Gospel Story Finder

For example, after finishing my second emphasis in graphic design, I had difficulty finding a desirable job. I applied to so many places, even in countries I did not know existed, but I didn’t get the job I wanted. As the last straw, I applied at this place but didn’t get the job. I was so angry. I was in the depths of despair. I knew I shouldn’t be because I would be turning my back on God. Those words came to my mind at that time. But I was still angry at God for not giving me the job I wanted. I was fuming and crying in the bathroom.

Then, in my head, not physically, but like a vision, I saw a bright light on the right side of my head and heard a clear yet gentle voice saying, "I love you." Those simple words caught me off guard. I did not understand what it meant. What does that have to do with me in this situation right now? Then I heard it again, but this time I heard, "I love you. I want you to be happy." I knew, then, precisely what that meant. Everything made sense. All the so-called failures and rejections were not God tormenting me, but it was me tormenting myself and misunderstanding Him, who is a loving Father in Heaven. He only wants me to be happy. Instead of giving me a fancy job somewhere, He gave me an understanding of His love and divine identity as a daughter of God. It was another time of perspective shift.

Zulma sat on one of the church benches and smoothed the skirt of her school uniform. Colored light shone through the stained-glass windows, and a cross stood at the front of the chapel. Zulma went to a church school, so she went to worship services twice a day with the other students. Zulma liked her church. She loved Jesus and loved to learn about Him.
She sat quietly as the priest began to talk. But today something felt different. Suddenly a new thought came into her mind and heart: There is more truth out there.
Zulma scrunched her eyebrows. More truth? What did that mean?
The thought came again. There is more truth.
Zulma closed her eyes and focused on what she was feeling. She had learned lots of good things at church. But now she wondered if something was missing. Maybe there was more that God wanted her to know. But how could she find it?
Later she talked to her older brother, Alberto, about her thoughts.
“You think there’s more truth out there?” Alberto asked.
Zulma nodded. “I want to learn about other churches,” she said.
“OK,” Alberto replied. “I’ll go with you!”
For several years, Zulma and Alberto visited different churches. After one church service, Alberto said, “That church taught good things.”
Zulma agreed, but they still felt like something was missing, so they kept searching.
One day Alberto raced up the steps to their house. “I found the church we’re looking for!” Alberto said. He gave Zulma a big hug.
Zulma’s eyes got wide. “Where? How?”
“My friend met some missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” Alberto said. “I listened to them, and I believe what they taught!”
Zulma and Alberto were so happy that they danced all around the house. But then Zulma got some bad news. Mamá didn’t want her to meet with the missionaries. “You’re only 12,” Mamá said. “You’re too young.”
Since Alberto was older, he was allowed to keep meeting with the missionaries. A few weeks later, he was baptized.
Zulma kept asking Mamá again and again if she could learn from the missionaries. Finally, Mamá said yes.
When the missionaries taught Zulma, she felt warm in her heart. One of the missionaries had a hard time speaking Spanish, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was how good Zulma felt. When she learned about Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon, she knew she had found the truth she was looking for!
Zulma wanted to be baptized. But what would Mamá say? Zulma was so happy when Mamá said yes! On the day of her baptism, Zulma dressed all in white. She knew God loved her. She knew He knew her. And she knew that He had helped her find His restored Church!

Beth skipped up the sidewalk to her house. She could see Dad in the driveway, loading the car with suitcases. “Is it time to go?” she called out.
“Just about,” Dad said. “Run inside and grab a snack. And make sure you have everything you want to take in your backpack.”
This vacation was going to be extra special. Beth’s older cousin Katy was coming along, and Beth had everything all planned out. On the car ride, Katy could teach her some new camp songs. When they stopped for a picnic, Katy could push her on the swings. And she and Katy could swim in the motel pool and play games. Beth had packed her favorite movie about dogs so they could watch it together.
Katy was so funny and nice. When Beth got older, she wanted to be just like Katy.
Beth ran inside and found Mom sitting at the computer. She was just hanging up the phone.
“Was that Katy?” Beth asked excitedly. “Will she be here soon?”
Mom shook her head. “I’m sorry, honey. Katy isn’t going to be able to go with us after all. Next Saturday she is going to have her patriarchal blessing.”
Beth felt the excitement drain out of her. “Why does Katy need a blessing?” Beth asked. “She was already baptized, and she isn’t a new baby!” Beth almost laughed at that thought.
“Certainly not!” Mom said, smiling.
Then Beth thought of something that made her throat feel tight. “Is Katy sick?” she asked quietly.
“Katy’s just fine,” Mom said. “Blessings aren’t just for baptisms or new babies or sickness. A patriarchal blessing is a very special kind of blessing, and Katy is really excited to have it.”
“But what is it for?” Beth asked.
Mom thought for a moment. “Do you remember when we went to visit Grandma on our last vacation? We made a wrong turn, and it took us a long time to get to her house.”
Beth nodded. “I was really hungry when we got there!”
“Well, what do you think we should do to keep from getting lost this time?” Mom asked.
Beth looked at the computer screen. It showed a map and a blue squiggly line leading from their house all the way to the motel. “Bring a map!” she said.
“Good idea,” Mom agreed. “Katy’s patriarchal blessing will be like a map that shows Katy how to get back to Heavenly Father. It will tell her about good choices she should make and warn her about things that might be harmful. It will tell her about wonderful blessings she will receive when she follows Heavenly Father’s commandments. It will guide Katy through her whole life.”
Beth began to feel a little happier. “Will I get a blessing like that too?” she asked.
“Yes,” Mom said. “When you get older, you can have your own blessing to help you stay on the path back to Heavenly Father.”
Beth turned to the computer. She looked at the map and the bright blue line that told her family just where they needed to go. She looked back at Mom and smiled. “Just like Katy?”
“Yes,” Mom said. “Just like Katy.”

