Gospel Story Finder

One day I was working around our yard with my electric hedge clippers and long extension cord. I had done this often, each time reminding myself to be careful and avoid cutting things that I shouldn’t.
Suddenly the blades became jammed. Because I had not seen the power cord in the thicket where I was trimming, I had cut into the source of the electrical power that made the hedge clippers work.
Isn’t that one of life’s great lessons? I thought. Power, if misused, can cut into the very source of that power.

The more I read on a regular basis, the more I found myself turning to the scriptures in times of need or distress. On one occasion, I became extremely angry with someone who had broken an important promise to me. For days I was resentful and considered retaliation. I was miserable. I knew that it was wrong not to forgive, but I did not know how to overcome my feelings. Finally, in anguish, I picked up the Book of Mormon. Without any real intention of reading, I let the pages fall open. The words of the Lord from Mormon 3:15 seemed to jump out at me: “Vengeance is mine.”
In an instant, everything was brought into eternal perspective. I was chastened and humbled, realizing that my attitude was wrong. At the same time, this scripture brought great relief. The Lord was aware of my feelings! He cared. How much easier it was, then, to pray and to forget my bad feelings.

One summer, my mother and I went on a humanitarian trip to Guatemala. One day, we went to the Semac Champey, a park with pool after pool of deep blue water connected by rock terraces overflowing with water.
Our group hiked up the steep, rugged path to the cliff top overlooking the pools. The hike involved many staircases along a sheer drop-off. Several times we had to stop by a bench just to catch our breath.
After hiking for hours, my mother was winded and tired. She stopped alongside the trail, saying she would join us on our way back down.
I continued about 200 feet farther and came to the clearing with the lookout. The view was beyond words. Hurriedly, I ran back to my mother and encouraged her to come and see it.
As we rested and took in the view, I thought about how that hike is like our lives. Though the pathway of the gospel is straight and narrow, sometimes it seems like a vertical climb. We get discouraged as friends give up or turn back to paths that seem easier. And the adversary is constantly there, telling us that we’re foolish or just not spiritually cut out for the journey.
But we shouldn’t give up. Eternal life, just like that view, will be beyond words. Though we won’t achieve perfection in our mortal state, we can reach any heights through Christ, and He will always be there to help us for those last 200 feet.
Since this experience, I’ve tried to not give up on my hike to heaven. The Lord has blessed me in my efforts to fulfill His commandments and serve others. I know that He will help all of His children. Our part is to keep pressing on.

Roswell Georgia Stake
The youth leaders in the Roswell Georgia Stake run a tight ship. Youth activities for the stake are planned well in advance and put on the stake calendar. Once an activity appears on the calendar, it doesn’t move or change. In fact, it’s sort of a joke that the only things that might change the schedule of activities in the Roswell area are “death and tornado.”
A natural disaster of any kind, however, was the furthest thing from anybody’s mind when the youth council planned a fun “mini-youth-conference” for a weekend in the spring. There would be speakers on a variety of interesting subjects, some fun activities, and a dance.
Then, three weeks before the mini-conference, the unthinkable happened. A tornado touched down in the Roswell area. Andrew Opp, a priest and a leader on the stake youth council in Roswell, and his sister, Emily, helped in the massive cleanup effort. After several days of helping his dad and other men in his ward and stake move trees and other debris from driveways, yards, and roofs, Andrew had an idea.
“I looked around and realized that even after a day’s work, we were hardly putting a dent in things,” said Andrew. Why not postpone the youth conference and have a day-long cleanup project instead? After all, it was on the list of reasons to change the stake schedule. After getting the leaders’ approval, they formulated a plan and announced the change.
“The youth in our stake are really great,” said Andrew. “Everyone always pitches in and gets the job done right.”
And they did. Guys and girls worked hard all day in neighborhoods that looked like war zones, lifting and clearing debris.
The tornado hit hard at Dagmara Walczak’s house. Dagmara is a Laurel in the stake, and her home is in a neighborhood that felt the full force of the tornado.
“I thought it was great that in a time of need people from our church came and helped out. It really makes you feel loved,” she said.
And what of the originally planned activity? Were the youth that excited to give up a day of fun for a day of hard work, sweat, and tree sap? You bet.
“This is fun because you can chat with your friends while you work,” said 17-year-old Ben Jarvis. “And besides, these people are our friends and neighbors; it gave us all a good feeling to help them out.”

