eat it!
Roy unrolled the wax paper wrapped around the kofta. It was like a long, skinny meatball. He loved the smell of the spices baked into the meat. And the hole in the middle made it like a little whistle. He put it to his lips and blew. Then he took a bite. Delicious!
“Hey,” said a boy across the table. “What’s that weird thing you’re eating?”
Roy felt his cheeks flush. “It’s my lunch.”
“Well, it doesn’t look very good.” The boy laughed.
Roy didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know that no one else here ate kofta. He didn’t want them to think he was weird! So he put away his lunch and ran outside for recess.
After school, Roy found Mom unpacking boxes.
“I don’t want to take kofta to school anymore,” Roy said.
“Why?” Mom asked. “It’s your favorite.”
Roy told her what happened at school. “It was so embarrassing!”
“I’m sorry that happened,” Mom said. “Most people here have never had kofta. What if we gave the other kids a chance to try some?”
“Why?” Roy asked. “They won’t eat it.”
“Well, you can’t know unless you ask! I know it’s hard to make new friends. But we are all children of God. Sometimes we just have to get to know more about each other.”
Roy thought about it. He didn’t want to be laughed at. But he did want to give the kids at lunch a better chance to understand. And kofta really was tasty.
He nodded. “OK. Let’s make more.”
The next day at lunch, Roy took a deep breath. He sat down next to the boy who had laughed at him.
Roy opened his lunch bag. “Would any of you like to try some Armenian food?”
The other kids gathered around as Roy unwrapped the kofta.
“I’ll try some,” the boy said.
“Me too,” a girl added. Roy passed around the kofta so everyone could try it. Then they all took a bite.
“This is really good!” the boy said. “What’s it called?”
“Kofta,” Roy said.
“Cool!” The boy smiled. “I’m John. Want to play at recess?”
Roy could only nod with a full mouth. His mom was right—they were all children of God too! And sharing helped him make friends after all.

One young man changed forever my feelings about the value of that gift, and what it means to be a child of promise. Bob Allen was an undergraduate at Stanford University when I was his bishop. He left his schooling to serve a mission in Japan. He came back to school, took up his studies, and lived in a world of too many demands and too little time.
One day I was sitting at my desk in the graduate school of business at Stanford. I looked up and saw two people. I remember that their faces seemed to shine. Suddenly, Bob Allen stepped between them and, smiling as broadly as they were, said, “These are two new bishops from Japan.” They could speak little English, but I could tell they loved Bob Allen and, because of something he must have told them, they loved me. I thought then, as I have many times since, how remarkable it was that he had found time to spend days with those young men from Japan.
I spoke in a sacrament meeting in Tokyo ten years later. The person who had introduced me mentioned that I had been at Stanford. Two young people, a couple, rushed to me after the meeting and said, “Did you know Bob Allen? We love him.”
Later I was in Tokyo again. Of all the excellent presentations made to me, one seemed most remarkable. I asked to see the man who had made it. He was introduced and then said, “We have met before, at Stanford University.” He was the young man, now older, who had stood with his fellow bishop in my office door. He told me about his life, and the life of the other man, now a great leader in Japan. In that moment, I learned again, in my heart as well as my head, what it means to have a royal inheritance of time, and how a child of promise, who believes the promises, can invest it to produce returns for eternity.

It was twilight on a cold and rainy October day in 1968, and I was riding my bicycle home from work in Copenhagen, Denmark. My husband was in Canada on an assignment at that time, and I was alone with two children, a boy ten and a girl seven years old.
On my way home I had to cross a very busy four-lane road with a bicycle lane. For safety, I had made it a habit to get off my bike and walk it across the intersection. On this particular day I got halfway across the street and stopped in the middle to let the cars go by. A small car stopped in the lane to my right, and the driver signaled for me to cross. A big truck stopped in the lane beside the small car, and the truck driver also signaled to me, so I continued across the street. Just as I passed the truck I saw a Volkswagen coming toward me, illegally in the bicycle lane, at full speed. There was no time for me to escape, either backward or forward.
In that split second, countless thoughts of my children, my husband, my widowed mother, and my job flashed through my mind, and I prayed more fervently than ever before: “Please, dear Lord, whatever happens—spare my life.”
The car hit the bicycle, slamming the handlebars into the left side of my body. As I lay helpless in the road, I could barely breathe because of the pain, but I didn’t lose consciousness. When I turned my head, I saw the Volkswagen’s tire only an inch away. I looked at my bicycle, which had been thrown several feet by the collision. It now looked half its original size.
