Gospel Story Finder

As a young man I worked with my father and brothers raising cattle and horses on our ranch in southern Utah and northern Arizona. My father taught us that when we wanted to catch one of our horses to ride, all we had to do was to put a handful of grain into a bucket and shake it for several seconds. It didn’t matter if the horses were in a corral or a large field; they would come on the run to eat the grain. We could then gently slip a bridle over their heads while they were eating. I was always amazed that such a simple process worked so well.
On some occasions, when we didn’t want to take the time to get the grain from the barn, we would put dirt in the bucket and shake it, attempting to trick the horses into thinking that we had grain for them to eat. When they discovered our deception, some of the horses stayed, but others would run away and be nearly impossible to catch. It often took several days to regain their trust. We learned that taking the time to consistently feed our horses grain made them much easier to work with and provided them with increased nourishment and greater strength.
Even though many years have passed since my days on the ranch, the experience I have just described has helped me as I have considered the following question: What can we as teachers and leaders in the Church do to provide increased doctrinal and spiritual nourishment for those we serve?
Just as I learned as a young man that grain was more appealing to our horses than a dirt-filled bucket, I also learned that grain was more nourishing than hay, that hay was more nourishing than straw, and that it was possible to feed a horse without nourishing him. As teachers and leaders, it is vital that we nourish those we teach and lead by focusing on the fundamental doctrines, principles, and applications emphasized in the scriptures and the words of our latter-day prophets instead of spending precious time on subjects and sources of lesser importance.

When I was called to be bishop of our ward, our young four-year-old son inquired of me, “Are you the guy they give those envelopes of money to?” I answered, “Yes, I am the one,” realizing that we needed a little lesson on tithing. Brandon clapped his hands and exclaimed, “Oh goody, we’re going to be rich!” We later learned he was thinking that Dad no longer would have to work and would therefore have lots more time for him!

There was a time in Sasha’s life, however, when the enticements of the world almost overwhelmed her. She loves to dance and has trained from an early ageto become a professional dancer. Several months after her baptism, she became a member of a professional modern dance company in St. Petersburg. Most of the other dancers in the group were adults. None of them were members of the Church, and none lived Church standards.
When Sasha was 15, the dance company started preparing for a performance tour to Switzerland. It was a chance of a lifetime. “Every day I danced for about eight hours,” she says. “I was preparing with all my heart for the trip.” After a few months of single-minded devotion to dancing, Sasha had drifted dangerously far from her mother, her schoolwork, and the Church.
Fortunately, she still had an LDS friend—Anya. One day Anya’s mother, a member of the Church, said: “Sasha, stop! Do you think you can remain clean in that environment? Those people don’t keep the Word of Wisdom or the law of chastity. Do you think the Holy Ghost can remain with you?”
“Those words went to my heart,” she says. “I suddenly realized I was surrounded by a spiritual darkness, and I was frightened. Anya and I fell to our knees and started praying. After our prayer, there seemed to be a light around us. I knew I must leave the dance group.”
But how could she actually leave? How could she let down the other dancers? Sasha asked for a priesthood blessing. Then she took Anya with her to break the news to her dance director. “When we reached the hall, I saw my director sitting there smoking, and she told me to hurry and dress for the rehearsal,” she remembers. “I told her I would not work there any more—but she wouldn’t listen. ‘How dare you do this?’ she asked. ‘Why do you betray us?’ She caught hold of me and took me in to the rest of the group. I was trying to talk to her, but I felt I didn’t have any strength; I couldn’t say anything.”
Fortunately, Anya was still at her side—saying nothing, but silently praying for her friend. “Suddenly I felt I had the power to talk to the group,” Sasha says. She explained why she was leaving. “It was difficult because they were my friends.”
When the director realized Sasha was not going to change her mind, she called a substitute and told Sasha to teach her everything. “I started dancing,” says Sasha, “and I was crying because I knew I was doing those dances for the last time.”
When she arrived home, she was exhausted. “But I knew I had won! I prayed that night and every night since then. I understood that for God we sometimes have to sacrifice our most beloved things. My new life really began from that moment.”
Sasha was reconciled with her mother, finished high school, and found another way to share her talent for dancing. She has recently completed a degree in dance at a college of culture and arts in St. Petersburg. Most important, her heart is centered again on the Lord.

