Gospel Story Finder

Just before my ordination to the office of a deacon in the Aaronic Priesthood, an important event transpired in our family. Early one evening Dad received a telephone call. At the conclusion of the call, he privately visited with my mother. She immediately began to tidy up the house, a sure sign we were going to have visitors. In a short while three well-dressed gentlemen knocked at our front door. Before we could tell who the callers were, mother whisked us to the rear of the house and shut the doors to the living room. After a few minutes of discussion with the men, Dad came and asked Mother to join them in the living room. Mom’s departure allowed me the opportunity to go into the kitchen and sit on the floor with my ear next to the living room door to hear what was being said in the next room. It was soon apparent that my dad was receiving a call to serve as the bishop of our ward. What a shock to a prospective deacon!

On October 27, 2021, I fell on my morning walk and broke my shoulder. Three days after spending hours in the ER, my husband and I contracted COVID-19, and I became very ill and had to be hospitalized. There were serious complications that resulted in my body going into septic shock and renal failure.
After four months of ICU stays, intubation, surgeries, dialysis, and rehabilitation, I finally was able to come home.
One of the most spiritual events during this incredible journey was three days before I was first intubated. I could tell I was having trouble filling my lungs. Curiously, I got the idea to sing.
I now see that the Holy Ghost was teaching me, before I entered the deep pit of three months of health problems and hospital stays, to praise God in the hard thing. I had often marveled how Nephi was able to praise God while tied to the mast of a ship (see 1 Nephi 18:9–16) or how Joseph in Egypt could praise God for years as a slave or prisoner (see Genesis 39–41). I could understand being grateful for delivery from trials and lessons after the fact, but how do you praise God in the middle of the hard thing?
That night I found a recording of The Tabernacle Choir on YouTube, from when my husband was a member of the choir, and sang these words with them:
Come to us we pray,
Receive our love,
Behold our joy,
And bless our praising.1
I probably sang that song 15 times that night, one of the most sacred nights I’ve ever experienced. Looking back, I know the Lord was helping me build the ark for the coming flood (see Genesis 6–8) and teaching me a lesson I would need and use for eternity.
Elder D. Todd Christofferson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught that the refining process—who we become in the trial—is definitely a blessing. But the greater blessing is better knowing our beloved Father, His Son, and the Holy Ghost. Elder Christofferson promised, “We can anticipate a growing trust and faith in the Father and the Son, an increasing sense of Their love, and the consistent comfort and guidance of the Holy Spirit.”2
All three of those promises were realized in this challenging time in my life:
I now trust Heavenly Father, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Ghost more than I did before these health challenges. Elder Christofferson counseled: “Allow Them over time to manifest Their fidelity to you. Come truly to know Them and truly to know yourself [see 1 Corinthians 13:12].”3
My prayers became constant, with no formal beginnings or endings—just an endless conversation with my beloved Father in Heaven.
My life was spared so I could witness that the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost are always with us. Their tutelage during this earthly experience is profoundly personal and intimate. They will leave nothing undone for our good. They were with me every single moment of this unusual trial of facing death, losing all my strength, and relearning every single thing my body once knew how to do effortlessly. My prayers became constant, with no formal beginnings or endings—just an endless conversation with my beloved Father in Heaven, who created me to have this experience so I could learn to trust Him and love Him better.
Depiction of Jesus healing a woman by Mason Coberly
It can be difficult to imagine that adversity, especially pain, is a manifestation of God’s love. But I was spared to witness that God loves us so much, He allows the conditions of the Fall, our own agency, and the agency of others to provide learning opportunities in a world of opposition. We could receive these valuable lessons in no other way.
The most loving instructions I received in the darkest days of complete helplessness were these three words: “Be here now.” I came to recognize that Father didn’t want me to dwell on the “what ifs” or “if onlys” of the past. Nor did He want me to become overwhelmed at the seemingly impossible milestones still ahead of me.
The most loving instructions I received in the darkest days of complete helplessness were these three words: “Be here now.”
The instruction to be here now taught me two valuable lessons: I learned to truly experience all the wretchedness of the experience so I could witness forever that I wasn’t in that place alone. I was succored and supported by Jesus Christ because of His atoning sacrifice.
Even more sacred to me, I learned that if I had wished away that sacred place of here and now, I would miss out on the opportunity He gave me to be here now with Him and to fully be there with the knowledge that in addition to atoning for my sins, His suffering also made it possible for Him to understand my pains and my sickness (see Alma 7:11–12).
Learning to be here now is what has taught me that He truly wants to always be here—with me. Because I sought Him in the wretchedness of that place, I found Him there.
Recognizing the consistent comfort and guidance of the Holy Ghost has always been one of the most tender evidences of God’s love for me. I’ve always felt profound gratitude for the personal guidance I receive from the Holy Ghost. Because of my illness, I had to relearn to do the most simple tasks, and going through that process meant learning to listen in new, important ways. The Holy Ghost helped me with everything from not eating too fast or taking too big a bite when I was relearning to eat to learning whether to push my limit or back off when relearning how to sit or stand up.
The Holy Ghost also taught me to focus on my caregivers rather than my own pain and discomfort. I was regularly prompted to say, “Tell me your story.” The Holy Ghost taught me of the heroism of these hardworking, overworked angels and instructed me to testify to them of God’s love for them and to acknowledge their nobility. Focusing on something besides my own miserable condition was important training to think of others before myself when my personal needs were so huge.
The Holy Ghost also taught me to focus on my caregivers rather than my own pain and discomfort.
God’s love is evident in the lessons learned in each of our personalized curriculums and His unfailing companionship through them.
The most important lesson I learned was to praise Him: to acknowledge unceasingly that He is good; that He has all knowledge, love, light, and power; and that His perfect plan has power to save His children. I rejoice in being a part of it.
Praise is more than gratitude. It implies trust, a sense of God’s love for us personally, and an acknowledgement of His consistent comfort and guidance. Praise saved me from despair.
Elder Christofferson concludes his talk: “In the end, it is the blessing of a close and abiding relationship with the Father and the Son that we seek. It makes all the difference and is everlastingly worth the cost.”4
Francis Webster, a survivor of the Martin handcart company, expressed it perfectly: “The price we paid to become acquainted with God was a privilege to pay.”5 I am a witness: it is a privilege indeed.
The image of praise in the hymn “Love Divine, All Loves Excelling” expresses my joy that God is my Father, that Jesus Christ is my Savior and Redeemer, and that the Holy Ghost is my teacher and testator—that these three are indeed my truest, most unfailing and faithful Friends.
Finish then, thy new creation; true and spotless let us be.
Let us see thy great salvation perfectly restored in thee.
Changed from glory into glory, till in heav’n we take our place,
Till we cast our crowns before thee, lost in wonder, love and praise.”6
This beautiful hymn is referencing Revelation 4:10–11:
“The [faithful] fall down before him that sat on the throne, and worship him that liveth for ever and ever, and cast their crowns before the throne, saying,
“Thou art worthy, O Lord, to receive glory and honour and power: for thou has created all things, and for thy pleasure they are and were created.”
We receive those crowns by virtue of the perfect obedience and generosity of Jesus Christ. He shared His earned inheritance with us, who could never earn it without Him. How fitting that we should cast those crowns at His feet, in eternal praise for His goodness and the goodness of our great Father, who would allow that perfect Son to suffer all our hard things with us so that He could share celestial glory with us.
I was spared to witness that I’ve learned these things by the power of the Holy Ghost. For this priceless knowledge, I praise the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.
The author lives in Utah.