I was certain that I had experienced a miracle. The tire couldn’t have been any closer, yet it had not crushed my head. I felt that an invisible hand had stopped it right there. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I thanked Heavenly Father for saving my life.
I lay in the road waiting for the ambulance. What would the children think when I didn’t come for them? Would I be in time to call the day-care center from the emergency room before it closed? Who could I contact? I hardly knew my neighbors because of a busy schedule, and members of my ward were some distance away.
At the busy emergency room, the staff wouldn’t let me use the telephone before they had taken an X-ray. The nurses were too busy to make the call for me. It was four hours before the police officers came to make a written report of the accident.
For the five longest hours of my life I was kept in the hospital with a number of people helping me. Still, I felt that only Heavenly Father was able to give me the help I really needed. For the first time in my life I found myself unceasingly praying about my only concern—two small and lonely children.
“Please tell them I’m all right,” I prayed. “Let them have peace of mind so that they won’t panic, and give them patience. Please tell them what to do.” I felt the presence of the Holy Ghost, and an all-embracing peace filled my mind—the same feeling I prayed my children would receive.
Finally, the doctor told me that except for my painfully bruised ribs, I was as good as new, and he let me go. The two policemen offered me a ride home, and we arrived at my apartment building at 10:15 that night.
Two small, tired children walked hand in hand in the dark toward the police car. “Mom, where have you been? What happened to you? How come it’s so late? Why did the police drive you home?” they asked, as soon as we were safely in the apartment.
I explained, and asked, “How did you get home?”
My son said, “We couldn’t understand why you didn’t come to pick us up, but we thought you might be late from work, so we walked home. It started to get dark, but we couldn’t get in because we haven’t got a key.
“I didn’t know what to do, but all of a sudden I thought we should pray about it. So we knelt on the doormat while I said a prayer. We sat without talking for a little while after the prayer, as you taught us to do, and then a nice thing happened to me.
“I felt a big, warm hand touching the top of my head, and I heard a friendly voice saying, ‘Your mother is well, she has been taken care of. It will be a while before she comes home, and it will be all dark outside, but just stay calm. Take your little sister by the hand and stay near the apartment and play peacefully. If you do, the time will go by quickly until your mother is with you again.’
“When I looked up to see who was talking to me, I couldn’t see anybody, and no more was said. I felt calm.”
Over the years I have seen my son have occasional struggles as he has grown into adulthood. It’s sometimes easy during difficult times to doubt there is a living God.
Each time he was struggling, I would ask, “Do you remember what happened to you the night of my accident?”
His features would clear, and he would say, “Mother, it’s true, and I will never be able to deny it.”
I am grateful that my son is able to carry an experience like this with him. I have also learned how important it is for us to teach our children to pray and to remember the words in Psalms 94:9 [Ps. 94:9]: “He that planted the ear, shall he not hear? he that formed the eye, shall he not see ?”

President McKay’s bearing, nobility, and dignity and his love of the Savior he served were evidenced in every word he spoke and in everything he did. But what he had become through his commitment to the Savior was evident even when he sat peacefully and said nothing. The following incident is told by a man who met President McKay on his return from one of his visits to Europe:
“I remember being in New York when President McKay returned from Europe. Arrangements had been made for pictures to be taken, but the regular photographer was unable to go, so in desperation the United Press picked their crime photographer—a man accustomed to the toughest type of work in New York. He went to the airport, stayed there two hours, and returned later from the dark room with a tremendous sheaf of pictures. He was supposed to take only two. His boss immediately chided him: ‘What in the world are you wasting your time and all those photographic supplies for?’
“The photographer replied very curtly, saying he would gladly pay for the extra materials, and they could even dock him for the extra time he took. It was obvious that he was very touchy about it. Several hours later the vice-president called him to his office, wanting to learn what had happened. The crime photographer said, ‘When I was a little boy, my mother used to read to me out of the Old Testament, and all my life I have wondered what a prophet of God must really look like. Well, today I found one.’”

Someone gave me a copy of my high school yearbook the other day. I spent an hour thumbing through it, looking at the pictures of my friends of 73 years ago, my high school class of 1928. Most of those in that yearbook have now lived their lives and gone beyond. Some seem to have lived almost without purpose, while others lived with great achievements.
I looked at the faces of the boys who were my friends and associates. Once they were youthful and bright and energetic. Now those who are left are wrinkled and slow in their walk. Their lives still have meaning, but they are not as vital as they once were. I looked in that old yearbook at the faces of the girls I knew. Many of them have passed on, and the remainder live in the shadows of life. But they are still beautiful and fascinating.
