Jenelle heard her best friend, Michelle, ask Rebecca to her birthday party on Sunday. Michelle’s parents had planned a swimming party to celebrate her eleventh birthday.

Michelle had already invited Jenelle, but Jenelle had told Michelle that she’d have to let her know. Jenelle knew that she wouldn’t be going to the party, but she didn’t want to say that in front of the other girls.

The two girls had been friends since they were six years old. But after Jenelle’s family had become members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints nine months ago, things had changed between them. Jenelle wanted Michelle to understand that becoming a Latter-day Saint didn’t change what Jenelle felt for her friend, but Michelle was having a hard time accepting that.

After school, Jenelle trudged home more discouraged than ever because Michelle had announced that everyone else she’d invited to her party would come. At least Mom will be home, Jenelle thought. She’ll know what I can do. I always feel better after talking things over with her.

At home, she quickly found her mother in the kitchen. “What am I going to do?” she asked once she’d told her mother the whole story.

Mom put her arm around Jenelle’s shoulders. “You have to decide what’s more important to you—going to your friend’s party or obeying the commandments.”

Jenelle sighed. She knew what she should do. That didn’t make it any easier, though. She didn’t want to hurt her friend’s feelings. And more than anything, she wanted to go to the party. Almost more than anything, she thought. She couldn’t break one of the commandments, especially when the prophet had spoken about the importance of keeping the Sabbath Day holy in a general conference talk.

She knew what she had to do. After school the next day, she hurried home and wrapped the present she’d made for Michelle, then walked to her friend’s house.

“I made you something special for your birthday. I’m sorry I can’t come to your birthday party. It’s because it’s on a Sunday.”

Michelle tore open the paper and held up a birdhouse. “This is great! You made this all by yourself?”

Jenelle nodded. “At Primary activity day.” She told Michelle about Primary and the activity days for girls her age.

Michelle showed Jenelle the bathing suit she had bought for the party.

Jenelle looked at the pretty aqua suit and smiled. She had looked at the same one last week while shopping with her mother.

“So what’s the big deal about your going swimming on Sunday?” Michelle asked after putting the suit away. “We’ll be going in the afternoon, after your church lets out.”

“The prophet said that we need to keep the Sabbath Day holy.”

“What does that mean?” Michelle asked.

“It means we don’t shop on Sunday or go swimming or to ball games—stuff like that.”

“What do you do?”

“We go to church, spend time with our families, listen to music. Read the scriptures.” She smiled, remembering last Sunday. “Sometimes my mom and dad take a nap.”

Michelle frowned. “Who is this prophet? Why do you have to do what he says?”

“He’s the President of the Church.”

“So he’s like the boss?”

Jenelle smiled again. She’d never heard the prophet described as a boss, but she supposed it made sense to people who weren’t members of the Church.

“What makes the prophet so special?” Michelle asked.

“He teaches us things Heavenly Father wants us to know.”

“You mean he talks with God?”

“Yes,” Jenelle answered firmly. She knew that a lot of people had a hard time understanding that.

“Does he have a name?”

“Right now the prophet is Gordon B. Hinckley.”

“Do you have to do everything he says?”

“We don’t have to. We choose to,” Jenelle said, hoping Michelle understood.

“Could you come to my birthday party next year if it was on Saturday?”

Jenelle hugged her friend. “I’m already counting the days till then!”

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“Did Teacher Say That I Could?”

By Janine Mickelson as told to Sheila Kindred
Friend, Jan 2001, 18
A true story

Keep the commandments! In this there is safety (Children’s Songbook, page 146).

Eighteen-year-old Annie Smith wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck and looked back across the railroad bridge she had just crossed. It was a beautiful winter day in 1892, a perfect day for their school outing. She and her students had already enjoyed dinner at her house and a sleigh ride. Now, as they carefully made their way across the bridge, Annie paused to watch them. These children from her one-room schoolhouse in Porterville, Utah, were a variety of ages and sizes, with some students even older than she was. It warmed her heart to see the bigger ones helping the smaller ones along the tracks.

As Annie watched, she felt a small hand slip into hers. She looked down into the face of her youngest student, little Hughie. His brown eyes were large with excitement.

“Do we really get to go through the tunnel?” His voice was almost a whisper.

Annie nodded. “I have special permission from the railroad. They assured me that no trains were scheduled for today, so it will be perfectly safe.” She looked at the dark opening in the mountainside ahead. “It’s a long, dark tunnel, Hughie. There are no lights inside, but on the other side is a beautiful view of the rockslide and the valley.”

Hughie gave a little sigh and smiled. Annie’s words had put his fears to rest. Now he tugged anxiously on her arm. “Come on, Teacher. Let’s go see the valley.”

Soon they were all inside the tunnel. It took a while for their eyes to adjust to the darkness after the bright daylight. “Take it slowly,” Annie’s voice echoed in the tunnel. “Keep on the tracks and hold hands so that you don’t trip.”

At first the children were laughing and joking, but they soon grew silent as they concentrated on their footing. The only sound was the grating of their footsteps on gravel and their quiet voices as they guided each other over the railroad ties.

Annie knew they were about halfway through the darkness when she saw a small circle of light ahead marking the other end of the tunnel. “We’re almost there,” she told her students. “See the light ahead?”

As they paused to look, they heard a rumbling noise coming closer and closer, and then a sound that made their blood run chill: a train whistle.

“Teacher?” It was Hughie’s voice. “Did you hear? What—”

Annie hushed him quickly. She stood frozen on the tracks, not daring to believe her ears. But then the whistle sounded again, nearer this time. There was a train rounding the point of the mountain and coming across the bridge. It was coming very fast!