My family is a very special family because we came about in an unusual way.
When I was two years old, my real father and mother were divorced. My father took the three oldest children and moved to another state. I never saw or heard of them again. We three younger children were placed in different foster homes, where we remained for two years.
The next ten years of my life were filled with hurt and sadness. During this time I had two alcoholic stepfathers and as a result, we experienced a great deal of unhappiness. Our family was not a family. We merely existed together with everyone going his own way.
As a result of my situation at home I began to strike out and to seek attention in other ways. I became involved with the wrong crowd and began sluffing school.
I had learned of the Mormon church through a friend of mine, and when I was 13 years old I was baptized. One of the main reasons I was attracted to the Church was the love and concern I felt from the members of my ward.
I had become quite close to a family in my ward—the Fishers. I was their babysitter. They were my friends, and I grew to love them very much. I loved to babysit for them, and they accepted me for the person I was. I knew they cared about me, and I felt secure when I was with them.
To make a long story short, in the next few months I ran away from home twice. The Fishers went to Social Services and requested that I come live with them. I was surprised but thrilled! After several court trials, I was placed in their home as a foster child. I was 14 years old.
That was eight years ago. As I look back over the years, there are many memories. But perhaps the greatest memory I have is being legally adopted and going to the St. George Temple to be sealed to my parents. My whole family was present, grandparents and all, and it was a peaceful, beautiful, and glorious day.
My parents have worked very hard with me. They encouraged me to go back to school, and I graduated from Brigham Young University. It was a great day, and my parents helped me to make it possible.
There are so many other things my parents have done for me, I could never name them all. However, the most important thing they did was to take me into their home and to love me. My parents helped me to learn to love others. They taught me about the gospel. They answered my questions. They had faith. And they were and still are my examples. My parents gave me the opportunity to have a family and to experience the security of belonging.
When I first went to my foster home I was bitter and felt sorry for myself. I often asked myself, why me? It all seemed so unfair. Fortunately, I have since learned that the experiences I had during my first 14 years of life were meant to be. Those experiences have made me into the person I am today. Those experiences were to teach me. Yes, I had to learn to have compassion for others who may be hurting. I have promised myself to never forget how it hurts to be lonely and frightened.
There is no doubt in my mind that my parents were to be mine. My patriarchal blessing tells me so. We just all came together in a different way. I want to repay my parents for their love, help, and understanding, and I know I can do this by living a good life, helping others, and remaining faithful to the gospel. This is what they would want me to do. I know because it is what they have done in their lives.

There seem to be more families involved in the Church in Madrid than there are in other parts of Spain. Still, in Madrid, like anywhere else, you have to know for yourself what’s true.
Arturo and Alberto Recio saw their father join the Church first, but wanted to gain their own testimonies. “I was studying the Book of Mormon and I read Moroni 10; then I read it again and again,” said Arturo, 13. “Then I asked God if it was true, and he answered me, and here I am.”

The Schuhmachers were a fine, young couple with two children. Although Mr. Schuhmacher had a deeply ingrained smoking habit, he was trying to overcome it, and both he and his wife had expressed an interest in receiving the missionary lessons. After they had received the first two or three discussions, we invited them to attend church with us, the next Sunday being fast Sunday.
We took them to Sunday School and afterwards asked them how they enjoyed it. Their response was quite enthusiastic. The next step appeared to be obvious: urge them to stay for fast and testimony meeting. With some reluctance, they agreed. The meeting was extremely spiritual but extended to nearly two hours, and we could see their young children becoming very restless.
After the meeting, we inquired how they had enjoyed testimony meeting. Now the reply was less enthusiastic; in fact, it was rather cool as Mr. Schuhmacher replied: “That’s too much church for one day. We hadn’t planned on being gone that long. After not having attended our own church for several years, today’s been too much for us!”
We were disappointed when they informed us they’d prefer to come to church on their own initiative next time.

