Gospel Story Finder

What a waste of time, I thought angrily as I turned my bike around.
We were already late to an appointment with a golden family. We were missionaries in the Taiwan Taipei Mission, and my new companion, Elder Loo, always seemed to be lagging behind.
As I neared my companion, I noticed that the woman he was talking to was holding a thick stick in her hand. With her other hand she clenched the arm of a small, whimpering boy. I stopped behind my companion and listened as he tried to talk her out of beating the boy. She left without the stick.
Doesn’t he realize he’s ruining an appointment with the best family I’ve ever taught? my mind screamed. I peddled even faster.
We arrived at our appointment, sweaty and winded. At least I was. As I caught my breath and wiped the perspiration from my forehead, my companion began teaching about the “first and great commandment,” to love the Lord. “And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself” (Matt. 22:38–39), he read.
I flinched. Although I had taught this discussion a thousand times, it was as if I were hearing the scripture for the first time. I would have been glad to help that little boy if we hadn’t been on our way to an appointment, I rationalized.
But I couldn’t even convince myself.
We taught a beautiful discussion on sacrifice and service. On the way to our next appointment, I was planning their baptismal service in my mind. Suddenly, I realized that I was riding alone again. I looked up just in time to see my companion dart out into a busy intersection. A moment later I realized why.
A drunk had wrecked his motorcycle. He was bleeding profusely and seemed disoriented. I jumped off my bike and ran to help. The man cussed and pushed us away, but we managed to get him and his motorcycle to the side of the road. Despite our pleas that he get medical assistance, the man brushed himself off, got on his bike, and rode away.
I was amazed—not at the shock of the accident, but at my companion. He seemed to have a built-in radar system that detected people’s needs. How did he do it?
We were peddling slowly through the crowded night market when my companion stopped again. I watched as he knelt down near a child who appeared to be lost. The child’s eyes were red and puffy, and his face was streaked with tears. People milled around him, seeming not to notice his terrified screams.
At the sight of the large Hawaiian, the crowd suddenly took notice of the frightened child. People crowded around, offering to help locate the child’s parents. Assured that the child would be fine, my companion got back on his bike and rode off.
I followed in silence, my mind racing faster than my bicycle. Why hadn’t I noticed the crying child? Or the motorcyclist? Why did he see things that I missed?
Then it dawned on me. He saw things because he looked for them. That explained why he trailed behind. He wasn’t just enjoying the scenery; he was looking for people in need.
I wondered what I would see if I really looked.
The next morning I didn’t race ahead of my companion. We rode side by side, looking, listening, and seeking someone to serve. Soon, it seemed like there were more needs than we could possibly meet. Had they been there before?
Since then, whenever I think that no one needs my help, I slow down and take another look. It’s amazing what I see.

Michelle sat at her desk and tied the knot in her beaded necklace. After an hour of working, she had finished her gift for Mom. She went to find Mom, ignoring the 100 subtraction problems on her desk.
Mom was in the kitchen making dinner. “Mom, look what I made for you,” Michelle exclaimed as she handed her the necklace.
Mom looked at the necklace. “Thank you. It’s beautiful, Michelle,” Mom said. “I can tell you’ve put a lot of time into designing such a pretty pattern, but what were you supposed to be doing?”
Michelle remembered the math problems on her desk. Tomorrow was her 100-facts test for subtraction, and Mom wanted her to practice. But Michelle had taken a 100-facts test in class every week, and she wasn’t getting much better.
“My homework,” she said, “but I’m not very good at subtraction. How am I supposed to be able to do 100 problems in just five minutes?”
“Would you like me to help you?” Mom asked.
Michelle nodded.
“Then we’ll practice your math problems after dinner.”
After dinner, Mom held the timer while Michelle practiced. Michelle was worried. Having Mom time the 100 facts helped Michelle focus, but Mom couldn’t help her during class.
“Don’t worry,” Mom said after Michelle had worked for five minutes. “The scriptures say that ‘if ye are prepared ye shall not fear.’ If you’re ready to work and to pray for Heavenly Father’s help, you’ll see great improvements on your math tests.”
Every night during the next few weeks, Mom and Dad helped Michelle by timing her while she worked on a practice sheet. And every night Michelle remembered to ask for help in her nightly prayers.
At the end of the school term, Michelle and her parents reviewed her weekly test scores. Two months ago Michelle was only completing 30 out of the 100 problems, but on her most recent test she got 83 right!
“You’re doing great, Michelle,” Mom said.
“Yippee!” exclaimed Michelle. “All I had to do was prepare and pray.”

Illustration by Allen Garns
My family and I were excited to be traveling by car from Romania to Kyiv, Ukraine, for the dedication of the temple in August 2010. Knowing that this would be the temple for the Saints in the Romania/Moldova Mission, we traveled for about 14 hours just to be there. When we arrived, we met another group who had also traveled from Romania. We were all happy to be in Kyiv for this sacred event.
On the day of the dedication, our group from Romania was assigned to watch the dedication via broadcast in a room on the ground floor of the temple. Some began to express their disappointment. They had hoped to participate in the dedication with the prophet in the celestial room. Some even said that they could have just stayed at home and watched the broadcast from their chapel in Romania.
I began to pray in my heart, “Heavenly Father, how can we help these members from Romania have an unforgettable experience in Thy house?”
I still hadn’t received an answer when the dedicatory session began. Soon we learned that the prophet, President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018), was going to come down and put the cornerstone into place. Perhaps this could be our answer! I prayed for a way for the prophet to come and greet the Romanian Saints.
“I don’t ask for this for myself,” I prayed, “but for my brothers and sisters.”
After the cornerstone ceremony, President Monson walked by our room on his way back to the celestial room. Suddenly, I felt in my heart that I should stand and invite him to come in our room.
I stood and said, “Our prophet! Come and see us. We are from Romania.”
He didn’t seem to hear me. Then, a moment later, he came back. “Romania!” he said and entered the room.
He greeted all of us and said he loved us very much. My heart was full as I watched the joyful faces of our dear members. “Thank you, dear Father,” I prayed, “for this miracle in Thy house.”
When the prophet left the room, no one was sad anymore. I felt that we were in the most blessed room in the temple. It was an experience I will never forget.