For two young women, Alisha, 18, and Nicole Bennett, 20, of the Highland Utah East Stake, one particular room is truly beautiful because of their efforts. They, along with their mother and another sister, assembled the crystal sconces and the large chandelier in the bride’s room.
Nicole explains, “Mom was asked to help work on the chandeliers. After the first day, she was asked to bring some people back with her because they needed more help. She asked us if we wanted to go.
“The next day we found that a lot of people were helping in the celestial room. They asked us to do the bride’s room. We assembled the ten sconces for the walls quickly, but when we started unpacking the big chandelier pieces, we couldn’t find the instructions. We asked one of the engineers, and he said the instructions had accidently been thrown out with the trash. All we had was an eight-by-ten picture of what it was supposed to look like. They gave us the picture and said to do our best.”
The four of them unpacked all the boxes. They had to wear gloves so they didn’t get oil from their fingers on the crystals. They had the brass framework, but the crystals were meant to fit together like an intricate puzzle. The women didn’t know where to start. It was overwhelming just looking at all the crystals with no clues about how they went together.
They turned to prayer. “We just asked for help in seeing where things should go,” Alisha says.
They worked the rest of the afternoon, and for eight hours the next day. The chandelier was large, wider at the bottom than the span of Nicole’s arms and more than five feet tall. But slowly they figured out how it was designed. “We would find one piece,” said Nicole. “Then we would find another that fit with it. Some of the pieces had to be put in first, or you couldn’t get the ones that followed in. We found you could not do them out of order.” Receiving the inspiration they needed was “just amazing. It showed us that the Lord had his hand even in simple things.”
Now that they think back about it, putting together this puzzling light fixture compares to “putting together” their lives. They must do so in such a way that they are led to the temple. Just like the chandelier that required certain parts to be done in a certain order, so their choices must follow an order, such as being baptized, attending church regularly, participating in Young Women activities, keeping themselves morally clean, dating only young men with the highest of standards, and living righteously as they prepare for a temple marriage. These things too must be done in order, with one thing leading to the next.
For Nicole and Alisha, the bride’s room at the Mt. Timpanogos Temple is a place where they feel at home. Their work has made it beautiful. It is one of the rooms they will go to on their wedding days. A temple marriage, always a goal, now has become more defined and clearer. They are resolved to visit “their” room again.

“Here we are, girls.” Mrs. Johnson stopped the car in front of a large, weathered cabin.
Teresa hopped out and dashed to the cabin ahead of the others. “Hey!” she shouted. “We have Jeanne for a counselor again.”
Laura picked up her suitcase and started up the path as Jeanne appeared in the doorway.
“Hi, Laura. I’m glad you and Teresa are in my cabin again.”
“I just hope I don’t get homesick this year.” Laura smiled at her counselor.
“You won’t. The first year is always the hardest,” Jeanne told her. “Have you girls decided which classes you’re going to take?”
“Yes,” answered Teresa, “but the only one we’ll have together is swimming.”
The girls quickly settled in and were eager to start the week’s activities. After breakfast the next morning, they went their separate ways, agreeing to meet at the pool for swimming class. The class was a routine swimming lesson until the last twenty minutes, when the girls worked in pairs to complete their badge requirements. The first one required each person to drop ten coins onto the bottom of the pool and then pick them up one at a time by diving for them from the surface.
“I’ll be first,” Teresa volunteered. She took the coins and dropped them into the water. Diving into the pool, she quickly came to the surface, triumphantly holding her first coin. After ten dives, she had retrieved all ten coins.
“I’ll bet you can’t do it in ten dives,” she challenged Laura.
Laura dropped the coins into the water. Taking a deep breath, she dove for the bottom of the pool. A few seconds later her head popped out of the water, and she grabbed the side of the pool. “Missed by an inch,” she gasped.
Teresa sighed, “You’ll have to do better than that, or we’ll be here all day.”
“I’ll get one this time.” Laura’s second dive was successful, but after twelve dives, she had only nine coins.
“Only one more,” she puffed as she rested her head against the edge of the pool. “I’ll get it this time.” Laura dove for the bottom but came up empty-handed.
“Did you miss again? If we don’t hurry, we’ll be the last ones in the lunch line.” Teresa turned abruptly, dove to the bottom of the pool, and picked up the tenth coin. “Here,” she said, “you were close enough. Nobody will know the difference anyway. Let’s go eat.”
“Teresa! Wait a minute. We can’t do that!”
Laura’s objection dissolved in the breeze, for Teresa was already approaching the swimming teacher.
“Laura and I finished our first badge requirement,” Teresa said as she handed the coins to the instructor.
Laura slowly climbed out of the pool and followed Teresa, keeping her eyes down as she passed the instructor. She grabbed her towel and ran out the gate but slowed to a walk as Teresa disappeared around a bend in the trail. Reaching the swinging bridge, Laura leaned over the wooden railing and stared down at the clear stream. Her unhappy reflection stared back.
“What’s taking you so long?” Teresa stood at the end of the bridge.
“I’m coming.”
Later that day Laura went to the pool to practice her swimming. After standing beside the pool for several minutes, she suddenly squared her shoulders and approached the lifeguard’s chair. “This morning Teresa helped me with my diving,” she said. “I want to do it over again.”
The lifeguard looked up. “OK,” she said. “The coins are on the table.”
Laura picked up the coins and walked slowly back to the pool. Teresa’s probably right, she thought. Nobody cares anyway. But she threw the coins into the pool and began diving. Finally all ten coins lay beside her on the edge of the pool. The lifeguard nodded briefly as Laura returned the coins to the table and ran out the gate. When she reached the cabin, Teresa was there.
“How was swimming?” she asked.
“Just fine,” Laura answered. Smiling to herself, she thought, Teresa was wrong. It does make a difference to somebody. It makes a difference to me.

Edison kicked the ground. All the other boys were talking and setting up tents. But he didn’t know anyone.
Edison’s family had stopped going to church a little while after they moved to Spain. But then the boys from the ward came over and invited him to come on the camping trip. Camping had sounded fun, but now Edison wasn’t sure he wanted to be here after all. He felt like he didn’t belong.
Two boys, Diego and Juan, walked up to Edison. “Do you want to share our tent?” Diego asked.
Edison let out a breath and smiled. “Sure.”
“Cool!” said Juan. “And then we can go swimming.”
The boys set up their tent and ran to the river. The water was cold, but now Edison was having so much fun he hardly noticed. After lunch, the boys and leaders went on a hike. They got back just as the sun started to set, so they helped set up a campfire.
“What’s your family like?” Juan asked.
Edison dropped a pile of twigs by the fire. “My parents are pretty cool. And my sister is my best friend. We moved here from Ecuador.”
Diego and Juan looked at each other with big smiles.
“We’re from Ecuador too!” Juan said.
Diego unzipped his jacket to show his T-shirt. It had the symbol for Ecuador’s soccer team on it!
“Wow!” Edison said. “So what do you miss most about Ecuador?”
Diego and Juan laughed. “The food!” they both shouted.
The boys kept talking about what they missed about Ecuador and what they liked about living in Spain. Edison liked how easy it was to talk to Diego and Juan.
Then one of the leaders, Brother Cisneros, stood up. “Hey, everyone! We want to end the night with a testimony meeting.”
One by one, boys and leaders stood up and shared their testimonies. Their words made Edison’s heart feel like it was wrapped in a warm blanket.
Diego stood up. “I know the Church is true. I know that God is my Father and that Jesus Christ is my Savior.”
The warm feeling grew stronger. I want to know that too, Edison thought.
When Edison got home from the trip, Diego’s words stayed in his mind. He wished he could go to church and learn about Jesus with Diego and Juan.
That night at dinner, Papá asked, “How was the camping trip?”
“It was great!” Edison said. “We swam and hiked and built a fire. I even made two friends who are from Ecuador too!”
“That’s great! We’ll have to invite them over,” Mamá said.
Edison paused. “Could we start going to church again?”
Mamá and Papá didn’t say anything for a few moments. Then Mamá cleared her throat. “If you want to go, that’s fine,” she said. “But Papá and I aren’t going to go.”
Edison slumped in his chair. He didn’t want to go to church alone. Maybe he should stay home with his family.
Then Edison remembered the warm feeling from the testimony meeting. Even if his family didn’t want to go to church, Edison wanted to go.
Besides, he wouldn’t be alone. Edison smiled as he ate his dinner. Then he picked up the phone. He knew some friends he could go to church with!
This story took place in Spain.

