Gospel Story Finder

In between serving slices of leche flan, a rich custard topped with burnt-sugar caramel, Maryjoy Morato, 17, of the Wilshire Ward, told how missionaries in the Philippines contacted her family and shared with them the gospel of Jesus Christ.
“They just knocked on the door one day,” she said. “But they were always welcome in our home because they would talk about good things.” Exposed to the light of the restored gospel, the entire family eventually joined the Church. Maryjoy’s father died, her mother remarried, and the family moved to America. “Members here are the same as in the Philippines,” she said. “There’s no change. They’re all nice.”

A sister in the United States was gone from the Church for many years. Her story of coming back includes powerful lessons for parents and family members who anguish over loved ones who step away. She wrote:
“I could list a myriad of reasons for why I walked away from the Church, the gospel, and in a way, my family. But they really don’t matter. I didn’t make one big decision to leave the Church—I probably made a thousand choices. But one thing I have always known is that my parents did make one big decision, and they stuck to it. They decided to love me.
“I couldn’t possibly know how many tears have been shed, how many sleepless nights, nor how many heartfelt pleading words of prayer have been uttered on my behalf. They didn’t call me out on my sins; rather, they called out to me in my sinfulness. They didn’t make me feel unwelcome in their home and at family gatherings; any of those feelings were of my own doing. Instead, they continued to welcome me. They must have seen my light dim over time. But they knew that the person I was back then was just a shadow of who I was yet to become.
“Just as my path away from the Church was complex, so was my way back. But one thing that was not hard about coming back was the feeling of being back home where I belong.”

Many years ago, our four-year-old son was involved in a serious accident away from home. When he was well enough to be transferred to a local hospital, we found a letter through our door from a dear sister in our ward listing who would bring meals on which days, who would collect our other children to and from school, and who would do our laundry, etc. A few days later my wife was also in hospital giving birth to our youngest son. With her in one end of the hospital, our son in the other end of the hospital and four other children to care for, this sister anticipating our needs and reaching out was so, so much, appreciated over those six difficult weeks.

The young women in one ward were inspired by the teachings of Sister Elaine S. Dalton, Young Women general president, on virtue: “Now is the time for each of us to arise and unfurl a banner to the world calling for a return to virtue.”1 The young women hiked a hill overlooking the town and raised gold banners symbolizing their pledge to be examples of virtue. Together they sang “High on the Mountain Top” (Hymns, no. 5).
These young women have raised their personal standards of righteousness. Their obedience has strengthened their testimonies and influenced others. Sister Dalton has said, “Never underestimate the power of your righteous influence.”2 And like a banner, the example of these young women waves to all the world.

This story took place in the USA.
The bell rang just as Mr. Nickels wrote their weekly math homework on the board. There were so many problems to solve! This would take forever.
“Turn in your homework on Friday,” Mr. Nickels said. “No excuses.”
Everyone groaned. Derek shoved his math book into his already-full backpack.
Derek’s new school was so different from his old one. Now that he was in sixth grade, he went to a school that was much bigger, with lots more students. The classes were harder, and he had more homework too.
But what worried Derek most of all was the other kids. Some of them seemed so mean! He didn’t want anyone to get mad at him.
Derek slung his backpack over his shoulder and walked into the hall. Kids were everywhere. He kept his eyes down and tried to weave between them without bumping into anyone. Sometimes it seemed like just looking at someone might make them mad.
“How was school today?” Dad asked that night. “Any better?”
“Not really,” Derek said.
Dad set down his book. “You know how you told me that sometimes you worry that someone at school might get mad at you for no reason?”
Derek nodded as he stared at his homework.
“Well, I have an idea,” Dad said. “Try smiling at them.”
What? That wasn’t what Derek expected. “I don’t know,” he said. “That sounds kind of weird.”
“Nothing too weird about smiling,” said Mom.
Dad nodded. “It wouldn’t hurt to try. Keep your head up and try smiling at whoever you see. It’s pretty hard to get mad about a smile.”
Derek thought about Dad’s idea. He prayed about it before bed, and he felt peaceful. OK. He’d try it out.
The next morning, Derek hopped off the bus. A crowd of kids squeezed through the front doors of the school. Derek walked inside with his head down, like normal.
But then Derek remembered Dad’s idea. Just smile, he thought.
With a deep breath, Derek raised his head. An older boy was walking toward him. He was at least one grade above Derek. Maybe two. He wore a sports jersey and walked with big, fast steps.
Derek almost looked away. This was exactly the kind of kid he thought might push him out of the way without warning. But he had promised to try.
So he smiled.
The other boy’s face brightened a little bit. After he passed, Derek stopped walking for a moment. He didn’t feel so nervous now!
Derek smiled at more people on his way to class. Almost all of them smiled back! Dad was right. No one got angry from a smile.
As he walked into the classroom, Derek thought that middle school might not be so scary after all. There was still lots to learn, and he still had some worries. But smiling helped. Maybe his smile could help someone else feel better too.

I remember about forty-six years ago when I was entering my first city of labor in southern Brazil. We were riding the streetcar from the center of town, and our companions were showing us the way to our residence. In those days all of the men in Brazil wore hats. So we were told, “When you see the men take their hats off the second time, you are to get off at the next stop.” What that meant was that the streetcar passed two churches. As it passed the churches, the men, out of respect, would lift their hats. What a lesson they taught! It ought to be a lesson to all of us to appreciate and understand other people.

