Gospel Story Finder

I have mentioned before an experience I had in the military in World War II. I hasten to say I was not a hero. But I did my duty. I endured and survived. I was assigned to a British liberty ship sailing from San Francisco to Suez. I was on that ship for 83 consecutive days except for a brief stop in Auckland, New Zealand. I was the only member of our faith on board. On Sundays I would go alone to the bow of the ship with my little set of servicemen’s scriptures and songbook. Amid the howling of the wind, I would read the scriptures, pray, and sing all by myself. I did not try to bargain with the Lord, but I did pray fervently that if I could survive the war and go home to my wife and family, I would earnestly try to remain true to the sacred covenants I had made at baptism, to the oath and covenant of the priesthood, and to my temple vows.

As part of our tour of duty, our little cargo ship was ordered to tow a large, burned-out oil tanker into Auckland, New Zealand. The tanker had no power and was wallowing helplessly in the ocean. Although we never saw them, we knew enemy submarines were lurking near us. While we were pulling that ship, we were caught in a violent storm, which we later learned sank many vessels. Because of the load we were pulling, we did not have enough power to go into the giant waves head-on, and our ship was thrown from side to side in the trough of the pounding seas. It would creak and groan and roll from side to side, almost capsizing on every roll. Of course I prayed, as I imagine others did. In time the storm moved away from us. I am grateful for the sustaining influence and comfort my prayers gave me then and since in other times of peril.

A number of years ago I went with a brother to tow in a wrecked car. It had been a single car accident, and the car was demolished; the driver, though unhurt, had been taken to the hospital for treatment of shock and for examination.
The next morning he came asking for his car, anxious to be on his way. When he was shown the wreckage, his pent-up emotions and disappointment, sharpened perhaps by his misfortune, exploded in a long stream of profanity. So obscene and biting were his words that they exposed years of practice with profanity. His words were heard by other customers, among them women, and must have touched their ears like acid.
One of my brothers crawled from beneath the car where he had been working with a large wrench. He too was upset, and with threatening gestures of the wrench (mechanics will know that a 16-inch crescent wrench is a formidable weapon), he ordered him off the premises. “We don’t have to listen to that kind of language here,” he said. And the customer left, cursing more obscenely than before.
Much later in the day he reappeared. Subdued, penitent, and avoiding everyone else, he found my brother.
“I have been in the hotel room all day,” he said, “lying on the bed, tormented. I can’t tell you how utterly ashamed I am for what happened this morning. My conduct was inexcusable. I have been trying to think of some justification, and I can think of only one thing: In all my life, never, not once, have I been told that my language was not acceptable. I have always talked that way. You were the first one who ever told me that my language was out of order.”
Isn’t it interesting that a man could grow to maturity, the victim of such a vile habit, and never meet a protest? How tolerant we have become!

I remember a saintly sister who once told me of her mother's experience as a young girl in Switzerland before her family immigrated to America in the late 1800's. The family had joined the church and decided to come to Utah where they could mingle with the saints and be close to the prophet. As a result of their decisions, they experienced a lot of persecution from the people who lived in their small town.

The night before their planned departure, the young daughter was walking alone up the hill to her home. As she walked by two men who were working alongside the road, she overheard one of them say, "Isn't that the Mormon girl that is leaving tomorrow? She's alone and we can easily catch her." She began to run but she could tell they were running faster and would catch her long before she could reach her home. As she ran, she poured out her heart to Heavenly Father, telling Him that she had always kept herself pure and begged that He help her escape from the men who were coming after her. The next thing she knew, she was standing alone on the front porch of her home. She didn't know how she got there, but she knew some power had done for her what she could not have done for herself. As Helaman had promised his sons, this young woman found that building on the Lord's sure foundation brought her a literal escape from the powers of the adversary. She, like Jacob's people, found that trusting in God made possible the conquering of her enemies.

At times we learn obedience through trial and error. When our son Justin was fourteen he wanted a horse. He and his father found ads in the newspaper for wild mustangs that had been rounded up from the plains of Nevada. Not being professional horseman, we knew a little about the character of these wild horses and that they were beautiful and fiercely independent. It was decided that Justin and his father would go to the auction and buy a mustang for one hundred dollars. I will never forget when they pulled up with the mustang in the horse trailer. It sounded like a bomb had exploded inside the trailer.

I took in a deep breath and saw my son's life flash before my eyes. However with a great deal of study, reading, and tremendous patience, slowly but surely, our son was able to get in the corral with the horse. With more time he was able to approach the horse, put a bridle in its mouth and get a saddle on its back. It was several months before anyone could get on its back. Our whole family spent many a day at the corral to watch the training of the mustang.

Our youngest son who was about eight at the time was particularly fascinated with the horse, but had received strict instructions to stay away from the mustang. Justin, the son training the horse, had also been given strict instructions to keep his little brother out of the coral and away from the horse.

A sequence of events happened so that eventually our older son put his little brother on the back of the mustang. The horse not being quite ready to carry a eight year old rider bucked him off throwing Jared to the ground where he hit his head on a rock. Justin's immediate instructions to Jared was, "Don't tell mom or else."

At this moment I was heading for the corral. As I walked up to Jared and Justin each had that smirky, guilt-looking smile upon their faces. Using a mother's intuition, I knew something was very wrong. As I looked sidewise at our eight year old, I could see something dripping from the back of Jared's head. I walked a little closer as Justin put his hands on Jared's shoulders and turned him slightly so I could not see his head. Panic overtook me as I walked around the back of Jared and saw the gash on the back of his head dripping fresh blood. And so both sons learned obedience through error. And for me, I learned patience through my children.