John and Bonnie Newman, like many of you, are recipients of the spiritual blessings President Nelson promised. One Sunday, after attending church with their three young children, Bonnie said to John, who was not a member of the Church, “I cannot do this on my own. You need to decide whether you come to my church with us or you choose a church that we can go to together, but the children need to know that their dad loves God too.” The following Sunday and every Sunday after, John not only attended; he also served, playing the piano for many wards, branches, and Primaries over the years. I had the privilege of meeting with John in April 2015, and in that meeting, we discussed that the best way he could manifest his love for Bonnie was to take her to the temple, but that could not happen unless he was baptized.

After attending The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for 39 years, John was baptized in 2015. A year later, John and Bonnie were sealed in the Memphis Tennessee Temple, 20 years after she had received her own endowment. Their 47-year-old son, Robert, said of his dad, “Dad has really, really blossomed since he received the priesthood.” Bonnie added, “John has always been a happy and cheerful person, but receiving the ordinances and honoring his covenants has enhanced his gentleness.”

On 100-year-old Polk Street, teenagers are more often seen cruising than cleaning, but the youth in the Amarillo Texas Stake changed all that with a special service project.
In conjunction with the city’s “Help Beautify Amarillo” project, the teenagers decided to restore some pride to this historic section of town. They came armed with tools and soap to get rid of graffiti, broken bottles, and other litter. About 50 youth participated in the activity that was planned as part of the Stake Standards Night.
This was such an unusual activity for teenagers in this area that it attracted the attention of the local media and was reported on the front page of the paper. Many community leaders commented on the willingness of the youth to work for their community and expressed gratitude to them.
After the project was finished, they headed for the stake center for dinner and a program on individual self-worth, followed by a dance.

One of the songs that has disappeared was number 163, “Don’t Kill the Little Birds,” and I remember many times singing with a loud voice:
Don’t kill the little birds,
That sing on bush and tree,
All thro’ the summer days,
Their sweetest melody.
Don’t shoot the little birds!
The earth is God’s estate,
And he provideth food
For small as well as great.
(Deseret Songs, 1909, no. 163.)
I had a sling and I had a flipper. I made them myself, and they worked very well. It was my duty to walk the cows to the pasture a mile away from home. There were large cottonwood trees lining the road, and I remember that it was quite a temptation to shoot the little birds “that sing on bush and tree,” because I was a pretty good shot and I could hit a post at fifty yards’ distance or I could hit the trunk of a tree. But I think perhaps because I sang nearly every Sunday, “Don’t Kill the Little Birds,” I was restrained. The second verse goes:
Don’t kill the little birds
Their plumage wings the air,
Their trill at early morn
Makes music ev’ry-where.
What tho’ the cherries fall
Half eaten from the stem?
And berries disappear,
In garden, field, and glen?
This made a real impression on me, so I could see no great fun in having a beautiful little bird fall at my feet.

I spoke earlier of the Kirtland period of Church history. The years of 1836 and 1837 were as difficult as that young Church had ever faced—financially, politically, and internally. In the midst of that stress, Joseph Smith had the remarkable prophetic prompting to send some of his ablest men (ultimately the entire Quorum of the Twelve Apostles) abroad on missions. It was a bold, inspired move, one that would in the end save the Church from the perils of the day, but in the near term it imposed great burdens on the Saints—painful for those who went away and perhaps even more painful for those who stayed at home.
I quote from Elder Robert B. Thompson:
“The day appointed for the departure of the Elders to England having arrived, I [stopped at] the house of Brother [Heber C.] Kimball to ascertain when he would start [on his journey], as I expected to accompany him two or three hundred miles, intending to spend my labors in Canada that season.
“The door being partly open, I entered and felt struck with the sight which presented itself to my view. I would have retired, thinking that I was intruding, but I felt riveted to the spot. The father was pouring out his soul to … [God, pleading] that He who ‘careth for sparrows, and feedeth the young ravens when they cry’ would supply the wants of his wife and little ones in his absence. He then, like the patriarchs, and by virtue of his office, laid his hands upon their heads individually, leaving a father’s blessing upon them, … commending them to the care and protection of God, while he should be engaged preaching the Gospel in a foreign land. While thus engaged [in giving those blessings] his voice was almost lost in the sobs of those around [him], who [were trying in their youthful way to be strong but having a very hard time doing so.] … He proceeded, but his heart was too much affected to do so regularly. … He was obliged to stop at intervals, while … big tears rolled down his cheeks, an index to the feelings which reigned in his bosom. My heart was not stout enough to refrain,” said Brother Thompson. “In spite of myself I wept, and mingled my tears with theirs. At the same time I felt thankful that I had the privilege of contemplating such a scene.”