On a small island out in the harbor, the Statue of Liberty raises a torch for all the world to see. If she turned her head to the left, she would stare straight across the water at the gleaming twin towers of the World Trade Center. On a brisk Monday last January, she could have seen the Manhattan Second Ward Mutual gazing down from the 107th floor at the sprawling maze of streets sardined between skyscrapers that stretches on forever—the city of New York that these teenagers call home.
“There, that’s Lower Manhattan. That’s where I live!” exclaimed Mary Esquilin, pointing to the north. “And see that apartment over there? That’s where Deborah Woodhouse lives.” It was hard for an untrained eye to pick out individual buildings. I could find the bridge-laced East River breaking the pattern of towers that rise like so many mountain ranges. And the famous green rectangle of Central Park, that refuge of trees and grass and lanes and lakes in an otherwise concrete and asphalt cosmos, was clearly visible. But when it came to picking out one tiny building …
“Okay,” said Harry Lee. “You know where Central Park is. The chapel is just two blocks from there.”
I thought back to Saturday morning when I had seen the chapel for the first time. It was just another building in a world of buildings, Number 2 Lincoln Square, across the street from the Julliard School of Music and kitty-corner to Lincoln Center and the Metropolitan Opera, until over the door I noticed the bold yellow letters spelling out “Mormon Visitors’ Center.” I knew I had found the complex that houses the center, the New York New York City Mission offices, and the Manhattan First, Second, and Spanish wards (the chapel, cultural hall, and classrooms are on the third floor).
When I arrived upstairs, the Mutual group was reviewing last year’s activities and planning for the rest of the winter, then spring and summer. They had done plenty of reminiscing.
“We have a lot of activities in Central Park,” 17-year-old Lily Lee explained. “It’s a novelty to have such a large, beautiful park so close at hand. It’s part of our culture. The New York Philharmonic gives free concerts there in the summer, and there are free Shakespeare performances. We saw two plays there last year.”
Lily’s brother Harry, who is 15, mentioned other activities. “There is a zoo and there is public ice-skating in the park. We have picnics, play softball with the bishopric, play volleyball, or sometimes just walk around.”
There are also lots of museums in the area, including the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which is at the far end of the park. “The church is located pretty much in the center of everything, so it’s not hard to get around,” Lily said. “We try to plan things early in the day so it won’t be necessary to travel at night on the subways, and we always travel in groups.”
Deborah Woodhouse, 15, remembered other successful activities, like Christmas caroling, a night at the Nutcracker ballet, cleaning trash from streets near the chapel, and a trip to the United Nations building. Kirsten Anderson, age 12, said she enjoyed the personal feeling of birthday parties and holiday celebrations. “We had a fun Halloween party, and we had a good volleyball game with the Young Men one time. We made dinner for them afterward. The things we do aren’t usually big things, but when you do them with each other and use the time you’ve got, it’s important,” Kirsten said.
Lily said she particularly enjoys joint activities with the Spanish Ward. The seminary students from both wards often meet on Super Saturdays or at youth conferences. Despite the language barriers, they enjoy themselves.
Sister Linda Rane, the Young Women president, explained that the ward includes the Broadway theater district in its boundaries and that LDS actors sometimes help the Mutual with roadshows and skits. Ballet students, medical students, and musicians often live within the ward boundaries while studying, and “once we had a fashion designer who helped the Mutual girls make their own dresses and put on a show.”
The meeting at the chapel had adjourned with prayer. It was followed by a stroll through Central Park. We watched equestrians trotting along a horse trail, joggers pacing themselves along a road closed to traffic, and spritely drivers whose brightly colored hackneys painted a portrait of another era when hay, not gasoline, furnished horsepower.
As we rested near some park benches, the sun melted through the chilled air. I couldn’t help asking questions:
“I was born and raised in New York,” Deborah, 15, said. “But I have visited several other places as well. The people of the Church are the same everywhere. You may have different races and cultures, but you always get the same warm feeling all around.
“At school, people tend to look up to you. Kids are curious, and teachers get to know you and are interested in what you believe. I have a friend who says I must have a nice family because we’re not always fighting. I guess I talk about my brothers a lot, and she can sense the family love we feel.
“The greatest challenge that I feel is avoiding the lesser sins. It’s harder here because there are so many temptations, but it’s easier to resist the big temptations because they are so obvious.”
Mary said, “There are so many things to do and see. But there are challenges too. Most of us are converts. Sometimes we’re the only members in our families. So we rely on other Church members to talk to when we need someone who understands about the gospel.”
Mary, 18, and her sister Eileen, 12, joined the Church ten months ago. They were first interested by a friend who was a member and eventually came to meetings with her. “All I had heard about Mormons was awful,” Mary said. “But as I started going to Church, I had this wonderful feeling. I couldn’t even recognize myself. This was a new Mary. I’ve been a member for less than a year, but for me it seems like a lifetime,” she said.
Louis Perez, 13, and Frank Cerda, 14, said they feel New York is popular because it’s so busy all the time and because so many organizations are headquartered there. “There are people here from all over the world,” Frank said. “I think it’s terrific.”
Lily said, “A lot of people wonder if you can find the Spirit of the Lord here. You can. The things He manifests to everyone, He manifests here, too. New York has a lot of good people, and the pure in heart will build Zion wherever they are.”
“I talk to my friends at school,” Mary Ann Iavarone, 14, said. “I share my testimony with them. We talk about religions almost every day. Lots of kids tell me that our Church sounds great. I tell them I have fun here, too, but that the most important thing is that it’s true.”
“I think Eileen (Esquilin) showed me a good example of fellowshipping,” Daisy Cerda, 12, said. “I met her the first time I came to Church, and she was my friend. Then I met Kirsten, and so on. Everybody’s my friend now.”
“Having gone through the conversion process myself makes it easier to talk to others about the gospel,” Mary said. “I can tell them my experiences, that I used to feel the way they feel.”
Lily is student-body president at a high school where she is the only LDS student. “It’s a challenge, but it’s not as difficult as everyone says,” she said. “Living in a place like New York, there are so many backgrounds and cultures that when you say you believe in something, people accept it. At my school, for example, there are a lot of Greek Orthodox students, and it’s not unusual for someone to say they’re not going to a party because it’s on Sunday or to say they don’t smoke or drink. They understand. So it’s important to share all the facets of the gospel with them.”
Deborah, also the only LDS student in her school, said missionary work is a great challenge: “I’ve got 3,500 students to convert.” But she said that many students know about BYU because of its athletic programs and many of her Jewish friends want to discuss the Old Testament with her because she has studied it in seminary.
“I find that for a lot of my friends it’s difficult to get in front of a classroom to give an oral report,” Lily said. “I have to do it in front of the whole student body, but it hasn’t been hard. At first I didn’t know why. Then I realized what training I have had. I’ve been giving 2 1/2-minute talks all my life. Forget about the religious part of the Church programs and just look at their positive influence. Then add in the truthfulness of the gospel, too, and you have the best thing on earth.”
Terry Burdick, 14, who attends the Second Ward Mutual because he is the only Mutual-age teen in the First Ward, said that growing up in an all-member family has helped all of them feel close. “I have a growing testimony,” he said. Frances Pizzaro, 17, felt the gospel had strengthened her family as well. They were already holding family prayer when the missionaries tracted them out. “My brother and I joined the Church, and my mother will soon join,” she said. She also said she learned things in seminary that “help me every day. I study the scriptures every morning and my workbook at lunchtime at school. Other people say, ‘Oooh, what’s that?’ And then everybody starts talking about it. It’s great.”
Iris Rivera, who graduated from Mutual last year, said one of her blessings has been the fellowship she has shared with Mary as Mary joined the Church. “I’ve seen her grow a lot. And now we’re going to be visiting teachers together starting next month.”
The noise of Harry rattling the door brought me back to the top of the World Trade Center. He was trying to gain access to the rooftop observation area, but it was locked and a sign said the wind was so strong no one would be allowed outside.
“Sorry,” he said. “That’s the best we can do.”
And I remembered again. I remembered his patience as he explained to me over and over the subway system the morning the group went to the Statue of Liberty, and finally how he said, “Just follow me and don’t get lost.”
I remembered the wind whipping over the bow of the ferry and the steamy cups of hot chocolate the young women shared back on the pier. I remembered stopping to read plaques at the statue and the young members’ feelings of pride in their country and in their hometown that were genuine and unpretentious.
And then I remembered interviewing some of the group in between meetings on Sunday. The young women’s lesson had been on developing a personal relationship with Jesus Christ. The young men had discussed morality. All of them had commented afterward about the influence the lessons exerted throughout the week.
“These activities and lessons keep us together,” Mary said. “We share our testimonies and they grow. We treat each other like brothers and sisters because we are.”
Mary Ann nodded agreement. “From my friends’ testimonies, I can build my testimony. They are a great influence on me.”
“The lessons help me keep my mind off things I shouldn’t think about,” Harry said. “I have a strong testimony of the gospel, and I know it’s good to be together with my friends in church. I need the recharge I get from being with them.”
“As you can see, we have a lot of fun together. We like each other a lot. But the neatest thing is that when I leave, I feel the Spirit coming with me, helping me choose wisely and do what’s right,” Mary Ann said.
“I’m glad to have friends who help me honor my priesthood,” Frank said. “When I carry the sacrament, I feel proud.”
And that made me think of a comment one of the adults made that same Sunday. “I admire these kids tremendously,” he said. “New York is beautiful and fun, but it’s also a difficult place to live righteously. There’s a lot of pressure on these kids from their friends not to follow the teachings of the prophets. I think they’re real heroes to live the gospel as they do.”
The group walked to the south side of the tower for one last look at the Statue of Liberty. One thought lingered in my mind. I was in the company of heroes. Real heroes, with a mission—to live and share the gospel with all of New York City. Somehow, in my heart, I knew they would be equal to the task.

Illustration by Ben Simonsen
At my school a lot of people have boyfriends and girlfriends. On my first day of school as an eighth grader, I met someone named Paul. We got along well together. Paul was a great friend.
The next day after school he asked me out on a date. I told him I couldn’t, and he asked why. I told him I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and that we’re not supposed to date until age 16. Paul asked why, and I realized that I didn’t actually know.
That night I went home and pondered Paul’s question. I did research on LDS.org and read my scriptures. I found a quote by President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008): “The Lord has made us attractive one to another for a great purpose. But this very attraction becomes as a powder keg unless it is kept under control. … It is for this reason that the Church counsels against early dating.”1
I also looked in For the Strength of Youth. It says dating “can help you learn and practice social skills, develop friendships, have wholesome fun, and eventually find an eternal companion.”2
The next day I showed Paul the For the Strength of Youth booklet. Other people saw Paul reading it, and my LDS friends helped me answer my classmates’ questions. I was happy to have an answer to Paul’s question.
For the Strength of Youth says that dating before age 16 and forming serious relationships in our youth can lead to immorality and limit the number of people we meet.3 My mother also tells me that we shouldn’t date before 16 because it can distract us from studies and opportunities that can be vital to success in the future. I’ve seen friends of mine become depressed because of an emotional breakup at age 13.
I was glad I was able to find out for myself why we shouldn’t date before age 16 and then give Paul an answer without hurting his feelings. I’ve made a great friend, and I hope we will be friends for a long time. I am thankful the Lord has given us friends and the opportunity to date at the appropriate age so that we may all one day find faithful eternal companions.

After graduation my summer job took me away from my new-found group of friends. I was employed at a gas station, where I was unhappy because of my co-workers’ lack of concern. I was depressed, unhappy, and alone.
One afternoon in July, Nese and a friend drove up to the station. Just seeing them boosted my morale. They were planning to sing in the Oakland Temple Pageant and invited me to attend.
I’ll always remember that special evening. It was the first time I heard the story of Joseph Smith and learned the history of the Latter-day Saints I had grown to admire. At the end of the pageant, the audience rose and sang “The Spirit of God Like a Fire Is Burning.” (Hymns No. 213) How I wanted to know the words of the song so I could join the chorus! I felt completely full of respect and love.
The crowd left slowly. Standing in the parking lot, I looked up at the temple. A voice in the back of my mind told me that some day I would enter that building.