My dear wife, Irene, and I joined the Church 31 years ago when we were newly married. We had both grown up in Colombia, but a few months after our marriage, my career took us to live in Germany. We were very young and had great hopes and expectations; it was an especially exciting and happy time for us.
While I was concentrated on my career, Irene was feeling that we would receive some kind of message from heaven, without knowing how or when. So she started letting into our home all kinds of door-to-door salespeople with encyclopedias, vacuum cleaners, cookbooks, kitchen appliances, and so on, always waiting for that unique message.
One evening she told me that two young men in dark suits had knocked on our door and that she had felt a very clear and distinct impression to let them in. They had said that they wanted to talk to her about God but would come back again when I was also at home. Could this be the expected message?
They began to visit us, and with their guidance, we read in the scriptures and came to understand the crucial importance of Jesus Christ as our Savior and Redeemer. We soon regretted that we had been baptized as little babies, which had not been a conscious covenant. However, being baptized again would also mean becoming members of this new Church, so first we really needed to understand everything about it.
But how could we know if what the missionaries were telling us about the Book of Mormon, about Joseph Smith, and about the plan of salvation was actually all true? Well, we had understood from the words of the Lord that we could “know them by their fruits.” So, in a very systematic manner, we started examining the Church by looking for those fruits with the eyes of our very rational minds. What did we see? Well, we saw:
Friendly and happy people and wonderful families who understood that we are meant to feel joy in this life and not just suffering and misery.
A church that does not have a paid clergy but one in which members themselves accept assignments and responsibilities.
A church where Jesus Christ and families are at the center of everything, where members fast once a month and donate to help the poor and needy, where healthy habits are promoted, teaching us to abstain from harmful substances.
In addition:
We liked the emphasis on personal growth, on education, on hard work and self-reliance.
We learned about the remarkable humanitarian program.
And we were impressed by the general conferences, with the wonderful music and the profound spiritual principles shared there.
Seeing all this, we could find no fault in the Church. On the contrary, we liked everything we saw very much. However, we still could not decide to be baptized because we wanted to know everything before doing so.
But, even in our indecision, the Lord was patiently preparing us, He was molding us, and He was helping us to discover that we should learn to discern the truth not only through our rational minds but also through the very still and small voice of the Spirit, which speaks especially to our hearts.
That voice and the resulting feeling came one evening after 10 months of learning the gospel, when we read in Mosiah 18, “As ye are desirous to … bear one another’s burdens, … and comfort those that stand in need of comfort, … if this be the desire of your hearts, what have you against being baptized in the name of the Lord?”
That passage from the Book of Mormon entered our hearts and souls, and we suddenly felt and knew that there was really no reason not to be baptized. We realized that the desires mentioned in these verses were also the wishes of our hearts and that those things were what really mattered. They were more important than understanding everything because we already knew enough. We had always relied on the guiding hand of a loving Heavenly Father and were confident that He would continue to guide us.
So, that same day, we set up a date for our baptism, and soon we were baptized, finally!

In October 1980 I was riding my bicycle when I suddenly realized my foot brake was not working. I panicked, not knowing when or how I would be able to stop. When my wild ride ended and I finally coasted safely to a stop, I ended up next to Rodico Flores, a good friend and high school classmate. I explained what had happened, and then we chatted for a little while. During our conversation, he asked if I had time to come to his church. Since I knew he was a good person and I admired the other Latter-day Saints I knew, I decided to go the next Sunday.
On Sunday I noticed that the building his church met in was clean and beautiful. I felt something different there. I was met by a person who shook my hand and even put his arm around me, telling me he was happy to see me. I felt good, even though I was a bit shy and nervous. This brother took me to a class for investigators.
After the lesson two young women introduced themselves as full-time missionaries. They asked if they could visit me at my home. I quickly told them I was busy and started giving them excuses. But they still asked me to tell them when I was available, and I responded that I was available early Monday morning. I said they could come but only if they wanted to come at 4:00 A.M.
To my surprise, they looked at each other and said, “Brother Solomon, we will be there.” Then I insisted that it was hard to reach my family’s house, that it was located in the middle of a fishpond, that we had a lot of dogs. I told them they would have a hard time getting there. But they said again, “Brother Solomon, we will be there.” After I left, I forgot all about our appointment because I didn’t believe they would be coming.
Early Monday morning I was surprised to hear the dogs barking and a voice calling, “Brother Solomon! Brother Solomon!” I looked out the window, and I started to feel differently about the missionaries. I felt a confirmation that they were true servants of God. I invited them in and listened to their message. After a while I told them to come every day with a lesson, which they did. They taught me until I was prepared for baptism.
Just after my baptism on 31 October 1980, a friend invited me to a ward party. I said to myself, This Church is nice; they even throw a party for me. I later realized I wasn’t really the guest of honor. But at the party my friend introduced me to a young woman and told her to take good care of me. Annie Ortiz was indeed a good fellowshipper. At this time, she is still taking good care of me. We were married in 1985 and sealed in the Manila Philippines Temple.
Since my baptism, I have grown in the gospel as I have been given opportunities to serve. In 1983 I was called to serve full time in the Philippines Davao Mission, and four months after my marriage I was called as a bishop. I also served as a stake president and in a mission presidency. My wife and I are happily married and have two children, Ezra and Brigham, and we are looking forward to a lifetime of service.
I am grateful for the happiness I have found in the Church, for the dedicated missionaries who persevered, and for the broken bicycle brake that actually helped send me on my way.

Within weeks of my call to the Twelve in October 2015, I had the opportunity to get an up-close glimpse of the past professional life of President Nelson. I was invited to attend an event where he was honored as a pioneer of heart surgery. When I entered the venue, I was astonished to see the large number of professionals there to honor and recognize the work that President Nelson had done many years before as a medical doctor and surgeon.

That evening numerous professionals stood and expressed their respect and admiration for President Nelson’s outstanding contribution to his medical specialty. As impressive as each of the presenters was in describing President Nelson’s various accomplishments, I was even more spellbound by a conversation I struck up with a man seated next to me. He did not know who I was, but he knew President Nelson as Dr. Nelson, director of the thoracic surgery residency program at a medical school in 1955.

This man was President Nelson’s former student. He shared many memories. Most interesting was his description of President Nelson’s teaching style, which, he said, brought with it a large measure of notoriety. He explained that much of the teaching of heart surgery residents was conducted in the operating room. There, residents observed and performed surgery under faculty supervision, as a laboratory classroom. He shared that the operating room environment under certain faculty surgeons was chaotic, competitive, pressure filled, and even ego driven. This man described it as a difficult environment, sometimes even demeaning. As a result, resident surgeons even felt their careers were often on the line.