As I sat at home trying to calm my anxiety over what was going on in the world, I opened my journal randomly and landed on the following: “There are so many fears that come with getting up each day in this world, but with faith in the teachings of the gospel, we can put one foot in front of the other. … Faith always defeats fear.”
I knew that I had just received powerful personal revelation and that Heavenly Father gave it to me through my own journal entries from several years before. I was blessed with a moment of peace and the knowledge that Heavenly Father was with me back then, and He’s right here with me now.
Danette Gray, Utah, USA

Many years ago, a non-member father from the mainland called the Branch President of the University Branch in Honolulu asking for help with his non-member daughter who was a student in town. He had just found out that she was pregnant and had scheduled an abortion at 1:00 p.m. the next day. He did not believe that abortion was in the best interest of his daughter and the child. His friend told him to call someone in the LDS church. The Branch President called me and I was able to set an appointment to see this attractive young woman at 10:00 the next morning, just hours before the scheduled abortion.

During the first hour, she was adamant and determined that there was no way she would keep the pregnancy because she did not want anyone besides her parents to know that she was pregnant. There was no way she could be a single parent and no way could she place the child for adoption. She wanted nothing to do with the birthfather. She told me all the reasons why she just had to get that abortion and they all made sense to her. She was using great logic and reason. It would be the easiest thing to do and would get her right back on track with school.

In my heart and mind during that first hour, I fervently petitioned the Lord for help and asked that her heart be softened. I pleaded for help from her loved ones beyond the veil. Then something happened during the second hour. I felt the Spirit of the Lord fill my office. The young woman must have felt it too for her lips started to quiver and then tears came. She began to think about the child as a separate person from her. She began to think how she would feel after an abortion and the long term consequences of that choice.

At the end of our discussion, she humbly said, "I will give this child life." She chose to carry the baby to full term and then she placed the baby with an outstanding Latter-day Saint couple. Today that little boy is an active soccer player and he passes the sacrament on Sunday. What happened? This young woman listened to the Spirit and she obeyed. Her righteous decision brought her and her child great peace and joy.

I was born into a non-Christian family. As a boy, I would accompany my mother to Chinese temples to worship different gods. We would bring special cakes as an offering and burn incense to ask for the blessings we needed. If we needed work, we asked the god of riches; if we needed health, we asked the god of healing. I loved going with my mother because when the rituals were over, I got to eat all those delicious cakes.
Nevertheless, the great miracle came when I was 10 years old and we moved to Bolivia. I met the missionaries. They taught me about a God I had never heard of before.
They taught me that He is a living God, with a glorified body of flesh and bones; that He is my Heavenly Father, that He loves me, and that I am literally His child; that He sent Jesus Christ to earth to help me return to His presence and attain eternal life.
I was so amazed when they told me the story of Joseph Smith, who saw God the Father and His Son, Jesus Christ. Even though I didn’t speak Spanish and couldn’t understand all the words, I felt peace in my heart, and somehow I knew that what I was learning was good. Before they invited me to be baptized, I said to my two older sisters, who were already members of the Church, “I’ve already made up my mind. I’m getting baptized!”
The gospel of Jesus Christ changed my life for the better. It gave me an eternal purpose—to prepare to return to God’s presence with my family.

Several years ago my wife and I visited Switzerland hoping to learn more about our family history. When we arrived in the town of Glarus, about 30 minutes from Lake Zurich, we found that our hotel reservation had been lost. The hotel clerk felt very bad for us, and he tried to find another place for us to stay. After making several unsuccessful phone calls, he said, “Oh, wait a minute. There’s one other small hotel not too far away. The owner has been in the United States. I’ll call there and see if he’s back yet.” So he did. We learned that the owner had just returned that day, and his hotel was completely empty.
The little hotel was right at the base of the Alps, on the shore of a beautiful lake. During a pleasant dinner, the proprietor said, “I know a Paul Koelliker. He lives in Glarus.” The next thing I knew, our new friend was on the phone talking to Paul Koelliker in Glarus. The man on the other end asked him if I was from Salt Lake City. When I replied that I was, he said, “I’ve met that man before.”
Early the next morning we went to his office. Not only does this Paul Koelliker live in Glarus, but he is the head of the archives for the canton of Glarus. When I told him we were trying to find our family roots, he said, “I think I can help you.” He took us into the archive and showed us books organized by family. He said, “I can’t let you photocopy any of this; you’ll just have to write it by hand.” So for the next seven hours, we wrote as fast as we could.
We returned from our trip to Switzerland with the names of hundreds of our ancestors and later completed their temple work. We knew there were many more names waiting in the archive at Glarus. Our family feels the spiritual urging that those names are waiting for us. I know the Lord will help us find our ancestors if we will just act on the promptings of the Spirit.

