Gospel Story Finder

Beatrix did enjoy the family holidays in Scotland every summer. It was here that her creative ability grew. She loved to see the frogs leaping, rabbits hopping, and little wood mice playing. She would hide in the fields for hours at a time, sitting in tall weeds as she watched and dreamed. The simple cottages where the Scottish families lived appealed to Beatrix. She was amazed at the love and affection Scottish parents showed their children.
Farmers allowed Beatrix to feed their small animals. She gave bread to the ducks, corn to the chickens, lettuce and carrots to the rabbits. It was as though she suddenly lived in a magical world, and Beatrix was spellbound. She and little Bertram sketched everything in sight.

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

I am acquainted with a family that came to America from Germany. The English language was difficult for them. They had but little by way of means, but each was blessed with the will to work and with a love of God.

Their third child was born, lived but two months, and then died. The father was a cabinetmaker and fashioned a beautiful casket for the body of his precious child. The day of the funeral was gloomy, thus reflecting the sadness they felt in their loss. As the family walked to the chapel, with Father carrying the tiny casket, a small number of friends had gathered. However, the chapel door was locked. The busy bishop had forgotten the funeral. Attempts to reach him were futile. Not knowing what to do, the father placed the casket under his arm and, with his family beside him, carried it home, walking in a drenching rain.

If the family were of a lesser character, they could have blamed the bishop and harbored ill feelings. When the bishop discovered the tragedy, he visited the family and apologized. With the hurt still evident in his expression, but with tears in his eyes, the father accepted the apology, and the two embraced in a spirit of understanding. No hidden wedge was left to cause further feelings of anger. Love and acceptance prevailed.

President David O. McKay (1873–1970) often related an account that occurred while he was a missionary serving in Scotland. He was feeling homesick after being in the mission for just a short time and spent a few hours sightseeing at nearby Stirling Castle. When he and his companion returned from visiting the castle, they passed a building where the stone above the door had a carved inscription of a quotation, usually attributed to Shakespeare, that read, “What-E’er Thou Art, Act Well Thy Part.”
Recalling this experience, President McKay explained: “I said to myself, or the Spirit within me, ‘You are a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. More than that, you are here as a representative of the Lord Jesus Christ. You accepted the responsibility as a representative of the Church.’ Then I thought [about] what we had done that forenoon. We had been sightseeing; we had gained historical instruction and information, it is true, and I was thrilled with it. … However, that was not missionary work. … I accepted the message given to me on that stone, and from that moment we tried to do our part as missionaries in Scotland.”1
This message was so important and had such an impact on him that President McKay used it as inspiration for the rest of his life. He determined that whatever responsibility he had, he would do his very best.

My friend Josh and I were preparing for our missions. We had a mutual friend named Sara, whom we went to school with. Sara attended another Christian church with her family. We had talked about religion here and there with Sara, but never in much depth.
One day Josh asked me if I would be interested in going with him to talk about the Church with Sara. I felt nervous at first but said yes. He talked to Sara and set up a time to meet to discuss our religious beliefs. I felt nervous at first and decided to study Preach My Gospel to prepare a little more. When we got together, we went through the principles of the first lesson in Preach My Gospel and expounded on what we believed. We asked questions about her religion and beliefs. We gave her a Book of Mormon. She graciously accepted it but told us that she wasn’t looking to change anything. She had her religion and held to beliefs that didn’t align with ours.
Even though she wasn’t interested in accepting more of the gospel, I still felt the Spirit that night as we bore testimony of the Savior and the Restoration of His Church. I also had my eyes opened to what others believe. I felt like this experience helped prepare me for my mission.
Brian D., Utah, USA

Painting the signs has helped Raegan and Rylyn through challenges. “When Kendall was sick, there were times we didn’t really want to be in the house because it was hard for us to see. So we decided to go and paint, and that lifted the load a lot,” Raegan says.
Kendall eventually passed away at age 16. Raegan says, “It was hard, but we knew that families are forever. We knew that even if we didn’t have much time with her, if we do our part, it’ll help us be closer to being with Kendall and Kallen again.”

“Come on, honey,” Mom coaxed five-year-old Brea, “eat your cereal. I have an early doctor’s appointment today.”
Cassie stifled a yawn and took her bowl to the sink. “I’ll take Brea to her bus, Mom,” she offered.
“Oh, thank you!” Mother gave Cassie and Brea a quick squeeze. “Don’t worry, Brea. I’ll be at the bus stop at noon to meet you. Have a beautiful day, you two!”
The morning sun filtered through the trees as Brea held tightly to Cassie’s hand. “How do you like kindergarten so far?” Cassie asked Brea.
Brea skipped happily beside her sister. “I like it.”
“That’s good,” Cassie replied.
“Hey, Cass!” Judi called, running to catch up to them. “Did you get all that homework done?”
Cassie shrugged. “I’m not sure about a couple of the answers. How about you?”
“Miss Hager is a slave driver!” Judi mumbled grumpily. “I’ve worked hard, and I still need to look at some maps in the library before school. How about you?”
“That sure would help,” Cassie agreed. “But I have to get Brea on her school bus first.”
“Can’t she get on the bus by herself?” Judi asked.
Brea nodded and grinned at Judi.
Cassie looked at her little sister. She probably could, Cassie reasoned. Once I get her to the bus stop, she could wait with the other kids. Then I’d have time to check my homework too.
When the girls arrived at the bus stop, the other kids were holding their mothers’ hands, waiting for the school bus.
“Well, here she is, safe and sound,” Judi said happily. “Come on, Cassie. We still have time to visit the library.”
Cassie looked down at Brea, who suddenly seemed to turn shy and hang back. Why is she acting like this? Cassie wondered. “Maybe I’d better wait,” Cassie said. “I told mom that I’d make sure that she caught her bus.”
“She’s here,” Judi grumbled. “What more can you do?”
Cassie shrugged. “I’ll wait with her till the bus comes.”
“You’re impossible, Catherine McLaughlin!” Judi groused as she started down the sidewalk. Then her face relaxed, and she called back, “I’ll see you later.”
Cassie watched Judi until she turned the corner; then she glanced down at Brea.
“Is Judi mad at you?” Brea asked quietly.
Cassie shook her head. “No, honey, not really.”
Brea was a pain sometimes, but from the pressure of her fingers on Cassie’s hand, it was easy to tell that she didn’t want to wait alone.
The quiet sound of air brakes broke into Cassie’s thoughts as the bright yellow bus turned the corner. Mothers bent to kiss their children as they eagerly lined up in single file. Brea was still clutching Cassie’s hand, but she let go and pointed, smiling as another little girl hurried to cross the street. “There’s my friend!”
“Well, get in line with her, honey,” Cassie said.
Cassie was about to continue on to school, when she saw a wildly speeding car turn the corner. It rocked from side to side, then zigged along the street, heading straight for the school bus. Without a second thought, Cassie pushed Brea and her friend behind a tree.
The out-of-control car scraped the bus, jumped the curb, and landed against the bus-stop sign—right where the children had been standing!
Cassie looked at her trembling sister. “Don’t cry, Brea,” she soothed. “Everything’s OK.”
Police sirens filled the crisp morning air as mothers calmed their terrified kids and Cassie’s own trembling hands smoothed Brea’s hair.
Later, in history class, the teacher came to Cassie’s side and whispered, “You’re wanted in the principal’s office.”
Cassie looked up, then gulped. As she hurried along the hallway, her stomach churned. What’d I do wrong? she worried. When she neared the office, she saw a policeman and swallowed hard. Has something happened to Mother or Brea?
“Catherine McLaughlin?” the officer asked with a friendly smile.
“Yes,” Cassie replied.
“Eyewitnesses credit you with saving the lives of two children, and we’re happy to tell you that you’re to be awarded the Mayor’s Award for Heroism.”
Cassie sighed with relief. “All I did was—”
The officer smiled and held up his hand in a gesture of friendly dissent. “You acted in a prompt and heroic way without hesitation,” he told her. “That’s something to be proud of, and I’m glad to meet you.”
“I am, too,” another man said as he stepped out of the background. “I’m Doug Miller from the Bradley Standard, and I’d like to take a picture of you at the accident site as the children come off the bus. It’ll be in tomorrow morning’s edition. The principal has given his permission for you to miss your classes long enough for me to take your picture, and this officer will take you there,” he explained.
When the school bus pulled up to the curb, Cassie stepped out of the police car. As soon as the waiting mothers saw her, they crowded around, thanking her. Then Cassie felt a hand on her arm and turned.
“Cassie?” her mother said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“Your daughter is a hero,” one mother said with a happy grin.
Brea jumped off the bus, smiling. “You’re both here to meet me today!” she said excitedly.
“Come on, kids,” Doug Miller directed. “We’re going to take some pictures of you with Catherine beside the school bus.”
After the pictures were taken, Cassie’s mother looked at her with a bewildered expression. “I don’t understand. What happened this morning?” she asked.
“I put Brea on the school bus like I said I would,” Cassie replied simply.