Seth is running a dairy farm for his grandfather, who is in the hospital. When Grandpa’s best cow has trouble calving, Seth doesn’t know where to turn. His father is busy with the roundup, and Seth is too small to deliver the calf himself. Mrs. Bowers, the telephone switchboard operator, tells him to pray, but he doesn’t even know how to do that. Then two LDS missionaries come calling. One of them, a rancher, delivers the calf and teaches Seth how to pray.
The next two weeks seemed to fly by with the help of Elder Wood, the tall young man from the city, and Elder James, the rancher. Elder Wood kept the house spic and span, and Elder James helped Seth in the barn. As the missionary and the boy worked side by side, Elder James taught him more about the gospel of Jesus Christ.
“Elder James,” Seth said one morning as they milked, “I like to pray, and it makes me feel good. But how do I know if I get an answer?”
Elder James continued to milk Sweetie with strong but gentle hands. “Well,” he said thoughtfully, “there are several ways. Mostly you start with faith that you’re really talking to your Heavenly Father. Then you learn to know when you get an answer. Some people just feel good, some feel peaceful, and some get ideas. Every person is different, and different problems sometimes require different kinds of answers.”
Seth thought about it. He did feel peaceful when he prayed, and sometimes new thoughts did seem to come into his mind.
Elder James continued. “When I was young, I liked to listen to the testimonies of prophets. I felt that if they could get direct answers to prayer, then I could too.” He carried his bucket of milk to the barn door, covered the bucket, and picked up a clean one. Then he leaned over the stall and looked at the boy for a minute. “Just keep praying and listening for answers,” he said. “It’s kind of like milking. At first it’s hard. You just have to keep trying and gaining strength. Soon, real soon, you get good at it.”
Seth finished milking his cow and stood up. He stretched and turned to the man. “Who were those prophets you were talking about—the ones who got answers to prayer?”
Elder James moved his milking stool next to Seth’s. “Sit down, boy,” he said, “and I’ll tell you about Joseph Smith.”
Seth listened intently. The story he heard filled him with amazement. A boy not much older than he was had actually talked to God and had seen His face! “Do you really believe that?” Seth asked.
“I really believe it.”
“This is important! Why doesn’t everyone know?”
Elder James shook his head sadly. “Not everyone believes that God would talk to a young boy. But He did, and great things have happened as a result.”
“Like what?”
“Well, for one thing, Joseph Smith received a record of people who lived on this continent hundreds of years ago. He translated the record and had it published in a book.”
“I’d like to see that book,” Seth said eagerly. “Do you have a copy?”
“Yes I do, and I’ll give it to you.”
Seth couldn’t even speak for a moment. Books were very expensive in Wyoming in the 1920s. “Th-Thank you,” he stammered. “Will you tell me more about it, please?”
They moved over to the last two cows, and as they milked, Elder James told him story after story from the Book of Mormon. Seth couldn’t seem to hear enough. “What happened to all those people?” Seth asked as they strained the milk.
“Well, the Nephites were all killed in battle. Some of the Indians in North and South America are what’s left of the Lamanites.”
Seth stared at him. “Really? Do they know that they’re the Lamanites?”
Elder James laughed. “Some—those who have read the book—do. It touches something inside of them. It’s very close to the traditions of their fathers.”
After the Elders left, Seth had so much to think about that he forgot to call his family. When the telephone rang, he jumped.
“Are you all right, Seth?” his mother’s worried voice asked.
“I’m fine,” he said. “I just forgot to call.”
“Is everything ready for Grandpa?”
“Everything’s ready.”
Grandpa was coming home from the hospital the next day. Seth and the Elders had made sure that everything was clean and shiny. Elder Wood had even baked a cake, and it sat on the pantry shelf, covered with a clean cloth.
“We’ll be over after supper tomorrow,” Mom promised. “It’ll be good to see you, son. I miss you.”
“I miss you, too, Mom,” he said, and his voice got husky. Up till now, he’d been too busy to be homesick.
“I love you, Seth,” she said. “See you tomorrow.”
When Grandma’s Model T came up the dusty road, Seth was waiting on the porch. It was wonderful to see them! Grandma bustled around and helped Grandpa out of the car. Seth got hugs from both of them before he carried in their bags and parcels.
“My, it’s good to be home!” Grandma said. “I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep or a good meal since we left.”
“Me either!” Grandpa whispered weakly and chuckled.
Seth saw the twinkle in Grandpa’s eye and felt comforted. Grandpa was still Grandpa, even if his body seemed different. Seth helped get Grandpa settled in bed, then pulled a chair up to the bed and began his report on the farm.
“Sweetie’s giving more milk than ever!” he announced proudly. “And her calf is going to be as good as she is.” Then he told Grandpa about the missionaries helping with the farm.
“Who are these missionaries?” Grandpa asked with a scowl. “I don’t like strangers messing around with my animals.”
“They’ll be here this afternoon, and you can meet them. You’ll like them,” Seth promised. He ran out of the room and returned with his Book of Mormon. “While you’re waiting, you can read this book they left me. It’s about Jesus Christ.”
Grandpa continued to scowl. “It’s not the Bible! I don’t want to read it!”
“It’s really interesting,” Seth said, ignoring the scowl. “There’s a story about a good king named Benjamin. He worked as a farmer so the people wouldn’t have to support him.”
Grandpa’s gray brows came together, and Seth could tell that he was thinking. “Well, that does sound interesting. It just might be a good book—but it’s not the Bible!”
“They believe and use the Bible, too,” Seth explained. Then he left the bedroom so that Grandpa could rest. As he shut the door, he saw Grandpa opening the cover of the book.
(To be concluded)

When my parents got married, they bought the refrigerator secondhand. My mother took it upon herself to paint it a strange yellow color I have never seen on any other refrigerator. (She also ended up painting the floor, some of the other furniture, and a new dress.) But we actually saw the strange yellow color only when the refrigerator broke down, had to have a new part, and Mama took everything off of it.
Its color was hidden because my mother covered it with all sorts of things: a good cartoon from the newspaper, a well-known saying, my dad’s picture, scriptures to be memorized, the ticket from the cleaners, an ad for some product, a letter to be answered, a recipe, the shopping list, the ward telephone directory, and even our report cards. As we got older, she put up lists of weekly assignments, schedules, and messages for the family. We didn’t have a chalkboard or a bulletin board, so our parents also posted gospel pictures on the refrigerator.
In February, my mom would put up a big heart with all our names written on it; in March, her wedding picture and a list of some things she would like for her birthday. June she dedicated to Dad, because it was the month of his birthday—she did the same in the month each of us was born. In September, a Mexican flag was displayed. In November, the month in which my parents remembered their ancestors, Mom put up pictures of loved ones, providing an opening to talk about them. In December, she displayed a small nativity scene she had fashioned out of cloth.
Each time one of us went on a mission, Mom stuck a missionary photo on the fridge and didn’t take it down until our return. When Mom’s only brother died, she displayed on the refrigerator a picture of the two of them together and never took it down. She didn’t ever mention it, but to see her so profoundly contemplating that picture, we knew how much her brother meant to her.
Together, the refrigerator and my mother united the family.

In Vava'u, Elder Jensen and Elder Welker met Sione Pota, a preacher in the Free Church of Tonga. At the time there were only two Protestant churches in Vava'u, the Free Church of Tonga (Siasi Tonga Tau'at?ina) and the Wesleyan Church (Siasi U?siliana). Both churches strongly opposed the work of the two LDS missionaries. It was during this time that Sione Pota developed a close friendship with the two LDS missionaries. It is not clear from the journals how a preacher of a Protestant church became close friends with the LDS elders. Somehow, Sione Pota reached across both cultural and religious divide and embraced the missionaries. In other words, Sione Pota opened a path, t? e fihi, and laid the foundation for the Lord's work in the Vava'u islands.