There is a famous story in my wife’s family about her late father, Chuck, and his first post-college experience. After graduating, my father-in-law went searching for a job and got an interview with an established oil company in the Houston, Texas, area. As he did his due diligence and research, he learned that he would be interviewed by the company’s executive committee. He was afraid that his youth would be seen as a negative and that other more-experienced candidates would have an advantage over him. So, he did the only thing he could think of to even the playing field. He walked into the local pharmacy and bought himself some grey hairspray. He applied it just to his temples to make himself look more mature and experienced for his interview.

Pleased with his cosmetology skills, Chuck now had the confidence he needed for this perfect job opportunity. He arrived early for the interview and was escorted into the conference room. With stress hormones firing on all cylinders, he felt a drop of sweat on his temples. Then the Texas heat, combined with the heat in the room, caused the sweat to flow like a waterfall. Chuck answered each question with clarity and confidence, though he got some interesting looks from his interviewers. At the end of the interview, the interviewers seemed jovial, shook his hand, and said goodbye. My father-in-law then went to use the restroom. He looked in the mirror and noticed that the silver hair dye had melted all down the sides of his temples, over his cheeks and neck, and into his shirt collar.

He did not get that job. It was a fumble, and there would be more fumbles in his life. However, this experience did not keep him from interviewing with other firms. He did not quit, and he eventually landed a career that would bless his eternal family.

It was a typical Olsen family home evening. Mother played the piano while little Christopher waved his arm and led everyone in “The Golden Plates.” After Amanda gave the opening prayer, Dad stood to give the lesson. “Who remembers what we did at the Olsen family reunion last summer?” he asked.
“Watched home movies!” Julie cried out. Then she giggled, thinking about Uncle Jack dancing the hula in Hawaii.
“Ran races!” Amanda chimed in, remembering her Best Effort award.
“Corn on the cob!” Christopher yelled, and everyone laughed.
“That’s true,” Dad said. “Now who remembers what Uncle Bob asked us to do?”
Scott frowned. “Not family history,” he groaned.
“Very good,” Dad said. “Uncle Bob challenged each family to do something new with our family history.”
“But, Dad,” Julie countered, “Uncle Bob said that the only research left had to be done overseas.”
“Do we get to go to Europe?” Amanda asked excitedly.
“Sorry, Pumpkin,” Dad answered. “I think that research is out. We’ll have to be more creative than that.”
“There’s nothing creative about family history,” Scott complained. “It’s just a bunch of old names and dates.”
“Well, when Joseph Smith first saw the golden plates,” Mom noted, “it was just a bunch of old markings until he translated them.”
“That was different,” Scott said. “The Book of Mormon was important, so Heavenly Father helped him translate it.”
“Family history is important, too,” Dad persisted, holding up his book of remembrance. “Maybe we just need help to translate ours.”
Julie looked puzzled. “What do you mean, Dad?”
“Translate means to make something understandable,” Dad explained. “Maybe we need to translate our records into something more than just names and dates.”
“Aw, Dad,” Scott said, picking up a family group sheet. “There’s nothing here except—Hey, I never noticed that!” He pointed, staring at an entry.
“What?” Amanda said, looking over her brother’s shoulder.
“This guy, Jacob Olsen, was born on October fourth, just like me.”
“That ‘guy,’” Mom said, “was your great-grandpa. He was really happy that you were born on his birthday.”
“I don’t remember him,” Scott said.
“He died when you were just a baby,” Dad explained. “He really liked it when we took you to visit him.”
“His family had two boys and two girls in it, just like ours,” Julie noticed. “But look—the last one died the day that she was born.”
“November fifteenth,” Dad said without having to look. “Grandpa told me that his sister was born prematurely and was just too tiny to live. But they always remembered Baby Annie and put a rosebud on her grave every November fifteenth.”
“That must have been a sad day,” Julie said quietly.
“It was,” Dad agreed. “But it was happy too. It reminded them that they had a sister they could see again someday.”
“I wonder,” Amanda said, “if anyone remembers Baby Annie now?”
“We can!” Scott put in. “Can’t we, Mom?”
“I think that that would be nice,” Mom said, smiling. “I’ll just mark November fifteenth on our calendar.”
“And write down Grandpa Olsen’s birthday, too,” Scott suggested.
“But at the end of the year,” Julie realized aloud, “we’ll just throw the calendar away and forget them.”
“Then I guess that we need another way to remember,” Mom said, going into the next room. “How about this?” she asked when she returned. “We never used this old 1988 calendar. I didn’t know why I was saving it, but it must have been for this project. And since it was a leap year, it even has February twenty-ninth on it, in case we need it.”
“But it’s two years old,” Julie said, giggling.
“That doesn’t matter,” Dad said. “We need a calendar for yesterdays, not tomorrows.”
“I get it!” Scott said. “We can remember our ancestors’ important days on that calendar, just like we remember our own important days on our current one. What other dates can we write on it?”
“Well, between Mom’s records and mine, there surely are enough of them here!” Dad laughed, thumbing through the pages. “How about if we study one family every week, then put all their birthdays and weddings and deaths on the calendar?”
“Starting with Jacob Olsen,” Scott proclaimed, eagerly turning to the October page. “Dad, do you think he enjoyed his birthday as much as I do mine?”
“I’m sure that he did,” Dad said. “Do you still think that family history is just a bunch of old names and dates?”
“I guess not,” Scott readily admitted. “At least, not after we translate them into people.”