Sometimes sitting in Valiant B class is about as interesting as washing woodwork for Mom. But last Sunday was a real surprise. In a way, I guess I was responsible. It all began before class started, when I put my gum on a piece of paper on my chair and went out into the hall to get a drink.

While I was still out in the hall, I heard this awful howl coming from the classroom. I raced back just in time to see Eileen Cameron pulling strings of gum off her dress.

“Who put that gum there?” demanded Sister Higgins.

The guys looked at me as I started backing out into the hall.

“Mark!” Her voice carried a warning.

Reluctantly I turned around. “It was an accident, Sister Higgins. Honest. I just put it there a minute while I went for a drink.”

“I see,” she said, unconvinced. “We’ll talk about it after class. Eileen, you may go to the rest room to see what you can do about removing that gum. The rest of you settle down so we can start.”

We tried to settle down, but it was difficult. Sister Higgins had her eye on me and the other boys. Finally she made us sit boy-girl-boy-girl so we wouldn’t giggle anymore.

“Mark,” Sister Higgins began again when the class had quieted down, “I want you to offer the opening prayer. And please ask Heavenly Father to help all of us to be reverent today.”

The prayer was going OK until I tried to say reverent. I just couldn’t seem to say it right. Someone giggled, and I ended with a quick amen and sat down fast.

I could tell that Sister Higgins wasn’t pleased with me. She pulled out some pictures and told us several stories about faith and about how you need to have faith when you pray. She had us write “Faith without works is dead” on a piece of paper, then split us into groups to make up skits showing how faith helps prayers to be answered.

Those skits were really fun! I guess we laughed every other minute. And even though Sister Higgins gave me a lecture after class, the lesson on faith was one we all enjoyed.

In a room
full
of mirrors,
nothing ends.
Kneeling,
Promising,
Eternally Together.
We waited,
with
faith as our
guide.
We walked the
path that
He
asked us
to, and
now we
are
Together.
In a room
full of
mirrors,
Nothing
ends.

By the time I became a young adult, I thought I had loneliness all figured out. I had moved a lot growing up, so I had plenty of experience leaving my comfort zone to make friends. And when I married the nicest guy around, I knew I would never feel lonely again, right?
Wrong.

Mike and his younger brothers, Eric and Tom, liked to go hiking with their dad. Dad always said he knew the mountains like the back of his own hand. He had grown up walking the same paths with his own dad, who was a sheepherder. Dad was a teacher, but he still enjoyed getting out in the fresh air and sunshine of the mountains.

“When we come around this bend, you’ll see a little waterfall,” Dad might tell the boys. Or, “Be really quiet here, and you’ll be able to hear the wind whistle up in the cliffs.” He always seemed to know just what to watch or listen for. When Mike and his brothers did what Dad told them, they always found something new to love about the mountains.

But sometimes they just wanted to run, and Dad let them do it when it was safe. One summer day they were excited to reach the top of the trail—a high meadow filled with fresh green grass and flowers of just about every color. And so they took off running through the trees at top speed, even though they were tired from their morning’s hike. They wanted to burst onto that meadow like jackrabbits.

“Stop when you get to the meadow,” Dad called after them. “I’ll meet you there.” They ran ahead, each trying to get in front of the others. When they burst from the trees, neck and neck, butterflies flew up to avoid the running brothers.

The boys stopped a moment while their eyes got used to the light. Then they took off again, forgetting Dad’s instruction. They ran in circles through the deep grass, jumping and dodging, whooping and hollering and tagging each other. “You’re it, Tommy!”

“No, you’re it, Mike!”

Then Eric had an idea. “Let’s race all the way across the meadow!” Tom hesitated. They couldn’t see the far side of the clearing because a grassy hill obscured their view. But Mike wasn’t worried. “I think this is the same meadow we came to last summer,” he assured his brothers.

They gathered back at the trees. “Ready!” Eric shouted. “Set! GO!” The wind felt fresh and cool on Mike’s cheeks and in his hair, and the faster he ran, the more wind he got. Soon he was leading the race. He felt like he could run forever.

“STOP!” a voice bellowed like thunder behind them. All three boys stopped immediately. They turned and saw Dad running toward them from the edge of the meadow. “Come back here beside me,” Dad called, more gently this time. The boys obeyed. “Now, everybody hold hands,” he said. Eric and Tom held Dad’s hands, and Mike held Tom’s little hand. They walked together across the meadow. As they topped the little hill, Dad suddenly stopped.

Just a few paces ahead of them, a sheer cliff dropped down at least 20 or 30 feet. If they had been running, there was no way they could have seen it in time to stop.

