Gospel Story Finder

Oh, kids! All the flowerpots on the porch are knocked over!” exclaimed Mrs. Rossini in a very exasperated voice.
“Petey did it, Mom,” Robbie and Marsha responded in unison.
Of course. Whenever an “accident” happened in the Rossini house, the other children always claimed that “Petey did it.”
The kitchen door swung open, and with every step, three-year-old Peter left a little pile of sand on the kitchen floor. “Mama, come see. I made the biggest mountain in the world in the sandbox. It’s beautific!”
“Petey, please shake the sand off before you come into the house. Now then, is your mountain beautiful, or terrific?”
“It’s both—my mountain is beautific!” Petey grinned as he ran out the door, knocking over the scrub bucket of water his mother had just used to clean the kitchen floor.
Petey “did it,” all right. Everywhere he went, a mess was sure to follow. Mrs. Rossini wiped up the water and sand with a sigh, then went out to view Peter’s sand mountain.
Marsha and Robbie giggled over their little brother’s disasters. It was almost a family joke for them to shout, “Petey did it! Petey did it!” even if little Peter wasn’t around.
It just seemed funny for Marsha to say “Petey did it!” when Mother wondered what had happened to the last cookie in the bag. Or Robbie might smile and say, “Petey did it,” when no one could quite remember how the schoolbooks were misplaced.
When all three children were scrambling to get the first waffle from the big platter on the table at breakfast, the syrup was knocked over. Of course, Marsha and Robbie giggled and claimed that “Petey did it.” When his mother asked, “Peter, did you bump over the syrup?” he answered, “Yes, Mama. I did, and I’m very sorry.”
After breakfast, the Rossini children were sent to sweep the garage. Marsha moved the boxes and straightened things a bit while Robbie started with the broom. Peter tried to hold the dustpan.
“Marsha, I can’t sweep that corner unless you move Dad’s bike. Why don’t you put it in the driveway.”
“Sure. Hey, Petey. Do you want to sit on the seat while I push the bike into the driveway?”
“Yes, yes, yes! Lift me up, Marsha, please.”
“Up you go,” Marsha said as she lifted the little boy onto Dad’s bicycle. “Hold on to me while I push you.”
Robbie quickly swept that corner of the garage, then followed Marsha and Peter. “That looks fun. Let me try it, Marsh.”
Off the children went, down the street, taking turns pushing Peter on the bike. They hadn’t gone very far when one of their friends shouted to them from his yard.
“Robbie! Marsha! Peter! Do you want to see my new kitten?”
Who could resist? Marsha helped Petey jump down, and all three ran to see Kevin’s new kitten. No one thought at all about Dad’s bike. A few minutes later a big garbage truck rumbled around the corner and ran right over the front wheel of the bicycle.
All afternoon the children sat in their rooms and worried about what to tell their father. How could they explain it? Somehow, when Dad came in, before he could even say anything, the words just rushed out of Robbie’s mouth, “Petey did it.”
“That’s right,” said Marsha. “Petey was riding your bike and left it in the road, and the truck ran over it.”
“I did, Daddy. I went to see Kevin’s kitten, and I forgot your bike, and it got runned over. I’m sorry, Daddy,” Petey said with big tears in his eyes.
“Well, we’ll talk more about this later. All of you go wash your hands for dinner now.”
During dinner, Marsha felt terrible and Robbie felt worse. The two children thought over and over about the questions that Dad had not asked them. Dad hadn’t asked how Peter could have gotten on the bike, or how he could have ridden it by himself when his feet didn’t even reach the pedals. Dad knew that Peter couldn’t even open the garage door by himself.
It didn’t feel like a joke to blame Peter anymore for everything. Robbie pushed his potatoes around with his fork and thought how he was really more to blame than Peter. He knew better than to leave a bike in the road.
Marsha stared at her plate. She thought about little Petey telling Dad that he had ridden the bike. It was time to be accountable for her part in the ruined bike. “Dad,” Marsha blurted out, “it wasn’t really Petey. I’m the one who put him on your bike and gave him a ride. I’m really sorry I took your bike and let it get run over.”
“Me, too, Dad,” Robbie hurried to add. “Petey was just riding, and I was pushing too. We all left it in the road. Can I do something to help get it fixed?”
“Thank you, kids, for telling me the whole truth, not just part of it. Maybe we can figure out a way for you to help fix the bike. Maybe we also need a new family rule. From now on the only one in the Rossini family who can say ‘Petey did it’ is Peter himself.”
“And I’ll tell you when Marsha did it,” said a smiling Marsha.
“And I’ll learn to say ‘Robbie did it,’” said a much happier Robbie.