I had an experience from which I learned a very important lesson that I should have learned earlier. I relived this experience last week when we were in Japan and concluded that I would talk about it in conference.
During World War II, I was a pilot in the Air Force. After service in the Pacific Islands, I spent a year in Japan with the occupational forces. It was, of course, advisable to learn a few words of Japanese. We needed at least to be able to ask directions, ask for something to eat. I learned the common greetings and a few of the numbers and the salutations, and like many other members of the Church, I spent all my off-duty hours in missionary work among the Japanese people; and I learned from them those few words of what I thought was a very difficult language.
In July of 1946, the first baptisms took place in Osaka. Brother and Sister Tatsui Sato were baptized. And while they had been taught for the most part by others, I was privileged to baptize Sister Sato.
Though we were not unhappy in Japan, there was really only one thing on our minds, and that was home! I had been away for nearly four years. The war was over, and I wanted to go home.
When that day finally arrived, I supposed never to return to Japan, and I just closed that chapter.
The next years saw me busy getting an education, raising a family. I was not around Japanese people and had no occasion to use those few words that I had learned. They were left in the dim and very distant past, erased by 26 years of forgetting—gone, as I thought, forever. Then came an assignment to Japan.
The morning after my arrival in Tokyo, I was leaving the mission home with President Abo when a Japanese elder spoke to him in Japanese. President Abo said that the matter was urgent and apologized for the delay.
He went through some papers with the elder, discussing them in Japanese. Then he held up one of the letters and, pointing to a sentence, he said, “Korewa …”
And before he could complete the sentence, I had completed it in my mind. Korewa nan desuka. I knew what he was saying. I knew what he was asking the elder. Korewa nan desuka means “What is this?” After 26 years, having been back in Japan only overnight, a sentence had come back into my mind—Korewa nan desuka, “What is this?”
I had not used those words in 26 years. I had thought that I should never use them again. But they were not lost. I spent ten days in Japan and concluded my tour in Fukuoka. The morning I was to leave, we drove to the airport with Brother and Sister Watanabe. I was in the backseat with their children practicing my long-lost words of Japanese on them. They, in delight, were teaching me some new ones.
And then I recalled a little song that I had learned those 26 years before, and I sang it to those children:
Momotaro-san, Momotaro-san
Okoshi ni tsuketa kibi dango
Hitotsu watashi ni kudasan na
I think the way I sang that may make Jerold Ottley, conductor of the Tabernacle Choir, sitting nearby, restless, but … Sister Watanabe said, “I know that song.” And so we sang it together to the little children and then she told me the meaning of it, and as she did so, I remembered that also.
It is the story of a Japanese couple who were childless, and they had prayed for a son. One day, in the stone of a large peach, they found a little boy and they named him Momotaro. The song recounts his heroism in saving his people from a terrible enemy.
I had known that song for 26 years, but I didn’t know that I knew it. I had never sung the song to my own children. I had never told them the story of it. It had been smothered under 26 years of attention to other things.
I have thought that a most important experience and realized finally that nothing good is ever lost. Once I got back among the people who spoke the language, all that I possessed came back and it came back very quickly. And I found it easier then to add a few more words to my vocabulary.