I was six years old the day I discovered I was alive. It was a clear morning in late spring, and I was on my way to catch the school bus. I was about halfway through a small field when I heard an unseen voice call out. “I’m a pretty little bird,” the voice sang—at least that’s what my mother told me meadowlarks sing.
At the sound, I suddenly felt a strange emotion pass through me. I stood still and for the first time really noticed the world around me. I looked up. The sky was a sea of changing color in which clouds floated like feathered ships. The air itself smelled clean and young, and the grassy field where I stood was filled to translucence with sunshine—wild flowers of gold and yellow.
Somehow the meadowlark had awakened me to the beauty of the earth and to the fact that I was part of it. I still can’t put into words all that I felt, but I think that day I came about as close as I’ve ever come to feeling God’s presence.

They had worked for years to resolve problems in their marriage. At times things would improve, but before long the same old problems would return again … and again.
“Why should it be so hard to have a good marriage?” they asked. They had been married in the temple, were active in the Church, and had four delightful—though demanding—children. Yet recurring stresses and strains exerted a lot of pressure on their relationship. Lately their disagreements seemed more frequent and more volatile, satisfactory solutions seemed harder to find, and conflicts often lasted for days.
At one point, they had sought professional help and were instructed in the use of various techniques. They had discussed how to have clear communication, had practiced creative listening, and had worked through a number of exercises in effective problem solving. As a result, their marriage received a needed boost and things seemed to improve for a while.
But after several months, they were plagued again by the old, dividing conflicts, and although they tried to apply what they had previously learned from the marriage counselor, nothing appeared to work. As their marriage deteriorated, they became haunted by the unanswered questions: “What’s really wrong with us? How can we revitalize our relationship? Is there nothing better?”
The complexity of this particular couple’s dilemma doesn’t permit a simple solution. However, it is likely that part of the problem lies in their failure to understand fundamental laws governing human interaction—laws based in the gospel of Jesus Christ. To their credit, this husband and wife had expended considerable time and effort in trying to resolve their difficulties, but they had never uncovered the cause of their problem. I’ve found that couples who are most successful in creating a wonderful marriage are those who not only have developed valuable marital skills, but—more important—have developed an understanding of the basic gospel principles that underlie productive relationships.
The Apostle Paul expressed an eternal law when he declared that “whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.” (Gal. 6:7.) The analogy of sowing and reaping is one that is popular with the prophets of old and with the Lord himself. (See, for example, Job 4:8; Prov. 22:8; D&C 6:33.) This “law of the harvest” connects behavior and its consequences together in an unbreakable relationship that has direct impact on every aspect of our lives—and especially on our marriages.
Like the flowers, fruits, and vegetables we grow in our gardens, our marriages reflect the nature of the seeds we have planted. If we have tried throughout our married life to plant seeds of love and harmony, then we are more likely to enjoy a rich harvest. Of course, the opposite can also be true. At any given moment, we are the sum of all our sowings.
It’s important to realize that marriages thrive where replanting is a constant process, where both husband and wife realize that a one-time planting at the beginning doesn’t ensure a perennial harvest. Each new day should be filled with planting, cultivating, and weeding. One day missed can lead to a week, or a year, missed—and the garden may soon become overgrown with weeds. However, as with gardens, neglected marriages can be renovated with careful replanting, meticulous care, and a great deal of patience.
What if one spouse is uninterested or unwilling to plant the good seeds, or to weed or cultivate the marriage? What if he or she for some reason can’t see the importance of applying gospel principles to marriage? I believe that there is great truth in the idea that you can change your marriage by first changing yourself. It may be a slow process, but many husbands and wives can testify that rewarding anger with anger accomplishes nothing—while changing their own heart and attitude can work miracles.
Let’s look at a few of the many seeds that can help produce a good harvest:
1. A Christ-centered relationship. Sadly, too many men and women are like the early astronomers who, with limited knowledge and inadequate tools, falsely guessed that the sun and all the planets traveled in orbits around the earth; later, an enlightened Copernicus showed that the sun was actually the center of the earth’s orbit.
Similarly, many couples make the mistake of centering their lives on such faulty foundations as self, sensuality, or worldly approval. In their attempts to improve their relationship, they fail to make the Savior a partner in their efforts; they feel that the solution must lie entirely within themselves. By so doing, they fail to realize that notwithstanding valiant efforts to solidify their union, if their marriage is built on these shifting, superficial sands it won’t withstand the storms.
Fortunately, it is possible to discover the peace and joy of a Christ-centered relationship. Through continuous efforts at applying the Savior’s message of charity and forgiveness, and through daily prayer and scripture study, husbands and wives can have their “hearts … comforted, being knit together in love.” (Col. 2:2.)
One couple I know took this challenge seriously. First, they reinstituted their daily scripture reading, which had tended to lack consistency.
Second, they reestablished the habit of having evening prayer together, and they began to make it a practice to thank the Lord vocally for each other. As they knelt alongside each other and listened to the other’s expressions of gratitude, a greater bond began to build between the two, a bond formed from thankfulness and humility.
Third, they began to evaluate what they did and said in terms of what they felt the Savior wanted them to do. They asked themselves, especially in moments of stress between the two of them, “How would the Savior want me to handle this situation?” As a result, they began to be more receptive to the divine influence of the Holy Ghost, which raised their discussions to a higher, more productive level.
Indeed, blessed are those couples whose lives revolve around the Son.