My thoughts go back to those young men and women of my youth, back to where you are today. By and large, we were a happy lot. We enjoyed life. I think we were ambitious. The dark and terrible Depression which swept over the earth would not come for another year. Nineteen-twenty-eight was a season of high hopes and splendid dreams.
In our quieter moments we were all dreamers. The boys dreamed of mountains yet to climb and careers yet to be lived. The girls dreamed of becoming the kind of woman that most of them saw in their mothers.
When I spoke to the youth of the Church, I suggested six B’s that you ought to pursue. Be Grateful. Be Smart. Be Clean. Be True. Be Humble. Be Prayerful.
I have not the slightest doubt that these patterns of behavior will yield success and happiness and peace. I believe you will be successful in your endeavors. As you grow old, I am satisfied that you will look back with appreciation for the manner in which you chose to live.
In the yearbook of which I have spoken is the picture of a young woman. She was bright and effervescent and beautiful. She was a charmer. Life for her could be summed up in one short word—fun. She dated the boys and danced away the days and nights, studying a little but not too much, just enough to get grades that would take her through graduation. She married a boy of her own kind. Alcohol took possession of her life. She was a slave to it. Her body succumbed to its treacherous grip. Sadly, her life faded without achievement.
There is a picture of another girl in that yearbook. She was not particularly beautiful. But she had a wholesome look about her, a sparkle in her eyes, and a smile on her face. She knew why she was in school. She was there to learn. She dreamed of the kind of woman she wanted to be and patterned her life accordingly. She also knew how to have fun but knew when to stop and put her mind on other things.
There was a boy in school at the time. He had come from a small rural town. He had very little money. There was nothing especially handsome or dashing about him. He was a good student. He had set a goal for himself. It was lofty and, at times, appeared almost impossible of attainment.
These two fell in love. People said, “What does he see in her?” Or, “What does she see in him?” They each saw something wonderful which no one else saw.
Upon graduating from the university, they married. Money was hard to come by. He went on to graduate school. She continued to work for a time, and then their children came. She gave her attention to them.
A few years ago, I was riding a plane home from the East. It was late at night. I walked down the aisle in the semidarkness. I saw a woman asleep with her head on the shoulder of her husband. She awakened as I approached. I immediately recognized the girl I had known in high school so long before. I recognized the boy I had also known. They were now approaching old age. As we talked, she explained that their children were grown, that they were grandparents. She proudly told me that they were returning from the East, where he had gone to deliver a paper. There at a great convention he had been honored by his peers from across the nation.
I learned that they had been active in the Church, serving in whatever capacity they were asked to serve. By every measure, they were successful. They had accomplished the goals which they had set for themselves. They had been honored and respected and had made a tremendous contribution to the society of which they were a part. She had become the woman of whom she had dreamed.
As I returned to my seat on the plane, I thought of those two girls of whom I have spoken. The life of the one had been lived aimlessly, without stability, without contribution to society, without ambition. It had ended in misery and pain and early death.
The life of the other had been difficult. It had meant working and struggling. It had meant simple food and plain clothing and a very modest apartment in the years of her husband’s initial effort to get started in his profession. But out of that seemingly sterile soil there had grown two plants, side by side, that blossomed and bloomed in a beautiful and wonderful way. Those beautiful blossoms spoke of service to fellowmen, of unselfishness one to another, of love and respect and faith in one’s companion, of happiness as they met the needs of others in the various activities which they pursued.

From Florida:
“As I knelt in prayer, I expressed a sincere desire to share the gospel with someone and asked my Heavenly Father to please send someone to me.
“The very next morning there was a knock on my door, and it was a neighbor wanting to borrow a pan. Although she had lived by us for some time, we had not had much contact. Two days later both she and her husband came over to visit with us. During our conversation she mentioned that they had been looking for a church. I told her how my husband and I were once in that very same position and how our church filled that very special need we had. We invited them to church that Sunday, and they eagerly accepted. Afterward, we asked them if they would be interested in learning more by having the missionary lessons in our home. They told us that, indeed, they would be interested.
“On Christmas Day, my husband baptized and confirmed them members of the Church. They have grown so strong, and they set a shining example to all. They are looking forward to the day when they and their new baby girl can be sealed in the temple for time and eternity.”

When I was called to serve a mission back before the dawn of time, there was no equalization of missionary costs. Each had to bear the full expense of the mission to which he or she was sent. Some missions were very expensive, and as it turned out, mine was one of those.
As we encourage missionaries to do, I had saved money and sold personal belongings to pay my own way as best I could. I thought I had enough money, but I wasn’t sure how it would be in the final months of my mission. With that question on my mind, I nevertheless blissfully left my family for the greatest experience anyone could hope to have. I loved my mission as I am sure no young man has ever loved one before or since.