September had come, and autumn was just around the corner. The leaves of the poplar and cottonwood trees had changed from green to golden yellow. The grass that grew beside the road had turned to rusty brown. And Malan had turned eight.
The day of Malan’s baptism finally arrived. He had learned about baptism in Primary and during family home evenings, and he had thought about the event for a long time. Using his own new copies of the scriptures, he and his dad had read about the baptism of Jesus (Matt. 3:13–17). Now he could be a member of record of the Church, like his mom and dad and the bishop and the boys who passed the sacrament. If he always tried to do the right thing, his baptism would enable him to “enter into the kingdom of God” (John 3:5), and that’s where he and Dad decided they wanted the whole family to be. Malan closed his eyes and listened to the hum of the car’s tires on the pavement as the car carried them to the Parkland Ward meetinghouse.
In a few minutes he and his sister, Ginger, his mom, Aunt Marcia and Uncle Scott, his cousins Jenny and Coral, and his Grandma and Grandpa would be there. His dad was already there, running water into the font and making sure that the white clothes were ready.
It seemed to Malan that time was dragging. The streets of the city were crammed with cars, and every red light seemed to refuse to turn green. A lane ahead was blocked because a truck had tipped over and spilled its load of wood.
Malan peered anxiously out the car window. A man was frantically directing the traffic and casting unhappy glances at his overturned truck. Behind him, driving along the ditch, was a police car with its red and blue lights flashing.
“Don’t worry,” Malan’s mom said, turning around and giving his arm a comforting squeeze. “We’ll be there in time.”
Malan sighed with relief when they finally pulled up in front of the large red brick building. He was so eager to get inside that he almost forgot how important it was to walk quietly and be reverent in the Lord’s house.
He saw his dad, dressed all in white, coming to meet him. But something was wrong! Dad knelt down; his kind blue eyes were concerned. “You have a decision to make, Son,” his dad said, giving his shoulders a gentle squeeze. “I’ve run the water for a long time, and it appears that the hot water heater is broken. The water in the font is very cold. Do you want to be baptized in cold water or wait until next week?”
Malan stood for a long moment and wondered what to do. Behind him he could hear his Grandpa talking, and the excited voices of his small cousins. Through the chapel window he could see the yellow-clad branch of a tall poplar tree as it scratched gently against the pane.
“Were you baptized in a river, Dad?” he asked.
His dad smiled. “Yes, I was baptized in the Moose Jaw River.”
“Was it cold?”
“Only for a few moments.”
Malan lifted his chin and hoped that his dad wouldn’t notice his trembling body. “I want to be baptized today. I don’t mind if the water is cold.”
Malan was uneasy as he changed into his white clothing. And although he tried to sit quietly through his Grandpa’s prayer and his mother’s talk about Jesus, Malan’s legs insisted upon swinging and his stomach had a big knot in it.
Finally it was time! As Malan stepped into the icy water, his knees shook and he wanted to run back through the halls and out to the shelter of the car. Then his dad’s strong hands reached for his. “Are you ready?”
Malan nodded. He listened to the prayer, then pinched his nose as the icy water swept over his head. When he stood up, he gasped for air and splashed to the stairs of the font. As he moved toward the dressing room, his body shook and his teeth chattered, but he hardly noticed. Inside he was filled with a golden warmth, like the autumn leaves outside.

My mom taught us to question whether is it kind, necessary, or true before we say something. That has cut back on a lot of teasing that hurts. And if we still say it, our mom will make us sing the song “Kindness Begins With Me” (Children’s Songbook, 145). After singing that song about a half a dozen times, we got tired of singing and just quit saying those hurtful things.
Rebeka M., 16, Missouri, USA

Teddy and I checked the victory garden every day, weeding and harvesting what was left of the summer crop. Then we watered the tiny vegetable trays mother kept on the windowsills. We tried to grow food in every possible way, so I suppose it was a blessing when Father came home one afternoon with a box of peeps under his arm.
I remember the air raid siren had sounded the all clear signal. Mother, Teddy, and I climbed the stairs and continued preparing our meal. Teddy, who always ran to the window looking for damage, shouted, “Father’s coming!”
Sure enough, his cap bobbed along above the hedges, and in a minute he turned in at our gate. That day he wore a broad smile and carried a box. He kissed all of us, gave Mother a hug, and pointed to the small wooden container.
“Come see what I’ve brought!” he invited.
We all gathered around, and as he lifted the lid, fluffy yellow and brown balls of feathers began peeping and begging for food. He reached into his pocket and sprinkled some tiny seeds and the chicks pecked, making the seeds disappear.
“Oh, Arthur,” Mother gasped. “What on earth?”
“Now, Lucile,” he smiled. “No need to be alarmed. We’ll raise the chicks and have poultry to eat.”
“Raise them!” she exclaimed with peaked eyebrows. “Where?”
“If they were a little bigger and winter weren’t coming, I’d build them a coop outside. But, as it is, I thought they might be all right up in the attic.”
“In the attic!” Mother exclaimed, glancing around in a panic.
“There, there,” Father soothed. “It’s not that bad. You’ll see. I’ll build a cage. Then all we’ll have to do is clean the cage and feed and water them. They’ll do fine.”
Mother relented, the cage was built, and the chickens grew in our attic. Then Teddy, with his big mouth, began telling everyone what nice pets we had in the attic. I could have died of embarrassment. Still, it wasn’t fair to blame him—after all, he was barely six! It was too good an opportunity for the kids to pass up though, and even my best friend Natalie Thomas began making fun of us.
Teddy and I walked to school that autumn, looking neither to the right nor to the left, but holding our heads proudly as Mother had said we should.
“Katie and Teddy sleep with chickens!” came Natalie’s singsong chant as we neared the school yard.
I clutched Teddy’s hand tighter, lifted my chin higher, and my knuckles turned white against the dark edges of my books. It isn’t true! I wanted to shout, but I wouldn’t give my friend the satisfaction of knowing how much her remark hurt. No, I thought determinedly. It’s better to ignore ignorance.
Still, it was always a great relief when I heard the dismissal bell. Again, I would clutch Teddy’s hand and drag him home. Once inside our house, I blew my nose while Teddy wiped his eyes. Then we went about our chores, trying, as everyone else did, to act as though nothing were wrong.
But there was a lot wrong. That year, the Germans blockaded the English Channel and bombing raids came almost daily. Many of the houses were left burning, and people everywhere were suffering. Lunch was little more than dried biscuits, and there was no longer any jam. During class you could hear a constant grumbling of stomachs, and my head often ached from hunger. Even Natalie, who I no longer spoke to, had made new holes in her belt, for her clothes bagged even more than before.
Then we had our first snow. It fell in huge fluffy flakes and covered everything with a soft white blanket, and our shoes made gentle squeaks as we walked. I wondered how many people would be able to keep warm through the winter.
As Teddy and I crossed our threshold that first snowy day, we smelled a most delicious aroma. My mouth watered as I lifted the lid of a simmering pot. Inside was a colorful mixture of noodles and carrots floating in a golden broth. Teddy’s eyes got round and happy as I lifted him up to see.
“It smells so good, Katie!” Then he grinned. “Do you think we could have a taste?”
“I don’t see the harm,” I replied as I blew on a spoonful of hot broth.
The rich, warm liquid trickled through our lips, then Teddy’s face twisted into a smear of lines. “It’s chicken!” he sobbed.
“Of course it’s chicken,” I agreed. “What did you think it was?”
He held his mouth and ran from the room. Then, and only then, did I think of our peeps. Slowly, I replaced the spoon and climbed the stairs to the attic. I counted four chickens where there had been five. My stomach rolled over and I sat down to gather my senses. One chicken is gone.
At the bottom of the stairs, I heard Mother call, “Katie, Teddy, are you home?”
I descended the stairs slowly and Mother must have read my face. She asked quietly, “Katie? Are you feeling all right?”
“We tasted the soup, Mother,” I replied, staring at the floor. “It’s … it’s chicken soup.”
Mother sat down on a chair and unbuttoned her coat. “Yes, dear, it’s chicken. Are you terribly upset?”
“I don’t think I can eat it,” I said quietly. “I thought of them as pets.”
“We all did, dear,” she replied. “But your father explained—”
“Oh, Mother!” I sobbed, suddenly losing complete control. “How could you?”
Mother grasped my shoulders and hugged me close. “I’m sorry, Katie, I really am. But in times like these, we do what we must.”
“We have vegetables,” I sobbed.
“Yes, Katie, we do, but unfortunately there are those who don’t.”
I sniffled and looked up into her face. “What do you mean?”
“Natalie’s mother has been giving her children most of their food and going without herself. I went there today and she looks so thin and pale, with dark circles under her eyes. It’s hard for her with her husband fighting in the war. Would you deny a neighbor food?”
I thought of Natalie’s hurting chant, “Katie and Teddy sleep with chickens!” And for a brief moment I almost said, “Yes!” Then I thought of her sagging clothes and looked down at my own. We were all thinner, paler. The world was at war, and these were hard times shared by all. “So you made the chicken soup for them?” I wondered aloud.
“I made it for all of us, Katie.”
I nodded and stared at the table.
“They’ll be along soon, dear. Would you please set the table?” Mother asked as she stood to hang her coat on a peg.
“Is Natalie coming too?”
“Of course,” Mother nodded.
With a smile, I reached for the bowls and began setting them around the table. As I did so, I reasoned with myself, Maybe Heavenly Father sent the peeps to us because He knew we could take the jeers without becoming revengeful. Maybe He even knew that when the time came, we would share what we had. It made sense to me, and I liked to think that it was so. I determined to explain it to Teddy that way. Maybe then he, too, might understand about the peeps in our attic.