Annie prayed silently for help. Please, Heavenly Father, what should I do? Tell me what to do.

“Teacher?” an older child asked. “Shall we run?”

The tracks were starting to vibrate under their feet.

“No!” The words seemed to spring from her lips of their own accord. “Lie down at once as close to the wall as possible. Don’t move or try to get up until I say that you can. Now, go!”

This last word she had to scream because the sound of the approaching train was loud and unmistakable now. She pulled the nearest child with her to the wall of the tunnel and held him tight. As the train roared into the tunnel, many of the children screamed in terror. Sparks flew from the smokestack in a shower of light, and the smoke almost suffocated them. It seemed to last forever. Annie trembled and tightened her grip on the child, afraid she might lose him in the hot, rushing wind that swept through the tunnel with the train.

When the silence finally returned, she helped the child up and hurried toward the light. She went as swiftly as she could, tripping on stones and bumping into her students, who were also in a panic, crawling to get out of the dark.

Once outside the tunnel, the students helped brush the dirt from each other’s clothing and began to breathe more easily. Then one of the older children asked, “Where’s Hughie?”

Taking some older boys with her, Annie returned to the dark tunnel, afraid of what she might find. The boys ran ahead calling Hughie’s name. Then, “He’s here!” a boy called, relief in his voice. “Lying facedown by the wall.”

“It’s OK, Hughie.” Annie heard another boy comforting him. “The train is gone. You can get up now.”

Hughie turned his face toward them and said in a brave but frightened voice, “Did Teacher say that I could?”

Annie hurried over to him and put her arms around him. “Oh, Hughie,” she said, tears in her eyes. “Thank you for being so obedient. You did the right thing, and you are safe. You can get up now. Teacher says so.”

Hughie got to his feet, and Annie took his hand and led him toward the light. As they walked, Annie silently thanked Heavenly Father for watching over this little boy who had such faith in his teacher. She hoped that she would always live worthy of that trust.

Annie also knew that her trust in Heavenly Father had not been in vain. Her prayer had been answered when she knew what they needed to do to be safe. They had been spared because they had immediately obeyed those promptings. There is safety in obedience. That was a lesson that neither Hughie nor his teacher would ever forget.

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“I Did It!”

By Lisa Greene Friend, Jan 2001, 34
Based on a true event

We learn from problems, and we’re starting to see. I help you, and you help me. (Children’s Songbook, page 263.)

Kelly and the other fifth-graders had just come in from lunch when Mr. Aragon announced, “Our class is going to begin a special project tomorrow that I think you’ll find exciting. Are you all familiar with Victoria Benson School?”

Kelly nodded along with the rest of the students, but instead of feeling excited, she felt uneasy. Victoria Benson School was right next to their own school, Easton Elementary. The students at the two schools were approximately the same ages, but there was one big difference. Victoria Benson students all had mental disabilities.

“We’ll be visiting the school once a week,” Mr. Aragon continued. “You’ll be acting as tutors, helping the students one-on-one with the work they do in class.” As he explained some of the details of the special project, the students became more and more interested, until it seemed to Kelly that she was the only one who was still uneasy about the project.

She and her friends had sometimes watched the Victoria Benson students through the fence at recess. Some of their faces looked different around the eyes, and their speech was slow and slurred. They seemed awkward when they ran or threw a ball. As she knelt by her bed for prayer that night, she remembered the words to a Primary song her class had learned last year:

If you don’t walk as most people do,
Some people walk away from you,
But I won’t! I won’t!
If you don’t talk as most people do,
Some people talk and laugh at you,
But I won’t! I won’t!
I’ll walk with you. I’ll talk with you.
That’s how I’ll show my love for you.*

I know that Jesus loves the Victoria Benson students, Kelly thought as she turned out the light. Maybe I will, too.

When her class entered Victoria Benson School the next day, Kelly had the worst case of butterflies in her stomach she’d ever had. But the Primary song kept running through her mind: “I’ll walk with you. I’ll talk with you. That’s how I’ll show my love for you.”

Mr. Aragon led them into a sunny, brightly decorated classroom and introduced the class to Miss Donnelley, one of the teachers.

“We’re really glad to have you here,” Miss Donnelley said. “The students have been so excited this morning! They’re eager to meet you, so I’m going to assign you to areas and get you started right away.”

A few students were sent to the cafeteria to help four boys setting the tables for lunch. Several were sent to the math area of the classroom to help with counting objects, writing numbers, and matching shapes. Others were assigned to a writing table, where a few students were learning to print their names.

Maybe they’ll run out of assignments, Kelly thought, and I’ll be able to just watch today. But Miss Donnelley led her to what she called the dressing area and introduced her to Sandra, a girl with long dark hair. She gave Kelly a big smile.

“Sandra is learning to zip her jacket,” Miss Donnelley told Kelly. “I’d like you to help her.” Then the teacher left to give out another assignment.

By myself? Kelly thought. How do I do that?

Sandra was still smiling at her as Kelly took a deep breath, stuck her hands into her own jacket pockets, and introduced herself. “Hi.” She tried to put friendliness into her voice to hide her nervousness. “I’m supposed to help you zip your jacket.”

“Hi, Kewwy. I’m glad you’re helping me.”

Kelly smiled back. “Well, I guess we’d better get started. First you stick that straight metal part into the slot in the other part,” she began.

Sandra’s face took on a look of concentration. She held the two parts of the zipper in her hands and fumbled with them. Kelly waited a minute, then said, “Hold it at the top of the slot and then push it down.” Sandra tried again, but still couldn’t do it.

Kelly pulled her hands out of her pockets. “Look, Sandra—watch me. Do it like this.”

Sandra watched as Kelly zipped and unzipped her own jacket twice.