After serving in Vava'u for several months, Elder Jensen remained while Elder Albert Jones (from Provo, Utah) replaced Elder Welker. Shortly after Elder Jones arrived in Vava'u, the missionaries needed to find a new home. In June 1896, they began looking for a new home in Vava'u. Sione Pota, heard about the missionaries situation and he offered his home to Elder Jensen and Elder Jones. Elder Jensen recorded the event in his journal:

July 2, 1896: "I arose about 7 o'clock washed and combed then started to read my bible when a native friend [Sione Pota] came in, he having heard that we would have to move from the place where we were then living, offered us his house, [he] said he did not care for any pay, but desired that we should come and live in his house. We decided the best way to keep a friend was to treat him well...The afternoon we went to his [Sione Pota's] place and made arrangement with him for his house for six months" (Jensen, Journal #2, p. 124).

It was a great risk for preacher to invite the missionaries to live in his home. I am sure that many of the people in Vava'u were wondering why a preacher would invite LDS missionaries to live in his home.

On July 9, 1896, Elder Jensen and Elder Jones officially moved into Sione Pota's home. It was at this home that many of the people of Vava'u heard about the principles of the gospel. The missionaries reported that people came to their home and asked questions about the Gospel. It was also at this home that the missionaries ran a school (taught English) and held their Sunday services. Every Sunday, the elders called the meeting by pounding a lali, a large Tongan wood drum. In Tonga, during this period, pounding a lali was the common method for letting people know that Church was about to begin. Tongans, both young and old, flocked to Sione Pota's home to hear the message of the Restored Gospel from the missionaries. It was not always easy to get people to attend their Sunday services. Young people were more interested while older folks were not so receptive. Perhaps it was difficult because the missionaries did not have a chapel to hold their meetings. Sometimes the Sunday service had about 12 people and other times they had only four people in attendance. Sunday services consisted of each elder speaking for about 30 minutes on the principles of the Gospel, and then performing the sacrament ordinance.

A year later we went to the temple to do my father’s work. During the session, as I acted as proxy for him, good feelings told me that I was doing something he wanted me to do.
When we were in the sealing room to have him sealed to his parents, a warm glow came over me as we knelt around the altar. I knew my father was there in spirit. Looking at the temple president, I saw tears in his eyes. “Brother Snelson,” he said, “tell me about your father.” I started to tell him of the love and closeness I felt for him, but he interrupted me: “No, no—what did he look like?” As I described father, a gentle smile came across the temple president’s face.
After completing the sealing, he asked everyone but me to step out of the room for a moment. Taking me by the hand, he led me to the side of the room and we sat down next to each other. By then both of us had tears in our eyes, and the room felt as if it were filled with electricity. The temple president asked, “You know, don’t you?” “Yes,” I replied quietly.
He continued, “Your father was standing right behind you.”
Again I wept, this time for joy.

Brother Decker kept working with us each troop meeting. He taught us how to plan our own program, built up our enthusiasm with songs and games, and helped us with advancement. In September we had a Court of Honor where nearly everyone advanced a rank and over 50 merit badges were given. A district camporee followed soon afterwards, an overnight event held at Sugar Loaf Mountain on Sycamore Creek. Brother Decker let us set up camp just the way we wanted it. Our patrol leaders assigned boys to dig the latrine, rope off the wood-chopping area, make the grease pit, etc. It was a Boy Scout troop run by the boys!
Saturday was given to merit badge work. Brother Decker had classes on nature and was gone most of the day. At 3:00 P.M. we had our closing ceremony, and awards were given to the outstanding troops, with suitable prizes. There was one for the troop that showed the most improvement from last year, and others for similar things. When they were ready to announce the first-place winner, we glanced over and saw the prize sitting on the table, a dutch oven—just what we needed most in our troop equipment. And the winning troop was–756!