When I was almost eleven, Papa was badly hurt in a mowing machine accident. He had been hurrying to put up his last cutting of hay so he could take a bricklaying job on the new library building. Papa was pleased when they offered him the job. He knew the extra money would come in handy, especially around Christmastime.
Now here he was in traction, one leg suspended from a pulley. But at least he was alive. Whenever he started feeling sad about losing the library job, we’d remind him of how glad we were to have him home.
“Harry, Francis!” he said to Mama. (Harry was papa’s favorite word for emphasis) “I had such wonderful plans on what I was going to do with that extra money.”
“Now, George, there’s no need to worry,” Mama consoled. “You’re alive and getting well, and we’re mighty glad for that. We got along without anything extra last year and the year before that and all those other years. Things are going to be all right.”
“But, Francis, I’d planned to put in those new kitchen cupboards you’ve been wanting for so long. This will put a crimp in Christmas.”
Mama silently regarded Papa’s leg hanging from that ridiculous contraption above his bed. He was a real Christmasy man, and he and Mama always went shopping together. When Mama realized that he wouldn’t be able to go this year, she said, “I’ll tell you what, George. This year we’ll do our Christmas buying right here in this room.”
“Harry, Francis!” Papa shouted. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
Mama went to the book cupboard and got out the mail-order catalog. “This will be a mail-order Christmas, and you, George, will be the shopping supervisor.”
We weren’t the kind of folks who got lots of presents, but what we did get, we really enjoyed. After supper that night, we drew names for gifts, and Mama told us how much each one of us could spend.
Teena, who was only four, held up her slip of paper and asked, “Whose name did I get, Mama?”
Mama looked at the paper and then whispered something in Teena’s ear. Teena giggled.
This was in mid-November. For the next week or so the mail-order catalog was pored over every minute that we were out of school. When our minds were finally made up, we went, one at a time, to the chair beside Papa’s bed. With a clipboard propped up in front of him, he made out the order, then told Mama the total amount so that she could make out a check. Only Papa knew what the order contained.
The envelope was sealed and mailed just before Thanksgiving. When nothing arrived within two weeks, we became anxious. Days came and went, but still no package.
The week before Christmas Papa had his cast removed, and he was able to hobble about on crutches. Uncle Ed brought us a tree, and we decorated it. The day before Christmas we received a notice from the mail-order company saying that our letter had been missent and that they had just received it. They were sorry about the delay but assured us our order would arrive within a few days.
What a disappointment! My sisters and I felt like sitting down and bawling. We knew now that there would be no presents on Christmas morning. Mama and Papa felt just as bad as we did, so there was no use making a scene. Instead of just moping around, we decided to decorate the house extra special with evergreen boughs sprinkled with glitter.
As we prepared to leave the house to climb the hill after the boughs, Teena begged to go with us.
“You’re too little,” I said.
Her face crumpled like she was going to cry, so Francene said, “Ah, let her come. She’ll be all right.”
Later as we were returning down the steep trail with our arms full of boughs, Teena skidded on a pebble. She couldn’t stop, and fell over the embankment onto a pile of rocks. Francene, Mary Ellen, Doris, and I scrambled down to where she lay, limp and lifeless. Blood from a small cut was already matting the curls on her forehead.
“Oh, Teena! Teena!” Francene sobbed as she pressed her mitten against the cut. Tenderly she lifted her into her arms.
Mary Ellen tied her scarf around Teena’s forehead, and we sorrowfully picked our way down the last little pitch of the hill to the house. None of us spoke, because we were all silently praying.
Mama met us at the door. As Francene laid Teena on the bed, Papa and Mama bent over her.
“Her breathing is shallow,” Papa said.
“We’d better call the doctor,” Mama’s voice quavered.
The doctor said to bring Teena to the emergency room at the hospital. Papa stayed with us, and Mama and Francene took Teena to the hospital. After what seemed hours, Francene came home alone. Mama and Teena would be staying at the hospital overnight.
What a Christmas Eve! I sat in front of the fireplace with my chin cupped in my hands and a lump in my throat. I was certain that in all the world no one had so many things go wrong as we did. Then Papa sat down in his reclining chair, and Mary Ellen, Doris, and Francene pulled their chairs up beside mine. Quietly, Papa began to tell us again about a Christmas Eve almost two thousand years ago when a little baby was born in a stable, because there was no room at the inn.
As Papa talked, I thought about how differently we lived. We had never had to sleep in a stable. The lump in my throat began to go away, and as Papa told about the wicked king who wanted to destroy Baby Jesus, our troubles grew smaller and smaller. A peaceful feeling filled the room. Then Mary Ellen played the organ and we sang until bedtime. After kissing Papa goodnight, we snuggled down in our beds to sleep.
Christmas morning, Francene and I went after Mama and Teena, while Mary Ellen and Doris fixed dinner. Never could there have been a more uncluttered Christmas day—no wrappings and no litter. It was just a beautiful, relaxed, and happy time because all of us were together. Teena was a bit woozy, but the doctor said she would be just fine. And we discovered that day that the very greatest gift of all was love. Oh, how much we enjoyed each other! Papa even clowned around on his crutches to make Teena laugh. We felt more than ever before the love of our Savior and gratitude for His gift of everlasting life.
The mail-order package? It arrived four days after Christmas. But even the excitement of opening those long-awaited gifts couldn’t compare with the memory of our unforgettable Christmas just a few days before.

One snowy night in January when I was in high school, I was at a friend’s birthday party. Giggling girls were sprawled all over the living room, chatting and eating cake. I sat in the middle of the group with my back against the couch.
“My sister moved out of the side house this week,” one girl remarked with a grin. “From now on it’s going to be the perfect spot for the weekend! I think our class would become so much closer if we all partied together. Like Jeremy Roberts. He is so much fun to be around when he’s drunk.”
I stared at the girl, shocked to hear those words come out of her mouth. To my great surprise, everyone else joined in, offering names of other people it would be fun to party with. I looked around in disbelief. An icy feeling crept into my heart. Already? My friends? Drinking? I had known that some in my group of friends drank, but all of a sudden everyone seemed to be in on it. I lowered my head, feeling isolated among my best friends.
“Of course I’ll be there,” said a friend between bites of cake. “But I think I’ll just be the designated driver. I don’t really want to drink.” She smiled at me. “Gillian, you can come too. We’ll keep each other company!”
I relaxed a little. That sounded OK. “I could go,” I thought. “I could make sure all of my friends got home safely. I could just be there and not drink or do anything wrong. I could still be included.”
“Sounds great!” I heard myself say. “Sure! I’ll be there. We’ll get everyone home safe and sound.” Everyone nodded enthusiastically, and the conversation shifted to other subjects.
The next evening I attended a stake youth fireside. The stake president spoke. “My young brothers and sisters,” he began, “you are at a stage in your life where you are under tremendous pressure to succumb to temptation. My best advice to you is this: Don’t even come close to the edge. Don’t go to the party and say you won’t drink. Don’t go to the party as a designated driver. Don’t even put yourself in that situation. Once you walk in the door, you are vulnerable. I have never counseled with someone who suddenly became an alcoholic or suddenly had a huge morality problem. It comes bit by bit, step by step. Don’t take the first step. I guarantee that you will never have a problem with the Word of Wisdom if you never put yourself in a situation where you might be tempted to take your first drink.”
I sat stunned by his words. He had spoken directly to my problem. Then I knew that it was not enough to go to a party and say I wouldn’t drink. That evening I decided I would never set foot in a party where alcohol was being served.
Through this experience, I learned that the Lord understands our problems and that one of the ways He guides us is through our leaders. Perhaps if I had gone to parties without partaking of alcohol, I still would have made it through high school OK. But I know the Lord blesses us when we keep His commandments, and I was able to follow His guidelines by staying away from the edge.