Then I returned home just as my parents were called to serve a mission of their own. What would I do now? How in the world could I pay for a college education? How could I possibly pay for board and room? And how could I realize the great dream of my heart, to marry the breathtakingly perfect Patricia Terry? I don’t mind admitting that I was discouraged and frightened.
Hesitantly I went to the local bank and asked the manager, a family friend, how much was in my account. He looked surprised and said, “Why, Jeff, it’s all in your account. Didn’t they tell you? Your parents wanted to do what little they could to help you get started when you got home. They didn’t withdraw a cent during your mission. I supposed that you knew.”
Well, I didn’t know. What I do know is that my dad, a self-educated accountant, a “bookkeeper” as they were called in our little town, with very few clients, probably never wore a new suit or a new shirt or a new pair of shoes for two years so his son could have all of those for his mission. Furthermore, what I did not know but then came to know was that my mother, who had never worked out of the home in her married life, took a job at a local department store so that my mission expenses could be met. And not one word of that was ever conveyed to me on my mission. Not a single word was said regarding any of it. How many fathers in this Church have done exactly what my father did? And how many mothers, in these difficult economic times, are still doing what my mother did?
My father has been gone for 34 years, so like President Faust, I will have to wait to fully thank him on the other side. But my sweet mother, who turns 95 next week, is happily watching this broadcast today at her home in St. George, so it’s not too late to thank her. To you, Mom and Dad, and to all the moms and dads and families and faithful people everywhere, I thank you for sacrificing for your children (and for other people’s children!), for wanting so much to give them advantages you never had, for wanting so much to give them the happiest life you could provide.

One of the bishop’s duties was to send to every serviceman a subscription to the Church News and to the Improvement Era and to write a personal letter to him each month. Since President Monson had served in the navy in World War II, he appreciated the importance of a letter from home. He had 23 ward members serving in the military, so he called a sister in the ward to handle the details of mailing these letters. One evening he handed her the monthly stack of 23 letters.
“Bishop, don’t you ever get discouraged?” she asked. “Here is another letter to Brother Bryson. This is the 17th letter you have sent to him without a reply.”
“Well, maybe this will be the month,” he said. It was. The reply from Brother Bryson read: “Dear Bishop, I ain’t much at writin’ letters. Thank you for the Church News and magazines, but most of all thank you for the personal letters. I have turned over a new leaf. I have been ordained a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood. My heart is full. I am a happy man.”
President Monson saw in that letter the practical application of the adage “Do your duty, that is best. Leave unto the Lord the rest.” Years later, while attending a stake conference, he spoke of his experience of writing to the servicemen. After the meeting, a young man came up to him and asked, “Bishop, do you remember me?”
Without a pause President Monson replied, “Brother Bryson! How are you? What are you doing in the Church?”
The former serviceman replied with great pleasure that he was fine and serving in his elders quorum presidency. “Thank you again for your concern for me and the personal letters which you sent and which I treasure.”5

Along with six other Mormons, Debra attends the Hazelwood Integrated College in Belfast, a school where the student body is about 50 percent Catholic and 50 percent Protestant. “I’m fairly new at the school, and at the start they’re all, ‘Oh, she’s one of them mad Mormons,’ and they tease you about being a moron, because it sounds the same,” Debra says. “But now, they’re asking questions, like why I don’t take tea or coffee. They’re kind of interested in it more.”

Nancy climbed up on the hard wagon seat, Papa clucked their aging chestnut mare into motion, and the trip to Gettysburg began. Carefully, Nancy placed the brown parcel on the seat between them, then smoothed the coarse paper with loving strokes. As her fingers touched the package and she thought of its contents, Nancy allowed herself to believe that at last the trip was a reality. She sighed deeply. No, she wasn’t dreaming, but was actually going to Gettysburg to see the president.
Two weeks ago, Papa rode home from the village with news that President Lincoln would come to dedicate the new cemetery on the battlefield where so many soldiers died last July. Nancy’s thirteen-year-old heart pounded in anticipation, and immediately she asked her father if he would take her there.
“It’s twelve miles to Gettysburg,” Papa said. “Take a whole day to go, hear the speeches, and come back, providing nobody talks too long. Don’t know if I can spare the time. But I do need supplies.” When Nancy saw the hard lines of his face soften and the glow that warmed his dark eyes, she knew they would go to Gettysburg.