The need for happiness is a paramount need—lasting happiness, not fleeting happiness. True happiness comes from knowing one’s purpose in life and in fulfilling it. When I served as a mission president in Scotland, two of our fine sisters taught a man in his 80s, and he was baptized. In a testimony meeting soon afterwards, he stood and gave thanks that he now had purpose in life. “I was waiting to die when the sisters knocked on my door,” he said tearfully. Before long, he was called as counselor in the ward Sunday School presidency, and later as Sunday School president. He had great joy and happiness in his church service and made many new friends. A year or so passed and he visited Salt Lake City, made more friends, and gained more experiences, including going to the temple for the first time. When he did step from this life a few months after his return to Scotland, what a full and purposeful life he had had—and all within two years.

Hard work brought the young couple a fine brick home and prospering meat business in Salt Lake, enabling them to pay for the immigration of Elizabeth’s family in 1867. But the next year the Woods gave up home and career to fill a difficult colonizing mission to Arizona. They returned destitute four years later and took up residence in a poor smelter dug in the side of a hill within sight of their former home.

William again left his prospering business and a growing family in 1880 to a mission to his home country. Near the end of that otherwise successful mission he reported:
“I preached the Gospel to my dear ones, my father, mother, brother, and sister, and although none of my own kindred have obeyed, they had to acknowledge they could not confute the doctrine, and they feel today that I am not what they judged me to be twenty-seven years ago. When a boy … All my dear relations have treated me with marked kindness, as they have any of the Elders that called upon them at the time. I know God will bless them for that.”
Six years after he returned from his mission, his beloved Elizabeth gave birth in her 42nd year to their 13th baby, but within days both mother and baby died. William later remarried, and he and his families went on to gain prominence in Canada where the Wood name became linked with extensive ranching and meat-packing interests. William’s son Edward J. served for many years as a stake president and temple president in Alberta.
The year before William died, he wrote his impressive life story, hoping his example as convert, sailor, pioneer, and missionary might teach young people in the Church that “should they have to leave the place where they have been taught the gospel … never to yield to any invitation that leads to intemperance or immorality. Always pray to the Lord, whether you are called by the servant of God to preach the Gospel or surrounded by the horrors of war—never forget to offer a silent prayer to your Eternal Father. He will not forget you.”