I felt relaxed and unhurried as I drove home. Then, all of a sudden, I heard the repeated blaring of a car horn.
Illustration by Richard Mia
I was driving home from a young-adult meeting on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. I felt relaxed and unhurried as I thought about the messages I had heard about developing our potential as children of God. I asked myself what I could do to develop the potential that is in me.
My route home took me through a narrow, two-way stretch of road. A long line of cars came from the opposite direction, but no one was behind me. Then, all of a sudden, I heard the repeated blaring of a car horn. There was now a driver behind me. He flicked his headlights on and off and yelled at me to get out of the way. It appeared he wanted to drive faster.
I thought that this person needed to learn patience and respect for others, so I slowed down. As we went past a number of streets, he kept blowing his horn and flicking his lights. He then turned off the road and stopped. I looked in my rearview mirror to see his reaction at not being able to go faster. I felt good about having taught him a lesson.
Suddenly, the driver jumped out of his car and opened the passenger door. A woman emerged quickly with a baby in her arms. I looked to see where they were going. In the distance, I saw the lighted letters: “Hospital Emergency Room.”
“What have I done?” I asked myself. I arrived home, fell to my knees, and with tears in my eyes, I asked God to forgive me.
That day I learned that the actions of those around us can be motivated by things we cannot always see or understand. Today, when I see someone act in a way I judge to be wrong, I prefer to think that I do not quite understand what they are going through. I try to show the love and compassion that Jesus Christ has asked us to have toward others and to focus on understanding and helping those around me.
How can I develop my potential as a child of God? I can respond to the actions of others with love and understanding. Doing so has enabled me to feel more of the Savior’s love in my own life and enables others to feel my love for them.

I had always planned on serving a mission when I turned 20, the age of missionaries at the time. After playing two seasons of football at Utah State University, I had a difficult decision to make. I knew that, at that time, very few returned missionaries played football after their missions. I had put a lot of effort into football, and I loved the game. I decided to delay my mission a few months so I could play one more season and then serve a mission. By the end of that season, I had won the starting quarterback position for the next year.
My coach was surprised and disappointed that after all my hard work in football, I was going to leave. He encouraged me to stay and play my final season. He couldn’t understand why I would walk away from this opportunity. I listened to his comments and his logic, but I told him that I could not wait another year to go on my mission. If I did, I feared I would miss my opportunity to serve a mission. After all my hard work in football, I said good-bye to the team and left for Great Britain to serve the Lord.
I never regretted that decision. I learned so many things on my mission. To witness people embracing the gospel was an incredible experience, which shaped the rest of my life in many important ways. My mission helped make me into the person I am today and had far greater impact on me than football ever could have.

While living in the Dominican Republic, I went to visit a sister who had just gotten home from the hospital after giving birth to her third child. I was surprised by how well and calm she looked. Her other two children were still so young! After a few minutes into our conversation, she shared with me how peaceful she felt because the Relief Society sisters had signed up to come to help her every day for the next few days. She felt loved.

As an example, Brother Bishop describes the members the Division found to translate materials into two of the languages of Zaire—Lingala and Tshiluba. Church materials are translated into Lingala by Alfonse and Maguy Muanda, in addition to their being actively involved as stake missionaries and operating their own business.
Tshiluba is the native language of Ambrose and Louise Massala, but in their college days they lived in an area of Zaire where Swahili is spoken, and that became their daily language. Shortly after they were married, Ambrose suggested that they go back to speaking to one another in Tshiluba. Louise thought the suggestion strange because by then they had been speaking Swahili for a number of years. However, they began using Tshiluba again, and their children grew up speaking Tshiluba at home. Surprised when they were asked if they would translate material into Tshiluba, Louise said she finally realized why Ambrose was inspired to return to using a language they had almost forgotten.