“Now you try again,” Kelly urged.

Sandra’s face looked even more determined as she tried again, but she just couldn’t fit the parts together. Now Kelly was the one frowning in concentration. What am I doing wrong? She wondered. Suddenly Kelly had an idea. Surprising them both, she reached out and grasped Sandra’s hands. “I’ll walk with—I mean, I’ll help you!”

With Kelly’s hands guiding hers, Sandra soon fit the parts together. As Sandra began breathing more quickly and nodding her head, Kelly let go and let her try it by herself. Kelly held her breath as Sandra fumbled a few times but finally fit the parts together. Kelly’s smile was as big as Sandra’s as Sandra slowly pulled the zipper all the way up.

“I did it! I did it!” Sandra grabbed Kelly in a big hug. Kelly was surprised, but she hugged right back. Then Sandra ran off to show Miss Donnelley, waving her hands in the air and still shouting, “I did it!”

As Kelly watched her go, she smiled and thought, I guess I did it, too!

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A Whispering in the Heart

Friend, Jan 2001, 40
True event in the life of Willard Rosander

My Spirit shall be in your hearts (D&C 84:88).

In 1878, President John Taylor called Saints to settle in the San Luis Valley of southern Colorado. Early in the twentieth century, Pa moved our family to that desolate land.

Our new farm was littered with rocks. Before we could till the ground, we had to clear them away. Using a wheelbarrow, Ma and I carted away the small rocks. There was only one way to remove the boulders—blow them up with dynamite.

Pa dug under each one as far as he could and placed the dynamite underneath. He was careful to set each charge in just the right place so that the blast would tear the boulder completely apart. Finally everything was ready for Pa to light the fuse. Mama herded us children out of danger.

Boom!

The first boulder exploded into hundreds of fragments and a cloud of dust. When the dust settled, the boulder had disappeared. I now had to pick up the pieces and fill the hole with dirt.

We repeated the process, Pa lighting the dynamite and I clearing away the shattered rock. By the end of the third explosion, I was growing tired of picking up rocks and wanted to be in on the “real” work—lighting the dynamite. I took a few steps toward Pa.

“Willard, stay back!” my mother called.

I scowled. At nine, I was the oldest and believed I was a man.

As I started back to the homestead, a sense of danger ran through me. A whispering in my heart warned me that something was wrong.

I didn’t understand. I wasn’t in any danger. I was well away from the blasting. Certain that I had imagined the voice, I concentrated on what Pa was doing. Maybe he’d see that I was nearly grown and ready to work alongside him.

The feeling of danger grew.

I recalled the promise my father had made at the time of my confirmation: “I bless you with the power of discernment. Listen to the Spirit. It will guide you and protect you from harm.”

I tried to ignore the voice, but it wouldn’t be still. I could no longer pretend that I didn’t hear the insistent whisper.

I bless you with the power of discernment.

The words were as clear now as they had been when Pa pronounced the blessing more than a year earlier. If I wasn’t in danger, maybe the voice was telling me that someone else was. Ma was hanging clothes on the line, my little sister pulling at her skirts. I grinned at the picture they made. My smile faded as I realized that I couldn’t see three-year-old Hyrum.

“Hyrum!” I shouted. “Hyrum!” Shading my eyes from the sun, I squinted into the distance. Then I saw him—heading straight toward the field, chubby legs churning.

I took off after him, running and praying and shouting all at the same time. “Pa!” I screamed, waving my arms to attract his attention.

His back turned to me, Pa couldn’t see my warning or Hyrum toddling toward disaster.

I reached Hyrum at the same moment the boulder exploded. Throwing my body over his, I shielded him the best I could. Sharp rock fragments rained down on me, pummeling my head, back, and legs.

Hyrum began to squirm. “Heavy,” he said. “Let me up.”

I rolled off. My body screamed with pain, but I scarcely noticed. Gently, I ran my hands over my little brother. “Are you all right?”

He wiggled away from me and stood. His chin wobbled, but he appeared unhurt. “Scared,” he said.

“I was scared, too.” I pulled Hyrum to me and hugged him.

By then Pa had reached us. Tears tracked through the dirt and grime on his face. His big arms circled us, squeezing tight. “How did you know that your brother was in danger?”

I hesitated, not sure how to explain. “A voice told me that something was wrong. I didn’t pay attention at first, but it kept poking at me until I had to listen.” I paused, then confessed the part that stung my conscience. “If I had listened the first time, Hyrum wouldn’t have wandered away. He’d never have been in danger.”

Pa laid his big hand on my shoulder. “But you did listen. That’s the important thing.” Pa took a deep breath. “That was a mighty brave thing you did, Willard.”

“I prayed, Pa. I was praying so hard the words nearly choked me.”

“So was I, Son. So was I.”

Ma and my little sister came running. Laughing and crying at the same time, Ma hugged me and Hyrum. Soon, all of us were hugging and crying.

A sweet feeling of peace settled around my heart as I knelt by my bed that night. My prayers took longer than usual as I thanked Heavenly Father for the whisperings of the Spirit in my heart.

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(February)

Baptized by the Prophet

By Lisa Passey Boynton
Friend, Feb 2001, 2
Based on a true story

I will show miracles … unto all those who believe (D&C 35:8).

Thomas stood on the banks of the Mississippi River, his bare hands pushed deep inside the pockets of his overcoat. His breath came out in cloudy puffs, and his teeth chattered steadily.

Thomas watched as a chunk of ice bigger than a wagon wheel slowly drifted by. The ferry had been moored for days, and the muddy banks of the river were frozen and hard. The Saints who had hoped to leave Nauvoo ahead of the Canadian storm had been delayed; there was no hope of crossing the icy river before spring.