He then explained the unique environment found in President Nelson’s operating room. It was peaceful, calm, and dignified. Residents were treated with deep respect. However, following the demonstration of a procedure, Dr. Nelson expected the highest standard of performance from each of the residents. This man further described how the best patient outcomes and the best surgeons came out of Dr. Nelson’s operating room.

This is no surprise to me at all. This is what I have observed firsthand and been truly blessed by in the Quorum of the Twelve. I feel like I have been, in a sense, one of his “residents in training.”

President Nelson has an exceptional way of teaching others and offering correction in a positive, respectful, and uplifting manner. He is the embodiment of a Christlike heart and an example to us all. From him we learn that in any circumstance we find ourselves, our conduct and hearts can be in accordance with the principles of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008), writing about the association said, ”The British Mission Association is active in keeping alive the happy memories of saints and missionaries who have lived in Britain. More than that, it is endeavouring in every way possible to cultivate the spiritual interests of its members.“
To the latter end of President Hinckley’s statement, its first annual winter social recreated a traditional British event—the fish and chip supper. At the door, the members paid 15 American cents and received in exchange one British penny, to be placed on a counter between vinegar bottles and salt shakers in payment for fish and chips, served in a piece of the previous day’s newspaper. That was the easy bit. In order to buy fresh suitable fish, it was necessary to telegraph to Seattle and import it by special delivery, a distance of 800 miles!
Dancing followed and the evening closed with the singing of “God Save the King.”
As one lad from Lancashire left, he opened the kitchen door slightly, took a deep breath and remarked, ”Eh, ba gum, ’twas a good party.“3

The girls enjoy going to Primary in the nearby town of Belfair. Their teachers lovingly challenge them to learn and grow in the gospel. Larisa’s teacher, Sister Crowell, helps her make fun things, like a faith plant and paper dolls from different countries. Michelle’s teacher, Sister Reynolds, challenged her class to bear their testimonies. Michelle said that one of the hardest things she’s ever done was follow Sister Reynolds up to the front of the chapel to bear her testimony, but that afterward she felt very good and was glad that she had done it.

When the Americans had cleared the mountain and were gone, we left the house and marched on again toward home. A few days later, we were stopped once more by the Americans. At first I didn’t speak. I wanted to act like I didn’t know English. I heard them say, “Well, we’ll just let them sit here, and we’ll put them on the next truck that comes to transport them to a camp.” Trucks had been going by every two to three minutes.
We sat there waiting for a truck to come by any second. We waited and waited, for an hour or longer, but no truck came. I finally went up to the MP who was chewing gum. I had never seen anyone chew gum before—and he was talking at the same time.

I told him who we were, and he said, “Oh, all of a sudden you speak English.”
“Yes, I speak English. I learned it in school. I was just scared.”
“How old are you?” he asked me. I told him I was 17-and-a-half years old.
“Where have you been?”
I explained the whole thing—what we had done, why we had civilian clothes on, where we wanted to go—home. He called up on the phone and checked the outfits where we had been to see if the information I had given him was correct. Then he looked at me for a long time and said, “I have a boy about your age, and if he would say to someone, ‘I’d like to go home to Mother,’ I hope they’d give him the chance. If you take this road, there is an American headquarters; but if you take that road, they can’t see you. Good luck.”

Finally we were almost home. Everything was shut down. There was no train, no car, no bus, no telephone—nothing. So we continued crawling through the forest, following the creek. I knew that area well. We reached my neighborhood, and I just wanted to go through the gate of our neighbor’s backyard. I left the others and opened the gate. A little gun that had been put there to shoot the gophers went off. It scared the wits out of me and the neighbors, who quickly came running. But they were glad to see that I was home safely. I sent my sister back to the forest with some food for my friends before they continued on to their homes.

It’s Saturday morning, Shannon McNally is wide awake, and she’s still snoring. Listening to her and egging her on is Shannon’s younger sister, Landis. It looks strange, really. But it’s not. It’s what Landis likes. So Shannon indulges her mentally retarded sister.
“She likes for me to snore for her,” Shannon says with a shrug. Shannon doesn’t know why Landis likes that, or why she likes her big sis to play “The Wedding March” on the piano. “That’s just one of Landis’s things too.”
Shannon, 15, and Landis, 12, share a bedroom in their Union Bridge, Maryland, home. And despite Landis’s disability, the two sisters are just that. “We’re like regular sisters who have special things between them,” Shannon continues. That would explain the snoring and “The Wedding March.”
It would also explain why Shannon is such a big help to her mother when it comes to dealing with Landis. “Right now, Landis throws a lot of tantrums, she pulls hair, she spits, and she scratches. She’s also speech-disabled,” says the girls’ mom, Anjela McNally. “Shannon probably understands [Landis] a tad better than I do. I’ll say, ‘Shannon, what’s Landis trying to say?’ Shannon knows her sister very well and can usually tell me.”
That doesn’t mean it’s always easy for Shannon, a Mia Maid in the Westminster Ward of the Frederick Maryland Stake. When Landis gets upset, she’ll begin, as Shannon describes it, “trashing the house.” Once Shannon was heating up some leftover pizza, when Landis decided she wanted pudding instead. When Shannon told her she’d have to eat the pizza, Landis began throwing her food around the kitchen and knocking things off the counter.
“I get frustrated a lot over the things she does. I don’t mean to get mad but sometimes I do. Then I feel bad because I know she doesn’t quite understand why I’m yelling at her,” says Shannon. It’s at moments like these that Shannon will give Landis a hug, or sit with her in a chair, look at a magazine, and just rock back and forth. “It helps my anger to go away.”
“What is so incredible about Shannon is she’s able to not let what Landis does get her down too much. She has a great sense of humor about it,” says Sister McNally, a single parent who also has two sons, K. C. and Lucas, still at home. “Shannon is always willing to help, and she’s very kind to Landis. And Landis turns to Shannon for help as much as me or maybe even sometimes a little bit more than me.
“Shannon is a good role model for Landis,” Sister McNally continues. “But I think she’s more of a hero for Landis. Shannon has always been really pleasant and easygoing. I call her ‘my cheerful giver.’”
Even with all the help she provides her mother, Shannon still finds time for seminary, and school activities, which include her participation in color guard, a precision performing group that twirls flags. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, days Sister McNally is at school, Shannon is there to help Landis get off the bus. She also helps Landis get dressed, and will occasionally help with her bath.
There are moments when Shannon stops and considers her sister’s plight. She’ll think about times when Landis cries and doesn’t stop, and how hard it is to see her sister sad and not be able to find out what’s wrong. There are other times when Shannon will think about the gospel, and specifically about the Resurrection. “Landis has been this way for as long as I can remember. It’s hard for me to imagine her being perfect, her being able to speak,” Shannon explains. “I can’t really imagine her that way, but I know she will be someday.”
Sister McNally says, “I try to teach Shannon that she won’t always be recognized here for the help she’s given Landis, or for the way she’s been kind to Landis and helped make Landis’s life easier. But I also teach her that someday Landis will be able to come up to her and talk, and that this is not a permanent condition. As a family, we have had to do a lot of soul searching and a lot of studying of the purpose of life.”
For now, Shannon will continue caring for Landis. Like the nights when Shannon wakes up and makes sure her sister has blankets on her, or when she takes Landis outside to ride her bike. Those are the times when Landis will smile and so will Shannon. And one thing will be readily apparent. They’re sisters, and they love each other very much.