“Whoa!” Eric gulped. “That’s pretty scary.”

“Yeah.” Tom shook his head. “Thanks, Dad.”

They turned away from the cliff. Eric and Tom ran back across the meadow, but Mike slipped his hand into Dad’s. “We could have died,” Mike said softly.

“Well, maybe. I’m sure glad you stopped running, even though I didn’t have time to explain. Sometimes we have to obey first and ask questions later!”

“Especially when someone else knows what’s coming, and you don’t,” Mike said.

Dad smiled. “You might find the same thing to be true at other times in your life. Maybe your mom or I, or a teacher, or perhaps the Holy Ghost will give you some instructions. You might not know why right away. But if you trust the person the instructions came from, obey anyway. Later you’ll understand why.”

Mike nodded. He couldn’t always know where cliffs were hidden, but he could always listen to those who knew more than he did.

27. Aug. 1830 The Prophet Joseph and Emma Smith and Newel and Sally Knight desired to partake of the sacrament. The Prophet went to procure wine for the service, and a heavenly messenger appeared to him.

Illustrated by Shauna Mooney Kawasaki
Matt! Mandy! Where are you?
The thunder scares us, Daddy! Make it be quiet!
I can’t, but I know Someone who can help you feel quiet on the inside.
Inside quiet is the best kind.

I’m 13 and I’ve been reading the New Era for about one year now. I was really excited when I read in the September 1986 issue about the new poster-size Mormonads. I have them up in my room, and looking at them every day helps me to become a better person.
My favorite articles in the September issue were “Kelly,” “A Father’s Voice,” and “Passages from India” about Santosh. It was really interesting. I can’t believe how much schooling he takes. I don’t think I’d be able to handle it.
Well, I just wrote to tell you how much I enjoy reading the New Era every month. It’s a great inspiration and light to my life. Thanks so much for this great magazine.
Rheo BurgGig Harbor, Washington

Elder Stolt’s grandfather was Vernon Carl Poulter II, who served a three-year, Mandarin-speaking mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in 1957. Elder Poulter’s first assignment in the Far East Asia Mission was in Taipei, Taiwan. It had only been open to missionaries for a few months, and because none of the Church’s Latter-day revelations had been translated into Chinese yet, teaching the gospel required an extensive 17 lessons before baptism and another 20 after.
Many of Elder Poulter’s contacts showed great potential, but he was always transferred to a new area before they progressed in their conversion. After one transfer, he and his junior companion decided to put their prayers to the test. Elder Poulter suggested: “Let’s pray specifically to be led to someone prepared to hear the gospel, then stay on our bikes until we receive the Spirit’s direction.”
An hour later, at a busy intersection in congested Taipei traffic, Elder Poulter had the distinct impression to turn right. When he caught up with his companion, the impression returned—stronger this time—that they should turn around.
Elder Poulter recorded: “We plunged back into traffic, made a ‘U-Turn’ across four lanes . . . back to the intersection, and turned left through another eight lanes of traffic.”
The elders eventually found themselves on a street that was too narrow even for bicycles. “As we continued on foot, I saw a man a few feet away watching us very intently through an open window. Our eyes met and I knew he was the person to whom we had been led.”
Mr. Hu invited the missionaries in and accepted, without question, their first lesson about the need for latter-day prophets. “Since Joseph Smith saw God and Jesus Christ and is the most important person of our time,” Mr. Hu wondered aloud, “how should I honour him?”
At his request, the missionaries returned the next day to continue teaching Mr. Hu and his family. During the lesson, Elder Poulter recalls that a ‘pure white light’ emanated through the window, but from no apparent source. He writes: “It was clear to my mind that we were in the presence of the Holy Ghost, whose radiance could actually be seen as well as felt.”
After the elders repeated the story of Joseph Smith for his wife and children, Mr. Hu bore his testimony and gave his own lesson to his family based on his reading of a pamphlet the missionaries had left him the day before. “His understanding and sincerity were most impressive,” Elder Poulter recalled. Mr. Hu closed by stating that these elders were bearers of the truth, then asked for permission to translate the pamphlet so he could share it with his friends and neighbours.
“Not knowing better, I said OK . . . we were pleased to see Mr. and Mrs. Hu with their two girls at church the next Sunday.” Then, Elder Poulter was transferred again. Prepared to leave the area, he started to pack a set of books his father had given him for the mission. Along with the standard works, they included, Articles of Faith, Joseph Smith Tells His Own Story, and James E. Talmage’s, The Great Apostasy. “I had the strong impression to take them all to Mr. Hu the next day . . . the [books] were received with joy and gratitude. That was the last I heard of the Hu family on my mission.”

“I ran for president of my high school women’s student association and lost. I felt that losing left me out of everything, and I really wanted to be in. But instead of feeling sorry for myself, I worked with one of my teachers to plan a marvelous party for the girl who beat me.
“When you lose and you’re really hurt, you can just reach out. If someone offends you or gets the honor or the award or job that you wanted, you just say to someone, ‘What can I do for you?’ And then you try to reach out to another and away from your own hurt.”

Miracles were experienced by the instructors and by the students. Deborah Darkwah, a member of another faith and YSA Gathering Place student, also shared that learning how to make wigs has blessed her family and brought extra income to her.