One winter day six-year-old Heber J. Grant sneaked onto the back runner of President Brigham Young’s sleigh. He wanted to ride for only one block. But he didn’t dare leap off until the sleigh slowed down. When it did, he had ridden quite a way. He tried to run without President Young seeing him.
President Young: Stop! That little boy is almost frozen! Put him under the buffalo robe.
President Young: What’s your name?
Heber: Heber Grant, sir.
President Young: You must be Jedediah’s son. I loved your father very much. He was my Second Counselor.
President Young told Heber he would like to interview him in six months. Heber obeyed. He and President Young were friends from then on.
Heber spent almost as much time at Brigham Young’s home as at his own.

When I was a new Beehive, I enjoyed Young Women, but I was also shy and a little intimidated by the older girls. I had a hard time relating with them since their main interests seemed to center around boys and clothes—or so I thought.
One of the first Mutual activities I attended after turning 12 was held in the backyard of one of our leaders. All the girls were there, including Shannie,* one of the older Beehives. She was well-liked by everyone, and tonight she was dressed in the latest summer fashion, right down to her sparkling white tennis shoes.
When the refreshments were served near the end of the activity, we all took our cookies and purple punch over to the lawn chairs where we could eat and socialize. I sat down next to Shannie, placing my glass of punch on the ground. As the girls began to talk, I shifted my legs. To my horror, my foot knocked over my glass of punch and it spilled all over Shannie’s left foot! I sat paralyzed as the deep purple spread over the once-sparkling-white shoe. I was sure all the young women had seen it happen. I thought I would die of embarrassment!
As I began to choke out a desperate apology, Shannie put her hand out and said in a soft voice, “Hey, it’s OK. Don’t worry about it.” And she meant it. She encouraged the conversation to continue as though nothing had happened. For the rest of the evening she seemed to ignore her soggy, purple shoe.
In that moment, I realized that while Shannie was well-dressed and popular, her biggest priority was to treat others with Christlike kindness. I will forever remember the compassion she showed to me at a time in my life when I needed it most.

I begin with a short anecdote which illustrates a point I should like to make.
A young couple, Lisa and John, moved into a new neighborhood. One morning while they were eating breakfast, Lisa looked out the window and watched her next-door neighbor hanging out her wash.
“That laundry’s not clean!” Lisa exclaimed. “Our neighbor doesn’t know how to get clothes clean!”
John looked on but remained silent.
Every time her neighbor would hang her wash to dry, Lisa would make the same comments.
A few weeks later Lisa was surprised to glance out her window and see a nice, clean wash hanging in her neighbor’s yard. She said to her husband, “Look, John—she’s finally learned how to wash correctly! I wonder how she did it.”
John replied, “Well, dear, I have the answer for you. You’ll be interested to know that I got up early this morning and washed our windows!”

Repeating the words of an Apostle, David said, “Fear is a chief weapon of Satan in making mankind unhappy.”1
David Ikegami, a deacon from Oahu, Hawaii, had an assignment to speak during a Sunday mission conference. Seven months ago he had lived through one of the worst Christmases ever—not just for his family, but for the whole country. He chose to speak out against fear.
He would know a thing or two about fear. The year was 1942. Months earlier, the scenic island where David’s family lived had been turned upside down with destruction as Japan bombed Pearl Harbor. The day after that devastating attack, the United States entered World War II.
Fear for the future still covered the land like a blanket. To make matters more difficult, Japanese-Americans, such as the Ikegami family, lived with serious racial prejudice after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Life was neither simple nor easy for this young man.
Seven months ago he had lived through one of the worst Christmases ever.
So how did he find peace? For one thing, he focused on serving. He joined a group who helped to build trails and clear thorny kiawe trees from trails for military camps. Meanwhile, his family joined fundraising efforts to help the U.S. soldiers. These funds were used for everything from buying books to movie screens and projectors to help raise morale.
David then said, again quoting the same Apostle, Elder John A Widtsoe, “There is safety wherever the people of the Lord live so worthily as to claim the sacred title of citizens of the Zion of our Lord.”2
David found peace by focusing on Jesus Christ.3

“When President Russell M. Nelson announced the temple for Puerto Rico, I was alone in my room, watching General Conference, and the emotion was so great that I cried, I thanked Heavenly Father for answering my forty-year prayer.” expresses María del Carmen Carrasco Caraballo, from the Ponce 1st Ward, Ponce Puerto Rico Stake.

Although due to the COVID-19 pandemic the work was stopped in March 2020, they felt confident that everything would be resolved. “I clung, with all my heart, to the knowledge that God’s timing is perfect, and I felt peace,” says Sister Carrasco Caraballo, happy that the work was resumed in May of that same year.

Sister María del Carmen Carrasco, from the Ponce Puerto Rico Stake, along with a group of her from her Ponce 1st Ward, are preparing in the Santo Domingo Temple and have been set apart to serve as ordinance workers in the temple in her country.