“Aloha,” Father said when he found Allie feeding the family cow, Spot.
“Aloha!” Allie replied. She and her family had lived on the Sandwich Islands for just a few months, but the Hawaiian word already felt familiar on her tongue.
“I have wonderful news. The king of Hawaii, King Kalakaua, is coming to visit our new chapel, right here in Laie.”
“The king!” Allie squealed.
“Yes,” Father said. “Now let’s go find your mother and brother so we can tell them the exciting news. We have a lot of work to do before he arrives.”
The next few days were a blur of activity. Father finished painting the chapel. Mother and Sister Partridge prepared a breakfast at the mission house for the visitors’ arrival.
“It will be fit for a king,” Mother declared. Allie giggled—never had those words been so true!
Meanwhile, hundreds of Saints came to Laie from all over the Hawaiian Islands for this special meeting. Hawaii now had over 3,600 Latter-day Saints. Nearly 300 had joined the Church since Father had received his mission call last April.
The night before the king’s arrival, Allie stood back with Father and admired all of their hard work on the mission house. Braided ferns covered the railings. Exotic flowers added bright splashes of color. The Hawaiian flag floated grandly in the breeze.
“I’m sure the king will love it,” Allie said. “I can’t wait to hear all about his visit.”
October 6, 1883, dawned bright and clear. Allie watched as Mother dressed in her best dress and left with Father to welcome the king at the mission house. Hours later, they returned with quite a story to tell.
“Hundreds of Saints lined the road and cheered as the king arrived,” Father said. “After the king ate breakfast with us, your mother and I took him to the chapel. It was so full that five hundred people had to stand outside the building!”
“Three choirs from different islands sang, and the king himself spoke to the crowd,” Mother added. “He thanked the Church for honoring the laws of the land and told us to continue our good works. Then we had a feast for more than a thousand people! There was beef, pork, chicken, watermelon, and corn.”
“But we had no plates, knives, forks, or spoons,” Father said. “We had to eat with just our fingers!”
“Even Mother?” Allie gasped.
“Even me,” Mother said with a laugh. “And I rather enjoyed it!”
“His majesty enjoyed it too,” Father said. “It was a very important day for the Church here.”
And our family got to be part of it, Allie thought as she watched the sun set over the purple and gold horizon. The day was ending, but things were just beginning for the Church on the Hawaiian Islands.

I recently decided to try a new recipe: a bûche de Noël. A beautiful, swirly chocolate cake.
During the first few minutes of mixing, my lump of dough looked nothing like the example I was following. “This is not working out,” I said. And as the tedious task of mixing wore on, I also wondered, “Is all this work even worth it?”
After some redoes and a lot of patience, I tried a new bûche de Noël recipe. There were several moments when I thought it was going to fail, but in the end, it turned out fantastic!

Over spring break, I got to talk with my sister who is serving her mission in the Idaho Idaho Falls Mission. I told her that track was about to start and how excited I was. I told her how badly I wanted to beat the school record for the 1600-meter and 800-meter races.
“I probably won’t be able to. The record time is pretty fast,” I told my sister. The school record did seem impossible. I started thinking about the one girl I had never been able to beat. Maybe trying to keep up with her or even beating her would be a better goal.
My sister did not answer right away, but she seemed to be smiling through the phone. “I know I’m a missionary,” she said. “So you might expect me to give you some kind of a challenge, but I really want you to try something. I want you to try to read your scriptures and pray every day. And if you do, God will bless you to do your best.”
“I’ll try,” I said. I had not really been reading my scriptures every night, and I wasn’t quite sure if, or how, reading would help me run.
The next few nights I read, prayed, and went to bed without really thinking about it. One night as I was brushing my teeth, I thought, “I’m not really getting anything out of reading the scriptures.” Then I remembered President Russell M. Nelson’s invitation to read the whole Book of Mormon and mark all references to Jesus Christ (see “Sisters’ Participation in the Gathering of Israel,” Oct. 2018 general conference [Ensign or Liahona, Nov. 2018, 69–70]). So I started to mark the references to Christ as I read. I began to get more out of reading and to truly ponder the scriptures.
After 15 consecutive days of reading and praying every night, I had my first track meet. And I was super nervous. My first race was the 4x800-meter run. I was the anchor runner. When I started running the last leg, my team was in 7th place out of 10 teams. We finished in 3rd place. Had I gotten faster?
While I was waiting for the mile, I watched all the other races and prayed that I would do well. When we walked to the starting line, my heart was beating so fast I thought it would jump out of my chest. I prayed again and felt peace. We were all lined up, and I had a flashback from all the mile races I had run in the year before. I would be in first place the whole race, unsure if my pace was fast enough to beat the record. Then on the final stretch, I would get discouraged when a certain girl from another school would sprint ahead of me and take first place. So I decided to try to do that myself this time.
As the gun went off, I went straight behind the girl from the year before. We were in first and second place. My coach was at the 200-meter mark, and she told me my time and encouraged me. I wanted to run up ahead, but I knew that she would pass me on the last stretch if I did. She kept looking back at me like she was afraid of me.
On the last lap, I could hear the girl who was in third place trying to pass both of us. So I bolted. I ran as fast as I could. There were so many people cheering—my parents, teammates, and friends’ parents.
When I passed the finish line, the first thing that came to my mind was, “Did I do it?” Then I turned and saw everyone else finish. Then I looked toward the girl I hadn’t been able to beat before. Her eyes were big when she said, “Man, you got so much faster.” I had won!
I was so happy. I couldn’t believe I had actually done it! Then I realized that I hadn’t done it alone. I said a quick prayer to thank Heavenly Father. Taking my sister’s challenge helped me to be better at studying the scriptures. And I had a better relationship with Heavenly Father. I had also been able to get faster and smarter about my running. Heavenly Father listens to our prayers. And if we do our part and have faith, He will answer them.
The author lives in Missouri, USA.

“I’m bored,” Mike said.
Mike’s mother looked up from the cake she was making. “I’m going to work in the garden while the cake bakes,” she said. “I could use a strong boy like you to help me.”
“That’s no fun,” Mike told her as he licked the spoon. “I want to do something fun.”
Mike followed his mother to the garden. He looked cross, even with cake batter on his chin. He ate some fresh peas, watered the corn, and watched a ladybug crawl along a bean leaf.
“How would you like to deliver some carrots to Aunt Annie?” asked his mother.
Mike started to grin. “I have an idea,” he said, running toward the house.
Mike cut out the bottom of an old shoe box. He found a red crayon and wrote three words on the piece of box. Then he got his skates and ran back to the garden. “Pin this on my back, please,” he said to his mother.
“Mike’s Delivery Service,” she read as she pinned it to his shirt.
Mike put on his skates and picked up the bag of carrots. “Vroom! Vroom!” he said as he started down the sidewalk.
Old Mr. Davis, who lived in the next block, was walking by. He had a bag of groceries in his arms, and his dog, Chip, on a leash. “Beep! Beep!” Mike shouted, skating carefully out around the old man. “Make way for Mike’s Delivery Service!”
“Yap! Yap!” barked Chip, jerking his leash.
Mike turned in at the house on the corner. He rang the doorbell and called, “Delivery for you, Aunt Annie!”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Mike,” said the smiling lady who opened the door. “Do you take return loads?”
Aunt Annie put a carton of eggs in Mike’s hands. She said, “This is a special delivery, sir. Please be very careful.”
Chip barked and pulled at his leash when Mike passed him and Mr. Davis again.
Mike’s mother met him at the door and took the eggs. “Thank you, sir. You have a very good delivery service.”
Mike sat on the step and ate a piece of warm cake. While he ate, he had another idea. “I have one more job to do, Mom,” he called. And Mike’s Delivery Service took off again.
Mr. Davis was sitting on a low wall, resting. Chip could hear Mike’s skates, and he pulled on the leash.
“Mr. Davis,” said Mike, “I’ll carry that bag for you.”
“Well, Mr. Delivery Service,” said the old man, “it has a jar of jam in it.” Then he winked and said, “If the glass broke, it could give your ‘delivery truck’ a flat tire. But you would help me a lot if you could take my dog!”
Mike took Chip’s leash in his hand. Chip barked and ran down the walk, pulling Mike behind him. “Slow down, Chip, before we get a ticket for speeding!” yelled Mike.
Chip and Mike were waiting when Mr. Davis got home. “Thanks, Mike,” said the tired man. “You made a fast delivery—but did you deliver the dog, or did the dog deliver you?”
“Chip delivered me,” Mike said. “And he liked it. Look at him.”
Chip was wagging his tail hard.
“You like to help, don’t you, boy?” asked Mike as he patted the head of the happy dog.
Mike felt happy, too, and not a bit bored.