Nancy had held a dream in her heart for months, turning it first this way in her mind then that, until it sparkled like a newly minted coin. She wanted to make a contribution to the war whose furious sounds had come so close to them last summer. She wasn’t a boy so she couldn’t volunteer as a soldier, but surely she could do something worthwhile. Then she remembered people telling about how President Lincoln worked alone through the night in the cold and drafty White House with only an old threadbare shawl draped over his shoulders for warmth.
It was then her idea took birth and her dream spun a web of hope. As she hoed among the vegetables and fed the clucking brown hens, she pictured herself dressed in a pale gown covered with pink rosebuds, knocking on the White House door and asking to see Mr. Lincoln. When he appeared, she presented him with the most beautiful woolen shawl in the world, one that she had knitted herself. Then the president would no longer look sad and lonely, and he would be warm when he worked through the night. It was a good dream and sometimes, as she stared at the darkened ceiling of her bedroom, she held it close to her, willing it to come true.
Now, bouncing along in the wagon, Nancy remembered how carefully she’d knitted during every free moment to finish the blue shawl so that she’d be prepared to give it to the president at the right moment. And soon now that moment would be here. It was the most important one of her life and she could hardly wait.
Why can’t we go faster? she wondered. She sighed deeply and tried to stop squirming on the wooden seat.
“Patience, Nancy, patience,” her father cautioned.
“Yes, Papa.”
“Look around you. Enjoy the day!”
“I’ll try,” Nancy said with a smile.
Early morning mist swirled in soiled, gray patches along the roadbed covered over with an umbrella of tangled oak and hickory, but the sun warmed clear patches of meadow just beyond, casting an occasional golden shaft of light in their path through the trees.
Could that be a hint of good things waiting to happen? She wondered if Papa’s almanac that told of weather signs and good crop-planting days had anything to say about this day. Grownups often looked for signs in nature to tell them about the future. Now that she was nearly grown up, with vague changes taking place in her body that sometimes mystified her, it was time to take on grown-up ways. Surely this gift she’d made for the president showed that she was growing up and making a contribution to the war. She wished she knew what it felt like to think grown-up thoughts. Then, maybe she’d know for sure.
Hoofbeats slowed to a trot behind them, then came alongside. Nancy turned to see their neighbor, Mr. Brooks, in his fading federal blues. He’d been an officer at Bull Run, his empty left sleeve a silent testimony of his contribution to the war.
“Howdy, Mr. Montgomery. Morning Nancy,” he greeted them. His black moustache curved upward into a bushy smile.
“Mr. Brooks,” Papa said, “You’re alone, then?”
“The child has a fever again so Martha’s home, but this is one trip I had to make.”
“You and Nancy.” Papa turned and smiled at her. “She has some mysterious reason to see the president. Wants to give him something.”
“Well, now, fancy that,” Mr. Brooks said. “I hope she’s going to give him the name of a general who knows how to fight a war and win. That he could surely use.”
“True,” Papa agreed, “although General Grant did himself proud at Vicksburg. Maybe he’ll finally be the one to bring an end to it all.”
Mr. Brooks nodded in agreement and then said, “I’ll be off now. We’ve a rare treat in store for us today and I don’t want to miss a word of Senator Everett’s speech.” He touched his horse’s flanks lightly and disappeared down the road. Nancy yearned for a horse with the speed of Mr. Brooks’ animal.
“Who’s Senator Everett?” she asked.
“He’s a fine speaker, Nancy, and he’s also been a governor and president of Harvard University.”
“All that?” she asked.
“And more,” Papa replied. “You’ll never forget what he says today. Mark my word.”
“But President Lincoln will be there, won’t he?” Nancy was suddenly anxious. “You said so.”
“Oh, yes, he’ll be there,” Papa assured her. “But I don’t know why. After Senator Everett gets through talking, there won’t be much left to say.”
They rode in silence for a few moments, then Nancy asked, “Papa?”
“Yes, Nancy?”
“Do you think I’ll really get to talk to President Lincoln? Can I really get that close?”
“Lots of people have,” Papa said. “They come to see him at the White House and he visits with soldiers in the field. He’ll talk to you too.”
Reassured, Nancy smoothed her dark green skirt, touched her blonde hair, and found that it was curling around her face again in spite of everything she’d done to make it stay back. Oh, well, she thought and leaned forward, eager for her first glimpse of Gettysburg.
Hours later, it seemed, Nancy began to wonder if they’d taken a wrong turn in the road when finally, on the horizon, the town popped into view. She shaded her eyes against the hazy sun and stood up to ease the tension that had held her taut as clean wash hanging outside on a winter’s day.
“The town looks deserted,” Papa said. “I hope we’re not too late.”