Thomas had never seen a storm like the one that hit Nauvoo that February 1846. The weather had been mild and warm the first half of the month, and President Brigham Young had exhorted the members of the Church to leave Nauvoo for the camp at Sugar Creek. Many families had followed his admonition. The ferry carried heavy loads of people, animals, and wagons across the river continually until the temperatures dropped. Almost overnight, the storm blew in with a terrible fury. Bitter cold winds pounded Thomas’s wood-frame house from the north, doors and shutters clattering loudly. Great mounds of snow piled up on the streets of Nauvoo. The stinging, harsh blizzard had gone on for days. This morning was the first time Thomas was able to see the ice-choked river.

“Thomas!” called his younger brother, Joseph. “Mama needs those eggs from Sister Patterson right away!”

Thomas looked back across the river one more time. “All right, Joseph. I’m coming.” He pulled his woolen scarf closer around his neck and met his brother halfway up the hill.

Joseph was a year younger than Thomas, but he was already nearly as tall. Named for the Prophet Joseph Smith, he had been born three days before the Prophet’s thirty-first birthday. Joseph’s cheeks and nose were red from the cold, and he was blowing on his hands to keep them warm.

“You run home, Joseph,” Thomas said. “Tell Mama I’m on my way with the eggs for her custard.”

Joseph nodded and loped off. Thomas could see their house up the road and knew that Joseph would soon be sitting in front of the warm hearth.

Mama rarely made her delicious egg custard anymore, especially since they had sold their best laying hens to the Pattersons. Papa said that the hens would never survive the journey west and that the family needed the money to buy more basic supplies. But this morning Mama had declared that they would have custard for dessert and had sent Thomas for the fresh eggs. He knew that his father and mother had been fasting and praying about the weather and that this special dessert was his mother’s way of expressing gratitude for the slivers of sunshine that had broken through the gray clouds today.

As the family gathered around the table to pray over their simple meal, Thomas could see that his father was discouraged. “There was trouble in town again today,” his father said. “Let us pray that the Lord will provide a way for us to leave Nauvoo before anyone is seriously harmed. We are packed and ready to go. There must be a way!”

Thomas bowed his head along with his parents and brothers and sisters, but in his heart he felt a twinge of fear. He did not want to leave Nauvoo.

Although most of their furniture and farming equipment had been sold to purchase a wagon and food supplies, their home was still cozy and warm, and there was always enough to eat. He had been just a little boy when his family was driven from their home in Missouri by an angry mob and forced to settle in the marshy wetlands of Commerce, Illinois. It had been cold then, too, and he remembered how he had cried for a cup of milk. But over the years, he had seen Commerce become the beautiful city of Nauvoo, a place where the Prophet Joseph Smith would stop and play stickball with Thomas and his friends, then invite them to his home for a glass of cool lemonade. Though it had been a year and a half since the Prophet’s death, he ducked his head to hide his tears.

“Thomas?” his Mama asked softly. “Are you well?”

His older sister, Mary Jane, quietly said, “He doesn’t want to go west, Mama.”

Papa put down his fork and folded his arms across his chest. “Is this true, Son?”

Thomas gulped. “Yes, Papa,” he whispered.

He heard his mother sigh, and he felt ashamed. It had already been decided that Mama would leave her piano and her cherished spinning wheel behind. But she reached across the table and put her hand on top of his. “We all wish we could stay in Nauvoo. Here we have a lovely home, a prosperous farm, good friends and family, even a beautiful new temple. But the Lord has promised us peace, and we will never find that here.”

Thomas nodded and tried to hold back the tears that still pushed against his eyelids. His father saw him struggling and slowly slid back his chair. “Mama, save us some of your custard. Thomas and I are going to check on the horses.”

Thomas put on his overcoat and scarf and followed his father out to the barn. The sky was clear, and the air was as sharp as a knife in his lungs. Inside the barn, his father lit a lantern and stamped his feet. “Mighty cold out tonight,” he said. “We must pray for our brothers and sisters who are spending this night in a tent or a wagon box.”

Thomas plopped down on a bale of hay. “Papa, if we had crossed the river with the others last week, we would be out there in a tent tonight!”

His father sat beside him, reaching out to stroke the mane of his favorite horse. “I know, Son. The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

“Then why can’t we wait until spring … or even summer? Why must we leave now?”

“You do not realize the danger that surrounds us. I was a close friend of the Prophet Joseph, and his enemies are my enemies.” Thomas felt his father tremble beside him. He looked up and saw the scar on his father’s cheek that had come from the leather thong of a bullwhip. He still remembered how his mother had cried over the wound, praying that God would forgive her for thinking terrible thoughts about the man who had whipped her husband. “And I think this is a test of our faith, Son. Will we follow the prophet—or not?”

Thomas blinked his eyes hard. Suddenly he remembered a very special occasion in his life.

It was May 1843, and he had just celebrated his eighth birthday. His mother had made a cake with butter icing, and he was eating a thick slice on the front porch when he saw a tall, handsome man coming down the lane. Thomas recognized him immediately—Brother Joseph—and ran to him.

Brother Joseph chuckled, “What’s this I hear about you today? I knew it was a special day when I woke up to a chorus of birds outside my window!”

“It’s my birthday, Brother Joseph!”

“Your birthday?” The Prophet waved to the boy’s mother in the garden and clasped his father in a warm embrace. “But it isn’t just any birthday, is it?”

“It’s my eighth birthday! Now I can be baptized!”

The Prophet sat on the porch steps and drew the boy down next to him. “A very special day indeed. But why do you want to be baptized?”

Thomas tried to stretch his legs out far like Brother Joseph’s. “So I can be a member of the Church like you and Papa and Mama and my older brothers and sisters!”