“Roberts, we’ve got you surrounded, so don’t try anything. We think the whole structure may be weakened. So just sit still until we can get both of you out safely. You’ve got a charge of kidnapping against you, but things will go easier for you if the girl gets down safely.”
The policeman handed the portable megaphone to Charly’s mother. “Charly, this is your mother. Don’t worry. The police are doing everything possible to get you down. Just don’t panic …” She broke down and began to sob.
Charly, her long, wheat-blonde hair waving as the car of the stalled Ferris wheel rocked gently in the wind, grabbed my hand and smiled. “Roberts, I hope you let this be a lesson to you. You can’t hi-jack a Ferris wheel to Cuba.”
It started innocently enough a year ago in May. Dad and I had jogged our two miles in the morning, and we were eating our nutlike cereal on the patio overlooking the city.
“Sam, you know the new manager I was telling you about?” Dad said as he took a vitamin pill and downed it with the rest of his orange juice. “Transferred here from Boston. He’s finally found a house, and his family moved out here last week. He has a daughter Charlene about your age. Naturally, she doesn’t know anybody here.”
He paused, hoping I would volunteer and not force him to spell it out. “I was wondering if you’d take her out once just as a favor.”
“Well, I’d like to but I’m kind of low on money right now. They don’t pay much in the basement,” I said, referring to his office on the eighth floor and my summer job as a shipping clerk in the basement of one of the large buildings in the city.
“Maybe I could help you out,” Dad said. I was enjoying this.
“I won’t need much. I’ll take her to the museum, and then to the visitor’s center, and then to the drug store for a milk shake.”
“Why don’t you take her to the country club for dinner?”
“Okay. I’ll even get my jeep washed. I sure wish I could get it out of four-wheel drive.”
“Okay. You win; take my car.”
“That’s a good idea. Thanks, Dad.”
A few days later I made my way to her home. It was an ornate building, a little north of the capitol. I spent about ten minutes talking with her parents about the difference in humidity between Boston and Utah. Then finally she came down the stairs.
She was almost as tall as I, with a face that didn’t need make-up. She was skinny and looked like a model for a diet soft drink.
I stood up, remembering a Cary Grant movie I saw once on TV. “Charlene, it is indeed a pleasure.”
“The pleasure is mine,” she said. As we shook hands she, still smiling, dug her finger nails into my palm.
We drove silently down the interstate to the country club.
“How much did your dad pay you for taking me out?” she asked.
“I was happy to ask you out,” I exaggerated.
“What would you think about turning off the air conditioning? It’s freezing in here.”
“Why don’t you check the blower so it’s not aimed directly at you? It’s very seldom I get to drive a car with air conditioning.”
She sat and glared at the dashboard.
“Tell me, Charlene, how do you find the difference in humidity here as compared to Boston?”
“Don’t call me Charlene.”
“What then?”
“Charly.”
She opened the side window and deliberately adjusted it so the hot air outside was blowing directly at me.
“It’s wasting gas to have the air conditioner on and the window open,” I said.
“You never told me how much your dad is paying you to take me out.”
“Not enough, I think.”
She folded her arms, turning away from me. The periodic brightness as we passed lamp posts showed tears on her face.
“I didn’t mean that. Look, I’m turning off the air conditioner. There’s a Kleenex in the glove compartment.”
“Why would I want one?” she asked.
“Because you’re crying.”
“I’m not crying. My contacts are bothering me.”
“Well, whatever,” I replied. “The Kleenex is still in the jockey box.”
“I’ve got my own,” she said, rummaging through an old leather bag. Eventually she found one crumpled tissue that she smoothed out and used. “Will you take me home please?”
We rode in silence back to her home. I shut off the motor at her curb. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out.”
“It’s no big thing.”
“I did my best to make it a night you’d enjoy.”
“Implying that I didn’t do my best?”
“No, you probably did the best you could,” I answered.
“I’d better go now. It’s getting late,” she said.
“It’s only nine o’clock.”
“Time really flies when I’m with you. I thought it was eleven.”
“You think it’s easy going out with a girl from Boston? My dad and I thought you’d like the country club.”
“Listening to you talk about humidity and watching old golfers slap each other on the back?”
“Well, it’s not my idea of fun either,” I said.
“No?” We stopped halfway up the walk.
“No.”
We walked back to the curb, sat down and talked about things we always wanted to do but could never find anyone else to do them with.
A few minutes later we got back in the car, drove to a park, and bought 30 dollars worth of tickets for the Ferris wheel.
“What’s your name?” Charly asked the attendant as he helped her into the Ferris wheel car.
“Raferty.”
“Mr. Raferty, I’d like you to meet my fiancé. He’s just proposed, and you’re the first one we’ve told.”
“It’s not true,” I said. “I’ve just met her.”
Mr. Raferty was hard of hearing. “Congratulations, kids.”
“Thank you,” Charly smiled. “Sam and I want to ride on your Ferris wheel for a long time. You understand, don’t you?”
“Sure, I’m not that old,” he said as I gave him several tickets.
We rode and talked. Up over the trees, the laughing children, the crying children, the picnicking families, the merry-go-round, and then back to earth and Mr. Raferty, who gave us a wink as often as he could.
“Sam, alias Utah Kid, maybe we’re going to be friends.”
I took her to church that next Sunday. The following Wednesday she began the missionary lessons. She began to jog with Dad and me in the mornings.
About three weeks later I took her fishing with me at Strawberry Reservoir. We left about four in the morning. When we got there, we rented a boat, rowed out to my favorite spot, and threw out the anchors. I baited the hooks with cheese and marshmallows and tossed my line out.
She curled up and went to sleep.
When she woke up, I had caught four nice trout, the sun had come and driven off the patches of fog, and ten other boats were anchored near us.
She studied the people in the boats around us. They were sitting quietly, watching their lines.
Suddenly she stood up, cleared her throat, and addressed the boaters with a Kissinger-like accent. “I suppose you know why we have asked you here this morning. We’ll dispense with the minutes and move right along.”
The people in the boats looked at her with disbelief.
“Because some of you have been putting marshmallows on your hooks, the Fish and Game Department has asked me to speak today. Clinical reports indicate that the fish in this lake have 53 percent more cavities. Do you know what this means?” she asked.
She waited. Most of the other boaters tried to ignore her. But that was hard to do.
“It means that the state of Utah now must stand the expense of sending a trout through dental school.”
“Charly?” I asked.
“Yes, Utah,” she said meekly.
“Normally we don’t talk between boats. Please sit down.”
I baited her hook and tossed it out. In a few minutes her line began to feed out steadily. I could tell it was going to be big when she set the hook. She followed my directions, and soon I dipped the net into the water, bringing up a four-pound rainbow.
After the fish had been taken care of, she stood up again and addressed the other boaters. “Do you people wish to know how I caught this fish? I used peanut butter on my hook. It sticks very well, it’s nutritious, and it does not cause cavities.”
I pulled in the anchors and began to row out farther.
“We recommend creamy instead of chunky,” she shouted as a parting shot.
“Sam, where are we going?”
“Away.”
“Is the fishing better where we’re going?”
“No.”
“I embarrassed you; is that it? Go ahead and say it.”
“You embarrassed me.” I splashed a little water on her so she wouldn’t think I was mad.
“You’ve got no sense of humor, Utah. Life is for laughing.”
I stopped rowing and threw out the anchors again.
“Sam, how many of those people in the boats do you think were Mormons?”
“Maybe half.”
“A school of Mormons,” she said.
I baited the hooks again and tossed the lines out. “Charly, you haven’t said much about the Church to me, except ‘Very interesting.’”
“Very interesting,” she mocked. “I wanted to be fair, Sam. We New Englanders are noted for our fairness.”
“Yes, I’ve read about the Salem witch trials,” I countered.
“Very good, Sam. Stick with me and I’ll make you a wit.” She opened a sack of oranges and threw me one. “Okay, Sam, I guess I’m ready.”
For a few minutes she concentrated on peeling her orange, her face strangely solemn. “Utah, I’ve read the Book of Mormon.”
“What do you think about it?”
For a long time, she just looked out over the lake. And then in a quiet voice she began, “Humor them along, I said. Take the lessons; go to church. It’s all just part of the tour after all. And then walk away laughing.
“I grew up in Cambridge, Sam. Our next door neighbor wrote a best seller on economics. My mother played bridge with the wife of a man who became one of Kennedy’s advisers. We had as a weekend guest a man who later received a Nobel Prize. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“What are you saying?” I asked.
“I’ve been exposed to the finest intellectual environment. Then you come to me with your 2 1/2 minute talks. Why not three minutes for crying out loud? I thought I’d spend my life laughing at the world. There was so much to ridicule, so many balloons to pop. It would take a lifetime.”
“Don’t give me a dissertation, Charly. What about the Book of Mormon?”
“It’s true,” she answered simply. “I believe every word. The plates, the angels—all of it. Now I’m afraid of what that implies.”
“Why?”
“When fall comes and I go back to school, and my friends come up giving the cynical smile and asking, ‘Well, did the Mormons get you?’ what do I say?”
“Tell them.”
“They’ll think I’m a fool.”
“What are you interested in, truth or pretense?”
“You ask me that? That’s the same question I’ve been using as a weapon against the world.”
It was too late to be fishing, and the wind was starting to come up. I pulled in the anchor and started rowing for shore.
A week later she was baptized. She was beautiful in white. Her parents didn’t come to the baptism.
“Are you going to ask me to marry you, Sam?” she asked while putting suntan lotion on my shoulders as we soaked in the sun one Saturday at the country club pool.
“You’re not supposed to ask that.”
“Male chauvinist. Why can’t I ask it? Are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t be so insistent, Sam. You’ve got to give me time. I’ll have to think it over and let you know. So don’t rush me, okay?”
I ignored her and lay back down on the warm sun deck.
“Sam, are you awake? You’re going to get a sunburn.”
“I’m awake,” I answered sluggishly.
“Sam, I’ve thought it over. I accept. You’re a lucky man.”
I sat up and put a towel on my sore shoulders.
She leaned over like she was going to kiss me, but instead slapped me on my sunburn. “Race you to the diving board!”
She beat me there. We took turns diving. She was very good. While we were waiting our turn, she punched me on the chin in slow motion. “Sam, you son of a gun, asking me to marry you when we’ve only known each other part of a summer. You’ve got some nerve, Utah.”
She stood on the board and did a perfect swan dive. I just dived off.
“Why the joke about marriage?” I asked.
“Who said I’m joking?”
She stood up at the board again. She addressed the line of swimmers waiting to dive. “For this next dive, I must have silence so that I may concentrate,” she announced dramatically with a slightly European accent. “This dive is one that my family has passed down from generation to generation. If you will be quiet, then I will do it for you today.”