“Oh, Papa, hurry,” Nancy pleaded. “We can’t be too late after so many weeks of waiting and dreaming. It wouldn’t be fair.”
They entered town from the north on Harrisburg Road, clippety-clopping through empty streets, past silent wooden houses and churches and deserted brick stores and shops. A solitary figure stood at an intersection ahead.
“You missed the procession,” the hoop-skirted lady called to them.
Papa slowed the wagon. “Where’s the dedication ceremony being held?”
“Straight south,” she answered, “on Cemetery Ridge.”
Nancy dug her fingers into her skirt and twisted the material into a ball. “Can’t you make Dora go any faster?” she urged. She sat forward on the edge of the seat and held onto the rough sideboard of the wagon for support. Now she could see carriages and horses tied to scrub brush along the sides of the road.
Papa halted the mare, jumped down, and tied her fast. “Looks like we’ll have to walk the rest of the way, Nancy,” he said.
Nancy took her parcel and hopped down and started running toward the crowd. “I’ll meet you back here afterwards, Papa,” she called.
She heard Papa shouting to her, but she didn’t stop. No time for anything now but getting there. Hurriedly, Nancy picked her way over wagon ruts and past rail fences, still on the ground where they’d been toppled by advancing confederate troops last July. Out of breath after her hasty climb up the low ridge, Nancy leaned against a tree for support. As her hand touched something cold and metallic, she looked to see what it was. Slowly recognition came and, with it, a tingling revulsion that bunched her stomach into a knot. She jumped back and wiped her hands on her skirt. She’d been touching a bullet, a real bullet, partially imbedded into the tree! Did that bullet kill someone before the tree stopped it? she wondered and shuddered involuntarily. Shaken, she hurried on.
(To be concluded next month.)

On 25 July 1928, I was tracking on a street in Heilbronn, Germany. In those days, missionaries did not have to work side by side constantly, and often I would tract one side of the street while my companion tracted the other.
As I walked toward the next house, I saw a man sitting on a chair near the sidewalk. He was glaring hostilely in my direction. Many people in Germany at that time distrusted the missionaries, so I didn’t give it much thought.
As I spoke with a woman at the doorway to a nearby apartment, I heard someone coming up behind me. I turned and saw a policeman in uniform. I continued to talk, believing he had business with someone upstairs.
To my astonishment, he dropped a heavy hand on my shoulder and turned me around to face him.
“You will have to come with me,” he said quietly. “You’re under arrest.”
Astounded, I tried to keep my composure. I apologized to the woman and told her I would return later.
“Why am I being arrested?” I asked the policeman. He told me that I was accused of burglarizing an apartment and carrying off a valuable heirloom watch.
The officer explained that my accuser had found the watch missing the morning before. He contended that I had been the only person other than himself and his family to enter the building.
I remembered entering that building the day before. The first and second floors were occupied by a factory, but on the third floor was an apartment. As I had entered the building, a young man had approached me and asked where I was going and whom I wished to see. I had told him that I wanted to go upstairs and speak with the people who lived there. He had said nothing further, and I had ascended the stairs.
The door to the third-floor apartment had been left slightly open. No one had answered my knocks, so I had left and resumed tracting elsewhere.
I explained this to the officer. He was surprised to learn that he had arrested a missionary.
He then took me across the street to the man who had glared at me earlier. A teenager with the man looked ill at ease, but said “yes” when the officer asked if I was the burglar.
At the police station, I was ushered into the chief’s office. A police court, consisting of several plainclothes and uniformed policemen, was waiting for me. In a corner sat seven people who said they had witnessed my entering the building.
During the hour-long interrogation, I answered every question honestly and directly, with a prayer in my heart that the Lord would help me.
Then the seven witnesses testified against me. All stated that, except for the family, I had been the only person to go to the third-floor apartment the day before. It began to look as though I might spend several years in a German prison.
The police chief asked me if I had anything to say in my defense. I prayed fervently for assistance, then began speaking, hesitantly at first, in my broken German. I told those in the room why I was in Germany, and explained my mission. Suddenly I began to preach the gospel. A strange feeling came over me. I gradually lost control of my tongue, my arms, and my facial muscles.
The Holy Spirit had come to my rescue. I began to speak the language fluently, with confidence and power. When I concluded my testimony forty-five minutes later, I nearly slumped to the floor in exhaustion. There was complete silence in the room for at least a full minute.
Then the police chief said simply, “This man didn’t take the watch.”
He asked me many questions about myself and the Church. The hostility in the room and vanished. Then he turned to a detective and said, “Go with this young man to his room and search his belongings. If you don’t find the watch—and I’m sure you won’t—let him go. End this foolishness.”