Julia’s step-sisters sat up front in the green station wagon with their father. Julia sat alone in the back.
The two sisters were much younger than Julia, noisy girls with straight brown hair, thicker than her own. And fair skin, no freckles.
“You want to guess what it is?” Elsie said over her shoulder, and Tina, the older sister, giggled. Julia ignored them. Elsie had asked the same question all morning. It was a game of suspense. During breakfast the girls had said they wanted to show Julia something. She wasn’t going to go but her mom said she had to. The whole thing was humiliating.
The car moved slowly through the warm air of the New Mexico morning. It pulled out of a suburb of white stucco homes and onto a highway that ran into the desert.
Julia’s step-father adjusted his rearview mirror. He wore a neatly ironed blue shirt that was open at the collar. “Cool enough back there?” he asked, smiling with a silly grin at Julia in the mirror. Julia didn’t break her grim expression. She nodded her head once.
“Fine,” he said. “Fine.”
The step-father was not an overly nervous man, but he was afraid to offend Julia when she was doing something with the girls. Julia took offense easily. She got mad when the girls came into her room or her parents didn’t let her do what she wanted. She got mad when her new father imposed curfews and rules around the house or when any of them asked her too many questions. She got mad a lot.
Once, she had overheard her mother on the phone to her aunt. “Julia’s 15,” her mother had said. “You remember that age. It’s just a stage.” And that made Julia even madder.
She wanted to tell her mother how wrong she was. This new family was her problem. The two step-sisters—Elsie was eight and Tina was ten. They were always trying to hang around her. Always getting into her stuff.
And the step-father. He had no right to control her life. She could take care of herself.
The car stopped by the edge of the desert. “It’s here, isn’t it?” their father asked, looking over at the girls.
“Yeah, close enough,” said Tina quickly. “Thanks.” She grabbed her bag close and pulled Elsie out of the car. Julia climbed out after them, bending her head down against a huge sun.
The dad rolled down his window. “Sure you don’t need me?” he asked. Tina shook her head and waved. “I’ll wait for you,” he called. But the girls were gone.
“How do you like them?” Elsie said. She turned to Julia who was looking down a hill, squinting. The bottom was barren, a dirty yellow expanse covered with specks of gray and blue. Further into the valley the larger forms of sagebrush and cactus were clear.
“Like what?” Julia snapped. They were wasting her time.
“You don’t see?” Tina said. The girls giggled and began to run down the hillside, lifting their feet with high strides. Julia watched the dust they kicked up and flinched. They were wearing white T-shirts. “You’d better follow us,” Tina called, halfway down. Julia followed.
Elsie reached the bottom and the tiny dark gray shapes parted in waves as she ran through. Near the base of the hill Julia stopped, frozen.
“Lizards!” she screamed, but she couldn’t move.
“Yes,” said Elsie, running with both arms raised amid hundreds of tiny, squirming reptiles. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
Julia edged back up the embankment, placing each foot carefully, until she came to a rock high enough to stand on. She took a long look around.
The reptiles were clumped in groups over every part of the small valley, from the break of the embankment to the rise on the far side of a red stone bluff. The ground was always different, in a new arrangement. In the middle, the light figures of Elsie and Tina were dancing. Their voices high, birdlike, echoing across the valley. After a while they ran back to Julia.
“This has to be the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen,” Julia said, staring intently at the moving ground below. Her toes twitched in her shoes. “How could there be so many?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” said Elsie. She picked up a gray lizard tail. “These just fall off,” she added with amusement, holding it up for Julia’s approval. “You know, when you pick them up.”
“You two are so disgusting!” Julia snapped. “I’m going back to the car.” But she didn’t. The ground beneath her swarmed with life, and for some odd reason it was a thing of immense interest. The girls had already discovered that. Along with the fact that the multitude of lizards, sunning themselves in the warmth of the morning, were completely harmless.
Tina pushed her bag over her shoulder and stared up at Julia. “Why are you always so mad at us?” Tina asked. “And Dad and your mom?” Elsie stopped searching for tails.
Julia looked slowly away from the valley floor into Tina’s eyes. Tina had intelligent, green eyes. Julia hadn’t even noticed. “Well, why do you guys have to bug me?” she said, but she didn’t mean it. Tina had caught her off guard and she didn’t know what to say.
“We don’t mean to bug you,” Elsie said.
“I do, sometimes,” said Tina. “Sometimes I don’t think you treat any of us very fair so I try to bug you. We don’t do anything to you.”
The father came to the top of the hill and called down. He had heard a scream. Julia smiled and said she had seen a lizard and the girls laughed. Then he wiped his forehead and started down the hill.
“Why did you bring me here?” Julia asked.
Elsie and Tina looked at each other, their eyes sparkling. Elsie whispered, “This place must be magical.” Her father had made his way to Julia’s rock, but would go no further.
“But why would you bring me?” Julia asked. The girls didn’t know what to say. “Did you think I’d like it?”
Elsie nodded.
“You have to admit, this is—unusual,” said the girls’ father. “They just wanted you to see it. Include you in their secret.”
After a moment he left, walked up the hill, and for a while Julia didn’t say anything. She felt her conscience. They had lived as a family for four months and she had never stopped thinking of herself long enough to talk with Elsie or Tina, ask them about anything. Through all Julia’s anger they still wanted to accept her—love her. Their love wasn’t about being perfect, just about being together, that’s all.
Eventually she stepped down from the rock. “They don’t mind if you pick them up?” she asked, looking at the blue-bellies in Tina’s hand.
“Nah, I guess not. Just don’t grab them by their tails.”
Julia picked her way slowly down the hill and into the moving mass of reptiles. Tina and Elsie stood still, watching her. Julia thought of the girls; that they had brought her there because they wanted to be close, like real sisters. And for a time she played with them, among the lizards.
“I guess this is a magical place,” said Julia.
Elsie was scrambling about on the ground, rounding up lizards like a sheep dog. Julia and Tina laughed. Up the hill the world had ceased to exist. They were young. Friends. Sisters.

Your courage must be equal to, if not greater than, the courage of young women like Mary Goble Pay. From her journal we read: “We arrived in Salt Lake City nine o’clock at night the 11th of December 1856. Three out of four that were living were frozen. My mother was dead in the wagon. …
“Early next morning Bro. Brigham Young … came. … When he saw our condition—our feet frozen and our mother dead—tears rolled down his cheeks.
“The doctor amputated my toes. … The sisters were dressing Mother for [her grave. When my feet were fixed, they carried us in to see our mother for the last time.] That afternoon she was buried. …
“I [have] thought of [my mother’s] words [before we left England], ‘Polly, I want to go to Zion while my children are small, so they can be raised in the Gospel of Christ. For I know this is the true Church.’” (In A Believing People, Richard H. Cracroft and Neal E. Lambert, comp., Provo, Utah: Brigham Young University Press, 1979, pp. 107, 111.)

“Good morning,” Mom greeted Kim cheerfully. “Breakfast is almost ready. Would you finish setting the table for me?”
Kim put silverware and a glass at each plate, pulled out a chair, propped her head in her hands, and stared at the flower pattern on her plate.
“Are you excited about your all-day picnic,” Mom asked as she laid a plate of homemade bread on the table in front of her.
“No,” was Kim’s glum reply.
Mom pulled out the chair next to her and sat down. “Did you and Carrie have a fight?”
“Oh, no, Mom,” Kim was quick to answer. “It would almost be easier if we had.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Carrie and I have been planning this picnic for weeks. We have a bag full of our favorite picnic food all ready. I checked out two books I’ve been wanting to read, and Carrie is bringing her dolls and a big quilt for us to spread out under the tree in the east field. I thought it was going to be a perfect day.”
“It sounds perfect to me,” Mom agreed.
“Something smells terrific,” Dad said, sniffing the air hungrily as he entered the kitchen. He leaned over to kiss Kim on the forehead. “How’s my girl this morning?”
“Not too good. I have everything ready so that Carrie and I can leave right after breakfast. But every time I think about the picnic, instead of feeling excited, I get this thought in my head: Don’t go to the field today.
“Last month when you confirmed me in sacrament meeting, you said the Holy Ghost would speak to me in my thoughts to help me know what I should do. When I think I shouldn’t go, I get the same warm feeling that I had while your hands were on my head. But when I start to think of all the reasons I want to go, the feeling starts to fade away. What should I do?”
“We could kneel down and pray together about it,” her father suggested. “If it is a warning from the Holy Ghost, you’ll know when we pray.”
Kim pushed back her chair and knelt beside it. Her father and mother joined her.
“I’d like to offer the prayer,” Kim said.
“That would be best,” Dad agreed.
Kim thanked Heavenly Father for the pretty day, for the beauty of the earth, for her friend Carrie, and for her parents. Then she thanked Him for being able to be baptized a member of the Church and have the gift of the Holy Ghost. “Please help me to know if the Holy Ghost is warning me to stay away from the east field today.” As she finished her prayer in the name of Jesus Christ, she felt a warm tingle spread through her, starting at her head and flowing down her whole body. She knew what she must do.
Before knocking on Carrie’s door, Kim took a deep breath and offered a silent prayer to Heavenly Father to help Carrie to understand. She thought, She’s not a member of our church, but Dad said the Holy Ghost can still help her to not be mad at me.
“Cookies!” Carrie greeted her as she threw open the door and displayed a plateful of Kim’s favorite kind, peanut butter. “Fresh from the oven. Mom and I spent the morning making them for our picnic. I’m just about ready to go. Hold these while I get the quilt.”
Kim had stepped into the living room before Carrie noticed that she was empty handed. “Where’s the rest of the picnic?” she asked. “Did you forget it?”
“Not exactly,” Kim said slowly. “It’s … well—I don’t think going to the field is a very good idea today.”
“Why not? Did your mom change her mind about letting us go for the whole day? We could come back early.”
“No, it doesn’t have anything to do with my mom. I just have a feeling that it wouldn’t be a good idea. I don’t really know why. Do you understand?”
Carrie was silent for a few moments. “OK,” she agreed, shrugging her shoulders. “What do you want to do instead?”
Kim said a quick thank-you to Heavenly Father in her heart. “I knew you’d understand!” she said. “My dad set up the tent in our backyard before he went to work so that we could spend the day out there if we wanted to.”
“OK. I guess we’ll still need the quilt.”
“And the cookies!” Kim laughed.
Kim was sprawled out on her stomach in the tent, reading a story to Carrie, who was styling her doll’s hair, when Jake, Carrie’s little brother, came barreling in. “Fire!” he yelled.
“Where?” Kim asked, jumping to her feet.
“Down the street,” Jake continued between gasps. “The east field. The whole thing is in flames! Mrs. Dodd already called the fire department.”
Kim and Carrie raced the three blocks to the edge of the street going along the field, with Jake trailing behind them. Tongues of fire leaped and danced across the yellow field. Sirens announced the arrival of the fire trucks. As the flames came closer to the street, the children retreated to Mrs. Dodd’s lawn and watched the firefighters battle the blaze. When the last fire truck pulled away, all that was left was black stubble dotted with pools of water. Even the bark of the lone tree in the field was scarred black.
Carrie, Kim, and Jake walked back to Kim’s yard in silence. “How did you know?” Carrie asked Kim.
“The Holy Ghost warned me,” Kim explained. “It was a gift I was given when I was baptized and confirmed. I was promised that the Holy Ghost would help me know what I should or shouldn’t do if I learned to listen to Him.”
“Does He talk to you?”
“Sort of,” Kim explained, “but not the way you and I talk to each other. He makes me think things. That’s probably why it’s called the ‘still, small voice.’”
“Then I think He was telling me not to be mad at you when you said we shouldn’t go to the field,” Carrie whispered.
There it is again, Kim thought as a warmth filled her until she felt as though she’d overflow with happiness. It’s strange how such a still, small voice can give you such a big feeling, but I’m sure glad that it can!