Ever since Marcus got his CTR ring, he was determined to choose the right. It wasn’t always easy. A hard choice came when his mother told him he was going to get to see his grandmother. Marcus’s grandmother lived far away, so he didn’t get to see her very often.
When he saw his best friend, Ramon, at school, Marcus said, “I’ve got some great news!”
“I do too,” Ramon said. He handed Marcus an envelope. “Open it!”
“First let me tell you my news,” Marcus said. “My grandmother is coming from England! We get to see her!”
“That’s super!” Ramon said. “When is she coming?”
“Friday night. But we can only visit her at the airport because she’s on her way to help my aunt with her new baby.”
Marcus quickly opened Ramon’s envelope. “You’re having a party!” he exclaimed. “I can’t wait. When is it?” Marcus read the invitation, and his face fell. “Oh no! It’s Friday.”
Ramon shrugged. “That’s OK. I understand why you can’t come.”
“But I want to come. What should I do?” Marcus asked.
“I guess you need to make a choice,” Ramon said. “Let me know what you decide.” Ramon waved and ran to class.
When Marcus got home from school, he sat on the front step, flipping a coin.
“What are you doing?” Mom asked, sitting down beside him. Marcus handed her the party invitation.
“I’m sure Grandmother will understand if you can’t come to the airport,” Mom said.
“But I want to see her,” Marcus said. He looked at his CTR ring. “What do you think is the right thing to do?” he asked.
“They are both good things to do,” Mom said. “In this case, it’s a matter of which is the best thing to do. But I don’t think flipping a coin is going to help. Have you prayed about it?”
“Yes. I prayed and asked Heavenly Father to tell me what to do, but He didn’t. Why won’t He just tell me?”
“Maybe He wants you to figure it out for yourself first,” Mom said. “Then He will tell you through the Holy Ghost if you’ve made a good decision.”
“But how can I figure it out?”
“Follow the promptings of the Holy Ghost. He can help you make the choice between two good things.”
The next day at school Marcus told Ramon what his mother had said. “Won’t you feel sad if I don’t come to your party?” Marcus asked.
“Of course,” Ramon said. “But won’t you feel sad if you miss seeing your grandmother? If you came to my party, you might wish you were at the airport.”
“And if I go to the airport, I might wish I was at the party.” Marcus sighed. “I guess I need to think about it more.”
That night Marcus stood on Ramon’s front porch, holding a present. He rang the doorbell. Ramon answered the door.
“What’s this?” Ramon asked. “My party isn’t until tomorrow.”
Marcus took a deep breath and blurted out, “I’m sorry that I won’t be able to come to your party, Ramon. I brought your gift early. Happy birthday!”
Ramon smiled and took the gift. “Thanks! I’m glad you’ll get to see your grandmother.”
“Me too,” Marcus said.
“Can you stay for a while?” Ramon asked. “We’re frosting cupcakes, and we could use your help.”
“Now that’s an easy choice to make,” Marcus said, and headed straight for the kitchen.

Our youngest daughter, Jen, had to have surgery at age four. She listened as we explained why the surgery was needed. She knew she would have to spend several days in a hospital. We told her Heavenly Father would bless her. We prayed with Jen, and she prayed too.
When the day came, we took her to the hospital. A doctor came and offered his hand to lead her to the operating room. With the simple faith of a child, she took his hand and walked ahead, unafraid and never looking back.
The operation was a success, and Jen surprised us two days later by singing happily in her hospital bed.

From the first time she came to church, 16-year-old Moema Duberley loved it. “The girls were very receptive and tried to help me get to know everybody,” she says. “It made me feel like the Church was my second home.”
But it became difficult for Moema to come to church when her mother stopped attending a few months after their baptism. Partly because of her calling but mostly because of their friendship, Katarina began calling Moema.
“Sometimes I felt like I was bothering Moema,” says Katarina, “but I kept trying because I felt it was important, and I knew God was going to help because I was also praying.”
After months of Katarina’s and other girls’ fellowshipping, Moema returned to full activity. “I came back because I was missing everything I had been learning at church and my relationship with God and the members.”
Now Moema and Katarina share a special bond. “I’m really grateful because I needed a friend when I was less active,” says Moema. “I’m very thankful for Katarina being like this for me. When you spend time away from the Church, you begin to feel that maybe you won’t be accepted. But when people call, it feels good to know you’re not forgotten.”
As for Katarina, “I feel really happy and thankful that Moema came back,” she says. “And it worked! I prayed and it worked.”