Perhaps one of the most devastating difficulties a parent must endure is to lose a child. As I share the story of my beloved son Daniel, please take particular notice of how Heavenly Father and the Savior’s love is manifested in our experience to help us through this trial.

Our son Daniel, just a few months after returning from serving his Illinois-Chicago Spanish speaking mission, was out waving signs in the community with his friends to raise awareness to the prevalent use of “ice” in 2003. I’ll let this video tell the story. I wrote this poem one year after the accident by the request of the creators of danielmapu.com (3) that Dallin and Tia Muti
“One Year Ago Today” Video
We took care of our son Daniel who suffered from severe traumatic brain injury and was unable to sit up, stand, walk, eat or do anything for himself for 10 ½ years before he passed away in 2014. He was always known as our “police baby” because he was born the year his father started his career as a police officer. When his dad retired after 32 years of service, our police baby retired also from this life.

I’d like to share very personal experiences to illustrate the Lord’s tender mercies in this experience.

While Daniel was in a coma after he was hurt, I sat next to his bedside in the Neuro ICU, with the soothing music of “In this very room” playing ever so softly in the background. We did not know at that time whether he was going to live or die. I remember quietly pleading with the Lord to bless my son. I had never prayed so hard before for anything. While in the act of praying, and crying, I paused for a moment, and as clear as day, in my mind’s eye, I could see the Savior embracing my son in His loving arms. He was not standing above him or next to him. His arms were wrapped around Daniel. I dared not open my eyes for fear of losing this image that helped to comfort and help a very distraught heartbroken mother. I was comforted from that special moment, and it strengthened me throughout the 10 ½ years of caring for Daniel.

The other special moment, among many, was through a dream that came to one of my former students, Paola from Peru. When Daniel came home from his mission, he helped the sister missionaries along with Brother Toluta’u’s son Augusti to teach a Spanish speaking couple the missionary lessons which resulted in their baptism. Paola lived with this couple and was present during the lessons and became well-acquainted with Daniel.

Shortly after Daniel’s accident, Paola was anxious to relate her dream to me. She was overjoyed to see Daniel in her dream. He seemed anxious to give her a message for our family. “Please tell my family,” Daniel said, “three things: first, tell my family not to worry about me; I am willing to go through this experience for Heavenly Father and whatever His will and purpose is for me. Second, please tell them that serving my mission was the best thing that I ever did in my life. I loved my mission! Finally, please tell my mom that I love her very much and thank her for taking such great care of me. I have to go, but please tell them.”

Upon hearing this message from Daniel, all the worries, the stress and anxieties I felt for him were lifted. I knew that our job was to take care of him as best as we could until His father made known His will for His son. Our daughter Ane was at that time serving her mission at Temple Square and sent us this scripture that helped:

Mosiah 24: 14-15
“And I will also ease the burdens which are put upon your shoulders, that even you cannot feel them upon your backs…and this will I do that ye may stand as witnesses for me hereafter that ye may know of a surety that I, the Lord God, do visit my people in their afflictions.

“… yea the Lord did strengthen them that they could bear up their burdens with ease, and they did submit cheerfully and with patience to all the will of the Lord.”

I testify that this happened. I testify that the Lord God did visit us in our afflictions and made our burdens light. I testify that He will do the same for you.