One of the most profound means of instilling a righteous image in our children is through the use of scripture and family stories. My own image of what I wanted to be began with stories of my great-grandfather, Robert D. Young. He lived to be ninety-five years old and died when I was fourteen years old. But I love the man as much as if he had walked with me and taught me every step I was to take.
I have few recollections of my own concerning him, but I was raised on stories about him. One of my favorites told of how as a young teenager he had hired on with a group of cowboys to run a herd of cattle from Colorado to Texas. During the first few days of the journey, the owner of the herd, a very wealthy man with no family of his own, rode with the group, but then left to attend to other business. As the cowboys made their way to Texas, the other men, all older than grandfather, spent their free time in pursuits that grandfather didn’t consider worthwhile. Instead of joining them, he would find a quiet spot and study mathematics and engineering.
The night before they arrived at their destination, the other cowboys decided they wanted to go into a nearby town and celebrate their safe arrival. They tried to get grandfather to go, but grandfather insisted that he had been hired to tend the cattle, and he would do just that. Later that night, the owner returned to find grandfather alone with his cattle. He was so impressed that he offered grandfather one-half of all he owned if he would become his business partner. Grandfather would have never again wanted for anything, but he refused. He said he just didn’t feel like that was what the Lord wanted him to do.
Many times during my youth I remember thinking, “I want to be just like my grandfather!” Other times I would ask myself, “Now what would grandfather do?” and then act accordingly.