Katie smiled as she hurried to her piano lesson. Today was Store Day! Every time she practiced the piano, she earned points to spend on prizes. Katie had worked hard, and she couldn’t wait to see all the cool things she could buy.
She looked at the row of prizes carefully. There were candy bars, colored pencils, baseball cards, and even a book of jokes. Then Katie noticed two little red and white boxes. She picked one up and opened it. Inside the box was a shiny red harmonica. The other box had a shiny red harmonica too.
Katie counted up her points. She had enough for the harmonica. In fact, she had enough for both harmonicas! She would give the other one to her little brother Ryan. He was going to be so excited! Katie could hardly wait.
When Katie got home, she tied a little ribbon around the box and gave it to her brother. “My own harmonica?” Ryan asked when he opened it.
“Yeah!” Katie said. She pulled out her matching harmonica to show him. “We both have one!”
“How will we tell them apart?” he asked.
Katie showed him where she had marked an “R” in black marker on the side of his harmonica. “Yours has an ‘R’ for Ryan, and mine has a ‘K’ for Katie.”
Ryan smiled. He took a deep breath and blew into his harmonica. Then he laughed. “You’re the best,” he said.
Katie loved seeing how happy the harmonica made Ryan. He carried it in his pocket everywhere he went. He even tucked it under his pillow before he went to bed.
A few days later, Ryan came inside from helping Dad in the yard. He was crying. “What’s wrong?” Katie asked.
“My harmonica,” Ryan said. “I can’t find it anywhere.”
“I’ll help you look for it,” said Katie. They went outside and crawled through the grass, searching behind bushes and under rocks. Dad helped them look too.
“Do you think we should say a prayer?” Ryan asked. “Maybe Heavenly Father can help us find my harmonica.”
“That’s a great idea,” Dad said.
They knelt down in the grass and Ryan said a prayer. “Heavenly Father, please help us find my harmonica.”
The three of them kept looking, but it was nowhere to be found. Ryan went to bed without his harmonica under his pillow and cried himself to sleep.
Seeing Ryan so sad made Katie feel sad too. “Heavenly Father, please help Ryan to not feel so upset. Please help him find his harmonica.” Katie finished her prayer and climbed into bed.
Then an idea popped into her mind.
She crawled out of bed and pulled out her own little red harmonica. She washed it with soap and water. She could still see the “K” written on the side, but the harmonica’s shiny red color made it look brand new. After Ryan fell asleep, Katie sneaked into his room and slipped the harmonica under his pillow. Then she went back to bed and tried to fall asleep. She was so excited to see Ryan’s face. It felt like waiting for Christmas morning!
The next day, Katie woke up extra early. Soon Ryan was awake too. She heard him yell in surprise and ran to his room. Ryan was holding the harmonica, smiling big. “Look! It’s my harmonica!”
Then Ryan noticed the little “K” written on the side. “Wait,” he said. “This one’s yours.”
“I know,” said Katie. “It’s for you!”
“Really?” Ryan asked. “But I thought Heavenly Father was going to answer my prayer.”
“I think He did,” Katie said back with a big smile. “He just let me help Him!”

I was taught about vertigo when my Air Force instructor took me up in an airplane with the cockpit covered by a canopy so I could not see outside. I would have to rely on the instruments. Unknown to me, he gradually turned the airplane upside down, keeping positive gravitational forces. My ear did not detect the slow rollover. He told me to take control of the airplane. Of course, I did what every other student did. I pulled backwards because I was losing altitude, and, of course, I started a dive toward the earth because I did not know I was upside down.
As I started to regain control of the airplane, I could see the little marks on the landing gear were upside down. My instructor taught me the principle that you can take human beings at a two- or three-degree turn while keeping positive gravitational forces and turn them upside down without their knowing they have left the straight and level flight. The motion is imperceptible.

My dad announced a “pet peeve” night. During family home evening, each member of the family writes down things that other members of the family do that bother him without mentioning any names. Dad reads them out loud. We all try to stop doing the things that bother other members of the family. We had so much fun with it, we have a “pet peeve” night about three times a year.
Mitch Alley, 15Spokane, Washington