A hush fell over the swimmers. She surveyed the pool. A waiter carrying food to a lounging couple stopped to wait. “So, I will do it.” She slowly approached the middle of the board, stopped, put her arms out, seeming to be reaching for psychological strength. Then, summoning courage, she raced to the edge of the board, jumped in the air, tucked in her knees, and did a cannonball.
Two or three times a week we went back to the Ferris wheel.
Near the end of August we were walking around a shopping center on a Saturday afternoon. We were in a large discount department store. We passed the maternity clothes.
“How many children do you want, Sam?”
“At least six.”
“So many? How come? Religious reasons?”
“That’s right.”
“Six kids. That’s a bunch.”
“They come one at a time. That way you can make all your mistakes on the first one.”
“Careful, fella, I was the first one,” she warned.
A while later we walked by the toy department and a row of dolls. She picked up six, but one fell down. “I can’t get six, Sam.” She put all but one of the dolls back. “I’ll be a good mother, Sam. When I was little I had a doll and she was no problem at all. I just said, ‘Go to bed and sleep,’ and she did. So six will be nothing.”
“You know, Charly, I’ve never really asked you to marry me.”
“I noticed that. Yes, sir, I have noticed that.”
We got what she needed, but on the way out I remembered I needed to get a coupling for our water hose. Since she was not really interested, we agreed to separate and then meet later. She suggested the jewelry counter.
I found the hardware section, found the coupling, and went back to the jewelry counter. She wasn’t there. I waited for five minutes and then started walking around to see if I could find her.
After 15 minutes of looking, I heard a strangely familiar voice over the P.A. system. “Sam, Sammy, you hear me? This is Mommy. The nice men let me talk to you on the big radio. Sammy wherever you are in this big store, stop and listen to Mommy.”
I looked around to see if anyone was looking at me.
“Sammy, if you can hear me, listen carefully. Remember when Mommy bought you a big bag of popcorn last week. Sam, go to the popcorn machine, and Mommy will be there. Do you understand? The popcorn place. Mommy will get you a big bag of popcorn. Mommy loves you, Sam.”
A man standing next to me grabbed a handkerchief and blew his nose. “Poor little guy,” he muttered to himself.
I walked over to the popcorn machine. There was Charly with a bag of popcorn in her hand.
I grabbed her arm and quickly escorted her out of the store.
“Sam, do you want some popcorn?” she asked. “You’re mad at me, aren’t you?”
“Get in the car.”
“I was a bad girl.”
“Why don’t you grow up, Charly? You think the world was made for your amusement?”
“Don’t preach to me, Sam. I’m sorry. Okay?”
I should have waited until I got control before I said anything, but I didn’t.
She didn’t defend herself but just sat there, holding that ridiculous bag of popcorn in her lap.
Then I said the thing that I shouldn’t have. “You’ve been talking about marriage. Well, I’m not ready for marriage and especially not to someone who hasn’t grown up yet.” I drove her home, and she opened the door by herself and ran up the walk alone to the door.
I sat and watched her go.
I suppose I figured I’d let her stew for a couple of days and then call her up and tell her she was forgiven. But on Monday when I called, her mother said that she’d decided to go back to Massachusetts early for school. She’d left that morning. Her mother told me that Charly didn’t want me to know where she was going, didn’t want me to write or call, and didn’t want to see me again.
After a week of long distance phone calls I was finally able to get her address. When I phoned, she hung up. I wrote to her several times. But she never answered. One day I got a large envelope with all my letters inside. None of them had been opened.
Then I quit my job and went back to school.
I tried to get in touch with her during Christmas vacation, but her parents went back to see her so she wasn’t in town.
In June I was back in town. My dad got me a job on the first floor of the same building, in line with additional schooling, I guess.
One day at work I got a phone call from my dad who now was on the ninth floor. “She’s back in town with a boy named Mark. I thought you might want to know.”
That night I drove by her house. There was a small sports car with Massachusetts license plates parked in the driveway. I drove around her block about 20 times trying to formulate a plan. Nothing came to mind, so I finally just parked and walked up to the door.
They were in the backyard. The door was open and I went in. I could see Charly through the kitchen window, standing next to a Harvard type gesturing with a pipe in one hand.
“I’ll be back in a minute. I’m going to change.” Charly left him, walked into the kitchen, and into the hall.
She saw me and stopped. “Sam?”
“Hi, Charly.”
“Are you real? For a minute there I thought you were the ghost of boyfriends past.”
“My dad told me you were back. They say it’s serious when she brings the guy home to meet the parents. Are you engaged?”
“I could be.”
“Do you love him?”
“You’re not supposed to ask that.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Would you like to meet Mark? He’s discovered a lot of investment opportunities right here in Utah. Maybe you two could work out a partnership.”
“No, I’d better go.” I started for the door.
Charly walked out with me. “Whatever happened to all those tickets we got for the Ferris wheel?”
“I still have them.”
“I thought you’d use them for your other dates.”
“No one else would understand.”
“Oh.”
We walked out to the jeep. “Did you ever get this thing out of four-wheel drive?” Charly asked.
“Sort of. Now I can’t get it into four-wheel drive.” We both smiled faintly.
“Why didn’t you answer my letters?” I asked.
“I guess I felt like I’d made a fool of myself and didn’t want to be reminded.”
I walked over to the right-hand side of the jeep, opened the glove compartment, and pulled out several faded, bent tickets.
“There are still a few left,” I said, walking back to her.
“I wonder if they’re still good,” she said. Then, so I wouldn’t misunderstand, she quickly added, “I mean, you should find someone else to use them with.”
“It wouldn’t be the same. I’ll just get rid of them,” I said, ripping one of them up, letting the pieces flutter to the ground.
“Don’t,” she said, grabbing the others.
Our eyes met.
“Charly, couldn’t we go somewhere and talk? Just to make sure things are the way we want them.”
“I can’t. It’s too late.”
“Maybe there’s nothing left between us, Charly. I don’t know. But I don’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering what would have happened if. If there’s nothing left, give me the piece of mind of knowing that.”
“What do I tell Mark?”
“Just leave a note saying you’re going for a ride, and you’ll explain when you get back.”
She went in the house and in a minute was back again.
We drove to the park, gave Mr. Raferty the rest of the tickets, and got in the Ferris wheel car.
“I was listening to Mark while I wrote the note. I think he just sold my dad an apartment building in Newton.”
“Then the trip out here won’t be a complete waste,” I said.
“Mark will someday be governor of Massachusetts. I’m sure of it.”
“He has a Word of Wisdom problem.”
“You’re always classifying people, aren’t you? Do all Mormons do that?”
“You’re a Mormon, remember?”
“You won’t believe this, but I have been going to Church. And I have asked Mark about taking the lessons. He thought that was very funny.”
“Are you in love with him?”
“I don’t know. I have a high regard for him.”
“That sounds pretty weak to me. You could say that about your milkman.”
“Don’t push me, Sam.”
“I’m just asking you to wait before you do anything dumb like getting engaged to him.”
“Why?”
“Well, for starters, he can’t take you to the temple. A marriage with him would have a built-in divorce clause. And I can’t forget you. Maybe at first you loved me more than I loved you. But I’ve had a year to catch up. Give me a chance.”
She started going through her old leather bag. “You never can find anything when you need it. I put Kleenex in here, and it’s there for months, but the minute I want it, it’s gone.”
“I have a clean handkerchief,” I volunteered.
She took it, and wiped her eyes. “My mother ordered a cake for a garden party we are going to have tomorrow for Mark. She knows I haven’t said yes to Mark yet, but the cake looks a lot like a wedding cake. She’s trying to talk me into making an announcement at the party. You know, she isn’t really that fond of you. What do we do about that?”
“Cake will freeze for months. Put it in the freezer until you decide.”
“What about Mark?”
“I don’t think you should freeze him. It’s up to you, though.”
Just then we noticed somebody arguing with Mr. Raferty. Charly scrunched down in her seat, but Mark had already seen her.
“I want this thing stopped! He’s kidnapped her!”
“I’m not stopping anything until their ride’s up. They’ve got ten more rides coming, and that’s what they’re going to get.”
Mark stormed away, walked to a pay phone, and made two phone calls.
“Charly, what did your note say?”
“I think it was, ‘Am being taken for a ride. Will explain later.’ Is that bad?”
“Not usually. But Mark thinks you’ve been kidnapped. He probably found the torn up Ferris wheel ticket and came here first.”
Mark stormed back to the Ferris wheel and began arguing with Mr. Raferty.
On our way down, Charly started to explain. But Mark lunged for me, missed, didn’t get away soon enough, and was struck on the shoulder by part of the frame. The blow threw him against Mr. Raferty. Raferty and Mark fell down and in the process broke off the speed control lever.
We started going very fast. I put my arms around Charly and held her close to me.
Raferty was knocked unconscious. Mark got up, looked around, grabbed a long pole, and crammed the pole into the gear mechanism. The pole jerked out of his hand, throwing him against the ground. Suddenly the pulley for the drive mechanism snapped, and the Ferris wheel slowed down and stopped.
A few minutes later the police arrived, apparently called by Mark from a pay phone earlier. A police ambulance took away Mark and Mr. Raferty, unconscious.
Then Charly’s mother and dad arrived.
Charly stood up to yell that everything was okay, but the motion caused one of the other cars to break loose and fall to the ground.
That was when the police told us not to move around and to be quiet.
“Roberts, I want you to throw down the weapon you used against the Ferris wheel operator and this girl’s boyfriend. I don’t want you harming the girl.”
“No, I don’t ever want to do that,” I said to Charly.
“Roberts, you’ve already got a charge of kidnapping against you. Don’t make it worse. Throw down the weapon.”
“Sam, you’re not cooperating.”
“I don’t have a weapon.”
“Let’s see if I can help.” She opened her bag, and we sifted through the stuff she carried in it. Finally we found a pair of scissors, which we tossed down. It seemed to please everybody.
In a few minutes a fire truck with a ladder pulled close to the Ferris wheel. “Miss, just reach slowly and grab hold. I’ll have you down in no time,” the fireman on the extended ladder told Charly.
“If I jumped, I’d be down in no time. Let’s go very slowly. See you, Sam.”
In a minute I was back down on the ground also. After Charly talked to the police and after we called the hospital and had Mr. Raferty and Mark explain things, they undid the handcuffs.
On our way to the hospital, Charly explained to her parents that she probably would get engaged, but not at the party the next day, and maybe not to Mark.
“But what about the cake?” her mother asked.
“Freeze it,” Charly and I answered.
That’s just what we did.