The first smell of fall did it, like it does every year about this time. Oh, some times a sound will bring it back too, but the smell even brings back the taste and the slippery sweetness. When it is in the air you look at the mountains early in the morning anticipating that first touch of white. The smell seems to bring back the sounds too. The big balloon tires on a Schwinn bike crunching the colors out of fallen box elder and locust leaves on the way home from school and Miss Wasden’s fifth-grade classroom. It’s a smell that is almost too full of pleasant memories, like the sound and the sweet gush of juice when biting into autumn’s first frost-touched apple with its golden, water-cored center.
The smell of fall also meant hunting seasons with rites of preparation by red-flannel-shirted practitioners of horseshoeing, gun cleaning, and sighting in. Closeted drill-sergeant voices would come out every fall along with the red shirts.
“Only three shots at a time; then adjust for windage and elevation. Hold tight and squeeze. Don’t pull?
I was too young that year to get in on much more than the sights and sounds of hunting preparations. I was feeling pretty bad about not going hunting and about school. It seemed time for something special to come into my life. I never doubted the fairness of life, and I was sure something good would finally happen to me. I’d waited for my first man teacher, and then on the first day of school our principal, Mr. Clayson (principal of both junior high and grade school and also the grand presider of the lunchroom), announced that Mr. Wall had gone to Provo, “had gone back to school to finish his degree.” He introduced a Miss Wasden who would be our teacher for the coming year.
After a week we all got to like her quite well. She was nice, and it’s hard for any young boy not to like someone who is nice to him. But she still didn’t know a bat spaulding from an aggie taw, and her voice reading Bomba the Jungle Boy wasn’t nearly as real as Mr. Wall’s would have been.
The school weeks began to blur by and run together in my mind, and I remember now that the beautiful frosty smell was in the air. The crisp stillness of it, the way it pinched the insides of your nose while you were doing chores so that the breakfast smells of oatmeal and bacon were even better than they really were. Each morning you were reminded that winter was approaching and in the afternoons again as the sun was going down.
One day Doug, Jimmy Peterson (there were two Jimmys and one Pete in our class already so at least one of the three of us had a known last name), and I were riding our bicycles home from school on this diagonal trail that cuts through the old Second Ward chapel lot. A good hard path was worn through the weeds and grass between the Church and the two old outhouses. They weren’t used anymore except to tip over on Halloween and to hide in so we could give girls walking by a good scare. They were still weathering and leaning more every year despite their repeated rerightings the week following Halloween. I could see the chrome fenders on Doug’s new red bicycle bobbing back and forth ahead of me several yards when he slipped sideways with all his weight stomping on the coaster brake and leaping off the bicycle all in one motion.
“Look what I found,” he said as he scrambled to his knees along the edge of the worn track. “A purse!”
“Let’s see it,” we answered almost in unison.
“Shh, someone will see us.”
Together the three of us scurried back up the path past our tangled, still-turning wheels and akimbo handlebars to the outhouses. The ladies’ door had been nailed shut, but the men’s was open, and we crowded together inside to examine the contents of the purse.
It really wasn’t much of a purse, looking back at it now. It was too shiny and too green and made out of some of the first plastic, the kind that they used when they were still trying to think of things to use it for, before the Korean War made them start putting it in automobiles and furniture.
There wasn’t much talk in the dim outhouse light. We found only about 50 cents in change in the purse and no name or pictures. The name card was shiny and new like the rest of the purse. If we had known who it belonged to, I’m sure we wouldn’t have done what we did with it. But as it was, in a flash we had the money—Doug carried it because he saw it first—and we dropped the purse down the biggest hole into the black undeniable bowls of the outhouse. Then we were out of there and on our bikes and down to LaRue’s Market like a shot. Mr. LaRue was busy with a man in a white shirt, so we went over to look at the comics. I’d found a couple of good “Tarzans” with the top third of the front covers cut off. Mr LaRue always did that to the comics that didn’t sell the month before, and then you could buy them for half price.
“Come over here, boys.” It was the man in the white shirt.
“I’m telling you, Jack,” he was talking to Mr. LaRue, “you won’t be able to keep them in once people get a taste. I’ve seen new products come and go, but this is a real breakthrough.”
The sewn-on picture of a loaf of bread kept bobbing back and forth on his short-sleeved white shirt, and he kept waving his arms.
“Watch,” he said.
“Here, boys, come and try a free sample.”
And he cut a dark brown, almost black, slickly frosted cupcake in half, and as he did, we saw that the middle was white and part of it stuck deliciously to his knife. The cake separated, showing its white insides as it rolled over on the tray.
“Here, each of you take a half.” Then he cut another one, making us wait a little longer before handing any of the pieces to us.
In turn he placed a rich brown half, exposed white center up, in our hands. We timidly took a smell as we held them up to our faces, our eyes still on the salesman waiting for his permission to go ahead. We were in his power. “Take a bite. It’s more delicious than you can imagine.” They were delicious, and all the while we were eating them, he went on talking.
“The combination of the devil’s food and our secret cream filling is without parallel in food merchandising.”
By then all the rest of us, including Mr. LaRue, were into the cream centers, and I have to this day not tried anything sweeter or more delicious or memorable to my taste than that first bite of moist marshmallow cream in the center of that devil’s food cupcake. It was as if a breath of heavenly pure white ambrosia was centered in the chocolate cake.
“Don’t you want to buy some, boys? How many, Jack? Think a gross will last you till next week?”
All of us nodded yes. What else could we do, now? He continued to fill out his order, then went out to the truck and brought in more cakes. For a good part of our allotted going-home time we stood in the corner of LaRue’s Market and read comic books, only the ones with the tops off, and ate more of the new cupcakes, bought and paid for with the contents of the purse we had found.
To this day I don’t remember whether I was really alone or not. Doug and Jimmy Peterson may have gone on before me. I was still deep in “Red Ryder,” “Little Beaver,” and “Tarzan,” sure that I could finish soon and catch them in a block or two if I had to. But I was reading, facing the magazine rack, when I heard other people come in behind me.
The lady seemed old to a fifth grader; she was probably at least 35. With her were two little girls, one small and the other one about eight. It seems funny now that I didn’t know them, because even then I thought I knew everyone who lived in Santaquin. One grade school, two small grocery stores, two wards, and two pages in the telephone directory pretty well took care of Santaquin and still does.
I had never seen the mother before. The younger child is still faceless in my mind, but the face of her older sister has remained vividly with me to this day. In her pale, delicate, almost china-fragile white face were set enormous lavender eyes. She had the lacy delicacy of a sego lily, one growing under a sagebrush in a marginal area where it has barely enough light to survive. Her eyes were out of proportion to the rest of her face. Their dark liquid presence made you look deep into her soul before you could take your own eyes away. You could look a long time and never be stopped by a light reflection in them. They were now rimmed with tears, and her soft, shoulder-length hair covered the collar of her blue woolen coat. Her hair was the lace that framed her china face. I even wonder now if this striking creature was really an older being inside of a child’s body. Yet, her eyes could not have looked more hurt nor mirrored any greater sadness than they did that day. She started to sob softly as if she were already exhausted from crying. “I don’t know where I lost it. I had it right here in my pocket when I left school.”
“Are you certain, Susanne?” the mother asked. And I remember the feeling of surprise to hear an ordinary mortal name attached to something so angelic.
“Yes, I’m so sorry I lost it, Mama.”
“Well let’s go back once more. Maybe if we walk clear back to school we’ll find it. Your father will feel so bad. He already felt terrible about missing your birthday. He sent you the purse, and now you have lost it and your birthday money. Look carefully now. I’m sure we’ll find it if we watch carefully all the way back to school.”
I stood there dumb and immobile. I wanted to blurt out the truth. I couldn’t. It was as if I had grabbed onto an electric fence and couldn’t let go. I didn’t want it to be true. If only I could have willed the purse back to the path, I knew they would be able to find it. But they wouldn’t now; they couldn’t and I knew it. Sickness came in a wave from my depths. I was suffering. Speechless and frozen and dying inside. My first experience of feeling that excruciating torture and hurt and conscience for someone else that is more severe, that is wider in range and deeper in feeling than you can possibly feel for yourself. For the first time I was living the pain of someone else, and what made it even worse, I had caused it.
I don’t remember the rest of the day—when I got home or what was said when I did. I don’t remember ever seeing that incredibly sad little girl with the haunting eyes again except in my mind. She is not a memory, thank goodness, that is too accessible now. She is hidden deeply in among the stretch marks and scar tissue of growing. However, she does come back annually with the smells of fall, and the many good memories of growing up. She is there like an old war wound that helps you tell the seasons, a part of you you’d rather not have but learn to live with and accept, another ache or heart murmur. Yet her memory and the burning feelings inside come together to remind me on mornings when this first smell of winter is in the air. Then I think of her again, and of that fifth-grade day many years ago, and of the first scorching of the taste buds of my soul.