When I was a mission president in Australia, I once said to those of my missionaries in Tasmania: “Tomorrow we shall climb Mt. Wellington and hold our missionary meeting on the top. We shall there seek to commune with the Lord and partake of his Spirit.”
We made the climb, and while on top of the peak we visited a television broadcasting station. A bright young man explained to us in words I had never heard, and using principles I could not and do not understand, how the sounds and scenes of television were broadcast into the valley below.
That night, back in the city of Hobart, my two young sons and I sat before a television set that was tuned to the proper wave band, and we saw and heard and experienced what had been described to us in words.
Now I think this illustrates perfectly what is involved in the receipt of revelation and the seeing of visions. We can read about visions and revelations in the records of the past, we can study the inspired writings of people who had the fullness of the gospel in their day, but we cannot comprehend what is involved until we see and hear and experience for ourselves.
This Tabernacle is now full of words and music. Handel’s Messiah is being sung, and the world’s statesmen are propagandizing their people. But we do not hear any of it.
This Tabernacle is full of scenes from Vietnam and Washington. There is even a picture of men walking on the surface of the moon. But we are not seeing these things. The minute, however, in which we tune a radio to the proper wave band and tune a television receiving set on the proper channel, we begin to hear and see and experience what otherwise remains completely unknown to us.
And so it is with the revelations and visions of eternity. They are around us all the time. This Tabernacle is full of the same things which are recorded in the scriptures and much more. The vision of the degrees of glory is being broadcast before us, but we do not hear or see or experience because we have not tuned our souls to the wave band on which the Holy Ghost is broadcasting.
Joseph Smith said: “The Holy Ghost is a revelator.” And, “No man can receive the Holy Ghost without receiving revelations.” (Teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith [Deseret Book Co., 1968], p. 328.)
Moroni said: “… by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things.” (Moro. 10:5.)
The Comforter knoweth all things; he is commissioned to bear witness of the Father and the Son, to reveal, to teach, and to testify—and he is broadcasting all the truths of salvation, and all the knowledge and wisdom of God, out into all immensity all of the time.
How this is done we do not know. We cannot comprehend God or the laws by which he governs the universe. But that it does happen we know because here in the valley below, when we attune our souls to the Infinite, we hear and see and experience the things of God.
The laws governing radio and television have existed from the time of Adam to the present moment, but only in modern times have men heard and seen and experienced these miraculous things. And the laws have always existed whereby men can see visions, hear the voice of God, and partake of the things of the Spirit. But millions of people everywhere live and die without tasting the good word of God, because they do not obey the laws which implant the revelations of the Lord in their souls.
And may I say that the only way to gain true religion is to receive it from the Lord. True religion is revealed religion; it is not a creation of man’s devising; it comes from God.
Man did not create God, nor can he redeem himself. No man can resurrect himself or assign himself to an inheritance in a heavenly kingdom. Salvation comes from God, on his terms, and the things men must do to gain it can be known only by revelation.
God stands revealed or he remains forever unknown, and the things of God are and can be known only by and through the Spirit of God.
True religion deals with spiritual things. We do not come to a knowledge of God and his laws through intellectuality, or by research, or by reason. I have an average mind—one that is neither better nor worse than the general run of mankind. In the realm of intellectual attainment I have a doctor’s degree, and I hope my sons after me will reach a similar goal. In their sphere, education and intellectuality are devoutly to be desired.
But when contrasted with spiritual endowments, they are of but slight and passing worth. From an eternal perspective what each of us needs is a Ph.D. in faith and righteousness. The things that will profit us everlastingly are not the power to reason, but the ability to receive revelation; not the truths learned by study, but the knowledge gained by faith; not what we know about the things of the world, but our knowledge of God and his laws.
Joseph Smith said that a man could learn more about the things of God by looking into heaven for five minutes than by reading all the books ever written upon the subject of religion. Religion is something which must be experienced.
I know people who can talk endlessly about religion but who have never had a religious experience. I know people who have written books about religion but who have about as much spirituality as a cedar post. Their interest in gospel doctrine is to defend their own speculative views rather than to find out what the Lord thinks about whatever is involved. Their conversations and their writings are in the realm of reason and the intellect; the Spirit of God has not touched their souls; they have not been born again and become new creatures of the Holy Ghost; they have not received revelation.
It is the privilege and the right of every member of the Church to receive revelation and to enjoy the gifts of the Spirit. When we are confirmed members of the Church, we receive the gift of the Holy Ghost, which is the right to the constant companionship of that member of the Godhead, based on faithfulness. The actual enjoyment of this gift depends upon personal worthiness. “God shall give unto you knowledge by his Holy Spirit,” the revelation says to the Saints, “yea, by the unspeakable gift of the Holy Ghost. …” (D&C 121:26.)
Speaking of the revelations received by his father, Nephi said: “… he truly spake many great things … which were hard to be understood, save a man should inquire of the Lord. …”
Of these same revelations, Laman and Lemuel said: “… we cannot understand the words which our father hath spoken. …”
Nephi asked: “Have ye inquired of the Lord?”
They replied: “We have not; for the Lord maketh no such thing known unto us.”
Then Nephi came forth with this glorious pronouncement: “How is it that ye do not keep the commandments of the Lord? How is it that ye will perish, because of the hardness of your hearts?
“Do ye not remember the things which the Lord hath said?—If ye will not harden your hearts, and ask me in faith, believing that ye shall receive, with diligence in keeping my commandments, surely these things shall be made known unto you.” (1 Ne. 15:3, 7–11.)
It is the right of members of the Church to receive revelation. Joseph Smith said: “… God hath not revealed anything to Joseph, but what he will make known unto the Twelve, and even the least Saint may know all things as fast as he is able to bear them. …” (Teachings, p. 149.)
Also: “It is the privilege of every Elder to speak of the things of God; and could we all come together with one heart and one mind in perfect faith the veil might as well be rent today as next week, or any other time. …” (Teachings, p. 9.)
Religion must be felt and experienced. In the record of the ministry of the resurrected Lord among the Nephites, we find this account: Jesus “knelt upon the earth; and behold he prayed unto the Father, and the things which he prayed cannot be written, and the multitude did bear record who heard him.
“And after this manner do they bear record: The eye hath never seen, neither hath the ear heard, before, so great and marvelous things as we saw and heard Jesus speak unto the Father;
“And no tongue can speak, neither can there be written by any man, neither can the hearts of men conceive so great and marvelous things as we both saw and heard Jesus speak; and no one can conceive of the joy which filled our souls at the time we heard him pray for us unto the Father.” (3 Ne. 17:15–17.)
Then of a subsequent prayer the scriptural account says: “And tongue cannot speak the words which he prayed, neither can be written by man the words which he prayed.
“And the multitude did hear and do bear record; and their hearts were open and they did understand in their hearts the words which he prayed.
“Nevertheless, so great and marvelous were the words which he prayed that they cannot be written, neither can they be uttered by man.” (3 Ne. 19:32–34.)
Religion comes from God by revelation and deals with spiritual things; and unless and until a man has received revelation, he has not received religion, and he is not on the path leading to salvation in our Father’s kingdom.
I bear testimony of these things because I have received revelation—revelation which tells me (among other things) that Jesus Christ is the Son of God; that Joseph Smith is a prophet, through whom the knowledge of Christ and of salvation has been restored for this day; and that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is in literal reality the kingdom of God on earth. And of these things I do testify, in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

Illustration by Roger Motzkus
When I was young, my grandma often had get-togethers for my cousins and me. There were about 14 of us, and we were always excited when Grandma invited us over for dinners, sleepovers, game nights, and holidays. Grandma’s house was the place to be!
Every activity at Grandma’s house was fun. But I never thought about all of the time and work that went into each activity. I just thought that was what grandmas did, and I loved it!
After years of fun cousin memories at Grandma’s house, our family moved away. Later my grandma came to spend a special day with us in our new home. My family thought long and hard to find the perfect gift for her. She has more stuff than anyone I know. What could we get the grandma who has everything?
I asked my dad for ideas, and he told me the same thing he says every year: “Why don’t you write her a really nice letter?” I was out of ideas, and so early the next morning, before anyone else was awake, I sat at the kitchen table with my feet on the cold tile and wrote my grandma a special letter.
At first I wondered what I could write besides, “You are so wonderful. Thanks for everything.” As I looked out the kitchen window at the palm trees and the sky, I thought of the many things Grandma had done for us over the years. I remembered that I had never told my grandma how much those times spent together as a family meant to me.
In my letter, I told my grandma that I love her, and I thanked her for all of the special memories. I let her know how important they still were to me, even years later. Then I put the letter in an envelope and went back into my warm, carpeted room.
When the time came to give Grandma her gifts, I slowly pulled out my letter. I didn’t know how to feel about my gift to her.
She looked surprised when I gave her the envelope. I watched closely as she carefully tore off the end of the envelope and pulled out the letter on narrow pink paper. As she read it, she started to smile and tears filled her eyes. I had never seen my grandma cry before. She slowly looked up and turned toward me with warm, brown eyes. She whispered, “Thank you, thank you. I didn’t think anyone remembered.”
Grandma, who had done so much to build strong family relationships, had no idea that I remembered or was grateful for those times together. She wiped her eyes and said, “Kimberly, thank you. That was the best present anyone could ever give me.”
I gave Grandma a big hug, feeling her soft skin against my cheek and smelling her “grandma” smell that was a mix of baby powder and musk. I was so grateful for my dad’s idea to write her a letter. I didn’t know that words of gratitude and love would mean more to my grandma than all of the knickknacks, perfume, and gifts that money could buy.