Name a town?
In a small town in Kentucky, USA, the very first postmaster didn’t think much of his own handwriting. He figured that if a town had a number as its name, then it’d be easier to read and understand that name on an envelope even if somebody had bad handwriting.
He reached into his pocket, counted the loose change (88 cents), and Eighty Eight, Kentucky, was born. The town name stuck and has been used ever since.1

Lisa soaked in the coolness of the dewy morning air as she walked down the winding lane. She knew she should be exhausted. Yesterday she and her mother had left their home in Utah. They had flown to Chicago, then on to Manchester, England. The trip had taken 16 hours. Aunt Enid met them in Manchester and drove them the three hours to the old farm house at Bwlchycibau, Wales.
As they had neared the small village, her aunt had slowed the car down and said, “That’s the churchyard where your grandparents are buried, Lisa,” pointing to the left. Looking out the window, Lisa saw a church spire above a grey stone wall. As they rounded the corner she noticed a small wooden gate.
She hadn’t had time to think any more. There had been cases to unload, cousins to meet, a farm house to explore, and finally the bliss of lying in bed for much overdue sleep.
It wasn’t quite dawn when she awoke. She knew that she should still be asleep, but her body was on Utah time and no amount of mental persuasion could entice sleep back once it had fled. She heard voices and peeked out of the small dormer window to see her uncle and oldest cousin Wynn heading off towards a building that she assumed was where the cows were milked.
She lay back on her pillow. A picture of the churchyard flashed into her mind. All at once, she knew that more than anything, she wanted to be alone for her first visit to Bwlchycibau churchyard.
Lisa stopped at the small wooden gate in the wall that she had noticed the night before. She realized as she reached for the latch that she was nervous. She had held back her feelings for many years, and now in a strange churchyard, half a world away from home, she was going to confront them.
She walked slowly down the well-worn path. On either side of her were gravestones, some lichen covered, others leaning slightly. Some stones were well cared for with small flower arrangements at their bases; others were totally neglected. She could imagine other girls, perhaps her own ancestors, walking down this same footpath.
She began meandering between the stones, looking for a familiar name: Williams, Roberts, Davies, Jones. It took awhile, but suddenly she read: “Mabel Jones, beloved wife of Arthur Jones 1917–1994.” Beside the purple slate stone was another: “Arthur Jones, beloved husband of Mabel Jones 1911–1968.” There was a copper bowl of yellow roses at the base of each grave. Her Aunt Enid had been here.
Lisa turned, sat down on an old tree stump nearby, then faced her grandmother’s grave. She said aloud, “Oh, Granny, I wish I had known you. Why did it have to be this way?”
She looked down and whispered, “I wish you had known that I am a good person and that Mum is happy. I don’t understand why you were so bitter. How could you hate me without even knowing me?”
Once she started, she couldn’t seem to stop talking. “When you have a testimony of the gospel like Mum does, you just can’t deny it. Her decision to join the Church was not made carelessly. She fasted and prayed about it many times because she knew it would be hard on you so soon after losing Grandpa. Even though she went away, Mum never stopped loving you or feeling bad for hurting you, Granny.”
Lisa paused. Her eyes filled with tears. “Why couldn’t you have just once acknowledged me? I know that Mum wrote and told you when I was born. We never heard anything. Weren’t you even curious about me? It was hard hearing all my friends talk about their grandmas. You were just an empty ache inside. I didn’t even know you, but I missed you so much.”
Lisa looked at the new gravestone and asked, “Did you get my letter last year? I wrote and told you that I was going to come and see you. I came, Granny. I came, but you didn’t wait.”
With that, Lisa’s whispered words ceased, and she let the tears run down her cheeks without wiping them away. She didn’t hear the quiet approach of a short, aging man in black until his dark robes brushed against her leg. She gasped, startled.
“Can I help you, child?” His soft Welsh accent was like music. Lisa stood, feeling a little foolish.
“You were sitting here for so long that I became anxious about you,” the man said. “Early morning in the churchyard can be quite chilly you know.”
Lisa managed a watery smile. “Oh, I’m fine. Really I am. But thank you for your concern. Are you the rector here?”
The clergyman peered at her perceptively, noting her deep blue eyes, still filled with tears. “That’s right, dear. I’m Reverend Lloyd. Been here at Bwlchycibau for well on 35 years now. Yes, indeed, I’ve seen a lot of people come and go in my time.
“You take this lady here now,” he continued in a comfortable tone, and gestured towards Lisa’s grandmother’s grave. “She was a very special lady. She lived her life quietly giving service to others. Yes, indeed, Mabel Jones is sorely missed by us all.” He sighed, a little sadly.
“What did she do?” Lisa asked, trying to hide her feverish desire to know more.
“Well,” said Reverend Lloyd, “it may be easier for me just to show you. Come with me.” He turned and led the way slowly to the church.
The cool, dark interior of the church was a shock after the bright light of morning outside. Lisa gazed around with interest. The wooden pews were polished to a shine. The stone floor and walls were cold, and every footfall echoed. At the front of the aisle was the altar, draped in a white lace cloth. All around the chapel were tall narrow stained-glass windows. Beams of multicolored light danced on the floor as the sunlight hit the beautiful glass.
“Oh, it’s beautiful,” exclaimed Lisa, instinctively lowering her voice to a whisper.
“I’m glad you think so, child,” Reverend Lloyd smiled briefly. Then he led Lisa to a pew halfway down the aisle.
“This is the Jones’s pew,” he said. “Mabel’s daughter Enid and her family still use this bench. A few years ago Mabel decided that her knees were getting too old to kneel on the stone floor, so she made herself a small cushion to kneel on.” He handed Lisa a rectangular pillow that was tucked under the pew. “It’s needlepoint, I believe.”
Lisa touched the delicate work. “It’s lovely,” she said quietly. She felt overwhelmed to be holding something her grandmother had made.
“Yes, that’s exactly what everyone in the congregation thought too. So during the next few winters, Mabel made one or two for every family at church. Each one is a little different, but all most beautiful.” Reverend Lloyd bent down and lifted another pillow from beneath the next bench and handed it to Lisa.
Lisa looked at the two works of art in her hands and wondered that aging hands could create such masterpieces. Reluctantly, she handed them back to the rector. He then guided Lisa towards a small door at the back of the chapel.
“When Reverend Price, my predecessor, first came here as a young rector, there was no village school for the children. A few of the wealthier families sent their children into Oswestry on the train to attend school, but most of the children went without formal instruction. Mabel married Arthur Jones about that time. She moved into Bwlch Farm and was soon involved in the community. It concerned her no end that all the young children here were illiterate. She approached Reverend Price to see if they could do something about it. This was what they came up with.”
Reverend Lloyd opened the thick wooden door into a small room containing one large wooden desk, a large old oak chair, and half a dozen small chairs and tables. On the wall were faded maps, pictures of wild animals, and the alphabet.
“For ten years this was the Bwlchycibau schoolroom. Mabel would come and teach the children of the village three mornings a week. She received no pay for it. She just did it because she saw a need. There are many farmers around here now who wouldn’t be reading if it weren’t for Mabel Jones.
“When the county finally built a school in the village and sent us a certified teacher, Mabel still stopped by once a week to read to the children. I think it was the highlight of the week for them all.”
Lisa let her eyes wander around the room as the rector spoke. She tried to imagine her grandmother reading to the young farm children. Suddenly, she realized that Reverend Lloyd had moved onto another subject.
“It’s strange, isn’t it?” he was saying.
“I’m sorry, what was that?” Lisa asked apologetically.
“Well, it’s like I was saying,” said the rector, “Mabel Jones did so much Christian service that nobody ever thought she’d done anything she really regretted. But there was something. I only found out about it a few days before her death.”
Reverend Lloyd took Lisa by the arm and led her out of the schoolroom, closing the door behind him. They walked outside, and he motioned for her to sit beside him on the bench beneath the church porch.
“Mabel became ill a few days before her death. I went to see her. She was very weak but wanted to talk to me. She told me about her daughter, not Enid who lives at the farm now, but Mary, an older daughter who went away to America as a young girl. She married an American out there, and they had a daughter.”
The rector didn’t pause in his story as Lisa looked up in surprise and recognition. “Mabel had never seen that granddaughter. I believe when Mary left, there were some bad feelings. Anyway, over the years, Mabel had come to regret the things she’d said to Mary and wanted more than anything to see her again and meet Mary’s husband and daughter. But she didn’t know how to approach her. Then last year, she received a letter from her granddaughter saying that she and her mother were going to come and see Mabel the next year. Mabel was so pleased. She wanted to apologize face to face. She talked of all the things that she wanted to show her granddaughter. Most of all, she wanted that young lady to know that she loved her.
“I think Mabel knew she was going to leave us when I sat with her that day. She drew me close and made me look into those deep blue eyes of hers. Then she said, ‘Reverend, you promise me that if I’m not here when that young girl comes, you’ll find her and tell her what a fool her Gran was not to tell her that she loved her long ago. You tell her that I kept her baby picture that Mary sent right next to my bed where I could see it every morning and every evening. You tell her to grow up to be as fine a woman as her mother is. But most of all, you ask her to forgive me.’”
Her grandmother loved her! In some ways, it made her death harder to bear, but where there had once been emptiness and heartache, Lisa felt a warm glow of gratitude as she began to cry.
Reverend Lloyd covered Lisa’s hand in his. “Now, now child. It’s all right.”
“But, rector,” Lisa said, practically whispering. “I’m Mabel Jones’s granddaughter.”
The rector looked into her face. “You don’t have to tell me that, dear. Mabel Jones’s blue eyes are looking right back at me.” Then with a smile tugging at his lips, he added, “And you don’t talk like a Bwlchycibau native either.”
Lisa smiled at the kindly old man and said, “Thank you,” as they both stood and walked down the path through the churchyard.