Part of the Andean flood lore includes references to the rainbow as the symbol between god and man that there will never again be a universal deluge on the earth. At least two references to this tradition can be found among the Spanish writings. The following from Cabello Balboa, written in 1586, describes the Brothers Ayar as they went forth to found the city of Cuzco.
“They came to a hill that today is called Guanacauria and one day at dawn they saw the bow, or rainbow of the heavens that came to the foot of the same hill, and Mango Capac told the rest that it was a good sign that the world would not be destroyed any more by water, and that they should follow him and climb the hill, and from there they would see the place where they were to settle.”11
A similar version dating from 1572 is found in the work of Molina:
“The brothers Ayar climbed to the summit, and there they saw the rainbow of the heavens, which the natives call Guanacauri, and Manco Capaca said to them, ‘Hold this as a sign, that the world will never be destroyed again by water.’”12

I saw firsthand our great nation stand by at the time of the Hungarian revolution—when “freedom fighters” with bare hands and stones resisted bullets, tanks, and artillery. I confess I was ashamed at the response of my country—a nation which I believe the Lord intended to be an ensign of freedom to all others. Freedom did not die that day (23 October 1956) for Hungary alone. Hope died for many in other captive nations and has only recently been somewhat revived by courageous men willing to speak against oppression.

David ran down the sandy path holding the small sand grouse carefully in his hands. “Bird,” he whispered, “it’s all right. I’ll take care of you.”
The boy had found the sand grouse on the desert. Its wing was broken and the feathers fanned out when he let go of it, so he held it close to his chest with both hands.
David lived alone in a cave under the edge of a rock. Before he was old enough to remember him, his father had left. David often thought about his father, imagining him as a tall, strong man who would protect his son from the wolves, bring him food and firewood, and hold him close in the night when it was dark and when frightening sounds came from outside the cave.
David tried not to think about his mother. She hadn’t been gone as long, and her memory was still too close to his heart to remember without pain.
It was getting dark, and the tall palms stood out black against the red desert sky. David, alone with the sand grouse, could feel its tiny heart beating rapidly against his hands. He scraped up some cold ashes and bits of straw into a pillow on which to lay the hurt bird so that the softness came up and around and held its wing.
“Lie still now, bird,” he said. “I’ll fix your wing for you.”
David found a stick and some leather strips he’d been saving in a pouch. Every time he found a piece of wool or a strip of leather blowing on the desert, he’d carefully save it and tuck it into his pouch. Sometimes these bits and pieces were useful in unexpected ways.
As he wrapped a tiny piece of leather around the stick and the bird’s wing, he thought, Maybe this sand grouse can be mine, and I can be his. We can belong to each other.
After David finished wrapping the bird’s wing, he dropped some water into its open mouth. Its helpless eyes gazed at the boy as he worked.
Gently David put the bird down onto the soft straw pillow. He tied one end of a leather thong around the bird’s leg and the other end to his own wrist. Now, he thought, if it flutters about in the night or tries to fly, I can keep it from hurting itself.
David lay down on the dirt floor of the cave, curled up on his side so that he could see the bird. The sand grouse stared at him. David smiled and said, “Good night. I love you.”
During the night David awoke to a chattering noise. At first he couldn’t tell what it was. Then the string on his wrist tugged and pulled. The bird was silhouetted against the mouth of the cave, and there looked to be hundreds of birds outside. They were perching on the cactus, flying and darting about, and walking in the sand. David had never seen so many birds at once! The thong on his wrist tightened as his bird limped along, trying to reach the others.
The great flock of birds chattered and teased. They seemed to say, “Come along. Hurry and come with us.”
Walking over to the mouth of the cave, David called, “Sand grouse, you can’t go. You can’t fly yet.” Then the boy shivered at the cold and dampness in the cave. Every bird on the desert must be here! he thought. What does it mean?
David held the sand grouse close as he stepped out into the starlit night. At first all he could see were the birds circling and swooping. Then he saw a great light in the sky that was attracting the birds, and David knew where they were going. Suddenly he wanted to go with them.
David followed the birds over rocks and hills, down gullies and crevices, and on over the wind-whipped sand. Then their chattering stopped and all David could hear was the sound of his own feet and the beating, whirring wings.
David began to have a warm feeling inside that seemed to come from the lighted sky. He was hurrying to keep the birds in sight when, suddenly, he bumped into something and stopped.
“Say, there,” came a man’s deep voice. “What’s this?”
“Oh, sir, I’m sorry,” David said, looking up at the tall, smiling man before him. He wore a shepherd’s robe and held a wooden staff. A curly, dark beard went up close to the man’s kind eyes, and he was carrying a lamb.
“That’s all right, boy,” the shepherd said. “What’s that you have there? A sand grouse, is it?”
“Yes, sir, I found it on the ground with its wing broken. After I bound the wing with a thong, the bird’s friends came and wanted it to go with them. But I don’t know why we’re following them.”
“Come, walk with me,” the shepherd invited the boy. “I’ll tell you about this night.”
So David and the shepherd walked together on the desert under the bright light of that holy night, led by the birds. The shepherd told David he’d been watching the sheep when an angel came.
“An angel?” David asked in wonderment.
“Yes, an angel, who told us that a king had been born in the city of David.”
“A king?” David questioned, even more astonished.
“A king of all the world,” the shepherd replied. “I’m taking this lamb as a present for that kingly Baby.”
“A baby king,” David said, still hardly believing. “I’d like to give him something, too, but I have nothing to give.”
“That’s what I thought, but I did have this lamb,” said the shepherd.
“And I have only —” David stopped. Then he continued in a quieter voice. “I have only this sand grouse. It belongs to me and I belong to him.”
David thought about the sand grouse as he and the shepherd walked together until they came to a stable in the little town.
“The King wouldn’t be born here in a stable,” David said, “with hay all around Him and animals close by.”
“Yes,” the shepherd said, “the angel told us we would find Him in a manger.”
The great flock of birds that had been flying ahead of David and the shepherd settled in the trees near the stable.
They found the Babe lying in a bed of hay. As the shepherd stepped forward and put the lamb down beside Him, the mother smiled. Holding his friend, the sand grouse, David felt himself pulled forward by her smile.
The bird’s eyes had become black and shiny. David untied the thong from its wing. The sand grouse hopped a little, ruffled up its feathers, and moved both wings without any trouble. David untied the thong from his wrist and laid it aside.
The bird fluttered closer to the Baby and stood there. Its eyes shone, and it turned its head from side to side, looking first at the boy and then at the sleeping child.
“Good-bye, sand grouse,” David said. “Good-bye, my friend.”
He turned to where the shepherd was waiting for him at the edge of the heavenly light. As they went out into the dark streets of the city together, the shepherd put his hand gently on David’s shoulder. “It’s wonderful to think we have seen the King of the world,” he said.
“Yes,” David answered, although he felt happy and sad at the same time. When he thought of the Baby, a happiness ran through him, but when he thought of being all alone again, there was a hollow, hurting ache in his chest.
The shepherd said, “Your sand grouse seemed to feel as though it belonged there. Its wing was fine, and it looked happy.”
“I think it was proud to be standing next to the baby King,” David said, “and I’m glad. But it was the only thing I had of my own, and now I’m alone again.”
“Then come with me,” the shepherd suggested. “I’m alone, too, except for my sheep.”
David could hardly believe his ears. “You mean, I could go with you? Live with you?”
“And belong to me. Yes, and I would belong to you, David,” the shepherd said. “Do you need to go back to the cave for anything?”
“All I had was the sand grouse and I gave that to the King,” David answered. He was quiet for a moment. Then looking up into the kind eyes of the shepherd, he said, “And it was the best thing I’ve ever done.”