But I felt so alone. I was in Zion, the place of peace and rest for the Saints. I was supposed to be happy. But I missed my family.
The blind lady allowed me to stay with her and keep house, and I tried my hardest to keep everything neat and clean for her. But she wasn’t my family. Mama was always in my thoughts. I knew that she would come. Somehow, some way, Mama would make it to Zion.
Whenever I heard of a wagon train coming into the Salt Lake Valley, I watched for the dusty sky—a sure sign that the wagons would arrive soon. Then I’d run to the fence and climb as high as I could to see the immigrants. At first they would be just a dust cloud on the horizon. But slowly, oh so slowly, I could make out the wagons and the animals and the people.
I studied the women passing by. Mama’s hair is that color—but no, it isn’t Mama. Over there is a woman with Mama’s posture—but no, it isn’t Mama, either. Could that one driving the team be she? No, no, no. With every incoming group, I thought, Surely Mama will be in this company with my younger brothers and sisters.
I searched and searched, and doubts would come. No one smiled at me. No one ran and wrapped me in her arms. As the wagons rolled past, another heartache began. With each disappointment, the tears coursed down my cheeks, and I cried until there were no more tears left.
Two long, hard years passed before Mama finally came. When she did, I could hardly believe my eyes. She was worn and tired and covered with dust. I almost didn’t recognize her. But she knew me, even though I had grown quite a bit taller.
I ran to her as fast as I could. I wrapped my arms around her and wept—this time tears of happiness. She had made it to Zion. I wasn’t alone anymore. Together we were home. At last I felt Zion in my heart.

I take note of the fact that Sister Maxwell and I were privileged to meet at the University of Utah Institute of Religion. What a special day it was for me to meet her. I must confess I can’t tell you what the lesson was that day, but I will always be grateful for that blessing, among the many, that the Church Educational System has given to me. Colleen has been wonderful as a nurturer and as an encourager—in the last year in particular.

Let me give you an example of avoiding a dead-end. My oldest daughter chose to study accounting in college—not because she liked accounting, but because it offered many options, especially, for someone who wanted to be a stay-at-home mother. She worked full-time, then switched to working part-time from home when she had her first child, and finally returning to working full-time years later. Now she has a great many options open to her.
While each of our other seven children made different choices, they made choices that gave them options and opportunities.

We envision your families gathered around the television or online to watch the proceedings of general conference at home. An alert mother and father sent me a copy of a picture they took at conference time. They observed the reaction of their then 18-month-old son, who recognized the features and voice of the speaker. The child started to throw kisses toward the TV. He wanted to come closer. So his thoughtful older sister quickly hoisted her little brother on her shoulders and brought him closer. Here is that photograph.
Yes, the image on the TV is mine, and those children are our grandchildren. In a few years this boy will be an elder endowed in the temple and ready for his mission. Later he will be sealed to an eternal companion of his choice. Can you see him one day as a husband and father, with children of his own? And one day he will say farewell to his grandfathers, with a sure knowledge that death is part of life.

That same high school choir once traveled to California, USA, to compete in a music festival. I became ill just before departure, and my sore throat meant that I wouldn’t be able to sing with my choir in the festival—or if I did, I would sing poorly, accompanied by pain. I asked my father for a priesthood blessing and spent the next day praying for recovery.

Perhaps I didn’t fully understand then, as I sang “Amazing Grace” with a fully mended throat at the festival, that I was singing about the very power that had healed me just the day before. The Savior’s Atonement had blessed me that day; His grace was the source of my healing.

One Primary leader shared how grateful she was for this focus in Primary. She said that she and her husband read the scriptures to their children—ages 2, 3, and 4—every night before they go to bed. I asked her to tell me more. I must admit I questioned that children so young could understand the language of the scriptures. She said that she and her husband had the same doubts when they first began reading with their children. But she said after the first week the language was not an issue. The children love reading together and feeling the Spirit, and it’s amazing how much they understand.