Brother Joseph nodded and put his arm around Thomas’s shoulders. “That’s good. But I think there’s more to it than that. If your family and I weren’t here, would you still want to be baptized?”

Thomas thought for a moment. “Yes, I would, Brother Joseph. Jesus wants me to be baptized, and I always want to follow Him.”

Tears filled Joseph’s kind eyes. “I want to follow Him, too, Thomas. It may be hard sometimes, but we will always be blessed.”

Thomas’s father cleared his throat. “Brother Joseph, we would be honored if you would baptize Thomas.”

Joseph laughed joyfully and ruffled Thomas’s hair. “I would be delighted,” he said.

Thomas felt his father’s arm around him. “Are you thinking about Brother Joseph, Thomas?”

“Yes,” was all he managed to whisper.

His father hugged him tighter. “When you are a grown man, your children and grandchildren will ask if you remember when you were baptized. Your heart will burst with pride when you tell them that you were baptized by the Prophet Joseph Smith. And then you will tell them how you followed another prophet of God through snow and cold and all sorts of trials so that they could live in a land of peace and enjoy all the blessings of the gospel without being afraid. For many generations, your family will honor you and be grateful for your sacrifices. Your life will be blessed, Thomas, in more ways than you will ever know.”

After Thomas finished his evening prayer, he crawled under the warm quilt. He could hear his mother and father talking downstairs. He was still afraid of what might happen on their journey west, but he felt a calm reassurance in his heart that all would be well.

The next morning, the family was awakened early by a whoop of joy. “It’s a miracle!” their neighbor, Brother Williams, shouted from the front gate. “The Mississippi River is frozen solid! Load up your wagons—we’re crossing over! The Lord has answered our prayers!”

Yes, He has, Thomas thought as he hurriedly dressed in the cold morning air.

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The Dog Who Comes to Church

By Whitney Wilcox and Grandma Val C. Wilcox
Friend, Feb 2001, 13
A true story

We are always glad to welcome a friend When he passes along our way (Children’s Songbook, page 254).

Our cocker spaniels, Ann and Dan, and our neighbor’s white, fluffy, lap dog, Pepper, are not welcome to come inside the church building. But Sister Moulder’s yellow Labrador, Buddy, has permission from the Bishop to come in and make himself at home.

Buddy works for Sister Ellen Moulder. He is her guide dog. She needs his help because she is mostly blind. Buddy uses his eyes to guide her to classes and to sacrament meeting. He also uses his sensitive nose to memorize the way to familiar places she needs to go to. Some of us kids think of him as “Supernose Dog.”

Sister Moulder went to a training center in New York State for more than three weeks. She and Buddy learned there how to get along together. On their first Sunday together in our ward, Sister Moulder taught us how to help Buddy adjust to his new home and friends. Did you know that it helps Buddy if we do not look in his eyes, pat his head, or rub his ears? When he wears his working harness, he must not be distracted. If we invite him to play, we will be undoing the good training he has been given. We help him best by ignoring him. We must never call him by name or offer him food. He should take commands and food only from Sister Moulder. She takes good care of Buddy, and she trains him to behave nicely around people. He takes good care of her, showing her the way through the chapel door, down the hall, and into the Relief Society room.

Lying quietly beside Sister Moulder’s feet, Buddy almost seems to be listening during lessons. He is alert when people come too close or when something seems a threat to Sister Moulder. He leads her safely through crowds in the hallways.

Buddy is a large dog—up to my waist, or up to the knees of a grown-up person. Once, we were sitting on the front row in sacrament meeting. Buddy lay by Sister Moulder’s feet—right on top of my left foot. I was afraid the dog would bark if I disturbed him by moving my foot, so he lay on my foot all through the meeting. He is heavy.

When Buddy came to Primary Activity Day, he seemed to enjoy watching us perform during talent time. He liked it when we played the guitar or violin or piano. But Sister Moulder did not bring him into the room where we frosted cookies. It would have been a big temptation for us to hand him one—and a bigger temptation for him to eat it!

During a stake Relief Society conference, Buddy got into some trouble. There were many people he didn’t know, and he was snuffing like mad to sort them out. Suddenly he began howling and barking, even when Sister Moulder commanded him to be quiet. The man in charge of the microphones said that it was probably because of the high-pitched notes that dogs can hear, which were coming from the hearing aids of some older sisters.

That day, priesthood brethren helped serve dinner to hundreds of sisters by rushing up and down the aisles with wheeled carts. One server parked his cart and unloaded all the plates he could carry, leaving just one on the bottom shelf. Sniffing the food, Buddy must have thought that the last plate was for him. He was tempted, but Sister Moulder told him to “leave it,” and he did.

Not many dogs get to come to church, but Buddy does. We would miss him if he and Sister Moulder were not there. He learns from us, but I think we learn more from him. He is our good Buddy.

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DOs and DON’Ts with Guide Dogs

1. Without the owner’s permission, don’t touch, talk to, feed, or otherwise distract the dog. Do allow the dog to concentrate and perform for the safety of its owner.

2. Don’t treat the dog as a pet. Do give it the respect of a working dog.

3. Don’t give the dog commands. Do allow its owner to do so.

4. Don’t try to take control in situations unfamiliar to the dog or its owner. Do assist its owner upon request.

5. Don’t walk on the dog’s left side; he may become distracted or confused. Do walk on the owner’s right side, but stay a few paces behind.

6. Don’t attempt to grab or steer the owner while the dog is guiding him/her or attempt to hold the dog’s harness. Do ask if the owner needs your assistance and, if so, offer your left arm.