I recall that as a graduate student I wrote a critique of an important political philosopher. It was clear that I disagreed with him. My professor told me that my paper was good, but not good enough. Before you launch into your criticism, she said, you must first present the strongest case for the position you are opposing, one that the philosopher himself could accept. I redid the paper. I still had important differences with the philosopher, but I understood him better, and I saw the strengths and virtues, as well as limitations, of his belief. I learned a lesson that I’ve applied across the spectrum of my life.

When I was a teenager, I was rummaging in the attic one day and came across a pile of dusty boxes. I discovered a clarinet, a saxophone, a violin, and a trumpet. After asking my dad about them, I learned that these were some of the instruments he played. He had a band when he was in high school in Boise, Idaho, USA. He was a talented musician who deeply loved music and making music. His band played at major social events in Boise and even on a cruise ship that sailed to Asia. After he moved to Southern California, USA, in 1928, the band reorganized and became very popular.
In 1931 he married my mother, Clara Jeffs. They wanted to have children. He felt that for him the demands of the entertainment world were inconsistent with the meaningful family he wanted. So one day he put all the instruments in their cases and carried them to the attic. Save for rare family events, he never played them again.
I never realized what a sacrifice he had made until later. In 1993 he moved from his Salt Lake City, Utah, USA, home to an apartment in downtown Salt Lake City, near his office. During the move we came across the instruments again. I asked him if he would like to give them to the Church because of the important part they played in his young life. His answer took me by surprise: “Not yet. I can’t part with them now.” Although Dad knew he would never play them again, he could not bear the thought of giving them up. It was only then that I realized what a great sacrifice he had made.

Illustrated by Sal Velluto and Eugenio Matozzi
In 1847 Latter-day Saint pioneers were traveling across what is now the United States to find their promised land in the West.
The Saints did not know exactly where they were supposed to go. Brigham Young was President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles at the time. He was the only one who knew where the Lord wanted them to establish Zion. But he was very ill.
Brigham Young: Elder Woodruff, I need to continue traveling westward.
Elder Woodruff: But you’re too sick!
Brigham Young: Nonsense. Just lay me in the back of your carriage.
On July 24, 1847, Elder Woodruff drove the team of horses pulling his carriage toward the Great Salt Lake. Lying in the back of the carriage was President Young.
Elder Woodruff: Heavenly Father, please bless President Young that he will know where to lead the Saints.
As soon as President Young saw the desert valley of the Great Salt Lake, he told Elder Woodruff to stop.
Brigham Young: This is the right place; for the Lord has shown it to me in a vision.
Twenty-two years later, Elder Woodruff remembered that event as he was writing in his journal.
Elder Woodruff: Today I attended a Pioneer Day celebration. We now number more than 100,000 souls. See what God hath wrought!

Then, one day your Sunday School teacher asks you who your heroes are. That’s exactly what Sunday School teacher Mark Graham of the Manhattan Second Ward asked his class. Well, that wasn’t exactly the question. Actually, the whole thing started with a discussion of greatness. The first question really was “What makes a great person so great?” From there it progressed to a class project to discover their real heroes and the qualities they have.
This being a Sunday School class, naturally the focus is on spiritual qualities of spiritual heroes—and even more specifically, people who influence your life personally. So rule out the athletes and performers, the millionaires and politicians. As one of the class members, Ben Cottam, explains: “In the beginning when we started this project, we talked a lot about people doing big things, but really, the most important thing that goes into being a great person is the love and the caring. If you love people and care about them, that’s going to make you great.”
Other qualities the class listed included determination, commitment, service to others, modesty, humility, courage, and love of God. Once class members knew what qualities they were looking for, heroes start turning up pretty close to home. Very close. In fact, the list included a number of parents, several Young Men and Young Women advisers …
Before we go any further, remember where we are: Manhattan. The chapel is on Broadway, across from the Lincoln Center. These kids attend schools all over New York. Many of them are headed for distinguished universities all over the country. They are bright and articulate and aware. Typical New Yorkers, they are not easily impressed. And here they are, listing their heroes as parents, advisers.
Janna Beck picked her mother “because of her service to me and to my whole family.” Beyond service to the family, “Mom always volunteers in the schools. She is also a volunteer at the state women’s prison to help prisoners set their lives on track.” Besides, “She’s always reading the scriptures. I want to have that quality.”
Kara Beck chose her dad, Gary, who’s an attorney in the Coast Guard. “Dad is always concerned about other people. He’s always positive. I’ve never heard him say anything bad about anyone. He gives copies of the Book of Mormon to everyone and does it in such a way that people aren’t offended.”
Myung Lee is Korean by birth. He’s stayed behind in New York to finish his schooling while his father—his hero—has returned to Korea with the rest of the family to serve as a mission president. Myung Lee says of his father, “He constantly has good thoughts on his mind, thoughts of Christ. My dad really seems to be focused. His faith in Jesus Christ is that He can guide him through anything and that my father will always follow. That’s how he leads his life every day, and that sort of tells me to lead my life that way.”
Neylan McBaine’s mother, Ariel Bybee, has had a distinguished career singing with the Metropolitan Opera Company. An accomplished musician herself, Neylan understands just how great her mother’s career achievements are. Yet it’s her mother’s spiritual qualities that make her a hero to Neylan, qualities like compassion, awareness of others’ needs, working hard at Church callings. But then it really gets personal. “She’s always been willing to put the career second, to cut down on the time that’s needed to have a full star’s career to always come home and be with me, fix me dinner, be there when I get home from school. I’ve always known that if she had to choose between me and a career, she would choose me.”
Love of the Savior, love of the family, love for others—the picture of a real hero begins to emerge as class members talk about what they have learned. Others reinforce that image.
Jeremy Vogelmann chose his mother “because she’s a really strong woman. She stands up for everyone. She has a really big heart. If she sees someone in need, she will go and feed them or do whatever she can.”
Kevin Vogelmann, Jeremy’s younger brother, selected Serge Bushman, his priests quorum adviser, for his compassion, humility, devotion to the quorum members, and spirituality. After watching his adviser, Kevin defines a hero as “someone who is always trying to make himself better.”
Obviously, any human hero is going to have faults. If you pick distant heroes, like famous people, those faults may not be obvious. But when you live with someone like a parent, or watch someone week after week like a teacher or adviser, you are going to see flaws. For example, after he spends several minutes talking (in her presence) about how great his mom is, you ask Benjamin Cottam if his mother is perfect. “No, of course not,” he jokes. “That’s why my first choice was Santa Claus.”
That’s also why humility is one of the foremost traits the class listed for a hero. You’re not going to find a perfect human being to imitate, but you can find good people who continually improve their own lives at the same time they are reaching out to others. You can find people who are honest with themselves about their faults. And you can find people who have been wise in their own choice of heroes.
Take Marsha and Gary Beck, for example. Remember, Janna and Kara picked them as their heroes. But who are Mom’s and Dad’s heroes? “The Savior,” Sister Beck answers simply. Brother Beck adds a new twist to this hero thing: “My kids are my heroes. And my parents, my Primary teachers—everybody that I’ve ever had a chance to rub shoulders with—there’s a little bit of heroism in all of them, and I have always tried to find what that is and to incorporate that into my own life.”
Can you really be a hero to your hero? Well, Gary Beck isn’t the only “hero” in this study who feels that way. Kristin Baxter is the Laurel adviser in the Manhattan Second Ward. She was picked as a hero by Leslie Mantillas, a recent convert to the Church. Leslie, who went through some tough times after her baptism, credits Kristin with always being there for her. “She never judged me. Her love always showed through.” But Leslie is something of a hero to Kristin, too. (As the two of them talk about it, tears well in their eyes.) “I think it goes both ways,” Kristin says. “I think she’s a hero, too. A hero is someone you look up to, even if they have a couple of faults. You know their heart.”
Maybe Adam Fennimore sums it up as well as anyone. Adam, who’s now serving a mission in Madrid, Spain, says, “A hero is someone whose characteristics you would like for your own. You find people who are like you want to be.”
Heroes like these can be found anywhere—in the smallest of towns and in the smallest of families. You’ve probably never heard of most of these heroes before, and maybe you’ll never see or hear their names again. That’s okay. Maybe no one’s ever heard of your heroes, either. It doesn’t matter. If they make you want to be better than you are, if they lead you closer to the Savior, if they make you want to be someone else’s hero in turn—those are things that matter.