After I received my Masters in Educational Counseling working in the Seattle area where my husband and I resided, I was convinced by my uncle Junior to move back to Laie. I finally was able to get back to my counseling field at Kahuku High School and was well aware of the climb upwards towards administrative level. During the summer break we decided to go back to Samoa to visit my parents who unfortunately were divorced at the time, and I felt the need to visit and be with my mom. My husband, a 6’2” good looking Samoan boy born in Daly City, San Francisco area, did not want to return to Samoa. Ernie’s father passed away at 42 when Ernie was only 14 but since his widowed mom was still there, he agreed to go. I, on the other hand, actually wanted to move home and help my mom with the family business and living situation due to the divorce. Ernie, aware of my desire to move back, made the mistake of challenging me that if I was able to find a job that would pay for our airfares back home and that provided housing for our family, we would return. And I had ONE week to do all of that. Don’t you just hate it when someone challenges you to something they think you wouldn’t be able to do? I hustled to begin my search for a job. Imagine my husband’s surprise when I told him that I got a job as a rehabilitation counselor for the Department of Public Safety. They were looking for a second person to hire to assist with their rehabilitation efforts, and they had just hired a graduate from BYU-Hawaii and needed one more. After they offered me the job, I had to convince them to pay our airfares back, relocate my family and provide housing. Aren’t you from here? Don’t you have family to live with? I went through an investigative period over that but I was so determined to complete all the requirements my husband laid out for me. Besides, if they were to hire someone from outside to do the job, they’d have to pay their airfare, put them up in housing, etc. I got a one year contract, and after that I promised my husband that we would return to Hawaii.

Of course Ernie lost the bet. We came back and packed up our little family and moved to Samoa with airfares paid and a place to live. A year later, Star-Kist advertised for an Assistant Personnel Manager as a crucial response to their anti-union efforts. Brothers and sisters, we ended up living in Samoa for 10 more years after that and absolutely loved it! They were growing times for us as I witness the Lords hand in Ernie’s spiritual progression in the church. How he struggled with the culture and language and when he was called as a bishop. I can guarantee you that being a bishop in Samoa is not the same as being a bishop anywhere else in the world as the Saints rallied and helped him with all the proper cultural protocols.

The next memory that Joseph F. had was leaving Nauvoo. Apparently there were several who stayed in town that had been part of the mob that had killed his father and uncle Joseph. One such man was a doctor named Robert Foster. Robert Foster owned much property on Mulholland Street. One such property was the building where the Nauvoo Expositor was printed. Robert Foster had been told by several men in Nauvoo that he was no longer welcomed in town. Yet he refused to leave town. That was until Mary Fielding Smith and Leonora Cannon, wife of John Taylor, paid him a visit. Mary informed Doctor Foster that she had heard that the men in town had told him to leave and that he refused. She then told him that she would give him until midnight before she rallied the women in town to escort him from the community. Doctor Foster left town due to her comments.

Let me tell you of a time when my mother shared such simple truths by simply being open to having a conversation and recognizing an opportunity.

Many years ago, my mother was returning to Argentina for a visit with my brother. My mom never really liked flying, so she asked one of my sons to give her a blessing of comfort and protection. He felt prompted to also bless his grandma with special guidance and direction from the Holy Ghost to strengthen and touch the hearts of many who were desirous to learn of the gospel.

At the Salt Lake airport, my mother and brother met a seven-year-old girl who was returning home from a skiing trip with her family. Her parents noticed how long she had been talking to my mom and brother and decided to join them. They introduced themselves and their daughter as Eduardo, Maria Susana, and Giada Pol. There was a natural and warm connection to this sweet family.

Both families were excited to be traveling together on the same flight to Buenos Aires, Argentina. As their conversation continued, my mother noted that until that moment, they’d never heard about the restored Church of Jesus Christ.

One of the first questions Susana asked was “Would you tell me about that beautiful museum with the golden statue on top?”

My mom explained that the beautiful edifice was not a museum but a temple of the Lord where we make covenants with God so we can return to live with Him one day. Susana confessed to my mom that before their trip to Salt Lake, she had prayed for something to strengthen her spirit.

During the flight, my mom bore her simple but strong testimony of the gospel and invited Susana to find the missionaries in her hometown. Susana asked my mom, “How will I find them?”

My mom replied, “You can’t miss them; they are either two young men dressed in white shirts and ties or two nicely dressed young women, and they always wear a tag showing their name and also ‘The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.’”