As I walked back to my lodgings with the detective, I answered many questions he asked me. By the time we reached my room I had briefly explained the missionary program, the Book of Mormon, and our concept of the Lord.
The detective found two watches in my desk drawer. One was my old, broken watch, and the other was a cheap watch belonging to my companion. As the detective left, he assured me that I should contact him if I ever needed help during my stay in Heilbronn.
I breathed a prayerful sigh of thankfulness. The power of the Holy Ghost had been demonstrated in a miraculous fashion. I would never forget this day.

In many ways, Ricardo has already begun his missionary service. “He was an example to me because he always went to church,” says Ricardo’s grandmother, Mavila Ruiz Cárdenas. For several years she had listened to the missionaries who came to visit with the family. And all the while Ricardo was there: sitting in and listening to the discussions, faithfully attending church each Sunday, even teaching his grandmother the hymns.
When he was eight years old and attending church by himself, he had not felt prepared for baptism. But, says Ricardo, “when my grandmother said she was ready to be baptized, then I was sure I was ready also.” So when Ricardo was 10, he and his grandmother were baptized on the same day.
No longer does Ricardo walk to church alone. Now every Sunday he puts on his shirt and tie, takes his grandmother by the hand, and they walk together. Who knows? In time, Ricardo will probably be leading others to church with him.

Ankawu was standing in front of the counter at the Cahuilla Indian Reservation trading post. Her eyes sparkled as she read a sign tacked to the wall above the scales.
SCOOTER RACE SATURDAY $ FIVE DOLLARS $ AWARDED TO THE WINNER
The only person who could possibly be a challenge is Caromanie, she thought. When it came to competing with him in a footrace, she usually won, but he was fast on a scooter. Ankawu was especially anxious to win the scooter race so she could buy a gift for her mother.
She walked to the other side of the store as she had so often done and gazed longingly at the orange potholders made in the shape of mittens. Ever since her mother burned her hand when removing a pot from the stove using only an apron, Ankawu had wanted to buy potholders for her.
“Would you like to buy those potholders, Ankawu?” asked the trader, interrupting her thoughts. “I notice you look at them every time you come into the store.”
Ankawu felt her cheeks grow warm. “Maybe, if I win the race,” she answered.
“Never say if,“ encouraged the man. “If you have doubts, you’ll lose before you start.”
Ankawu smiled at the kind man with white hair and bronze face. “Thank you for your advice,” she said and left the store.
On her way home Ankawu met Caromanie. “I’m going to win the race,” he bragged.
“Maybe,” said Ankawu with a shrug.
“I have the biggest scooter,” taunted Caromanie.
“Sometimes big things are clumsy,” reminded Ankawu.
“I’ll tell you what,” continued Caromanie. “Just to show you what a good sport I am, I’ll race you for practice.”
“OK,” Ankawu agreed. “I’ll meet you at the road. We can race to the bald spot.”
The bald spot was a smooth area of ground that was hard as rock without any vegetation growing on it. A utility road stretched over a slight incline before running downward onto the bald spot.
“I must beat Caromanie,” Ankawu kept repeating to herself on the way to the practice race. “I must. I wish that just this once he would move as slowly as his turtle namesake.”
Several children followed Ankawu to where Caromanie was waiting on the utility road. At a signal, both riders moved swiftly forward. Finally Caromanie gained enough speed to beat Ankawu over the inclines and then gracefully coasted onto the bald spot.
“See, what did I tell you,” he teased.
Ankawu turned her scooter around and hurried home. She was so disappointed that she could hardly keep back the tears. “Mama,” Ankawu asked, “what do you do when things go wrong?”
“I try to do something constructive like watering flowers, pulling weeds, or helping someone. That way I forget myself and soon the hurt passes. Doing good is like winning. Something comes back to you when you least expect it,” her mother answered in her gentle voice.
Ankawu put a pail into her wagon and filled it with water; then she pulled it past the clapboard houses and out into the open fields. In the distance a few cattle were grazing and the smell of pastures filled the air. She was warm and perspiring by the time she reached a cluster of desert boxwoods called jojoba plants. As she poured the water, it disappeared quickly into the dry earth, hardly leaving a trace of moisture. The jojoba’s green leaves were thick and broad, meeting the challenges of survival in such an arid country, and the branches were laden with seedpods almost as large as peanuts. Feeling pleased and less unhappy, Ankawu started for home. On her way, she saw Caromanie in his yard, applying oil to the wheels of his scooter and spinning them after each application.
“Can I use some of your oil on my scooter wheels?” she asked.