Carrying an empty grain bucket, Dallas Benson glumly closed the wooden gate on his Angus show steer and headed for the granary. He kicked at a pebble, and a puff of dust exploded about his feet. Though it was still the middle of May, already the sun was hot, the air dry, the grass and weeds lightly scorched.
Dallas took a deep breath and frowned. He had hoped this would be a fun summer, with his very own four-wheeler, but his father had dashed those hopes two days earlier.
“A cow!” Dallas had groaned as his father sat sharpening a shovel. “What do I want with a cow? I’ve got a steer. He’ll bring a good price at the county fair.”
“Your steer will give you money once,” his father explained, bending over and scraping some dried mud from the shovel. “But with a good cow, there’s money coming in all the time, as long as you milk her.”
“But I don’t want a cow. I want Jake Hawley’s four-wheeler. He’ll give me a good deal.”
He could see his father was far from convinced. “How much fun can a guy have milking an old cow?” he muttered. “Besides, we already have Ginger.”
“Ginger’ll give us milk for the house, but she’s not going to make any money. At least not missionary money.”
“I’ve got money,” Dallas protested. “And I still have time to get more. It’s not like I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Four years pass quickly.” His dad pointed the file at him and counseled, “If you buy one of those four-wheelers, you’ll just be putting money in a hole. The only thing you’ll get back is a few thrills and maybe a broken neck. You put your money in a missionary cow, and when you’re 19, you’ll have your money. And you’ll have been thinking about a mission too.”
“But, Dad, can’t I have a little fun?”
His dad started filing away on the shovel’s edge. The only sound was the loud grinding of metal on metal. He paused, “If you’ll invest your money in a cow and milk her, I’ll provide the feed. The profits will be yours.”
Dallas licked his lips nervously. “Does that mean I can’t buy the four-wheeler?” he questioned.
“Son,” his dad began quietly, “you earned that money. You saved it. You’ve been planning for a mission too. That’s good. I’m proud of you. But it’s still your money. I trust you to do what you think is right. If you think you’ve got to have that four-wheeler … well, the money’s there.”
“Jake’s going on a mission too,” Dallas argued. “We’ve been planning since we were kids, and he’s got a four-wheeler. It isn’t wicked to have a four-wheeler.”
His dad scraped the file across the shovel’s edge a couple of times. “We’re not planning Jake’s future. We’re planning yours. Sometimes a person has to make a hard choice. Not between what’s good and wicked but between two things he really wants. He has to stop and decide which of those two things means the most to him. When you turn 19 and you have money put away for a mission, you’ll go.” He cocked his head to the side and pressed his lips together. “But if your money’s tied up in a four-wheeler … well, then you’re torn.”
“Come on, Dad,” Dallas moaned, “you’re trying to make me feel lousy.”
“No, I’m forcing you to make a decision. You see, you want me to make it for you. Well, I won’t. It’s not my money. It’s not my mission.”
Dallas pulled the granary door open and hung the grain bucket inside on a rusty nail. In the distance he heard the low, muffled putter of a motor. Gradually the noise increased, and soon he saw a four-wheeler bounce over the hill, careen precariously between rocks and cedars, and smash over clumps of sagebrush. It picked up speed as it reached the dirt lane leading to the Benson place. Dallas’s friend Jake burst into the yard, scattering the scratching hens, then sliding to a halt in a billowing cloud of dust and flying gravel.
Jake thumped the handlebars with the palm of his hand and called out above the idling putter of the engine, “How’s that for driving, Benson?”
“You’re going to kill yourself one of these days,” Dallas remarked.
“What did your dad say?” Jake asked.
Dallas kicked at the four-wheeler’s fat, puffy wheels. He glanced out past the stack of alfalfa hay and watched his father in a field harrowing, pursued by a hungry flock of seagulls. “He left it up to me,” he replied morosely.
“Great! When you going to get it?”
“I’m not.” Dallas dusted his pants. “I decided to get a cow from Brother Singer. For my mission.”
“A cow instead of a four-wheeler!” Jake gasped, shaking his head. “Why do you want a cow? You buy a cow and you’ll be married to her, twice a day, every day.”
“I need mission money.”
“Shoot! We can earn mission money later. After high school we’ll get good construction jobs.” Jake scratched the back of his neck. “If it were my money, I’d get the four-wheeler.”
Dallas squatted down in the dust and started tossing pebbles. “It’s my money, but Dad helped me with it. He helped me with the feed for the steers I’ve raised. He covered for me here at home, doing my chores, while I worked for Brother Madison. He’ll let me do what I want with the money, but I know how he feels.”
“So you traded your four-wheeler for a cow.” Jake shook his head. “When you getting it?”
Dallas nodded toward the barn. “It’s there in the barn, waiting to be milked. Brother Singer brought it over before I got home from school. Do you want to take a look?”
Jake wagged his head. “I’ve got places to go and a whole tank of gas to get there.” He kicked the four-wheeler into gear, waved, and lunged up the lane with a cloud of dust chasing him. Dallas watched until Jake bounced over the hill and out of sight. Then he turned toward the barn.
The kitchen door slammed. Dallas turned to see his 10-year-old brother, Rusty, jump down the steps with a milk bucket in one hand and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the other. He skipped over to Dallas, licked at the jelly on his sandwich and asked, “Have you seen her?”
Dallas shook his head, still listening to the faint growl of Jake’s four-wheeler. “She’s a big one,” Rusty continued. “Looks mean too. I brought you the milk bucket. I want to see this.”
“Since when did you get interested in milking cows?” Dallas remarked.
Rusty grinned, took a bite, and said, “Since Brother Singer brought that monster he calls a cow. She’ll scare you to death.”
“Monster,” Dallas muttered, grabbing the bucket. But when he reached the barn and saw the big Holstein cow for the first time, he was surprised. Ginger, who stood in the next stanchion, was dwarfed by her. The monster cow was white with a splattering of black on her face and across her back, and when Dallas opened the barn door, she jerked back and eyed him menacingly.