The families exchanged phone numbers and said goodbye at the Buenos Aires airport. Susana, who since then has become my good friend, has told me many times that she felt so sad to leave my mom at the airport. She said, “Your mom glowed. I can’t explain it, but she had a brightness about her that I didn’t want to leave behind.”

As soon as Susana got back to her hometown, she and her daughter, Giada, went to share this experience with Susana’s mom, who lived just a few blocks away from their home. As they were driving, Susana happened to see two young men walking down the street dressed as my mom had described. She stopped her car in the middle of the street, got out, and asked these two young men, “Are you by chance from the Church of Jesus Christ?”

They said, “Yes.”

“Missionaries?” she asked.

They both replied, “Yes, we are!”

She then said, “Get into my car; you’re coming home to teach me.”

Two months later, Maria Susana was baptized. Her daughter, Giada, was also baptized when she turned nine. We are still working on Eduardo, whom we love no matter what.

Since then, Susana has become one of the greatest missionaries I have ever met. She is like the sons of Mosiah, bringing many souls to Christ.

Rising Fawn heard the big man’s prayer before she reached the clearing where Melissa, her white friend, lived. “Oh, no!” the Indian girl whispered, as she saw the little group gathered around an open grave. It looked like an ugly scar in the glistening snow.
Who died? Rising Fawn wondered. She stayed hidden in the pine trees and quickly ran her eyes over each member of the family. The mother was missing! And Melissa was holding a tiny, wailing bundle. The blond girl wiped away her own tears and reached down to comfort a small sister. The other children clung together, tearstained and bewildered, as their frozen-faced father began to fill in the lonely grave. His steamy breath spiraled into the cold air as he worked.
Rising Fawn retreated to the riverbank. The grief of the white family was her own. She had hidden and watched them from the first day their clumsy covered wagon creaked into Elk Valley. That they had come to stay was evident. The parents had immediately set about cutting trees and building a cabin. How hard they worked! Even the smallest of the seven blond children helped to gather stones from the river for the chimney and fireplace, and that was how Rising Fawn met Melissa. When the children were called away for meals or to help with other things, the Indian girl selected and piled up stones to help them.
It was Melissa, the eldest, who had slipped back to the river to spy on their mysterious helper. Rising Fawn remembered how frightened the girl had looked when she found herself confronting an Indian! Rising Fawn smiled and pointed to the pile of stones—her gift to the hardworking white children.
She and Melissa had been secret friends throughout the summer and fall, and now it was winter. Gradually the girls had learned to communicate, although neither spoke the other’s language.
Rising Fawn understood why she was never invited to visit the cabin by the way Melissa started, face flushing with guilt, when she was called by her parents. Usually Melissa ran away quickly and often without even a good-bye wave. Such actions told Rising Fawn that the parents either feared or disliked Indians, so Melissa could not tell them about her friend.
It made Rising Fawn sad to think that white people so readily believed all the evil things they had heard about Indians before moving west. Hers was a peaceful tribe. Her heart held only friendship for the new white settlers.
Melissa had not come to the river since the first snow fell, and the Indian girl missed her. The family’s clothing was not right for such frigid weather. They wore no furs or pelts. Perhaps that was why she no longer saw her friend.
Rising Fawn and her brother made a pair of snowshoes for Melissa. She, her mother, and an aunt also made nine pairs of skin mittens for the white family, laced together with the rabbit fur inside for added warmth. Long before dawn the Indian girl slipped up to the cabin door and left the gifts and a large packet of venison. She waited many afternoons but Melissa had never used the snowshoes to come to their meeting place by the river.
The Indian girl came as often as she could, through light snows or blizzards, to leave some meat or a few smoked fish at the cabin door when her family had enough to share. But she always hurried away, for Rising Fawn was afraid of the bearded white giant of a man who seemed to dislike Indians.
Rising Fawn swept snow from a log and sank down to consider the calamity that had befallen her friend. Melissa would have to be the mother of the family now. It was an awesome job for a young girl. Pioneer life was difficult, even for strong women. I will help Melissa! I will even if her father forbids it! the Indian girl vowed, tears slipping down dusky cheeks.
But the baby! How can it live without its mother? she worried. The family had no cattle—not even one cow—only the pair of oxen. Rising Fawn arose and walked back toward the cabin, her snowshoes leaving webbed tracks.
Smoke curled from the chimney, but there was no sign of the children. Rising Fawn shrank back behind a pine tree and watched the father pick up his axe and head into the forest. He looked dazed. Cords of wood were stacked by the door. Rising Fawn’s face softened with understanding. They needed no firewood. The man’s need was to be alone with his grief. Working with the axe would help.
The girl’s heart hammered as she removed her snowshoes and knocked on the cabin door. Would Melissa be afraid? How long would her father be gone? Melissa was working at the fireplace, her back to the room, when a small boy opened the door. Rising Fawn stepped inside and closed it. Melissa turned and dropped a ladle when she saw her. How thin and pale the white girl was! Melissa stared at her friend, then ran to her, weeping.
The Indian girl clasped her close for a moment. Then she gently pushed her away, still holding her hands. They had very little time. With signs, Rising Fawn told Melissa that she had watched her mother’s burial. She pointed at the baby and explained that her aunt, a new mother, who was young and strong, could easily feed both babies until the child was old enough to eat soft foods. Could she, Rising Fawn, take the child to her village?
Melissa’s tearstained face brightened with hope, then her shoulders slumped. Her father considered all Indians to be unfeeling savages. He would never allow it. And if he did not, this small new brother would not live and grow old enough to run, laugh, and play. Her mother would have died for nothing!
Both girls froze as the door crashed open and the father stormed in. His face was flushed with anger. He had followed Rising Fawn’s tracks back to the cabin. The children huddled together, big-eyed, as their father lashed out at their older sister. Rising Fawn felt sick. She had caused her friend added grief. Her face was expressionless, but her eyes reflected scorn for this man who would allow his child to die because of prejudice. The insults she couldn’t understand didn’t matter. Proudly, she held herself as tall as possible, her black eyes fastened on the man’s blazing blue ones. The silence that followed his angry words seemed to hold everything in suspension. Rising Fawn tried not to hear the infant’s weak and hungry wails as she left.
It was dusk when Rising Fawn heard the shout that a white man was approaching the village. She was glad that it was Brown Fox who entered her mother’s hogan with Melissa’s father carrying the baby! Brown Fox spoke English. The girl laid aside the moccasin she was beading and stood to listen as Brown Fox spoke the white man’s words.
“He says that his daughter, who is now the only mother his children have, was very angry with him after you left. For the first time he has seen that her temper matches his own.” Brown Fox translated further, “She reminded him of the food that has been left at their door when they had no meat. She said that she would not permit the baby her mother died giving birth to, to die also and that she would bring it here herself to be nursed by an Indian mother, if he did not have the courage and good sense to do so himself.”
Brown Fox waited patiently as the shamefaced father continued slowly. “He says he has been a very foolish man and that his daughter is wiser than he. He asks you to forgive him and to take his son to your aunt until he is older. You and your people are welcome at his cabin. If we need his help or his oxen, he will gladly oblige us. He wants to be a friend and neighbor.”
Rising Fawn smiled and took the tiny bundle the white man was holding so awkwardly. She cradled it in her arms and laid her cheek against the baby’s blond hair. “Tell Melissa’s father that we will care for his child as for one of our own. He brings us a weak, motherless infant. We will return a strong and healthy son to him. Tell him that Rising Fawn speaks these words: We have always been his friends—and now he is ours.”