My family has a big raspberry bush in our backyard that always produces more berries than we can eat, so every year my dad and I would take a bowl of raspberries to a widow in our ward, Sister Hair.
I would always complain when my dad made me go with him because I was afraid Sister Hair would kiss me on the cheek, as she usually did. In fact, one time I took my nephew along so she would kiss him instead.
This went on every year until Sister Hair went to live in a rest home. Some time later, the young women in my ward went to visit her for an activity. We introduced ourselves when we walked in, but she didn’t remember any of the young women except me. She repeated my last name and said, “That’s right, she used to bring me raspberries every year.” She told us how much she had enjoyed the company and the raspberries.
As part of our visit, we sang some hymns for her. One hymn struck me in particular. As we sang, “Because I have been given much, I too must give,” (Hymns, no. 219), I felt ashamed that I hadn’t been more willing to share my friendship along with the raspberries. Sister Hair passed away shortly after our visit, but I will never forget the lesson I learned from her: that we should show gratitude for what we have by sharing it with others.

I like to dance, make crafts, and play with my little sister Lilly. When I was two, I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. Every year on the anniversary of my diagnosis, I do service. Last year, my family and I donated stuffed animals and gave a letter of encouragement to the children at the hospital where I was diagnosed. I felt so happy to do something nice for someone experiencing a sad time. I am thankful for the example of Jesus Christ to love and serve others.
Sariah B., 13, Minnesota, USA

When I was growing up my father would go on the sheepshearing circuit. He took us with him, partially I think, because he didn’t want to be away from his family long, and also to keep an eye on me. The sheriff was still pretty upset about the bed-sheet-and-wire ghost he’d taken a couple of shots at after my friends and I floated it in front of his office at midnight, letting out a blood curdling scream for dramatic effect. It took years before he quit blaming every little thing that happened on me.

As Sunday approached, the adversary put many obstacles in my path that could have easily prevented me from attending. How grateful I am that the Holy Ghost persisted.
I felt nervous as I entered the building, but the opening hymn in sacrament meeting reassured me that I was home again. The hymn “Come, Come, Ye Saints” (Hymns, no. 30) invited the Spirit so powerfully that tears flowed down my face. I knew in that instant that Heavenly Father was aware of me and the deep sadness I was feeling.
That hymn has become an unofficial anthem of sorts for the Church, but it has become my personal anthem as well.
“Come,” the hymn invites me. “Though hard to you this journey may appear, grace shall be as your day.”
My journey was hard. But grace did attend me as promised.
Bishop Darren Bird and the rest of the congregation were wonderful and welcoming. They accepted me as their brother in Christ.
The words of “Come, Come, Ye Saints” took on greater meaning to me, however, as I felt Heavenly Father directing me on how I should proceed.
We’ll find the place which God for us prepared,
Far away in the West,
Where none shall come to hurt or make afraid;
There the Saints will be blessed.
I went west and bought a home in Fountain Hills, Arizona, USA, where I met Bishop Jerry Olson. When I requested to meet with him and shook his hand, the Spirit impressed upon me that this man would help bring me back into full activity in the Church.
As I began visiting with the bishop and embarking on this reconciliation with Heavenly Father, I witnessed many spiritual miracles. I was open with the bishop, for which he was grateful. He said that helped him better understand where I had been and where I was now in my relationship with God. He also lovingly informed me that this was the first time that he had had an opportunity to minister to someone with same-sex attraction, and he asked for my patience and forgiveness if he said or did anything to offend me throughout the process.
I thanked him for his honesty and said, “Well, this is my first time as well. We’ll learn together.”
Thus began a wonderful journey and friendship!
Soon I had an action plan on how to become a member again. I accepted the loving and prayerful counsel with a grateful heart and began the process.
Illustration by Jenna Palacios
Later, as I followed that counsel and worked hard to draw closer to Christ, I received the restoration of my priesthood and temple blessings and accepted a call to serve in the elders quorum. In the holy temple, as I communed with Heavenly Father, He showed me how much He loves all His children. I felt solace and a deep desire to please Him.
Months later, a new bishop was called, with whom I have also developed a loving friendship. Bishop Larry Radford knew of my circumstance and appreciated my service in the elders quorum, where he said I had served with love and devotion not only for the quorum but also—and more importantly—for God. His kind words and encouragement helped me feel that the Lord and my fellow Saints were pleased with my service.
I now faithfully serve as the ward clerk.
Having same-sex attraction and being an active member of the Church is not always easy. But as I put all my faith and trust in God, I can feel Him strengthening me. Critics will no doubt say that I’m not being true to who I am or that I’m disappointing the LGBT+ community.
I understand their frustration, and I obviously don’t have all the answers. I can only speak of my own experience. And that experience has taught me this: I am Heavenly Father’s son, a child of God. That’s the one and only label that matters to me. As a result, I try not to allow the world’s labels to define me. I fear that will limit my potential and eternal progression.
Satan is very clever. He knows that by using labels, he can divide us as a community and as a church.
With that perspective in mind, the choices I make are not based on my same-sex attraction but on how to be a true disciple of Christ with same-sex attraction. As Nephi said:
“O Lord, I have trusted in thee, and I will trust in thee forever. I will not put my trust in the arm of flesh. …
“… I know that God will give liberally to him that asketh. Yea, my God will give me, if I ask not amiss; therefore I will lift up my voice unto thee; yea, I will cry unto thee, my God, the rock of my righteousness. Behold, my voice shall forever ascend up unto thee, my rock and mine everlasting God” (2 Nephi 4:34–35).
Throughout my return, I felt the loving companionship of my leaders and fellow Saints, including active and less-active LGBT+ members. I found a place where I could thrive. I found among them the attributes of Christ that I had always associated with my faith: mercy, compassion, understanding, and, above all, love.
As I struggled along the path with my Savior, I felt comfort and peace as I turned to Him, knowing that I wasn’t walking that path alone. Several bishops were there beside me. Members of my quorum. Sisters in the ward. I even had a young man in the ward ask me if I would ordain him a priest. His kind invitation deeply moved me. He saw me as a man who holds the priesthood of God and who can exercise that priesthood in service to others.
These opportunities to serve and worship with my fellow Saints have lifted me and—along with the many blessings I’ve received from the Lord—helped me experience the love, understanding, and acceptance that I needed.
The Savior said, “I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you” (John 14:18). Those words are true. I needed comforting, and He came to me, more abundantly than I could have imagined.