“After forty years of waiting for this great blessing, our sights are on the temple and the ordinances that are performed there. Our goal is to be able to serve in the Puerto Rico Temple,” she says.

While the temple is being built, this sister has focused on teaching Primary children the importance of family history and temple work for a Latter-day Saint. On the other hand, she has increased the search for data to strengthen her family history and strives every day to stay worthy to enter the House of the Lord.

When our three children were small, my husband and I experienced an economic crisis. We had done all we could, but we had run out of money—and there seemed to be no help available anywhere. One morning, I fed the children the last of the food in the house for breakfast. There was not even a drop of oil to cook them something for lunch. My husband left for work, hoping to get at least enough money to buy food for that day.
I began to ask myself why I was being given this trial. What was I doing wrong? Then I realized that even if I were guilty of something, my children certainly were not! Where was my faith? If Heavenly Father’s eye was on the sparrow, would He not take care of us? I offered a prayer that He would help us find some food. Then, exercising my faith, I went on about my work.
At mid-morning, a neighbor lady knocked on the door and began to tell me about the approaching visit of her mother-in-law. She mentioned that she had prepared a big noon meal of chicken, rice, and many other delicious things. Then she left in order to be home when her mother-in-law arrived.
A short while later she returned and said that her plans had changed. Her guest would not be coming after all. Instead, their family would be accompanying the mother-in-law on a two-week vacation. But now she had a problem. What could she do with all the food she had prepared? A bit embarrassed, she asked me if I would be offended if she gave it to me.
I had told her nothing of my situation. Now I told her not to worry, that I appreciated her offer very much. I knew that this was the answer to my prayer. My neighbor was pleased that I would take the food and then asked, “Can I leave you the food in the refrigerator, too? We’ll be gone so long that everything will go bad.”
When my husband arrived that day, he had had no success in getting money. Nevertheless, we ate well, and the refrigerator was filled to capacity.

When a young mother in South Africa recently became ill with cancer, the sisters in the ward rallied around her family, bringing meals almost every day. They cared for her children. And as the young mother became more ill and depressed, her Relief Society sisters took turns staying with her in her home until evening, when her husband returned from work. When she had to go to the hospital, her Relief Society sisters continued to remain at her side. They were with her and her family when she died.
Says one woman who joined in this charitable work, “She left behind a sisterhood greatly saddened, yet unified and strengthened by their opportunity of service and love.”

This next story is by Elder Ruben G. Gapiz, again showing the tremendous faith of these wonderful people.
In October 1975, I was diagnosed with cancer of the naso-pharynx. The doctor told me I had only five years to live. I underwent chemotherapy for the next three years and had to eventually retire from my job three years later. In August 1978, I received my patriarchal blessing from Patriarch F. Briton McConkie. My wife was in the room with me as he pronounced my patriarchal blessing. Patriarch McConkie did not have any prior knowledge of my affliction. Toward the end of the blessing, he pronounced these words which really struck me and brought tears to my eyes and caused me and my wife to sob softly: “You will live your life to the fullest and will be called to serve in many leadership positions.” After the blessing was over, Patriarch McConkie asked me the reason for my tears. I told him that I had been diagnosed with cancer and that I only had two years to live and that the blessing he pronounced was almost too good to hope for. He assured me that it was the Lord’s blessing and he was only a conduit.

Ever since that visit to the doctor’s office, I have always had a prayer in my heart. I didn’t want my children to grow up without a father. My father was killed in the war, and I had a difficult childhood. I knew that day that the Lord had answered my prayer. It has been 21 years since that day, and I am grateful to the Lord for extending my life.

Brother Ruben Gapiz now serves in a leadership position as one of our area authorities in the Philippines.

Even during the horror of World War II in the Netherlands—with my husband in hiding, bombs exploding, cold and hunger—the Spirit of our loving Father kept us close to God and close to the Saints. One day when I was serving as Relief Society president, I went with my ten-year-old daughter to visit an older sister who lived alone. When we arrived at Sister Smit’s small home she was reading. She told us she was so hungry that she had decided to read the Bible, because spiritual food could fill her, too.

In those days food was rationed, and in my pocket was a coupon for a loaf of bread for our children. I felt so concerned for this hungry sister that I gave my daughter the coupon and sent her to buy bread for Sister Smit. On the way home, I wondered how I would tell my children that I had given away the bread. I knew I had done the right thing, but now what was I going to feed them.

Upon arriving home, I found the answer. Some family friends in Zwolle had arranged for a letter to be hand-carried to us by their nephew. With the letter were three bread coupons.