I have a valise which was owned by Robert Redford. (I don’t mean the movie star; I mean my grandfather.) When Grandfather Redford died, Mother and her brothers and sisters gathered together to distribute his personal belongings. Each family member was given a first-choice selection. Unknown to us, Mother prayed that she could have Grandfather’s temple clothes, which he carried in a black valise with the initials R.R. printed on it. Grandfather spent his last years as a temple worker in the Logan Temple.
Mother got her wish.
As a teenager, I thought it strange that Mother would prefer that little black bag to furniture or other items of worldly value. But then I thought of how my mother had taught me the sacredness of the temple long before I could fully understand its meaning. Her attitude about going to the temple and her handling of the temple clothing first caught my attention. Mother was always happy to visit the house of the Lord. What happened inside the temple wasn’t talked about specifically; but I heard parts of the temple vocabulary spoken with great respect, words like sacred, holy, spiritual, pure, celestial, endowments, sealing, the veil.
When I finally went to the temple as a missionary to receive my own endowments, Mother gave Grandfather’s temple clothing to me.
It would be difficult for me to describe my first experience in the temple. It was beyond anything earthly I had witnessed. I didn’t comprehend all that I was taught that night, but the deep feelings instilled in me were sublime. Clothed in the inheritance from my grandfather and accompanied by my mother, I began what was to be a continuum of incomparable spiritual visits to the holy temple. Based upon those experiences, I would like to share with you what I have learned about the temple and what it can mean in your own lives.

I am so thankful for all the help I received from full-time missionaries for both getting to the temple and while there. A senior missionary couple, who are serving a humanitarian mission in Nepal, went with our group to the temple. They were like shepherds to us, making sure we had food and shelter and no problems in our travels and getting us to all the places we needed to be. Missionary sisters, serving in the family history center across the street from the temple, helped me prepare the family group sheet I needed so I could be sealed to my deceased parents. While inside the temple, missionaries guided us every step along the way. I know Heavenly Father will bless all these missionaries who come from halfway around the world to serve us. They are wonderful people.

Although they are not full-time missionaries, there was a Filipino couple, Jimmy and Rose Albos, who were especially kind to us. They catered meals for us and arranged the sightseeing which we did one afternoon. I am thankful to them from the bottom of my heart. May the Lord bless them for their generosity to our group.

One of our most cherished experiences regarding the priesthood occurred just a week after our marriage. After a major crisis I fell into a coma. The doctor explained that he had done everything he could to help me, and that now all that was left was to believe in God. My wife, Marjorie, who was not a member of the Church at the time, asked herself the question “What would José do?” She immediately thought I would have liked a blessing for the sick. Then, she went to get a brother to ask him to bless me.
Three days after the blessing, I was standing! The blessing brought me back! This is undoubtedly one of the greatest blessings I have ever received.

by Vickie L. Barnes
Bang! The runners spring into action in response to the starter’s signal. Tiffany is ahead in a second. Her feet pound the soft pavement of the track. She sets her pace, expecting to be passed by the other runners. As she runs, she looks over her shoulder. They are all there—all six of them—their faces strained in their effort to maintain the pace Tiffany has set. She looks forward again, her mind now racing faster than her feet. She is ahead! She has never raced before, so she really doesn’t have anything to compare the experience to, but she feels as if she can go the distance at this pace. The realization that she is ahead seems to give her an extra boost—a little extra energy.
Members of Tiffany’s ward track team line the inside of the track, calling her name, shouting their enthusiasm and encouragement. Tiffany takes one more look over her shoulder. With an exhilaration she has not experienced before, Tiffany bursts through the ribbon at the finish line.
Tiffany won first place in the 12- to 13-year-old division of the 880-yard race in the annual West Jordan Utah South Stake Youth Track Meet. She was one of 200 participants in 11 track and field events. But victory at the finish line was only the beginning of Tiffany’s story. In all her 12 years, Tiffany had never won anything and had never felt that she excelled in anything. She had been an average student because she lacked the self-confidence required for achievement. During the track meet, Tiffany learned she has a physical prowess not enjoyed by many young women. She now trains at least once a week with her Beehive leader, a former high school coach, in preparation for participation in high school and college track.