My brother, Colonel Leon C. Packer, was stationed at the Pentagon in Washington, D.C. A much decorated B-24 pilot, he became a brigadier general in the Air Force.
While I was at Langley Field, the war in Europe ended, and so we were ordered to the Pacific. I spent a few days with Leon in Washington before shipping out for combat.
He told me of things he had learned under fire. He flew from North Africa on raids over southern Europe; very few of those planes returned.
On April 16, 1943, he was captain of a B-24 bomber returning to England after a raid in Europe. His plane, the Yard Bird, was heavily damaged by flak and dropped out of formation.
Then they were alone and came under heavy attack from fighters.
His one-page account of that experience says: “Number three engine was smoking and the prop ran away. Number four fuel line was shot out. Right aileron cables and stabilizer cables were shot out. Rudders partially locked. Radio shot out. Extremely large holes in the right wing. Flaps shot out. Entire rear part of the fuselage filled with holes. Hydraulic system shot out. Tail turret out.”
A history of the Eighth Air Force, published just two years ago, gives a detailed account of that flight written by one of the crew.
With one engine on fire, the other three lost power. They were going down. The alarm bell ordered that they bail out. The bombardier, the only one able to get out, parachuted into the English Channel.
The pilots left their seats and made their way toward the bomb bay to bail out. Suddenly Leon heard an engine cough and sputter. He quickly climbed back to his seat and coaxed enough power from the engines to reach the coast of England. Then the engines failed, and they crashed.
The landing gear was shorn off on the brow of a hill; the plane plowed through trees and crumbled. Dirt filled the fuselage.
Amazingly, though some were terribly wounded, all aboard survived. The bombardier was lost, but he probably saved the lives of the other nine. When smoke poured from the engines and a parachute appeared, the fighters stopped their attack.
That was not the only time Leon had crash-landed.
As we visited, he told me how he was able to hold himself together under fire. He said, “I have a favorite hymn”—and he named it—“and when things got rough I would sing it silently to myself, and there would come a faith and an assurance that kept me on course.”
He sent me off to combat with that lesson.

Lori Ransom, a 16-year-old Idaho girl, recently won first place nationally in the American Legion Auxiliary Americanism contest.
Lori’s essay placed first in the senior division in Pocatello, went on to win in the state, and was then entered in the national competition. She was flown to Seattle, Washington, on August 22, 1976, to attend the Legion’s national convention where she read her essay to 2,000 women representing every state. Her essay was geared to the question “Is Americanism in danger of extinction? How may I preserve my heritage?”
Winning essay contests is not a new experience for Lori. She was first in the local Americanism contest in both the fifth and seventh grades. Lori has also won two state awards in French competition.
Lori is secretary of her Laurel class, organist for the junior Primary, and is a third-year seminary student. She does a lot of artwork for her ward and for Highland High School (Pocatello, Idaho).