Thanksgiving morning I awoke to the usual rattle of milk pans. Grabbing my shoes and stockings, I raced barefoot to the warmth of the kitchen stove. Papa was straining the milk. “Where’s Mama?” I asked.
“She coughed all night” he said, “so I told her to stay in bed and you’d get breakfast ready.” He set the pans of milk in the pantry and went out to tend the cows.
“Oh, no,” I wailed aloud, “Mama can’t be sick on Thanksgiving Day!”
Helplessly I regarded the old cookstove. In bright, shiny letters across the oven door was written FROM KALAMAZOO DIRECT TO YOU. Such good things had come from that oven, I remembered, especially at holidays. For the first time in my memory there had been no bustle of baking the day before Thanksgiving. Mama wasn’t up to it, and Grandma had gone to Moccasin to spend a few days with Uncle Fred and Aunt LaVern. She had said that the family was too big now for all of us to be together on Thanksgiving. To top that off, we got a sad little note from my two oldest sisters, Annie and Kate, who were away at school, saying they couldn’t find a way home from Cedar City.
Mildred, just older than I, was helping Sister Cripps. What a situation! There would be no plum pudding bobbing up and down in its little cotton sack in the boiling kettle, and there would be no row of pies cooling on the pantry shelf.
The fire crackled and steam spouted from the copper teakettle, reminding me that I had better stop feeling sorry for myself and get busy.
Absolutely the only thing I’d ever cooked was mush. I had had no reason to learn to cook, what with Grandma, Mama, and my three older sisters around. Mama had the gift of making something out of nothing, especially when company unexpectedly appeared. My sisters had all learned to cook because they often worked out for people, and then there was Grandma. She lived next door to us, but did her cooking on our stove. She used to run the Isom Hotel at Virgin during the oil boom, and she delighted in cooking for big crowds.
As I poured the boiling water into the mush pot and stirred in the cracked wheat, I thought of other Thanksgivings. Last year when Grandma was taking flaky crusted pies out of the oven with a towel, her thumb accidentally touched the hot tin pan and she dropped a currant pie upside down on the kitchen floor. Steaming red juice trickled across the clean linoleum, and I thought it was a disaster until Grandma said, “You youngsters can have that pie.” She wasn’t one to waste anything. I remember my aunts saying that Grandma was so saving that if a mosquito lit in the molasses, she’d lick its legs before turning it loose. Maybe so, but no pie ever tasted so good as the one she dropped.
Thanksgiving meant lots of relatives. Three years ago everybody in Hurricane had Thanksgiving dinner together in the little wooden meetinghouse before it was torn down. The grown-ups ate first because “children must learn their proper place and respect their elders.” It was one of the rare times that it snowed in Hurricane. While the grown-ups ate, we scraped enough snow together for a snowman; then it was our turn to eat. Politely we sat at the long, wonderful table. I had never seen so many kinds of scrumptious food in my whole life. And what fun it was to eat with playmates and cousins while even the men, wearing happy faces and big aprons, served us.
Stirring the mush smooth, I put on the lid. My little sisters were giggling in their room and singing “Over the River and Through the Woods.” That got to me. Slipping into my coat, I ran to the barn where Papa was pitching hay into the manger.
“Papa, aren’t we going to have any Thanksgiving?” I cried.
“I guess it’s up to you,” he replied, ramming the pitchfork into the hay and climbing down from the loft.
“Me!” I said aghast.
He patted my shoulder. “You’re almost twelve, aren’t you?”
“Eleven,” I corrected.
He took my hand and we walked to the house together. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll put these nice white beans Mama set to soak in this big kettle, like this. Then we’ll put in a piece of fresh pork.” Stepping outside, he brought in a flour sack of meat that had been hanging on the shady side of the house and cut off a hunk for the bean pot. “Now for a little salt, then the lid, and we’ll slide it on the back of the stove. You keep the fire going and the beans will be ready for dinner.”
“But Papa! It’s Thanksgiving! Are beans all we’ll have?”
“With plenty of brown bread and butter and fruit, nothing could be better.”
Grandma always said Papa was a very practical man, and I knew it was true.
Mama ate breakfast with us, then went back to bed. Papa went to fix the corral gate. My little sisters, Edith and LaPriel, did the dishes while I tidied up the house. I looked at the pictures of pilgrims and turkeys that they had colored with crayons and pasted in the front window. Of course we’d never had a turkey, because we didn’t raise them. We ate what we grew. Papa had butchered the pig and Mama had bottled sausage, but she hadn’t rendered out the lard yet.