Our experience in Rome actually began back in January when as companions, Elder David A. Bednar and I, with our wives, were assigned to go to Rome for a press conference, media open house, and tours with dignitaries. This is the first day of the press conference. In the yellow chairs are Elder Massimo De Feo, our Italian General Authority; Elder Bednar; and me. Many members of the press came from not only Italy, but throughout Europe and around the world.

One of the reporters asked, “Can you tell us what this temple in Rome means to the members of your Church in Italy?” Elder Bednar and I turned to Elder De Feo, our General Authority from Italy, to answer that question. With tears flowing down his face, Elder De Feo said, “Just 25 years ago my family and I were meeting in a garage, here in Rome, for our Sunday Church meetings. So can you imagine, ladies and gentlemen, brothers and sisters, what it means for us to have this beautiful temple and visitors’ center built here?”

Thankfully, as you all know, temples are built by the faithful tithes of the members of the Church. As you are faithful tithe payers, you contribute to temples, like this one in Rome, being built all over the world.

Then I met Stephanie. She came into the candy store one day wearing a black scarf around her head. As I pointed out to her my favorite chocolate, I felt impressed to inquire about her situation. She smiled, removed her scarf, and, pointing to her bald head, told me she was going through chemotherapy. That exchange was the start of a special and candid friendship.
Stephanie came by the store regularly to enjoy a treat and talk about life. I learned that she was a member of the Church and that she had struggled spiritually as well as physically. She told me about some rebellious choices she had made and about her efforts to repent. She was working toward being sealed to her husband in the temple.
A few months after that conversation, I left my hometown to start a new job and lost contact with my friend. One day my mom called to tell me that she had seen Stephanie’s obituary in the newspaper. I came home to attend her funeral and learned she had been sealed to her husband just three weeks before her death.

He was tarred and feathered, beaten, driven, hated, cast out, “persecuted for righteousness’ sake.” (Matt. 5:10.) He spent months in the vile prisons of his day and was the victim of scores of false and malicious prosecutions. Once he and a small group of associates were prisoners of a mob-militia. On November 1, 1838, a pretended court martial—which ranks in infamy and illegality with the trial of Jesus before Pilate—sentenced the group to death. The order given was as follows:
“Brigadier General Doniphan:
“Sir:—You will take Joseph Smith and the other prisoners into the public square at Far West, and shoot them at 9 o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“[Signed] Samuel D. Lucas,”
“Major General Commanding.”
General Doniphan defied his commanding officer. With a boldness born of indignant justice he replied:
“It is cold blooded murder. I will not obey your order. My brigade shall march for Liberty tomorrow morning at 8 o’clock; and if you execute these men, I will hold you responsible before an earthly tribunal, so help me God.”
“[Signed] A. W. Doniphan,”
“Brigadier General.”
(Essentials, p. 241.)

by Louise Coupar and Nicola Henry
The Young Women of the Maidstone England Stake planned an all-day activity called “It’s Fun to Be Feminine.” When the day began, the floor of the stake house cultural hall was dotted with young women dressed in different coloured leotards doing a physical fitness routine to music. Screams and shrieks filled the hall as they performed all kinds of agonizing exercises. Despite the aches and pains, it was all good fun.
Soon it was lunchtime, and everyone helped to lay the tables as the meal was served. After lunch we all watched a film showing us the correct way to apply makeup and how to look after our skin. One of the Young Adults, who is a hairdresser, talked to us about hair care, which we all tried out on each other.
A discussion followed, and a member of the stake Young Women presidency talked to us on how to mix and match our clothes. This brought us to the final part of the day. We were all seated in the chapel to listen to a few words from the Young Women presidency. Two girls were asked to bear their testimonies, and the meeting was closed with a hymn and a prayer. The activity was enjoyable, and we all learned and benefited from it.