“No! You can’t go with me!”
There was no discussion. I had issued my verdict and slammed the front door to the house behind me, hurrying out to the car before Nathan could hound me again. He was always hounding me, but, as my best friend, Brian, said, that was a little brother’s job.
Brian was an older brother, too, with two sisters. I’m three years older than Nathan. Brian and I both agreed that as 17-year-old high school seniors, we should not be bothered by younger siblings. After all, had my big brothers even given me the time of day while we were growing up? I’m not sure they even knew I existed, except to punch or tease me once in a while.
Nathan dropped from the edges of my mind as I gunned the car out of the driveway and headed for Brian’s house. When I pulled up front I saw someone on the porch I didn’t recognize. I honked the horn, and the tall kid turned to open the door to yell something inside. In a minute Brian appeared, and the two hurried to the car.
“Hey, Alex,” said Brian as he slammed into the front seat. The back door slammed too, right behind him.
“This is Jason. He just moved in next door.”
I had to turn in the front seat to get a good look at Jason in the back.
“Hi, Jason. What’s up?”
Jason was at least four inches taller than Brian, and very skinny. His hair was red, cut short, and combed neatly back away from his slender face, which was covered with a multitude of freckles.
“Hi, Alex. So where we going?”
“We’ve got a history project we’re working on,” said Brian. “We need some things from the library, but it won’t take long. Then we’ll stop by the mall and see who’s there.”
“Great,” said Jason. His smile was huge, stretching almost across his whole narrow face. “But I have to be home by six-thirty for dinner.”
Brian and I both nodded, knowing that our parents expected us home for dinner as well.
Over the next few weeks Jason became a third member of our friendship, going everywhere with us, and doing the things we did. We all had so much in common that we got along great. Then came the day we had planned to go to the school’s swimming pool, and Jason called me just a little while before it was time to leave.
“Alex, do you mind if I drive tonight?”
Since my family happened to have an extra car with my brother away on a mission, I had driven everywhere we went. My friends chipped in for gas now and then, but I was always behind the wheel.
“I guess,” I said into the phone. “How come?”
“Oh, I just want to drive tonight, if that’s okay.”
“Sure, I don’t care. Pick me up after you get Brian at seven.”
I had to gulp down my dinner to be ready in time. I hoped that the warning about swimming on a full stomach was just a legend. With my dishes safely in the dishwasher, I grabbed my swimming stuff and headed for the door. Suddenly, an excited voice called out from behind me.
“Can I go with you, Alex?”
I didn’t even turn around.
“No!”
I heard my dad call something out to me as I shut the front door, but I knew it would be a comment about being nice to Nathan, so I jumped down the front steps and ran to the old Buick idling in front of the drive.
It wasn’t until I was sitting down in the back seat that I noticed Brian was also in back, and another person, a very short person, was up front with Jason.
“Hey, Alex,” Jason said with a turn of his head toward me. Then, nodding to the short kid next to him up front he said, “This is my brother, Daniel. I wanted to drive tonight so I could bring him.”
Daniel was all smiles as he turned in the seat enough for me to get a better look at his round and happy face. His thick head of blond hair stuck out , but it was something else that caught my attention. I was surprised because Jason had often mentioned his younger brother, but never the fact that he had Down’s syndrome.
“Where are we taking him?” I asked.
“He’s going swimming with us,” said Jason. He had pulled the car out onto the street and headed toward the pool.
I took a quick glance at Brian, who just raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders.
“Got stuck baby-sitting, huh?” I looked at Jason as he drove, but my attention went quickly back to Daniel, who was still turned, still smiling brightly at me.
“No. I just wanted to bring him along. Daniel really likes to swim. He won a gold medal in the 50-meter race at last year’s Special Olympics.”
I didn’t think Daniel’s smile could get any bigger, but suddenly it did. Then he turned back to the front and reached across the space between him and his older brother and placed a pudgy hand on Jason’s shoulder. It remained there all the way to the swimming pool.
Daniel really was a good swimmer. Brian and I headed straight for the high dive once we were in our suits, but Jason and his brother remained in the shallow end, where they practiced a few laps with several different strokes. Almost every length of the pool Jason would fall behind just before reaching the end, Daniel surging ahead to touch the wall first. Then his blond head would pop up, the smile as big as ever. I couldn’t help but watch him between each dive I took.
Before long most of the friends who had met us at the pool had abandoned the deep end and were cheering Daniel on as he challenged each newcomer to a race. With each victory Daniel would slap the wall, jump up smiling, and shout out in glee. Then he would give solid high-fives to anyone near. I’m still not sure just how I got there, but suddenly I found myself back against the wall of the pool, waiting to push off in my own race with Daniel.
Since I was on a couple of athletic teams at school, I was used to the cheers of the crowd, but this time it was different. No one was cheering for me.
“Go Daniel!”
“Come on, Danny Boy!”
The voices echoed through the building as Jason gave us the starting signal. I didn’t want to disappoint the crowd, but my competitive spirit was suddenly in gear and I pushed off with a great burst. I’m not the greatest swimmer in the world, but then I’m not too bad, so I moved strongly through the water, determined to win the race. After a stroke with my right arm I lifted my head to see how far Daniel was behind. I was amazed to see him right beside me.
I took a huge breath, put my face in the water, and surged forward, but under the water I could see the motion next to me. Daniel swam with strong, steady strokes that pushed his short, round body swiftly through the water.
No way, I thought to myself and gave everything I had to the power in my legs and arms. Still, no matter what I did, Daniel moved steadily on. He touched the wall almost a full body length in front of me. When I came up out of the water, there was Daniel, his face dripping wet, smiling as big as ever.
“Good race, Alex,” he said and suddenly his arms were around me, hugging me tight. The cheers from our friends broke us up as Daniel moved through the water to give the high hand to everyone. But first among them was Jason, Daniel’s big brother.
“Great job, Daniel!” Another high-five and then another hug, this one between brothers.
I swept my wet hair back from my forehead, not sure if the water that had suddenly appeared in the corner of my eyes was from the pool.
A few nights later, I again had to wolf down my dinner to get out in time to meet the guys. Without saying much I cleaned up my plate, put it in the dishwasher, and headed for the door.
“Where to tonight?” Dad asked.
“Bowling,” I said. “Brian’s dad got us some coupons for the new alley by the mall.”
I turned again toward the door; then, stopping in my tracks, I turned and took a couple of steps back to the table.
“So, Nathan,” I hesitated for an instant, glanced at Mom and Dad, then back to my younger brother. “You want to go with me?”

The patriarchal order runs from Abraham to Isaac and to Jacob. Through the line of the priesthood, it continues in our own day and time. Through the ages, blessings and promises were given from the fathers to their faithful sons. A modern example of this is taken from the life of Elder John B. Dickson of the Seventy. He recalls:
“When it was time for me to go on a mission, I was very excited to serve the Lord. Just before I was to leave, however, I found out that I had bone cancer. The chance of living long enough to serve a mission wasn’t very high. I had faith that the Lord would provide a way if He wanted me to go. My father gave me a blessing in which I was told that I would serve my mission in Mexico, serve in the Church all my life, and have a family. My right arm had to be amputated above the elbow, but my life was spared, and the promises I was given have all been fulfilled.
“Some would think that losing an arm would be a terrible burden, but it has been one of the greatest blessings in my life. I learned that it is very important to have challenges and to face up to them.”
Elder Dickson had always been right-handed, and now he had to learn to do everything left-handed. One struggle was learning how to tie his ties. He said: “One Sunday morning when I was in my bedroom with my tie in my hand, I thought, How am I going to tie this? I thought about getting a clip-on tie. I thought about asking Mom to help me. But I couldn’t take her with me on my mission just to tie my ties. So I decided I had to learn how to do it myself. I finally figured it out by using my teeth. I still do it that way, even after having tied it thousands of times.”

A few years ago, my wife and I were struggling with one of our young single adult children. A long series of events had left us emotionally drained. I regrettably remember saying, “I’m over it. I’m turning off the ‘I care’ switch.” For a few days, I felt better, detached, less stressed, and I thought I had found peace.

But then came Sunday.

I had recently read Elder Peter F. Meurs’s 2016 general conference talk, “The Sacrament Can Help Us Become Holy.” He offered five ways to deepen our worship:
Prepare in advance
Arrive early
Sing and learn from the sacrament hymn
Participate in the prayers
Remember Jesus as the emblems are passed

I tried to apply those teachings, but my heart was still heavy. Then came the opportunity to learn from the sacrament hymn. Verse 2 pierced my heart:
As now our minds review the past,
We know we must repent;
The way to thee is righteousness—
The way thy life was spent.
Forgiveness is a gift from thee
We seek with pure intent.

Immediately my heart turned not just to the Saviour but to my child. The Spirit whispered to me, “Call him and tell him you are sorry. Let him know you love him.”

After the meeting, I messaged: “I’m going to call you this afternoon, I need to talk. Please answer. I promise I won’t hassle you.”

I called and said, “I love you, Son. Please forgive me.” There was a period of silence, then his voice: “Aw, is that it? All good, I love you too. I’m sorry. How was your day?”

That moment was sacred. It was healing. It was the Saviour’s balm, and it came because I tried, however imperfectly, to build on the rock.