Over the years, our Heavenly Father has continued to bless us in miraculous ways. In 1947 our daughter was called to serve a mission. Although we had very little money, and our family would greatly miss the income from her job, we agreed to support her. Never was our family so blessed as during our daughter’s mission. Occasionally someone would tell me that they wished their child could serve a mission, but that they didn’t have the money. I always told them that we didn’t have the money either, but that the Lord blessed us so that somehow we were able to support her each month.

As I look back over my eighty years, I feel that among my greatest privileges in life has been to know that I am a child of God, and that he will guide me through mortality if I will stay close to him. And if I am worthy, he will be waiting to greet me in his “holy courts on high.”

Ramona Morreale of the Cannonville Ward, Escalante Utah Stake, writes of a special family home evening when she read from her journal: “I found entries about our children and humorous things they said and did when they were younger. Before long we were all laughing. Our children often ask to have a ‘journal’ lesson again. Sometimes we also read spiritual entries from an ancestor’s journal. This brings great joy and helps us get to know them.”

A cloud of dust blew along the canal bank where Sharif braked to a stop. And the hot Egyptian wind made his blue and white striped galabeya (shirt-like robe) whip around his legs as he climbed off the bicycle. He smiled at the big boy in the shirt and pants.
“Mutashakkir (Thank you) for letting me ride it, Karim! Your bicycle is beautiful!”
“You’re welcome,” replied the boy. “I must go now. My father wants me to take some medicine to one of his patients.”
Sharif watched his friend pedal off toward the village of mud-brick houses. He scuffed at the ground with his bare feet.
“Oh, I wish, I wish, I wish,” he recited to himself. “I wouldn’t even care if it fell out of the sky and hit me right on top of my head!”
“What’s going to hit you on your head?” asked a small voice behind him.
Startled, Sharif looked around. His little sister, Nadia, was standing there.
“Aeeb (For shame), Nadia! You scared me,” scolded Sharif.
“Ana aasefa (I’m sorry), my brother. But what’s going to fall on your head?” Nadia asked again, twisting one dark braid around her finger.
“Oh, that,” answered Sharif. “I was wishing for a bicycle, my sister. But Baba (Papa) says it would cost more pounds than he earns in a whole year! Someday though …”
“Sharif! Nadia!” a voice called.
“That’s Baba,” said Nadia. “I forgot that he sent me to get you.”
“Yalla beena (Come on, let’s go)!” shouted Sharif.
He pulled his galabeya up to his knees and off they ran toward home, Nadia’s braids flying in the air behind her.
Sharif’s father smiled when the children reached him. “Sharif, I have a big job for you,” he said. “Your Uncle Hamid is not feeling well this summer. Since your cousin Tarek cannot deliver the milk to all the customers by himself, I want you to help until your uncle is better. Of course you will have to ride Uncle Hamid’s old bicycle, with the milk cans on the sides.”
Sharif could hardly believe his ears. He would get to ride a bicycle every morning!
“Oh, Baba!” he answered. “I am sorry that Uncle Hamid is sick. But I will do a good job of helping Tarek. You’ll see!”
The next morning Sharif was up before the sun. He ate his beans, bread, and white cheese quickly, then ran next door to Cousin Tarek’s house. Together they went out to milk the water buffaloes. Then they attached two covered milk cans to each of the bicycles, Tarek’s shiny new one and Uncle Hamid’s old one.
The cans were so heavy it made hard work pedaling along the dirt road. Riding very slowly at first, Sharif delivered milk to the houses on one side of the road while Tarek took the other side. At each house Sharif carefully lifted a can off his bicycle and poured some creamy white milk into the pan that was brought out to him.
“Mutashakkir,” the customers said to Sharif and dropped the shiny piasters (coins) into his hand.
The scorching sun rose in the sky. Sharif was hot, and the splashing of the milk as he poured made him thirsty. He tried to ignore the cool sound and to become better at riding the bicycle. He learned to make change when his customers did not have the exact number of piasters.
Summer was almost over and Uncle Hamid was feeling better. Now Sharif had only one more day to ride the bicycle on the milk deliveries.
That night his uncle called to him from his front door. “Tarek tells me you have done a good job of helping him,” he said. “Since tomorrow is your last day delivering, how would you like to keep the bicycle for the rest of the day? You may bring it to me before it is time to take the milk the next morning.”