Quietly I slipped into Mama’s room. Feeling my presence, she opened her eyes.
“Mama, I wish I knew how to make something special for dinner,” I said.
She patted my hand. “The first step to becoming a good cook is to want to. Run down to Aunt Mary’s house and borrow half a cup of lard and I’ll teach you how to make a cake with sugar in it.”
“Sugar!” I exclaimed. Usually we had molasses cakes.
I flew to Aunt Mary’s with my tin cup and she filled it with fresh, creamy white lard. Then I ran all the way home.
“You might want to write this down for the first time,” Mama said, “but in no time at all you’ll be cooking from memory.”
The good cooks I knew gloried in the fact that their recipes were in their heads. We didn’t even own a cookbook.
“We’ll start with two cups of flour.”
I wrote it down.
“Now remember this rule: For each cup of flour, you use one teaspoon of baking powder. Then add a good pinch of salt.”
“How much is a good pinch?”
“About half a teaspoon. You’ll get used to that. Sift these together. In a separate bowl put half as much sugar as flour. How much would that be?”
“One cup,” I replied.
“Now add half as much lard as sugar.”
“One-half cup lard,” I said out loud as I wrote.
“Cream these together. I’m sure you know how to do that because you’ve watched me. Now, since the chickens aren’t laying too well, we’ll use just one egg today. Another rule you might remember is to use the same amount of milk as sugar. This is basic,” she explained.
“From these simple rules you can make many kinds of cake. I’ll leave it to your imagination. You can add a teaspoon of lemon or vanilla extract or a teaspoon of nutmeg—whichever you like.” After explaining how to alternately mix in the flour and milk she said, “Now run along and have fun making your first cake.”
I kept popping back into her room with questions, but finally the cake was in the oven.
“If you’ve kept just enough fire to keep the beans bubbling gently, your cake should be done in half an hour,” she said.
Anxiously I watched the fire and the clock. An angel must have sat on my shoulder because the cake browned just right, springing back to my touch as Mama had said it should.
Remembering Grandma’s cake topping, I ran down to the cellar for a glass of plum jelly and spread it on the cake as it cooled. Cream on the pans of last night’s milk for tomorrow’s churning reminded me of what else Grandma would do if she were here. I ladled some into a bowl for whipping.
Down the cellar once more, I scanned the shining store of bottled fruit. Himalaya berries! Today we would open a two-quart bottle of them! Sweet pomegranates in a basket on the dirt floor caught my eye. Some of them were already splitting, exposing ruby red seeds. I selected the biggest one.
Edith and LaPriel had caught the excitement of the day. They kept the woodbox filled, put the best white cloth on the table in the living room, and even fixed a bouquet of pink chrysanthemums they had rooted out from under the yellow leaves beneath the cherry trees.
Papa came in and scrubbed up. Mama came downstairs and said she felt much better. The table with its flowers and the cut glass bowl of berries and the bread, butter, and beans looked like Thanksgiving. We bowed our heads and Papa thanked Heavenly Father for the bounties of the earth and for a couple of hundred other things; then he blessed the food. He had just barely said, “Amen,” when the brakes to Ether Wood’s freight truck squealed outside our front gate. Ether is the Good Samaritan of our town who always remembers students who are away from home.
Annie and Kate burst in through the front door at the very moment that Mildred opened the kitchen door, announcing that Sister Cripps didn’t need her anymore. My heart almost popped the buttons off my dress. I wanted to laugh and to cry. Everybody hugged everybody else. We put on three extra plates and, chattering like sparrows, passed the beans.
When it came time, I brought out the cake. Like jewels, pomegranate seeds sparkled from the whipped-cream topping. It looked so pretty everyone gasped.
“I made it myself. Mama told me how,” I explained.
Papa said it was fit for a king and Mama said it was perfect and everyone else said I should try one again soon. I looked at the happy faces of my family around the table.
“My goodness!” I exclaimed, “This isn’t a pitiful Thanksgiving after all!”

Early in our married life when Sister Nelson and I lived in Minneapolis, we decided to enjoy a free afternoon with our two-year-old daughter. We went to one of Minnesota’s many beautiful lakes and rented a small boat. After rowing far from shore, we stopped to relax and enjoy the tranquil scene. Suddenly, our little toddler lifted one leg out of the boat and started to go overboard, exclaiming, “Time to get out, Daddy!”
Quickly we caught her and explained: “No, dear, it’s not time to get out; we must stay in the boat until it brings us safely back to land.” Only with considerable persuasion did we succeed in convincing her that leaving the boat early would have led to disaster.