On the first day I entered the mission field in Akron Ohio, the mission president made it clear to my eager new senior companion that he was to get me out tracting, knocking on doors, before the end of the day. I assumed it was because tracting was such a horrible thing, they wanted to get the initial shock over with quickly. In that mission, only half the missionaries that came out were able to baptize even one person during their entire two years of service.

After a long drive to our area, my companion informed me that we had only 20 minutes before our dinner appointment with a member family, so we could only knock on a few doors. I prayed in the car with my companion to be directed to someone who wanted to hear the Gospel. Then we got out and started walking. We walked to the end of the street, passing several houses that just did not seem right to my companion. He said he felt impressed to turn left at the corner. We walked up to the first or second house on the left. It was a weathered, old, turn-of-the-century home. We knocked. No answer. We knocked again and waited. Finally, a tiny lady who looked to be in her 80s slowly opened the door and greeted us through the screen. We told her we represented Jesus Christ, and she readily welcomed us in. We talked for some time. We were late for our dinner appointment, but Winifred Schaefer was baptized about three weeks later.

The first door of the first street on the first day of my mission. Our prayer had been answered. Exactly what I had ordered. And the package came with a message: “I am here. I hear you. I will guide you if you will be led, and it may not be the best way to find people, but it is a way YOU will be directed to people.” And I was, to many people over the next two years.

“Brueder Missionare, warten Sie einen Moment!” cried Sister Schmiedl, hurrying out of the apartment house door into the cold January air. My companion and I dismounted our bikes and turned to her. “I’m glad I saw you. Sister Jonas is sick; they’ve taken her to the hospital.”
“When did this happen? What’s the matter with her?”
“Yesterday afternoon … something to do with the liver. Brother Wist said they don’t expect her to last the week at her age.”
“Terrible!”
“Ja! She wants very much to see you, and she asked to be administered to.” Sister Schmiedl had that desperate but firm Austrian look that told us we had better get over to the hospital as soon as possible.
We pedaled our way in silence through the snow-clogged streets toward our apartment. Elder Rogers and I weren’t regular companions. His companion was the district leader. My companion, Elder Smith, and the district leader had gone to Linz to work for the day. We often traded so we could get different ideas on how to approach people about the gospel and to gain experience working with various elders. That particular day didn’t seem much improved by the absence of our senior companions. You see, Elder Rogers and I were both junior companions with very little experience. Between the two of us, we had a total of six weeks in the field.
Warming our stiff hands over the coal stove in the landlady’s kitchen, we wondered what we were going to do. Or more precisely, how.
“Have you ever given a blessing to the sick?”
“No, Elder Rogers, I haven’t. Not even in English.”
“Well, comp., this could be tricky. Neither have I.”
We knew stalling wouldn’t do any good. Even if Sister Jonas’s condition hadn’t been so urgent, delaying until morning wouldn’t guarantee Elder Smith’s getting back to perform the ordinance. The wind was whipping the dusty snow into a regular gale outside, and trains all over central Europe were being halted. Winter 1970 was to become one of the worst winters in the history of the continent, and that’s a lot of history.
We decided not to take the bikes, preferring a long walk to a slide that might take us to the hospital rather than visitors. As we went, our breath came out in big puffs of white vapor that froze to the fibers of our scarves and collars and gave our eyebrows and noses a Frosty-the-Snowman appearance. Fortunately, the hospital was not too far away, and Wels is a small town in any case. The nun at the desk looked doubtfully at us when we introduced ourselves as ministers of the Church of Jesus Christ, but our identification papers convinced her, and we proceeded down the corridor, even though there were no visiting hours on Tuesday.
Sterbezimmer 319 is a room where patients with only a few hours or days to live are kept isolated from others. It was a reasonably pleasant room, despite its awful function, and the white lace curtains gave a feeling of hope, even when hope was long gone. Sister Jonas lay in a bed by the window; from there she could watch the storm’s progress. Outside the wind was still playing ball with the fallen snow, but it seemed a few rays of sunlight were trying to find a way through the clouds. As we entered, Sister Jonas looked and smiled.
A nurse was there. “Don’t be long,” she said and then left, assuming we had come to give the last rites.
“I’m glad you came,” whispered Sister Jonas.
“Don’t be afraid. Do you believe you can be healed?”
“Yes, now I do.”
Elder Rogers produced a vial of pale yellow oil, and, in a quavering voice, anointed her. Now it was my turn. I paused. How did they tell us to pronounce a blessing at the Language Training Mission? An instant’s hesitation, and, “Otilie Jonas, Im namen Jesu Christi … ”
My time in Wels was almost gone, and I expected to be transferred to another town in a few days. Elder Smith had long since been sent to Vienna, and Elder Rogers had followed him. I looked out on our little congregation in sacrament meeting and had difficulty holding back the tears. The hardy souls in these small and sometimes obscure branches mean a lot to the missionaries who labor there. When I left home to come to Austria, I knew I’d soon return, but I knew when I left Wels I would probably never see these people again.
It had been a long winter, and even in the spring it was still a bit chilly. Others felt it too, and in the back, a sister got up and stoked the little potbellied stove. It was Sister Jonas. When she finished, she returned to her chair, and I got up to walk to the pulpit—what could I tell these people?
I told them about Sister Jonas. I told them how much it had meant to us to be there when she needed a blessing, though we had been so inexperienced. I told them how the Lord had helped us when we didn’t know what to do. And I told them that if they would trust in Him, He would help them too.
Afterward, Sister Jonas came up to me with tears in her eyes. “That blessing saved my life,” she said. “I know the Lord healed me.”