Anthony sat on the narrow ledge of a rice terrace. He looked gloomily down on the thatched roofs of the huts in the tiny Asian village below. This was supposed to be the happiest vacation of his life, but it was turning out to be one of the saddest.
That was over thirty years ago. The soldier had managed to get Father to the United States, where he had gained his citizenship and a good education. But he longed to return to his homeland to visit Grandfather. On Anthony’s twelfth birthday, Father gave him a watch of his own and the exciting news that they would make the long-awaited journey to his homeland to spend a month with Grandfather.
Two days ago Anthony’s dream of meeting Grandfather had finally come true. But now it seemed that Grandfather wasn’t the man Anthony had been dreaming about at all. How could an old man with only one, blackish tooth be a hero? Why, if Grandfather could stand up straight, he still wouldn’t be as tall as Anthony!
Grandfather’s bones stuck out. His skin was as tough and wrinkled as an elephant’s. His bare feet were so wide that they looked almost like a duck’s. His pants were tied about his waist with a piece of twine, and the pockets had been torn off to patch holes.
How Anthony wanted to be back home! He didn’t like the hut he had to climb up to, to go to sleep. It was more like a playhouse than a real one. He didn’t like having to sleep on the hard wood floor, sandwiched between people who knew only a few words of English. He didn’t like eating rice for breakfast. He didn’t like eating from dishes “washed” with grass “rags.” He didn’t like everyone in the village pointing at Father and calling him “U.S. boy.” Most of all, he felt uncomfortable around the old man who was Grandfather.
“Anthony.” Father’s voice came from the direction of the village. “Grandfather and I are going to the cave where he hid the Americans. Do you want to come too?”
At last! Thought Anthony. Maybe there’ll be a little excitement.
It was a long walk to the cave. His feet were beginning to ache from following Grandfather and Father over the hundreds of terraces. Anthony’s sneakers didn’t curl around the terrace ledges as Grandfather’s bare feet did. Looking at his birthday watch, Anthony noticed that nearly two hours had passed since they had set off for the cave. Would they ever get there? Grandfather is probably lost, Anthony thought.
Suddenly pain shot through Anthony’s leg like lightning. He turned, screaming, and saw a snake slithering into a rice paddie. In the same instant, Grandfather’s knife whizzed past, slicing the snake’s head off.
Anthony’s leg was already throbbing, and dizziness sent him stumbling from the sturdy ledge to the oozy ground nearby. He heard Father and Grandfather jabbering to each other in that strange language. Then Father started to run—away from Anthony.
Anthony wailed in pain and terror as he twisted in the mud of the soggy terrace. “Father! Don’t leave me! Please! It hurts! Oh, it hurts! Don’t leave me!” But Father kept running.
Grandfather quickly retrieved his knife and wiped off the snake’s blood on a clump of grass. Opening a small bottle that had been attached to the twine around his waist, he poured a smelly liquid on the knife. Then he knelt and looked into Anthony’s eyes. “U.S. boy—stop cry!” he ordered. But Anthony continued to scream for Father as if he hadn’t heard.
Grandfather gripped Anthony’s shoulders tightly. “U.S. boy—stop cry!”
This time something in Grandfather’s tone pierced Anthony’s fear. He knew that Grandfather was right. He must stop crying and lie still so that Grandfather could help him. Clenching his teeth and fists against the pain, he choked back his tears and held very still.
Grandfather took off Anthony’s T-shirt and tied it firmly above the bite. Then he cut Anthony’s swollen leg with the knife and sucked out as much of the poison as he could, spitting blood and poison onto the ground. The pain made large tears spurt down Anthony’s face, but he bravely allowed Grandfather to do what had to be done.
When Grandfather finished, he carried Anthony to a dry spot and gathered grass and dirt clods to prop under his head. With another firm look, Grandfather commanded, “U.S. boy, stay! I get medicine.”
Anthony nodded feebly. He awoke as Grandfather patted a mixture of leaves and mud onto the wound. The mixture seemed to relieve the pain a little, and Anthony dozed off again. When he next awoke, Father and two other men were moving him onto a stretcher. As they traveled toward the village, Grandfather jabbered with the men. Several times Anthony heard him say, “U.S. boy” with tones of both concern and pride.
Over the next few days, all the villagers came to help Anthony recover. Several boys near his age showed him the games of their village and taught him a few words in their language. The girls brought him bananas and special mixtures of rice and vegetables. The women showed him how they wove beautiful pieces of cloth.
Grandfather bragged to the villagers about Anthony’s bravery and called him a hero. But Anthony knew who the real hero was.
Each day, Grandfather brought a small present that he had made and wrapped in a banana leaf. After the present was unwrapped, Grandfather gave Anthony a lesson on weaving small baskets or carving wood trinkets.
The day that Anthony no longer needed to rest, Grandfather gave him a knife in a beautiful, carved holder.
Anthony had a surprise of his own. “Close your eyes Grandfather.” Then he buckled his birthday watch onto Grandfather’s wrist. When Grandfather opened his eyes and Anthony saw the look of joy and pride on his face, Anthony knew that he had the best grandfather in the world.