“Brother Singer says she’s a little ornery at times,” Rusty commented from the doorway. “But she gives over four gallons a milking after she’s calved.”
“Well, she better get the orneriness out of her system with me,” Dallas growled, grabbing the one-legged stool he used when he milked.
“Brother Singer says it’s best if you hobble her.”
Dallas scoffed at the idea. “I’m not hobbling any cow I milk. If you can’t milk a cow without hobbles, you don’t have any business milking.”
Just as the first two squirts pinged into the milk pail, an enormous hoof lifted up and came down hard in the bucket, pulling it from between his legs and sending it clattering across the barn floor, filling it with dry manure and straw. Dallas sprang to his feet just as that same hoof struck with lightning force against the inside of his shin. The blow knocked him off balance, and just then the cow crashed to the right, pinning Dallas against the wall. Purple with pain and rage, he raised his two fists and was about to bring them smashing down on the cow’s back when she moved away from the wall and lashed out with a hind leg, smashing him in the thigh.
Dallas groaned, grabbed his leg and limped to the back of the barn where he dropped to the floor. Gasping for breath and trying to rub the throbbing pain from his thigh, Dallas glanced over at his younger brother, who was grinning widely at his suffering. “What’s so funny?” Dallas growled.
“Brother Singer calls her Kick-a-pooh Dan,” Rusty announced triumphantly. “Acts like a wild bull instead of an old milk cow.”
Dallas swallowed, limped over to the bucket, dumped a few flakes of manure and straw from it and turned to Kick-a-pooh. “And I traded a four-wheeler for you,” he muttered.
Dallas picked up the bucket and stool. For the next few seconds there was the rhythmic ping as Dallas squirted milk into the bucket. Soon all that could be heard was the cow’s loud breathing and the muffled swish as the white strings of milk fired into the foamy bucket.
“You just got to teach them who’s boss,” Dallas commented proudly to his brother.
“Somehow old Kick-a-pooh Dan doesn’t look like a fast learner,” Rusty remarked with smiling skepticism.
“I haven’t seen the animal I couldn’t …”
Before he could complete his brag, Kick-a-pooh’s manure-matted tail lashed out, cutting him across the face. Tears came to his eyes from the sharpness of the smack. He lunged for the offending tail, but before he could grab it, it whipped across his face again, and at the same time a hoof came crashing down on his knee, knocking him to the ground and sending the half bucket of milk slopping over his legs and onto the floor. Sprawled on the floor, he saw another hoof lash out at him. Ducking just in time, he scrambled to his feet and stumbled to the back wall, groping for the short piece of two-by-four he used to prop open the barn door.
“You got manure on your pants,” Rusty observed with delight, pointing at a patch of fresh green paste on both knees and the seat of his pants.
“You die,” Dallas shouted at the big Holstein, wielding the two-by-four club.
“Well, looks like you and Kick-a-pooh are getting acquainted,” a voice spoke from behind. Dallas whirled around to face Brother Singer, who was standing in the doorway.
Rusty sang out, “Boy, she’s a mean one. Every time Dallas gets a few squirts, old Kick-a-pooh knocks the bucket on the floor and stomps all over him. This is more fun than a rodeo. Dallas says he doesn’t need hobbles with Kick-a-pooh.”
“What I need is a club,” Dallas shouted. “I’ll break her leg off. Once I’m through with her the buzzards won’t want her. I’ll break her …” He turned on Brother Singer. “Why’d you sell me her? How can I earn anything if all the milk ends up on the barn floor? I might as well have a four-wheeler.”
Brother Singer laughed. “Those old four-wheelers are more ornery than a cow and twice as dumb. They’ll steal your money and break your neck to boot. At least Kick-a-pooh will get you on your mission.”
“If I spend much time with that bag of brittle bones, I’ll be cussing a blue streak. I won’t even be able to pass my interview with the bishop. I should have planted corn. It doesn’t kick.” Dallas looked down at his soiled, smelly pants. “And it doesn’t stink.”
“That’s a good cow, Dallas,” Brother Singer said, suddenly serious. “She’s the meanest, orneriest, most stubborn beast I’ve got. But she gives the most milk. If you can stand a few kicks and swats with her tail, she’ll make you money. However, there are a couple of things you’ve got to know.”
“Yeah, like have a club ready before you sit down.”
“I’ll admit she’s a little jumpy. That’s why you hobble her. One other thing, when you milk a cow, which side do you get on?”
“The right,” Dallas mumbled indignantly. “I’ve been raised on a farm.”
“Wrong, at least with Kick-a-pooh. As near as I can tell she’s blind in the right eye, or at least she doesn’t see too well. She goes crazy if you get to fussing around on her right side, but she’s a whole different cow if you approach from the left side. In fact, you can generally milk her without hobbles. Of course, I’ve learned not to trust old Kick-a-pooh. I’d use hobbles either side.”
Dallas glared at his newly purchased cow. Brother Singer slapped him on the back and remarked, “By the way, Dallas, I got a mighty good Holstein bull over at my place. I’d like to contribute to your mission, so you got free use of that bull. Before long you’ll have the best dairy herd in the county. Old Kick-a-pooh will put both you and Rusty on missions.”
Kick-a-pooh Dan was never docile, but Dallas did get to the point where he could get through most milkings without leaving a puddle on the barn floor. Once he was able to make it out of the barn with the milk in the bucket and not on the floor, then the money came.
Summer arrived and brought with it the heat, the long days, the gnats, and the endless labor of the farm. But Dallas did find a few snatches of time to slip away and go four-wheeling with Jake. Of course, riding behind Jake was not the same as riding his very own machine, but there were some thrills. However, all too often, just as the fun really got started and Jake pointed the four-wheeler up the mountain for one last daring ride, Dallas had to head home to milk Kick-a-pooh.
“Come on, Dallas,” Jake would demand. “That old cow can wait a few minutes. It won’t kill her. You pamper her like a baby.”