“Sorry, but it’s all gone,” answered Caromanie. “How about another race tomorrow?”
Ankawu’s first impulse was to say no, for she did not believe he had used all the oil, but she shrugged and said, “If you want to.”
Once more Ankawu raced Caromanie and lost. And once more she filled a pail and went off to water the jojoba plants. In her bitter disappointment, she pulled off a seedpod and broke it into bits. An oily substance clung to her hands. Ankawu rubbed her fingers together, and they felt slippery. It must be a kind of oil! she thought excitedly. She gathered more seedpods into the pail and hurried home.
Ankawu crushed the seedpods with a stone and collected enough oil in an empty can to apply to her scooter wheels. “When tomorrow comes,” she said enthusiastically, “I’ll be ready!”
On Saturday morning every youngster on the reservation who had a scooter was preparing for the race. Some were dressed in native costumes; others wore their jeans.
Caromanie was smiling. He was wearing his fancy buckskin vest. “I’m going to win,” he boasted.
Ankawu adjusted the single feather in her headband and waved to her mother as the starter alerted the contestants to take their places.
A whistle signaled them away in a flurry of excitement. An array of bright blouses and shirts seemed to move like birds taking off. But the other riders were soon left behind. Now only Ankawu and Caromonie were competing for the prize. Nearing the crest of the incline, Ankawu prayed that she could keep her lead. Her scooter seemed to be flying over the hard ground as though it had wings. Voices rose in loud cheers as she reached the bald spot ahead of Caromanie.
As soon as the five-dollar bill was in her hand, Ankawu hurried to the trading post to buy the potholders.
“Oh, dear!” she cried out when she saw they were gone. “Did you—”
The trader came to the counter. “I knew you’d be coming back, so I put them away for you.”
“But how did you know I was going to win?” asked Ankawu.
“I just had a hunch,” he said, reaching under the counter for the potholders. “Your mother told me how you crushed the jojoba seedpods and used the waxy oil on your scooter wheels. It’s a wonderful lubricant. I read about the jojoba plant and its seedpods in the paper. The oil from these seeds is similar to sperm whale oil. The government wants to plant many jojobas on Indian reservations.”
“Then the whale wouldn’t be in danger anymore?” questioned Ankawu.
“That’s right,” he said, nodding his head.
“I’m glad,” said Ankawu. “Glad for the whales and also glad because now there’ll be more jojoba plants. Thanks to them, I won the race and now I can take these beautiful orange potholders home to my mother.”

You see, I am a Mormon. When I was 13, I had lived with a foster family in Salt Lake City and, after receiving permission, had been baptized into the Church. Upon returning home I found my family very much against my new religion. They forbade me to attend or participate in Church activities, and I obeyed. During the last half of my senior year in high school, however, I was contacted by two missionaries, Elder Michael Morris and Elder Gene L. Peterson, and was retaught the gospel. They encouraged me to seek further education and even go on a mission if it was my desire. It was ironic that now these two options were being offered to me—but in a different way than I had expected.
I thought of every reason why I should accept the offer. My future would be secure, my dreams of a master’s degree in art would be realized, and I could devote my time to studying without having to worry about working. Was there really a difference in serving a mission for the Methodist church instead of the Mormon church? Weren’t they both Christian churches? My friends and teachers were encouraging me to take the offer. Their concern for my future was genuine, and I appreciated their love—I didn’t want to disappoint them. My personal desire to say yes to the Methodist church was strengthened by my fear of facing my friends if I did not.
“How could I turn down this offer?” I asked myself. But a still small voice, much quieter than the voices around me, whispered, “How can you accept it? How can you live a lie?” I realized then that if I accepted I would have to keep secret the fact that it was not the Methodist church I desired to serve. I could not use their support to achieve my goals. They were such wonderful people, so generous in their nature. The voice was right. How could I? I could not. My decision was made, and I had to find the strength to face it no matter how unrealistic it seemed to my friends. I wrote the council and explained that I was a Mormon, and though their offer was something I would never forget, I could not accept it. They answered my letter, expressing appreciation for my honesty with them, and wished me luck in my future endeavors.
Since then, through a lot of hard work and help from many people, I have graduated from Brigham Young University with the art degree I so much wanted. I was privileged to enjoy several teaching assistantships there plus the companionship of some of the greatest people I’ve ever known. When faced with similar decisions since then, I’ve reflected back on this experience of standing against the advice of friends and loved ones and listening instead to the whispering of one small voice that only I could hear. I have learned that no matter how great the problems and pressures or how difficult the decisions, Heavenly Father is always there to guide us.