“Oh, Uncle!” cried Sharif excitedly. “That is just what I’d love to do! And I will take very good care of your bicycle!”
The next day Sharif worked faster than ever. He didn’t even think of being thirsty. All he could think of was having the bicycle to himself when he was through.
At last he and Tarek returned to the house and took off the empty milk cans. “Mas salama (See you later)!” he called to his uncle as he pedaled away down the road.
Sharif pumped as hard as he could, and the breeze cooled his face. It was like flying! He waved to the fellaheen (farmers) working in the fields. He weaved in and out the rows of tall palm trees.
At last he reached the main road that led after many miles to the great city of Cairo. The smooth pavement stretched invitingly before him. Up and onto the pavement he went, urging the bicycle to greater and greater speeds. He pedaled until his legs were only blurs, then leaned back and let the bicycle coast.
Cars and buses roared by, enveloping him in clouds of smoke. But he didn’t care. Faster and faster he sped, watching the pavement under him whiz by. A shout made him jerk his head up. “Haaseb (Look out)!”
Not more than thirty feet in front of him was a flock of sheep being herded across the road. It was too late to stop!
Sharif pulled the bicycle sharply to the right. There was a screech of rubber and clatter of metal as bike and boy careened off the road and into the ditch.
Sharif lay still for a moment. What happened? he wondered. Then he remembered. The sheep and grumbling sheepherder were already across the road and into the field on the other side.
Sharif looked at the bike, and a sick feeling crept into his stomach. The handlebars were twisted, and one wheel was bent out of shape.
He pulled himself and the bicycle upright, then began the long walk home, pushing the crippled bicycle. His thoughts whirled around inside his head. I’m not so big after all. I promised to take care of the bicycle, and look what I’ve done! he mourned.
By the time he reached home, the sun had already gone down. He was glad there was no one outside to see him. With his father’s tools he began to work on the bicycle. It was lucky he had helped his father fix the farm equipment so many times. He hammered and bent and twisted the metal back into shape. His body ached and his eyes kept trying to close. At last he stood back and looked at his work. Well, he said to himself, that is the best I can do.
Slowly he pushed the bicycle next door to his uncle’s house and left it beside his cousin’s shiny new one. Then he went home to a cold dinner, a scolding, and bed.
Most of the next day Sharif spent trying to think of how to tell his uncle about the accident. It’s such an old bicycle; it already had its share of dents and scratches, Sharif told himself. Should I even tell Uncle Hamid about it?
In the early afternoon his father came back from the village. “Uncle Hamid is coming to eat with us,” he announced. “He wants to talk to you, Sharif.”
Sharif felt his face turn red. Uncle Hamid knows about the accident! he decided.
As Sharif’s mother set an extra place at the table, Uncle Hamid appeared at the door. “Asallamu alikum (Greetings)!” he said.
“Ahlen wa salen (Welcome)!” they answered.
“Uncle, I must tell you—” Sharif began nervously, as his uncle sat down.
“One moment, boy,” interrupted Uncle Hamid. “Since I am the guest, it is my turn to speak first.” Uncle Hamid cleared his throat. “Your cousin Tarek has decided to study at the university in Cairo,” he began proudly.
“But what has this—” Sharif started to ask.
“Be patient, Sharif,” his uncle went on. “Since Tarek will be gone, I’ll need someone to help me milk the buffaloes and deliver the milk before school. I need a boy about your size who can ride a bicycle … and who can fix one!” he added, a twinkle in his eye.
“Oh, Uncle Hamid, I—” Sharif started to explain.
But his uncle interrupted him, “Since every spare piaster must be sent to Tarek, he has decided that you can ride his bicycle to deliver milk. If you do your job faithfully and well, at the end of the year the bicycle will become yours.”
“Oh, Uncle!” shouted Sharif, jumping up and hugging his uncle. “When do I start?”
“One thing is certain, my son,” laughed his father. “You will not start anything until we eat dinner!”
And with that, the whole family began to fill their plates.
“I’m glad, my brother,” whispered Nadia, leaning across the table.
“About what?” asked Sharif.
“I’m glad the bicycle didn’t hit you on top of your head!” she answered.
Sharif laughed. “It did, my sister!”
Then he grinned at his uncle. “But it won’t ever do it again!”