“She’s a fussy old bag,” Dallas explained, just a little embarrassed. “But if I’m not right there at five-thirty, she’s a monster. Then she doesn’t give nearly as much milk. I’d sure hate for her to dry up.”
“But we’re just going to the mouth of the canyon.”
“I can’t, Jake.”
As the summer progressed, Dallas still liked Jake’s four-wheeler, but he was beginning to reap the profits of a good cow too, even if she was an ornery one.
It did appear that Kick-a-pooh came between him and Jake. Though Dallas no longer harbored serious regrets about Kick-a-pooh, he did feel bad that Jake didn’t come around as often now. Too many times when he had come, hoping to go four-wheeling or to drive into town to play video games at Benny’s Corner, he had ended up standing around watching Dallas milk or shovel out the barn.
Summer passed and faded into fall, and soon winter set in. Five-thirty in the morning was always cold and miserable when Dallas trudged through the muddy snow and stomped into the barn to milk Kick-a-pooh and leaned his head against her warm, steamy flank and dozed. As soon as his eyes closed and he began to relax, Kick-a-pooh would flip her mucky tail across his face and bring him wide awake.
Toward the end of March, Jake invited Dallas to go with him and four other friends to a late movie. Dallas was counting on it. It had been a while since he and Jake had had some good fun together. But as usual Kick-a-pooh refused to cooperate. She was threatening to calve that night, and Dallas was too nervous to let Mother Nature pull off the operation by herself.
When Jake pulled up to Dallas’s house and honked, Dallas was in the barn with Kick-a-pooh, wringing his hands and chewing his lips. He shuffled out to Jake’s car. Jake rolled down the window and asked, “Aren’t you ready yet? Or were you planning on bringing your cow for company?”
“Kick-a-pooh’s going to calve, Jake,” he said.
“She can do it by herself,” Jake growled. “Cows do it all the time. Come on. Tonight’s our night to howl.”
“I can’t,” Dallas insisted, suddenly feeling uneasy, as though he were talking to a stranger and not his best friend. “Can’t lose this calf. It might be Rusty’s missionary cow.”
“Missionary cow!” Jake muttered angrily, jamming the car into gear. “That’s the trouble with that cow. She’s always got you worrying about a mission. You’re not a missionary till you’re 19. Why spoil the rest of your life?”
Dallas was taken back by Jake’s outburst, and for a moment he thought he detected a faint whiff of … but he couldn’t be certain. Besides, this was his friend Jake. However, his suspicions were aroused, and there was something disturbing about the way Jake was trying to conceal the brown paper sack partially pushed under the front seat. The other four were smiling unnaturally.
Dallas was hurt by the brusque farewell, and long after Jake’s car disappeared into the night, he remained outside thinking, wondering if he was missing something, wondering if Kick-a-pooh was messing things up for him.
Kick-a-pooh didn’t have her calf until late the next morning, and when she did she didn’t need any help. It was a healthy heifer. Dallas was rubbing the wet, wobbly thing down with a ragged bath towel when Rusty burst into the barn. Kick-a-pooh tossed her head at the intrusion, so he stayed in the doorway and watched in wide-eyed fascination for a minute.
“Is it mine?” he finally asked.
Dallas smiled. “If you take care of it. And I hope she’s blind in one eye and as ornery and disagreeable as her mother.”
“Why?” Rusty whined.
“So she’ll be a genuine missionary cow,” he laughed. “After you’ve milked her for a few years, nothing on your mission will be hard.”
Rusty crept closer to the new calf, reached out and touched its soft, damp fur. “Did you hear about Jake?” he asked furtively.
Dallas stopped working and glanced at his brother. “What’s there to hear?”
“Tim Linn called a few minutes ago. He said Jake wrecked his dad’s car. Rolled it. Tim’s big brother was with him. Broke his arm.”
“Did Jake get hurt?” Dallas asked, tossing the towel in the corner.
“Tim didn’t think so.” Rusty looked around to make sure they were alone and then whispered, “I think they’d been drinking.”
Dallas stared out the barn, across the corrals, and over to the hills where he and Jake liked to do their four-wheeling. He shook his head, and yet the news didn’t come as a surprise.
“Jake does a lot of things you don’t know about,” Rusty explained further. “That’s what Tim Linn tells me.”
That afternoon as Dallas was going out to check Kick-a-pooh and her calf, Jake came roaring into the yard on his four-wheeler. He had a Band-Aid on his chin and a bluish lump on his forehead.
“Did she drop her calf?” he yelled as he slid to a stop and shut off the engine.
“Come in and see,” Dallas invited with a smile. “If you’re interested and the price is right, maybe Rusty will sell her to you. He won’t take a trade-in on a four-wheeler, though.”
“I don’t want a cow,” Jake snorted.
“It’s a good investment,” Dallas smiled. “By the end of the year, I’ll have my mission paid for.”
Jake grinned suddenly and changed the subject. “Hey, I came over to see if you wanted to buy my four-wheeler. I’m getting a road bike, one of those big Honda 450s. All I need now is enough for a down payment, and then I’ll get a job at Market Center. I should be able to pay it off in a couple of years. I’m selling my four-wheeler cheap. If you’re interested, now’s the time to buy.”
Dallas stared for a moment at the four-wheeler that a few months earlier had intrigued him so intensely. He did some quick calculating, reviewing his funds. He was suddenly excited by the prospect; then just as quickly the excitement faded as he realized that the lure of the four-wheeler had diminished.
“I’m looking at another one of Brother Singer’s cows,” he answered.
“For your mission?” Jake scoffed.
Dallas shrugged. “A four-wheeler will never get me there.”
“I guess you’ve fallen in love with old Kick-a-pooh Dan,” Jake remarked sarcastically.
Dallas sighed. “Not really. She’s still the same ornery old beast. But she’ll take me places a four-wheeler will never go. I guess that’s why I stick by her.”
“Well,” Jake said, starting up his engine, “just wanted to see if you were still interested. If you change your mind, let me know.” The four-wheeler jerked into gear and roared out of the yard and down the lane towards the hills.
For a long time Dallas listened to the muffled growl of the engine. Then Kick-a-pooh drowned out the distraction with a demanding bellow, and Dallas turned back to the barn and his missionary cow.