Five cubs had been born to Red and Vixen only nine days ago. These young ones were still completely helpless, and their eyes were just beginning to open. Two of the cubs were the typical red color of their father; two were more of a cross like Vixen—reddish brown with a smoky stripe down the back and across the shoulders; and one had silver black fur sprinkled with white.
Red was now on his way back to his family, feeling rather smug after stealing some leftover meat that a wolf had cached for a future meal. Hunting was not usually so easy. As a matter of fact, when the snowshoe hare population was low and the marmots and ground squirrels were still in hibernation, death from starvation was a constant threat. As if that problem were not enough, a desperate lynx that depended on the hare for most of its diet might anytime add a red fox to its menu. But in recent years snowshoe hares had been plentiful in the north country, so Red had not noticed any extra attention from his lynx neighbors.
Another resident of the wilderness, however, lurked nearby. The clucking alarm and whirring wings of a willow ptarmigan were warning signals to Red. He stopped abruptly, forepaw in the air. His body was arrow straight, tense, ready to spring into action. Something was edging through the lodgepole pines. Suddenly a giant grizzly bear appeared. Its massive hump-shouldered body weighed almost a thousand pounds. The grizzly was one of the most ferocious of all wild animals.
The bear was headed toward the den of Red and his new family. Red couldn’t tell if the bear were aware of the den. But he knew that if the grizzly were not diverted before he had the scent of the cubs, they would be devoured.
Red was one of the smaller predators of the north country, but his intelligence, speed, and courage made up for his size. In a red blur of motion, the fox dashed out to meet the grizzly. He circled around the bear and then rushed in to nip at his heels. The bear turned and snarled. Red circled again and again, darting in and out as he went, teasing, taunting, challenging. He knew that he must draw the bear away from the den, so each time Red retreated from the savage claws of the grizzly, he backed a little farther away from Vixen and their cubs.
In one unguarded moment before the grizzly had completely turned, Red made a rushing leap and bit the bear on the rump. Snarling with rage, the grizzly lunged toward the little fox. The whole forest shuddered with the sound. But the agile fox dodged the lashing paw just in time, backing away in an effort to draw the grizzly still farther from the den.
By now the bear was breathing in hoarse huffs. He was rapidly losing his appetite for a red fox dinner. What may have once seemed like a good idea had become a painful, frustrating ordeal. With a resigned grunt, the grizzly turned and lumbered off into the pines.

In an early stake conference assignment, Elder Paramore and I were blessed to visit the home of a dear brother who, in a tragic industrial accident on August 26, 1958, fell from a cooling tower into a hole thirty-five feet below, where he landed on his head and became paralyzed from the shoulders down. In the intervening thirty-one years he has survived as one of the longest-living quadriplegics in medical history. He was unable to attend the conference meetings, but a brief, thoughtfully prepared video of his life and testimony was presented in the Saturday evening session of conference. He lies not in a bed but suspended on a circular metal rack, where he has received devoted nursing care twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, since this accident more than thirty-one years ago.
This brother, whose home we visited following the conference, praised his nurses, his priesthood leaders, his home teachers, and many others who during those long years stood by his side and ministered to his spiritual and temporal needs. A wise stake president had called him to be the regular correspondent to the missionaries and the servicemen from his stake. I have been inspired many times as I have read his letters sent to bolster the faith of choice young missionaries across the world.
May I quote two lines from one of these missionary letters: “Christ is the only way to heaven. All other paths are detours to doom. Commitment to Christ should go hand in hand with commitment to His Church.”

When Goethe wrote his Faust, I believe he was inspired to utter some truths about the method of attack by the enemy of our souls. You recall that the man Faust, an old man, was anxious to be made a youth again. He prayed for such a transformation. But the thing he sought for was unlawful, and the Lord had no answer for him. But he persisted in his prayers, and when we persist, not willing to say “Father, thy will, not mine, be done,” it is quite possible that the devil may answer us, as he did Faust. And so the devil said: “I will do this thing for you. I will make you a youth, and when you are a youth you will want a maiden.” And a vision of the beautiful Marguerite was shown. “But if I do this for you I want you to sign a contract that when you are done with this body your spirit belongs to me.”

It is not bodies, it is immortal spirits that the devil wants. And he tries to capture them through the body, for the body can enslave the spirit, but the spirit can keep the body a servant and be its master.

So the contract is entered into. Then as Faust is made a young man he remembers the promise of the virgin, the maiden, and the two go in search of her. They find her as she enters the church. Suddenly Faust rushes forward to seize her, but the devil holds him back and says: “Not so fast, not that way.” Here is a truth. The devil cannot capture any man or woman that way. He cannot suddenly sweep them off their feet and bind them as his slaves against their wills. The power is given to every man and woman that lives to speak as Christ did: “Get thee hence, Satan;” and he will leave you as quickly as he left the Master. He cannot capture a single soul unless we are willing to go. He is limited. He must win men and women.

So with Marguerite. He must win her. They study her and find her weakness. She is a chaste, virtuous, wonderful girl, yet she has a weakness. It is vanity. So they play upon that weak link. Jewels are placed in the garden, and with them the mirror. She discovers these things. Vanity prompts her to put the jewels on and suggest she look in the mirror and see how beautiful she is. At the psychological moment the tempter appears and offers them as a gift from her would-be lover. She is prompted to keep them.