We had the rare privilege of serving our mission in New England, which included the birthplace of the Prophet Joseph Smith tucked away in the hills of Vermont. It was, and still is, a sacred place to our family. A granite shaft 38 & 1/2 feet had been raised on a hill to remember each year of the prophet's life. Often missionaries met with us there. Can you imagine a testimony meeting of missionaries who regularly witnessed Joseph Smith's seeing the Father and the Son to the people of New England, sharing with each other that witness in the very spot where the Prophet was born?
I remember distinctly walking silently with about 150 missionaries to a shady glen only a few feet from where he was born. A witness of his goodness, his sacred calling, his reality, came down on me that day with a power that I can never forget.
Perhaps one of the most eloquent testimonies I heard during those years was our eight-year-old daughter, Emily, who took the opportunity to walk to the monument alone each time we visited the place. I remember her saying, one late afternoon as we were about to pull ourselves away, "I wish I could hug the monument!" And then, "I love you, Joseph Smith!"
Emily, now 49, and seven children later, recently wrote: "As a child, newly baptized, I remember how I loved being at the Prophet's birthplace in Vermont. When my father spoke of his beloved 'Joseph' I had a sense of the Prophet so vivid that it was as if he were there. I loved him and I knew he was a prophet. That testimony burned in me then and is undeniable now. It floods over me again whenever I go to South Royalton.

Annette Aagard was in the middle of a bad week. She felt overwhelmed. She did not need one more thing to do. Then why was she rushing off to become—of all things—a volunteer?
A couple of months earlier it had seemed like a good idea. She had signed up to donate a few hours each week to Great Oaks Village, a residential school for abused children in Orlando, Florida. She had been through orientation to assist girls between the ages of six and twelve. And now she faced her first assignment—all alone.
As soon as she walked into the dorm at Great Oaks, she heard someone say, “Hey, the new volunteer’s here!” Several anxious, wide-eyed little girls ran up to her and asked, “Are you our new volunteer?” And someone said, “Better be good or she won’t talk to you!”
By the end of that first evening in March of 1989, Annette knew why she had rushed off to become a volunteer. She learned that the word volunteer is like magic to these youngsters. It means that for a little while, someone has come to be family; someone has come to give love.
Annette loves to be a “big sister” to the little girls. She loves to walk and talk with them. “I not only learn from the things they say, but from the quick and easy way they trust, accept, and believe,” she says.
She tells about one particular evening. It was very quiet—most of the girls were restricted to their dorm rooms. So she took one little girl, Stosha, outside. It had just rained and the air was clean and quiet. They rode bikes for a little while and later went to the playground.
Annette explains, “Stosha is small and energetic and talkative. She loves the monkey bars. She would go across the bars and then expect me to follow her, which I had a hard time doing! I asked Stosha if she was going to try and skip every other bar the next time. She said, ‘Nope, I’m not going to try, I’m going to do it!’ This incident reminded me of President Spencer W. Kimball’s motto, ‘Do it!’ Sometimes we find excuses and whine and say ‘if … , but … , maybe … ,’ when we just need to believe in ourselves and do it.”