During the concerts, the thrill of singing the Berlioz Requiem and the a cappella concerts filled members of the choir with great emotion and joy. But for at least one choir member, Michael McOmber, singing in Israel had powerful personal meaning.
“I sang to Jews, Moslems, Christians, and to my great-grandfather’s brother, John Alexander Clark,” he says. Elder John Clark, who had been called to the Turkish mission in 1894, died of smallpox in 1895 at Haifa, in present-day Israel. He was one of two missionaries buried there who, it seemed, had died in vain. In modern times, however, these graves served as evidence of the Church’s prior presence in Israel and were helpful in its gaining approval for the Jerusalem Center to be built.
“We sang a moving number based on a text from Psalm 137,” [Ps. 137] says Michael, “‘By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept when we remembered thee, O Zion,’ I stood and wept. The unanticipated sense of irony gently overwhelmed me as I thought of my ancestor John: ‘How shall we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?’ the Psalmist had said of captive Israel. Yet I felt hauntingly at home here, singing the Lord’s song to my ancestor. I had come to sing a requiem in memoriam: I shall never forget thee, O Jerusalem, nor John Alexander Clark.”

When l was a youngster, my parents moved our family into a tough city-edge neighborhood. It was during the dark days of World War II, and with little housing available, we took what we could get near my father’s defense effort job. We had lived in the country among friendly folks, and now among strangers, I didn’t know what to expect on my first day at school.
My worst fears were realized. Many of the students and teachers were strangers in the transient conditions of the war. Not only did disagreement abound, but physical fighting broke out among my 12-year-old peers. There seemed to be no particular issues involved, just an effort by everyone to determine who was the “toughest.”
Later that year, in an effort to curb this unwanted practice in which so many young people were getting hurt, several faculty members managed to gain some control over it by putting boxing gloves on the combatants. Tournaments were held during lunch hour, and the nice thing was that a person could choose to compete or watch, as he preferred. I wanted no particular part in it. I already felt sufficiently challenged physically by the time school began just in walking three miles one way to class. Much energy was spent in work at home and getting up early to run through orchards and leap canals just to reach school.
However, there were obviously many students with pent-up energies who participated in these noon-hour boxing matches. Besides, I was content to believe that some of these kids who claimed to be “fourth toughest” or “second toughest,” or whatever, really were what they bragged to be. I was also a little dismayed, however, that they put so much ego—at times a little oppressive and unbearable for the others—into being physically tough. And if no one challenged them, under the arrangement, they could continue to claim whatever title they wished without even tying on the boxing gloves.
I was therefore somewhat pleased, but mostly aghast one day when a newfound friend of mine, a slightly built young man by the name of Terrance, told me he was going to challenge Phillip. Phillip had declared himself “Number Four.”
“Don’t do it!” I tried to persuade him. “Phillip will kill you!”
“We’ll see about that,” Terrance answered gamely. “How do we know unless I meet him in the ring?” Then, quietly, Terrance continued: “I think Phillip is talking too much about it. Frankly, I think he’s bluffing.”
I watched the first round with my hands over my eyes. But the round was no sooner over than Phillip stated he did not want to continue. That made Terrance Number Four. Suddenly, it was like in the cowboy movies. When they saw how easily he had wrested the title from Phillip, everyone wanted to challenge Terrance. And if Terrance didn’t want to “lose face” he had to participate.
As we were walking the three miles up the long a hill toward our homes in the government housings project, past monotonous rows of look-alike houses, Terrance confided something to me. “I know that fighting doesn’t really resolve anything. And personally, I never did like to fight. Where did it get either Phillip or me? I just wanted to humble him, but now I wonder if he’s better off than me. I don’t know. Maybe I can defeat Number One, but I know that wouldn’t prove anything, would it? I just wish there were some way out of this.”
Yet, Terrance acknowledged that he probably had already gone too far and there was no way out, except to finish what he had started. He trudged into his house, recognizable by the number over the door, and parted with: “Well, no use beating around the bush. Tomorrow, I’ll skip Number Two and Three and go right to Tracy, Number One.”
The next day word got around quickly that freckle-faced little Terrance was going to do battle with the much larger and stone-faced Tracy. Everyone ate lunch quickly and settled down to watch the proceedings. The boxing ring was in the basement of the school next to the boiler room. It was fine for a few dozen spectators, but on that particular day hundreds of kids packed into the concrete window abutments and stood on chairs to peer over heating pipes. I got there early and had a pretty good seat next to the custodian’s closet.
The two sparred for several rounds without either gaining much advantage. In the fifth round, several of the crowd said they thought that it should be over fairly soon, that Tracy was “just beginning to warm up.” However, as I looked at both of their faces, they appeared equally tired. When the round was over, Tracy walked over to Terrance. I could barely hear what Tracy was saying: “Why don’t we just declare it a truce and call ourselves co-champions? I’m not sure going on any further would prove either one of us better than the other.”
Terrance agreed. They put their arms around each other and the crowd cheered both as winners.
That by no means ended the daily boxing tournaments. But somehow, they were never the same after that. Deciding who was toughest just didn’t matter as much anymore. The two toughest kids in school had decided it wasn’t important.