7. Don’t expect too much too soon. It takes six months to a year for the owner and dog to become a working team.

8. Don’t give the dog table scraps. Do respect the master’s need to give the dog a balanced diet and to maintain its good habits.

9. Don’t allow your pets to challenge or intimidate a guide dog. Do allow them to meet when they can be carefully supervised.

10. Don’t allow the dog on your furniture or anywhere else not agreed upon by the family and its owner. Do ask its owner to correct any wrong behavior or trespassing.

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The Best

By Clare Mishica
Friend, Feb 2001, 18
Fiction

Remember … brotherly kindness (D&C 4:6).

“Jake! Jake!” hollered my little brother, Sam. “Come and see me.”

“Not now,” I called back, grabbing my hockey stick and heading onto the ice. My team, the Sharks, had a game to play, and I needed to warm up.

“What did Sam want?” asked my friend Joel. He didn’t have any little brothers, so he didn’t understand how Sam could be more annoying than ten mosquitos buzzing in your ears.

“Nothing important, I’m sure,” I said, gliding across the ice. “Let’s practice shooting.”

A few minutes later, the buzzer went off, and the players headed to their boxes for last-minute instructions.

“The Sharks will have to keep the puck away from Number Fifteen,” Coach warned as we huddled around him. “And we’ll have to pass the puck a lot, because the Jets are fast. Just remember to look for an open teammate.”

The clock buzzed again, and we skated onto the rink for the face-off. The referee dropped the puck between the two centers, their sticks clacked together, then the puck skittered toward me and I hooked it with my stick. A second later, a Jet defender raced in front of me. I remembered Coach’s advice and managed to pass the puck away just before he grabbed it.

The puck ricocheted all over the rink, with both teams skating hard to score. With only two seconds left in the first period, the Sharks finally managed to slip the puck past the Jet goalie and into the net.

“Yes!” cheered our team, banging our sticks against the boards as the clock buzzed, ending the period.

“Good job,” Coach said as we headed for the locker room. “Jake, I could see that you really listened to me. You made some great passes.”

“Thanks.” I could feel the sweat running down my face, and my legs ached from racing around the rink, but I didn’t mind. The Coach knew I’d paid attention and tried. That made me feel like I’d won a gold medal.

No one scored in the second period, but at the beginning of the third period, the Jets scored and tied the game. After that, both teams fought hard for the puck, but no one kept it long enough to score again. Then, with only thirty seconds left in the game, the Jets’ Number Fifteen intercepted a pass. He quickly stickhandled the puck down the rink with short, back-and-forth movements. None of the Sharks could catch him. Our goalie crouched down in front of the cage, trying to anticipate the shot, but Number Fifteen managed to send the puck flying into the corner of the net. The Jets had won the game, and I felt like a balloon that someone popped with a pin.

“You played a great game,” Joe told me, slapping my back as we lined up to shake hands with the Jet players. Joe always tried to cheer me up. He was the best friend a guy could have.

“Jake,” Sam called again as the Jets headed to the locker room.

“I’ll see you at home,” I said, pulling off my helmet. “I have to shower and change.”

I hurried inside. I knew that Sam would talk to me all night, anyway. After I changed, I looked for Joe but couldn’t find him.

“He left as soon as we finished playing,” someone told me. I grabbed my duffel bag and headed out alone. I’d call Joe later and ask him to come over.

When I got home, I pulled off my jacket and hat. Then I stared at the floor. Another duffel bag sat there, and Joe’s jacket was plopped on top of it.

“Is Joe here?” I asked my dad.

“He’s in the family room with Sam,” Dad said.

I went into the family room and saw Sam lying on the couch, with Joe sitting in a chair by his side.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“My stomach started hurting at the hockey game,” Sam said. “You were busy, so I told Joe.”

“I didn’t mind walking home with him,” Joe said. “He told me he didn’t feel well, so I just came right here after the game.”

“Oh,” I said, finally noticing that Joe still had his uniform on.

“See you later, big guy,” Joe told Sam, standing up and stretching. “Then you can tell me all about that poster you’re drawing.”

“What poster?” I asked.

“The one I’m making for science class,” said Sam. “It has whales on it. Joe likes to know what I’m doing.”

“Oh,” I said again as Sam pulled a blanket up over his shoulders.

“Do you need anything?” I asked him, feeling kind of guilty.

“No, I’m fine,” said Sam, and his droopy eyes started to close.

Joe left, and I dragged my duffel bag to our laundry room. I thought about Sam as I put my hockey uniform into the washing machine. Coach had said I did a good job of listening, but when it came to Sam, I usually ignored him. No wonder he’d asked Joe to bring him home. Joe listened to Sam just like he always listened to me. He made Sam feel important; I treated Sam like a pest. I definitely didn’t feel proud of that.

After supper that night, I did something different. Instead of calling Joe, I picked a book about whales off my shelf. Then I went into the family room, where Sam was watching television. “Have you seen this book yet?” I asked him, showing him the killer whales on the cover.

“Cool!” Sam smiled at me. “Did you read that?”

“Yeah. Actually, I like whales, too. Maybe I can help you with your poster.”

“Really?” he asked. “Do you really want to help me?”

“Really,” I said, opening the book. “Show me your favorites.” Sam hesitated for only a second. Then he started turning pages and talking ten miles a minute.

This time I listened. Just maybe, one day Sam will think that I’m the best brother a guy could ever have.

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The Prophet’s Counsel:
The Six Bs

Friend, Feb 2001, 25
Excerpts from President Gordon B. Hinckley’s Fireside Address, November 12, 2000 (“A Prophet’s Counsel and Prayer for Youth,” Ensign, January 2001, pages 2–11.)