I want to thank each of you—the translators and all those who help publish the Liahona. It is because of you that I have the blessing of holding the words of our prophets and the General Authorities in my hands.
I was baptized as a child but was lost to the Church for a long time. When I heard Elder Richard G. Scott of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles (in October 2004 general conference), he helped me believe that the Savior made it possible for me to be redeemed from my sins. I have experienced that change of heart spoken of by Alma, and my joy is complete.Araceli Arroyo Romero, Mexico

Enough is enough, and the mailman was feeling a little bit sorry for himself as he wiped away the water that had cascaded onto his face from his plastic-covered hat and delivered one of the last letters of the day. The return address on the envelope was 50 East North Temple, Salt Lake City, Utah 84150.
The leaders of the Van Nuys California Stake who received the letter read it a second time and looked quizzically at one another.
“What’s a Heritage Arts Festival?” one of them asked.
“I don’t know,” another answered, looking out a rain-streaked window and sighing. “Let’s read the letter again.”
The letter wasn’t much help. It made it quite clear that the young people of the stake were to hold a Heritage Arts Festival, but it simply didn’t explain what one was. And so, with only a title to go on, they forgot all about the rain and started exercising their ingenuity.
They decided that whatever else the festival turned out to be, it should be something that “shows our neighbors and friends what young Latter-day Saints can be.” They met with the youth and adult leaders of the various wards in the stake and came up with a full calendar for an April afternoon and evening. The festival was to include craft and food booths emphasizing Mormon pioneer heritage, facilities for family picnics, and a creative arts contest. The theme would be “From Then Till Now—1830–1975,” and the evening would end with a program in which each ward in the stake would represent one time period from then till now. And in a rather bold move, considering the weather, they decided to locate the booths out-of-doors.
A few months later, on the morning of the festival, the wards of the stake were busy practicing their skits and working on their booths. Inside the stake center a young man in blue jeans and a Civil War coat wandered by toward the stage where Abraham Lincoln was being fitted for his tall black cardboard hat. The great emancipator was wearing a cast, having recently broken his leg, and would have to lead his people through the Civil War in that condition.
It was a bright, sunny day in the San Fernando Valley, without a hint of smog. The weatherman had predicted rain; the young people and their leaders had prayed for good weather. The weatherman was a good meteorologist, but he was simply out of his league.
At about 4:00 in the afternoon the crowds started arriving. They wandered from booth to booth, enjoying the displays and the free samples at the food booths. Some of them ate picnics on the lawn, where tables and chairs had been provided for them.
As the crowds milled around the booths, a distinguished looking group of men in dark hats and coats appeared carrying a bucket, an easel, and some pictures. One of the men upended the bucket and mounted it while another set up the easel. Soon the crowd was being treated to an authentic 19th century street meeting—authentic, that is, except for the bullhorn that the preacher used. The meeting started with four of the missionaries singing “Sweet Is the Work” in beautiful harmony, followed by a gospel sermon and another hymn. Wags from the local wards provided some unsolicited heckling, but the elders handled it in fine form, turning the barbs back on their assailants. Then a man from the Spanish Branch wandered by and shouted, “Puras mentiras!” (It’s all a lie!) in a voice of pious conviction.
“What this good brother says is true—whatever it was he said!” the missionary exclaimed, pointing his cane for emphasis. Another street meeting was held every quarter hour or so, with a different stake or full-time missionary preaching each time.
At the booth of the Spanish Branch a lady demonstrated how to make delicate bread-dough roses. An onlooker asked a question, and the lady spread her hands and replied, “I’m no expert”; then she smiled as a teenager arrived. “Here’s the expert,” she said, and the girl took over the demonstration. In front of the candle-dipping display a young fellow watched the laborious process and shook his head.
“They didn’t really have to go through all that just to make a candle, did they?” he said.
A knot of people gathered in front of the Candy Kitchen, inhaling the aroma and happily licking chocolate-smeared fingers. A young lady took her first look at a real chunk of homemade lye soap and asked, “Is that cheese?” A father barely put his son down at the arm-wrestling area and then smiled a little doubtfully, rubbing his hand. “Wait till next year,” his son smiled.
As 7:00 P.M. approached, more and more of the youths turned the booths over to their adult leaders and went inside to get costumed for the evening’s performance.
In the Junior Sunday School room a ward warmed up for its presentation. Some girls with beauty spots on their cheeks and fiery red lipstick on their lips, wearing fringed flapper dresses, frilly garters, voluminous strings of beads, and head-hugging hats, chewed gum furiously and kicked their way through a deadpan Charleston. Young men in striped vests, black bow ties, and cardboard skimmers practiced a little soft-shoe. One of them pistoned his hat on and off, keeping pace with his eyebrows and looking like a one-man chorus line. A long-lashed brunette gave several experimental flounces with her feathered boa, rolling her eyes in the top half of a glamourous pout. A blonde in black net stockings stood knock-kneed, squinting into a tiny mirror as she applied her makeup. The pianist bounced up and down on the stool in time to the music, and a young man knocked out the rhythm with the back of his knuckles on the top of the upright piano.
In the men’s room, costumes were going on. A young man in a white T-shirt with the arms rolled up scowled into the mirror, seeking just the right air of bored insolence. Then he combed his hair carefully back into a classic ducktail. When he was ready, he looked exactly like a refugee from the 50s trapped somehow in the wrong decade.
All 350 cast members eventually gathered in the chapel to await the beginning of the program. The flappers and bobby soxers mingled with Civil War belles, barbershop quartets and fine ladies from the 90s, Confederate and Union soldiers with lipstick wounds, rock fans, victims of the Depression, soldiers from both world wars, carefully gowned and hatted ladies carrying placards demanding the vote for women, rough-clad pioneers, and a sea of others. The chapel looked like a passenger lounge in a time machine terminal.
Near the door a woman with a bag full of fruit pointed a half-peeled banana at her gowned and rouged daughter. “Eat it! You’ve got to eat something or you’ll get sick.” The girl looked heavenward in a voiceless sermon on the woes of raising Mom, but she ate it while her mother smiled proudly at her.
There were some last-minute instructions and a prayer. An electric wave of preshow jitters filled the room as the crowd sounds drifted in and the hour drew near.
To start the show, the flags of each ward, which had been designed by the young people, were brought in to the flourishes of a trumpet fanfare and set up in their places.
Johnny Whitaker, popular young Mormon entertainer, emceed the show. After the invocation and a few words of introduction, he swang into a rousing rendition of “I Believe in Music,” and on the second verse the 350 young people came streaming down the aisles, singing along with him. “I believe in music. I believe in love!” They sang to a packed house, easily more than 1,000 spectators, many of them standing around the edges of the hall and at the back. There was standing room only and then only behind somebody else. After their grand entry the cast filed into a room where they awaited their turn to perform.
“Reach back, America, into the dim, far-off pages of beginnings—to the beginnings of our Mormon heritage where all the things that touched others touched us,” Johnny began; and “From Then Till Now” became a reality.
The stake Young Adults presented the first period, the early days of the Church when the Prophet Joseph was alive, depicting a trial scene in which he was found innocent of the charges but warned not to preach his doctrine any more.
The Sherman Oaks Second Ward handled the pioneer era, showing a camp scene from the trek across the plains and throwing in a rousing old-time square dance, complete with a professional caller who donated his services.
The Civil War era was interpreted by the Panorama City Ward, complete with Abraham Lincoln, Civil War songs, and both armies.
The San Fernando Ward recreated the gay 90s, featuring the beautiful songs of the period, bicycles built for two, barbershop quartets, and boundless optimism.
The Van Nuys Ward brought to life the first two decades of the 20th century, including a war, boogie woogie, automobiles, and suffragettes.
The Sylmar Ward recreated a rousing, roaring 20s with authentic song and dance numbers, raccoon coats, flappers, the Charleston, jazz, and no tomorrow.
The Spanish Branch recalled the dismal 30s in their skit, featuring songs and dances of the period that showed optimism in times of adversity.
The Van Nuys Third Ward interpreted the 40s with a war, a Statue of Liberty wheeled in on a dolly, and songs, dances, and people of the period.
The Sherman Oaks Ward zeroed in on the 50s with an American Bandstand presentation, singing songs such as “Mr. Sandman” and “Rockin’ Robin.” There was also a personal visit from “Elvis.”
The Sepulveda Ward presented the 60s, complete with rock concerts, the Beatles, and protests.
Everything went smoothly from the audience’s point of view. Scenery changes seemed to happen by magic, and the show flowed as if it had been rehearsed a hundred times, although there had been only one full-stake rehearsal. But back stage between skits was a different story as the exiting cast, scenery, and props from one ward met the next ward coming on stage. Then covered wagons warred with Confederate soldiers, and the Statute of Liberty was buffeted by hordes of pretty girls with parasols. It was a mammoth stampede in which each decade seemed bent on trampling another, but somehow everything always untangled itself in time for the curtain.
When it came time for the 1970s, the cast members in their various costumes all took their places at the front of the hall to form a 350-voice choir. They had practiced their songs on Sunday evenings for several weeks, and there was a fine, gentle spirit as they sang songs of love and peace.
Just before the closing prayer, two children walked into the spotlight and sang “I Am a Child of God,” the choir joining in on the last verse. It was an appropriate ending to a performance full of love and understanding and hope.
In retrospect, the festival provided not only entertainment and fun, but some wonderful memories and a lot of learning. For example, preparation of the displays and the program required the youth to do some serious research. The young people who prepared the genealogy booth studied the principles of genealogy and made a trip to the local Genealogical Society branch library.
Others learned how to make soap, candles, and other essentials the same way pioneers did, not to mention many contemporary craft skills. Some high school history teachers may also be surprised at the knowledge of U.S. history their LDS students have picked up by researching a time period for their skits.
The festival was also a wonderful missionary for the many nonmember and inactive young people who took part. For example, a band that was composed of both member and nonmember youths not only got everyone in the group excited about the Church, but made them decide to keep the group together after the festival.
A number of nonmember adults took part also, doing everything from teaching dance steps to sewing costumes. One non-Mormon hair dresser volunteered to style the hair of all the girls in her ward in the style of the period they represented.
The adult leaders in each ward rolled up their sleeves and worked hard right alongside the youth. Typical was one good sister who attended the dress rehearsal the night before the performance, did some energetic dance steps to illustrate a bit of last-minute choreography, sang her heart out, and then went to the hospital that night and had her baby.
The separate parts of the production were not actually brought together until the last few days before the festival, and there was a lot of pressure and hurry for those in charge. One sister was so caught up that she drove her daughter to school one morning and was parked in front of the school before realizing that she had forgotten the daughter.
But in spite of this one bit of absentmindedness, the young people of the Van Nuys Stake know very well that they are not forgotten, nor will they forget this experience. No one told them in advance what a Heritage Arts Festival was, but no one had any doubts afterwards. It was not only a good way to bring in some sunshine in place of rain, but it was also a great way to serve and grow and learn to love one another. Above all it was a way to “show our neighbors and friends what young Latter-day Saints can be.”