President J. Scott Dorius of the Peru Lima West Mission told me their story. He said:
“Becky and I were married for 25 years without being able to have [or adopt] children. We moved several times. Introducing ourselves in each new setting was awkward and sometimes painful. Ward members wondered why we [didn’t have] children. They weren’t the only ones wondering.
“When I was called as a bishop, ward members [expressed] concern that I did not have any experience with children and teenagers. I thanked them for their sustaining vote and asked them to allow me to practice my child-raising skills on their children. They lovingly obliged.
“We waited, gained perspective, and learned patience. After 25 years of marriage, a miracle baby came into our lives. We adopted two-year-old Nicole and then newborn Nikolai. Strangers now compliment us on our beautiful grandchildren. We laugh and say, ‘They are our children. We have lived our lives backwards.’”

“Maddie! Come upstairs! Brother Eldredge is here to teach you how to find a name!”
I groaned. Ever since our ward made a goal for all of the youth to find a name to take to the temple, I was trying to stay under the radar. I trudged upstairs. Brother Eldredge helped me log in and showed me how FamilySearch worked. As he showed me how simple it was to search and find names, a thought came to me that maybe doing FamilySearch wasn’t all that bad. Brother Eldredge finished helping me and then left.
I kept going through the steps, and within 15 minutes I had found and reserved a family name. At that moment, a feeling of comfort washed over me, and I felt as though I had been given a big hug. But I didn’t stop there. I wanted to find more, so I did. Within the next hour, I had found 20 names. With every name I found, I felt the presence of someone new. That night, as I said my prayers, I knew that I was doing a great work.
The next day was a holiday from school, and I was bored. A little thought came into my mind that I should start using FamilySearch. With that thought in mind, I said a prayer and then searched for names for a good three hours. By the end of the day, I had 130 names. Over the course of the next few weeks, I took an hour here and there to find names. It became a habit. After about two months, I had a little over 400 names. It wasn’t something I wanted to make a big deal about. I did it because I felt like I was doing something good and something for my ancestors. Doing family history became a blessing. I think everyone should do it.

It was mentioned that we should listen to our wives. They have qualities that we don’t have. In many cases womanly intuition should be listened to. When we were preparing to come down, my wife said, “Now, were we supposed to get anything in to the paper?”

I said, “No, they said they have all the information they need.”

She said, “I’ll bet they get it wrong.”

Sure enough, when we opened up the Church News, they had shorted us two children. For your information, we have a little Jennie Marie and a Viki Ann who came after Thomas, who was mentioned in the paper. I told Jean that I would set the record straight.

But I can’t say in words my appreciation for my wife and my children. Maybe just this: that I love her—I always have, and I always will and our children also.