President James E. Faust once told of applying for Officer’s Candidate School in the United States Army. He said:
I was summoned before the board of inquiry. My qualifications were few, but I had had two years of college and had finished a mission for the Church in South America.
The questions asked of me at the officers’ board of inquiry took a very surprising turn. Nearly all of them centered upon my beliefs. “Do you smoke?” “Do you drink?” “What do you think of others who smoke and drink?” I had no trouble answering these questions.
“Do you pray?” “Do you believe that an officer should pray?” The officer asking these questions was a hard-bitten career soldier. He did not look like he prayed very often. . . . I wanted to be an officer very much. . . .
I decided not to equivocate. I admitted that I did pray and that I felt that officers might seek divine guidance as some truly great generals had done. . . .
More interesting questions came. “In times of war, should not the moral code be relaxed? Does not the stress of battle justify men in doing things that they would not do when at home under normal situations?”
. . . I suspected that the men who were asking me this question did not live by the standards that I had been taught. The thought flashed through my mind that perhaps I could say that I had my own beliefs, but I did not wish to impose them on others. But there seemed to flash before my mind the faces of the many people to whom I had taught the law of chastity as a missionary. In the end I simply said, “I do not believe there is a double standard of morality.”
I left the hearing resigned to the fact that these hard-bitten officers would . . . surely score me very low. A few days later when the scores were posted, to my astonishment I had passed. I was in the first group taken for Officer’s Candidate School! . . .
[And then President Faust, realizing how small decisions can have large consequences, said:] This was one of the critical crossroads of my life.

Little did Petre realize all this festival day would bring, when he carefully laid out his dance costume on his bed that morning. First, he would be allowed to herd the family sheep to the meadows in the Romanian highlands by himself and bring them back again. Getting ready for the Shepherd’s Dance meant that the men needed to stay in town, so the task of grazing the sheep today was left to the children.
Since this was a holiday, the children were to bring the sheep back early in the afternoon so that the youngsters could join in the festivities. As Petre moved the flock from the pen, the bell on the lead ram tinkled pleasantly. Petre’s fervent dream was to have his own flock one day.
“Don’t forget, Petre,” called his friend Josif as he moved his own family’s sheep onto the road, “we bring back the sheep at one o’clock. I heard that the tourists at Sibiu are going to come over to watch the dancing.” Then with a grin he gibed, “I’m going to dance your legs off!” Josif always acted as though dancing was a contest.
Petre, who danced because he loved to, retorted, “Go ahead and try!”
Ana led her family’s sheep out after Josif’s. She didn’t have any brothers, and she claimed to be the first shepherdess in the area.
One by one the three flocks ambled down the dusty road. The blessings of spring had filled the meadows with blades of tender grass. The scent of wild flowers filled the air, and the creek sparkled with clear mountain water.
Soon the flocks reached the meadows. As they grazed, Petre sat under an oak tree and thought about the festival. The women of the village had already spent many hours preparing the special festival food. The men were now setting up long tables under a grape arbor to hold the delicacies. They were also decorating the cobblestone streets with ribbons and lanterns. During the festivities the women would wear elaborately embroidered costumes; the men would wear belted white trousers, embroidered tunics, and leggings with bells that jingled. The dancers’ shoes would be of soft leather, and the captivating Romanian folk tunes would be played by shepherds on their flutes. The dancers would cry out, slap their ankles and thighs, and leap gracefully into the air as they followed the intricate figures of the dance.
“Will one o’clock ever get here?” Petre sighed. Glancing at his flock, he noticed that a sheep had strayed. He whistled, and his dog, Tofan, quickly brought the ewe back to the group.
In Petre’s village, sons had followed their fathers as shepherds for many, many generations. As each boy was ready for the responsibility, he was given three sheep to start a flock of his own.
Petre recalled his father saying, “Son, there is more to tending sheep than watching them eat grass. You must watch for ailing sheep and recognize what caused the sickness. Ewes need special care when they are lambing. Fleece must be sheared without injury to the animal. Always know the exact number of sheep in your flock and where they are. Most of all, Son, you must realize that sheep are a gift from God and that they are only one of His many wondrous creations. Earthly rewards will never cease as long as you respect all living things as part of one large family.”
Petre was glad when the sun passed its highest point and was starting its downward track. He whistled, and Tofan started the flock toward home. From the dust cloud ahead on the road, Petre knew Josif and Ana were ahead of him. As he neared the village sheepyard, he could hear Ana insisting, “I still think I’m missing a sheep.”
“You could have miscounted,” suggested Josif.
“No, I’ve counted twice. We can’t leave one out there. Anything can happen to it.”
“We already looked for it once,” complained Josif. “We’ll have time to check again after the dance. It will still be daylight. Come on,” he urged, “or we’ll miss the dancing.”
Petre watched them run toward the village green. The music from the shepherds’ flutes was melodic and clear. Its rhythmic beat touched every muscle in his body, and he wanted to spring into a dance. But he couldn’t go and enjoy the festivities knowing that there might be a lost sheep somewhere.
“Come, Tofan,” Petre called. “Let’s see if there is a sheep out there. If we hurry, we can get back before all the dancing is over.”
The boy and the dog ran down the dusty road toward the meadows, with Tofan sniffing along the way. After searching for some time, Petre declared, “Tofan, we haven’t found it, but somehow I’m sure there is a sheep out here somewhere.”
The dog seemed to understand and went with Petre to search in the foothills. Finally, in a shallow gully hidden by tall grass, they found a ewe that had just given birth.
“We can’t go home yet, Tofan,” Petre said as he sat down by the sheep. “We must wait until they are strong enough to go.”
The dog wagged his tail, then waited patiently beside the boy.
The ewe seemed comforted by their presence. Petre was glad he had come, even though he was aching to dance. He knew he could not get back in time now.
The ewe went on licking her newborn. Finally she nudged the lamb to its feet. A kind of joy swept over Petre as he cradled the lamb in his arms. “Come, Tofan,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
The dog guided the ewe in the right direction.
Not far from the village Petre saw the three fathers coming toward him. He knew that they had been at the pen to check their sheep and had realized that one was missing.
“I’m proud of you, Son,” his father greeted him.
Ana’s father stepped forward. “Petre,” he said, taking the lamb, “because of what you did, I am going to give this lamb to you as soon as it is weaned.”
Petre swallowed hard. His heart was beating so hard that it felt as though it might leap out of his chest.
“And I,” said Josif’s father, “will give you the next ewe born in my flock.”
Petre could hardly believe what he was hearing. He expected to wake up and find it was all a dream.
His father spoke up then. “And I will give you a baby ram.”
“Oh, Papa!” cried Petre. “My very own flock!”
“Come, Son,” said his father, “run on ahead of us and put on your costume. There’s still time for some dancing.”
The shepherds’ flutes were never more melodious. With the bells on his leggings jingling to his favorite Romanian tune, Petre danced until his legs ached.
That night Petre put his costume carefully away. In the morning he would wake up and remember that he soon would have a flock of his own. His dream was coming true!