“Hurry up, Mom!” five-year-old Jackson shouted. He grabbed the Book of Mormon storybook and plunked down on the bright blue beanbag chair.
Four-year-old Michelle plopped down beside him. “Story time!” she cried, eagerly clapping her hands.
Mother squeezed between them on the beanbag chair and opened the book. “Let’s see. … Yesterday, we were reading about the Anti-Nephi-Lehies, weren’t we?”
Jackson nodded.
“They were Lamanites. And they’d been converted to the gospel, remember?”
“And they were really wicked!” Michelle declared emphatically.
“Yes, they were really wicked. But when they were converted, they wanted to repent,” said Mother. “They promised the Lord that they would never fight again. In fact, they buried all their weapons of war in a big pit—see,” she said, pointing to the picture.
“Wow!” Jackson cried excitedly. “Look at all those weapons. Swords and bows and arrows and all kinds of things!”
“That looks fun!” exclaimed Michelle. “Let’s bury our weapons, too, Jackson!”
Jackson giggled. “Oh, Michelle, don’t be silly. We don’t have any weapons.”
“Hmmm,” Mother said thoughtfully, “You may not use swords and bows and arrows, but sometimes the things that come out of your mouths hurt too.”
Michelle wrinkled her forehead. “What comes out of our mouths?” she asked, puzzled.
“Words,” said Mother.
“You mean words like stupid and dumb, don’t you?” Jackson asked.
“Right,” said Mother. “Sometimes words hurt as much as a punch on the arm.”
“Then we must bury our bad words,” Michelle urged, “and never use them again!”
“I know what,” said Mother. “You tell me some words that hurt other people’s feelings, and I’ll write them down on slips of paper. Then you can dig a big hole and bury all those bad words, just like the Lamanites buried their weapons.”
“Great idea!” Jackson exclaimed. They found some paper and tore it into pieces. Then they thought of all the unkind words that they knew. Mother wrote them down.
“Come on, Michelle, let’s go dig that pit now,” Jackson called enthusiastically. They dragged their dad’s shovel out of the garage and raced to the unplowed area behind the garden.
Jackson jabbed the shovel tip into the dark, rocky soil. He pushed as hard as he could, but the ground was so hard that he loosened only a small clump of dirt.
“Boy! You’re not very strong,” Michelle remarked saucily.
“Well, you’re pretty weak yourself,” he growled back. Then he stopped. “Hey, wait a minute. We’re supposed to be burying those kinds of words! Sorry.”
“Me, too,” Michelle told him sincerely.
Jackson gripped the shovel handle with both hands, then jumped on the back end of its blade as he had seen his dad do. He hovered there for a few seconds as it teetered in the hard dirt; then he lost his balance and sprawled on the ground.
“Are you OK?” Michelle asked anxiously.
“Sort of,” he replied, wincing. “But we can’t quit now. The Lamanites didn’t quit until all their weapons were buried.” He gritted his teeth determinedly.
“How about trying this?” Michelle suggested, handing him a garden trowel that they used in their sandpile.
Jackson took it and chipped at the dirt while Michelle dug with a stick.
Soon they were covered with dust and dirt, but the hole was dug. They put all the papers with the unkind words written on them into the hole. Then they pushed the dirt back.
“Are you finished yet?” Mother called from the kitchen window. “I’ve made some hot muffins for my two hungry Anti-Nephi-Lehies.”
“Yes,” answered Jackson. “Our weapons are finally buried!”
“And,” Michelle solemnly declared, “we won’t ever use them again!”