Be Grateful

Walk with gratitude in your hearts. Be thankful for the wonderful blessings which are yours. Be grateful for the tremendous opportunities that you have. Be thankful to your parents who care so very much about you and who have worked so very hard to provide for you. Let them know that you are grateful. Say thank you to your mother and your father. Say thank you to your friends. Say thank you to your teachers. Express appreciation to everyone who does you a favor or assists you in any way.

Thank the Lord for His goodness to you.

Be Smart

The Lord wants you to educate your minds and hands, whatever your chosen field. Whether it be repairing refrigerators, or the work of a skilled surgeon, you must train yourselves. Seek for the very best schooling available. Become a workman of integrity in the world that lies ahead of you. I repeat, you will bring honor to the Church and you will be generously blessed because of that training.

Be Clean

Avoid evil talk. Do not take the name of the Lord in vain. …

Choose your friends carefully. …

While you should be friendly with all people, select with great care those whom you wish to have close to you. …

Be clean. Don’t waste your time in destructive entertainment. …

How truly beautiful is a well-groomed young woman who is clean in body and mind. She is a daughter of God in whom her Eternal Father can take pride. How handsome is a young man who is well-groomed. He is a son of God, deemed worthy of holding the holy priesthood of God. He does not need tattoos or earrings or rings anywhere else on or in his body. The First Presidency and the Quorum of the Twelve are all united in counseling against these things. …

There is no need for any Latter-day Saint boy or girl, young man or young woman, to even try [drugs]. Stay clean from these mind-altering and habit-forming addictions.

Be True

Be loyal to the Church under all circumstances. I make you a promise that the authorities of this Church will never lead you astray. They will lead you in paths of happiness. …

Be true to your own convictions. You know what is right and you know what is wrong. You know when you are doing the proper thing. You know when you are giving strength to the right cause. Be loyal. Be faithful. Be true.

Be Humble

The Lord has said, “Be thou humble; and the Lord thy God shall lead thee by the hand, and give thee answer to thy prayers” (D&C 112:10). …

I believe the meek and the humble are those who are teachable. They are willing to learn. They are willing to listen to the whisperings of the still, small voice for guidance in their lives. They place the wisdom of the Lord above their own wisdom.

Be Prayerful

You need His help, and you know that you need His help. You cannot do it alone. You will come to realize that and recognize that more and more as the years pass. So live that in good conscience you can speak with the Lord. Get on your knees and thank Him for His goodness to you and express to Him the righteous desires of your hearts. The miracle of it all is that He hears. He responds. He answers—not always as we might wish He would answer, but there is no question in my mind that He answers.

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(March)

Elsie’s Prayers

By Paula Hunt
Friend, Mar 2001, 3
Fiction

Be thou humble; and the Lord they God shall … give thee answer to thy prayers (D&C 112:10).

As the stagecoach lumbered through the dark night, Mama mumbled fretfully in her sleep. Eleven-year-old Elsie was too worried to even doze. Nervously she tucked the quilts tighter around her mother. Here on the high plains of Utah Territory it was cold.

The stagecoach lurched through a large chuckhole, rousing Mama. She said clearly, “John, just put the water by the stove.”

Alarm surged through Elsie. John was Papa’s name, but he was thousands of miles away on a mission in London. Touching Mama’s forehead, Elsie found it burning with fever. There was no water, nothing to help her. How she wished she’d never listened to that doctor. He’d advised her to take Mama to St. George, where it was warmer in the winter. But traveling seemed to make Mama worse.

“I’m Sister Reed,” a kind-faced woman across from her said. “Your mother is very sick, isn’t she?”

Elsie nodded.

“She needs rest and a comfortable bed.”

Sister Reed was right, but where would they find that in this sagebrush desert? Elsie turned to the man next to her. “Sir, when will we reach the next town?”

“There’s no town between here and Fillmore. The next stop is Cove Fort.” He looked kindly at the sick woman. “The Hinckleys run the fort for the Church. They’re real good folks. You could let your mother rest there. They have good food and clean rooms and only charge twenty-five cents a night.”

Elsie’s heart sank. Where would she get twenty-five cents?

Sister Reed saw the look on her face. “I’ve heard of Ira Hinckley and his sweet wife. She’ll take one look at your mama and put her to bed—won’t charge you a penny for it, either.”

Elsie stared at the woman in disbelief. “You mean they’d help us, and they don’t even know us?”

The woman smiled tiredly. “They’ll help you and be happy to do it. I plan to stay there for a day or two myself. All this bouncing around is hard on old bones.”

Just then Mama moaned and sat up. “John, could you bring me that pail of water. I’m so thirsty!”

Gently pushing her back, Elsie replaced the covers. All through that long, bumpy night she watched over her mother and prayed that they would find help at Cove Fort.

When the sun peeked up over the foothills, the man nudged her. Pointing to a dark spot off through the sagebrush, he said, “See that? That’s Cove Fort. We’ll get there about breakfast time. So hang on, little lady. We’ll have your ma in good hands real soon.”

Her heart hammering, Elsie prayed that what they told her was true. She prayed that the Hinckleys would take them in. She prayed that her mother would soon have a place to rest and get well.

As the stagecoach pulled up in front of the fort, Elsie’s heart sank. Built of limestone blocks with thick wooden doors, it looked solid, but rough. How could a sick woman find comfort in there?

Brother Hinckley swung open the doors as the stagecoach bumped to a stop. He greeted the driver as several young men hurried out of a bunkhouse next door and helped hitch fresh horses to the coach.

Sister Reed stepped out of the coach and spoke softly to Brother Hinckley. Soon Mama was carried from the coach through those heavy doors. Elsie followed close behind.