The lovers spend the afternoon together, and the mother’s voice is heard calling Marguerite to come in from the garden, but she is loath to leave her new-found lover. Again at the psychological moment the tempter, the devil, appears, placing a pill in the hand of Faust with the assurance that if this is placed in the mother’s evening drink the mother will soon be asleep and the lovers will be undisturbed. As I have listened to the sad stories of more than one girl who has stolen away from her mother’s influence and come to sorrow and distress, I wonder why the warning is not sufficient to give every girl the assurance that the safest place in the world for her is as close to her mother as she can get.

The mother takes the potion and goes to sleep. The lovers spend the night together. Early morning brings the brother Valentino upon the scene, and he finds his mother—dead for it is the sleep of death—and a stranger in the house with his sister Marguerite. A quarrel follows, and a duel is fought in which Valentino, the brother, is slain. Now Marguerite comes to an awakening sense of her full situation and the consequences of her own act. She has slain her mother, brought the death of her brother, and—worse than her own death—she has lost her virtue. She is next seen weeping and tearing her hair, and the devil comes laughing upon the scene. He has captured another soul. Strongly fortified as she was, she had one weakness, and through that the enemy entered her citadel and she fell.

Emily smelled something good coming from the kitchen. I know that smell, she thought. Mom’s making chicken soup. She watched her mom ladle soup from a big, steaming pot into a glass jar. “What are you doing with the soup?” she asked.
“Mrs. Jenkins isn’t feeling well,” Mom replied, putting the jar into a sturdy paper bag with a handle. “I was hoping that you would take it to her.”
“Sure. Your chicken soup always makes me feel better when I’m sick.”
Mrs. Jenkins was their neighbor. She was old and lived alone.
That gave Emily an idea. She raced to her room and hunted for her favorite storybook, “The Three Little Pigs.”
“What’s the book for?” asked Mom.
Emily buckled her sandals. “I thought I’d read it to Mrs. Jenkins while she eats.”
Emily rang Mrs. Jenkins’ doorbell. There was no answer, so Emily rang the doorbell again.
Mrs. Jenkins’ door finally creaked open, and Mrs. Jenkins peeked around the door.
She’s as white as a marshmallow! Emily thought.
“Good afternoon, Emily.” Mrs. Jenkins’ voice was barely above a whisper.
“I brought you some chicken soup that my mother made.” Emily held up the bag. “We hope it makes you feel better.”
“Please come in.”
While Mrs. Jenkins got a bowl from the cupboard, Emily set the soup on the kitchen counter. “I brought a story to read to you while you eat.”
Mrs. Jenkins sipped some of the soup.
“Once upon a time, …” Emily began.
Mrs. Jenkins sipped another spoonful.
“Is the soup good?” Emily asked.
“It’s wonderful.” Mrs. Jenkins smiled. “Now, please read on.”
Emily read. She made huffing and puffing sounds every time the wolf tried to blow one of the pigs’ houses down.
Mrs. Jenkins laughed every time Emily huffed and puffed.
By the time Emily had finished the story, Mrs. Jenkins had finished her soup. Her cheeks were pink, and her eyes sparkled. The chicken soup had sure worked fast!
“Maybe you should have another bowl,” Emily said.
“Only if you read the story again.”
So Mrs. Jenkins had another bowl of soup, and Emily huffed and puffed some more.
“I feel much better,” Mrs. Jenkins said. “Thank you. And thank your mom for me, too.”
“Mom, your chicken soup is amazing!” Emily exclaimed when she went back home. “Mrs. Jenkins already feels better.”
Mom gave Emily a great big hug. “I don’t think it was just the soup.”
The hug felt warm and good. Emily thought about Mrs. Jenkins alone in her big house with no one to share hugs with. “May I read another story to Mrs. Jenkins tomorrow?”
Mom smiled. “I’m sure she’d like that.”
Maybe it isn’t just the chicken soup, Emily decided. Maybe visits and stories are good medicine, too.