“Jerome Mooney!” his mom scolded from the back porch. “Stop spitting at your sister!”
“It’s OK, Mom,” said Mary Beth as she put the last spoon on the picnic table. “Jerome is showing me how he’s going to win a blue ribbon at the 4-H fair.”
“By spitting?”
“No,” Mary Beth explained with a grin, “by whistling. Jerome is entering the whistling competition. Talented, isn’t he? Last place is in the bag.”
“Oh, yeah, smartie?” Jerome retorted. “Just listen to this.”
But for all of Jerome’s effort, his whistle was no louder than a whisper.
“Jerome,” said Dad, handing him a hamburger, it takes a lot of practice to be able to win a blue ribbon, and the fair is only two weeks away.”
“That’s right,” said Mary Beth. “Practice in your room or when I’m not around,” she teased, “and I’ll call you when the two weeks are up.”
Jerome practiced and practiced. Every morning he played records and whistled along with them. Every afternoon he watched TV and whistled along with his favorite commercial jingles. And every time Grandpa called, Jerome whistled his best tunes into the telephone. Even while he got ready for bed, he whistled the songs he heard on his radio.
The more Jerome practiced, the better he became. By the end of the first week he was sure he could win first prize at the fair. Even Grandpa said he’d never heard anything like Jerome’s whistling. Just to be sure, though, Jerome chose “Yankee Doodle” as the tune he would whistle at the fair. He was positive that everyone loved it.
“A blue-ribbon tune if ever I heard one,” agreed Grandpa.
Mom made Jerome a red, white, and blue Uncle Sam costume out of a pair of Grandpa’s old pajamas. Dad gave Jerome a haircut and shined his Sunday shoes. “I don’t see how you can lose,” he said proudly.
“Jerome will find a way,” said Mary Beth.
But Jerome was determined to win. He had one more week to polish up his act. So, for six days straight, he whistled nothing but “Yankee Doodle.” Around and around through the house he marched, whistling the tune in time to the beat.
Mary Beth went around with cotton in her ears. Mom and Dad went to the store a lot, and everyone wished fair day would hurry and arrive.
On the night before the fair, Dad insisted that Jerome would do better if he didn’t whistle again until just before the competition. So Jerome put on his pajamas, kissed Mom and Dad goodnight, and went to bed early.
At breakfast Mary Beth rolled a penny across the table. “It’s for luck,” she said, “because you’re really going to need it. Just don’t forget to give it back to me after the contest.”
“I won’t need it,” said Jerome, but he took the penny and slipped it into his pocket—just in case.
Mom carefully packed Jerome’s costume into a bag. Then they all got into the van and headed for the fair.
At the fair they went to see all the exhibits of homegrown fruits and vegetables, handmade clothes and quilts, baked goods, and livestock. Jerome and Mary Beth pretended to drive some brand-new tractors while Mom and Dad set out their lunch of sausage-and-pepper sandwiches, ice-cold lemonade, and chocolate cake. After lunch they watched race cars roar around the track, and they munched on hot roasted peanuts.
At two o’clock the whistling competition was announced over the main loudspeaker. Jerome ran to the van to put on his costume. When he got to the grandstand, it was already filled with spectators. The contestants were divided into age groups, and each competitor was given a badge with his name and number on it. Jerome was number thirteen. Mom pinned the badge onto his costume and wished him luck.
After a short speech the emcee announced, “Number one, Abigail Potter, will whistle ‘You Are My Sunshine.’”
Jerome listened as the whistlers performed. Some were very good, but Jerome knew that he had the winning tune and a wonderful costume and that he wouldn’t make a single mistake because he had practiced so hard.
When the emcee called, “Number twelve,” from a far corner of the tent a boy appeared in a red, white, and blue Uncle Sam costume! Jerome could not believe his eyes.
The emcee announced, “Theodore Buzby will now whistle ‘Yankee Doodle.’”
“Hey, you can’t do that!” yelled Mary Beth.
“Shhh,” chided someone in the audience.
Jerome felt his palms get clammy. Perspiration ran down his face. He couldn’t do “Yankee Doodle” now, and he didn’t have a second-best tune.
“You’re up next,” the emcee said to Jerome when Theodore Buzby finished his performance. “What’s the name of your song?”
“I want to go home,” whispered Jerome.
As Theodore Buzby bowed, the audience clapped and cheered. There goes my blue ribbon, thought Jerome.
“Number thirteen, Jerome Mooney,” the emcee informed the crowd, “will whistle ‘I Want to Go Home.’”
Jerome found himself at the podium staring at the faces staring back at him. His costume felt like it was glued to his skin. His throat ached, and he searched frantically in his pocket for Mary Beth’s lucky penny and rubbed it. But he needed more than luck.
The audience was still waiting for him to begin. He stared desperately at his family in the stands. Mom looked worried, but she managed a comforting smile. Dad looked nervous, but he held up his fingers in a victory sign. Mary Beth was making ugly faces at Theodore Buzby.
The tent grew hotter by the minute. Jerome’s throat was parched—too dry, maybe, to whistle anything. He spotted a grape Popsicle in the front row and watched as it dripped down the arm of the small girl holding it. One by one the cool drops plopped onto the dusty ground.
Suddenly, from somewhere, came a familiar little tune. Jerome couldn’t remember its name or where he had heard it, but it was sort of catchy. He took a deep breath and whistled softly into the microphone. He’d give it his best even if it wasn’t a blue-ribbon tune.
Soon Jerome noticed smiles throughout the audience. Everyone loved his tune! And more and more fairgoers were coming into the grandstand to listen. He whistled louder and faster. Children clapped their hands in time to the music. He whistled the mystery song better than he had ever whistled before, and when he had finished, the audience stood and applauded. Even Theodore Buzby.
The judges’ decision was unanimous. Jerome Mooney was the best seven-to-twelve-year-old whistler at the fair. The blue ribbon was his. Jerome gazed at it happily.
“I knew you could do it,” said Mary Beth, closing the van door. “Now can I have my penny back?”
“I’m proud of you, Jerome,” said Mom. “I didn’t know what you were going to do. What was that little song? I know I’ve heard it somewhere.”
“It certainly was popular with the crowd,” said Dad.
“Listen,” said Mary Beth, and in the distance Jerome’s blue-ribbon tune was playing softly. It got louder and louder as it came closer and closer. The catchy tune brought dozens of kids running to the curb as an ice-cream vendor turned the corner.
“Oh, no,” said Jerome. “I didn’t win at all. The ice-cream truck did.”
“You silly,” said Mary Beth. “The ice-cream truck wasn’t even at the fair. Besides, it was a blue-ribbon tune only because you were a blue-ribbon whistler. Now please hand over my penny.”
And Jerome did. Whistling happily, he could hardly wait to get home to call Grandpa.