Clop-clop, clop-clop.
Joseph watched horses tug their wagons down the main street of Provo, Utah.
People walked quickly past the brick buildings that lined the street, eager to get home at the end of the day. Joseph had only one more newspaper to sell, and then he could go home too.
“Get your paper!” He waved it over his head.
Some newsboys thought this job was boring, but not Joseph. It reminded him of the busy marketplaces in Syria, where his family used to live.
“You are the oldest son, and your siblings look up to you,” his father had told Joseph one day as they walked through the market. “You must set a good example.”
Joseph’s memories were interrupted by a man walking toward him.
“Would you like to buy a paper?” Joseph asked him.
“Yes. Thank you, lad.” The man handed a few coins to Joseph. He couldn’t wait to add them to his savings at home!
A few minutes later, Joseph stepped onto his front porch. He took a deep breath. The air smelled delicious. “Lahmajoon,” Joseph said with a happy sigh. He loved the taste of the pizza-like meat pies from his home country. He hoped it was time to eat.
But when he opened the door, instead of seeing dinner already on the table, he saw his mother struggling to take the meat pies out of the oven. His little sister, Leah, cried loudly and tugged at Mother’s skirt.
“Let me help you with that,” Joseph said.
“Thank you.” Mother strained to lift Leah.
“She’s getting too big to carry,” Joseph said.
“My children are never too big for me to comfort,” Mother answered.
A few days later, Joseph
walked down the street, thinking of all Mother did for their family. And that’s when he saw it! A baby buggy in the furniture store window. Suddenly he knew what he needed to do.
He ran inside.
“What can I do for you?” a gentleman asked.
“I want to buy a baby buggy for my mother.”
“That is thoughtful, but do you have enough money?”
“I have two dollars now. If you will keep the buggy here, I’ll come in every week and give you more until I’ve paid for it.”
The man nodded. “Let’s go and pick one out.”
Joseph chose a brown leather buggy. It cost five dollars. He thought about how long it would take to earn the money.
Helping Mother will be worth it, he thought.
Weeks later, Joseph opened the kitchen door.
“You’re home early,” Mother said. She was facing away from Joseph, and he quietly pushed the buggy inside behind her back.
“Mother,” he said, “I got you something!”
Mother turned around and saw the buggy. Her brown eyes grew round with surprise, and tears started flowing down her cheeks. “Oh, thank you, son,” she said, hugging him tightly.
Later that night, when Joseph’s father came home, Mother showed him the buggy. Father put his hand on Joseph’s shoulder.
“I am proud of you. Very, very proud. You are a good example to the family.”
Joseph couldn’t stop smiling. It was amazing what hard work, stacks of newspaper, and a baby buggy could do.

“Remember a long long time ago when you were just a little boy?” I mused. “Well, you couldn’t, of course, because you were only about 18 months old, but it was the night after Robby was born in the old Dee Hospital on 24th Street. Anyway, you and I were the only ones home, and I guess it was about midnight or later. I came into your room to see if you were covered up, if everything was okay. The light from the hall was shining on your face a little, and there you were, wide awake, just looking up at me and smiling—like right now. So I sat down on the edge of our old rocker, and we looked at each other. That’s all we did. We were all alone, just looking at each other through the bars of that crib—looking into each other—for maybe 15 minutes. And you know something?” I paused. “That was one of the finest experiences your old dad has ever had.”
He looked thoughtful, frowned a little, but it was a pleasurable frown somehow. “I can’t exactly remember,” he said slowly, “but, well, I sort of do in a way, like I can still feel it.”

One day when Vanessa was about eight and Joanna was six, their classical violin teacher gave them a little fiddle tune to learn. Fiddling is a way of playing traditional American folk tunes on a violin. The music is often intricate and always lively. It is used to accompany square dancing. And for Vanessa and Joanna it was great fun to play.

“We tried it and really liked it and asked her for more,” said Vanessa. But fiddle music is not often written down because there are so many variations possible on each melody. The girls started taking lessons from a fiddling teacher. Students learn new pieces by listening to their teacher and then reviewing the pieces by listening to them over and over on tapes. Having had ear training with the Suzuki method, the girls learned quickly.

At first the fiddle music was used as a treat or a reward. After they practiced for an hour on their classical pieces, then they got to practice a half an hour of fiddling. Just one little tune started Vanessa and Joanna, and later another sister, Mindy, and little brother, Jesse, on some interesting adventures. They really got into the fiddling music, and now they perform, with guitar and piano accompaniment from their mother and father, for the wards in their area and for special occasions such as county fairs and conventions. And they have been competing in fiddling contests for several years, including the national fiddling contest held yearly in Weiser, Idaho.