She saw that the fort was actually a big square. Though the outside of the fort was solid rock, inside, it was divided into rooms with doors and windows. Her mother was carried into one of the rooms and tucked into a soft straw bed on a rope mattress. Homemade quilts piled on the shivering woman comforted her.

Elsie heard Sister Reed whispering to Sister Hinckley. She caught the words “… husband just left … mission … baby.” Elsie listened fearfully. Was her mother going to have a baby? Was that why she was so sick?

Elsie thought of the two baby brothers who hadn’t lived more than a few days. Would that happen again?

While she was worrying, she noticed several young girls bustling around the fort. She counted seven Hinckley girls in all. One of them came and showed her into the dining room. There they served her fresh milk and warm bread, but the food stuck in her throat.

Sister Reed came and sat beside her. “Sister Hinckley’s taking care of your mama now. She thinks a good long rest will help her get well. You’re to stay here until your ma can travel again.”

“But I don’t have any money,” Elsie moaned. “What will I do?”

Sister Reed put her arm around Elsie. “Now don’t you worry about that. Just eat your meal.” She thanked the young woman who set a plate of food before her. “That gives me an idea,” she said, looking at the girl bustling around. “You could help the Hinckleys for your room and board.”

Elsie’s heart began to lighten. Could she really do that? “What could I do?”

Pointing to a girl about thirteen years old, Sister Reed said, “That young lady takes care of the milk from thirty cows. That’s a lot of work for one person.”

“I’d love to help! Before Papa left, we had lots of cows. Mama says that I make better cheese than most grown women.”

Sister Reed smiled at her. “Then offer your help. There’s much to be done in this world. If able, no one has the right to just sit around and let others do for them.”

Gladly Elsie helped wash the dishes. Then she asked where the milk was cared for and offered her help. Soon she and the young girl were chatting happily. With such cheerful company, it seemed to take just minutes to care for the milk.

Then Elsie crossed over to her mother’s room. Mama was sleeping quietly. Gently touching her forehead, Elsie found it cool. Laying her head down beside Mama, she gave thanks.

How tired she was, but how grateful! She knew that her prayers were being answered by good people willing to help a couple of strangers. How thankful she was to Heavenly Father for these good people.

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Singing with Grandpa

By Linda G. Paulsen
Friend, Mar 2001, 14
A true story

A song is a wonderful kind of thing (Children’s Songbook, page 252).

My grandpa was born in England. At the age of nine, he began working long, difficult days in a soap factory to help support his mother and sisters. Eventually he immigrated to Salt Lake City, Utah, where he and Grandma raised five children. My dad was the oldest. By the time I came along, Grandpa had retired from his job as a maintenance auto mechanic for a large dairy company.

He was not very refined or well educated. His big, round tummy and bald head were pretty intimidating to a skinny wisp of a girl like me, but I knew two things about Grandpa that made it easy to trust him and love him: I knew that he had a testimony of the gospel, and I knew that he thought that I was special.

I remember recognizing these two truths at the same time. Grandpa and Grandma had come to visit. Since we lived in different states, it was a special occasion and our daily routine changed. Sometimes we went on little day trips. Sometimes we looked up relatives I had never met before. But we always went to church.

One Sunday, I was sitting beside my grandpa when it was time to sing the opening hymn. I had just recently learned how to read well enough to follow the words in the hymnbook. I opened to the right page and offered to share the book with Grandpa. He held his half with his blunt fingers, which still showed the permanent stains of his years of working on truck engines. His hands were strong yet gentle.

When we started to sing, I forgot all about his hands. “ ‘Come, thou Fount of every blessing … ,”* he rumbled, with a surprisingly proper pronunciation. He was in perfect tune and sang with enthusiasm. I trebled along, and Grandpa smiled at me. After the song, he patted me on the knee.

We sang the sacrament song and the closing song, too, just as if we were the only two people in the room singing. I still remember the way it felt to sing with him. It was a warm, cozy peace that filled me up inside. I knew that Grandpa believed every word he sang.

Later, after we were home again and the dinner dishes were done, Grandpa called Grandma to the piano. “Will you please play ‘Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing,’ Margaret,” he asked her. “Linda and I are going to sing.”

He explained to me how much he loved that song. He said that it was one he had learned just after he and his family joined the Church in England, and he had loved it ever since.

Then he said, “And now I can sing it with my granddaughter, who sings as pretty as the song.” I could have burst with joy!

Many times over the years, Grandpa and I sang that hymn together, sometimes on our own, sometimes with other family members joining in. As I grew up, I came to appreciate my special heritage of testimony and music. They have always been connected.

Grandpa may not have been rich or famous or handsome, but he loved me. He loved the gospel, and when we sang the hymns of Zion, I learned to love it, too.

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Just by Being Friends

By Jill B. Adair for Kellie Rimmasch
Friend, Mar 2001, 28
A true story

Therefore, be not weary in well-doing, for ye are laying the foundation of a great work (D&C 64:33).

“Look, Mom, there’s our neighbor!” I exclaimed as Mom backed our car out of the driveway.

“Yes, I’ve seen him sitting outside his house the last couple of days.”

I smiled and waved as we drove by. Mom waved, too.

He reminds me of Grandpa, I thought. “What’s his name?” I asked. “He looks like a nice man.”

“I don’t know. We’ve been here almost a year, but I’ve never met him.”

The next day as we got into the car to go to the grocery store, I noticed him again, sitting in his lawn chair under a big shade tree.

I called out, “Hi,” and waved. He smiled and slowly raised his arm to wave back.

“Would it be OK if I went over and met him sometime?” I asked Mom. “He looks like a nice man.”

“Sure,” she said. “Next time we see him, we’ll both go.”

Later that day, we saw him sitting in his chair again. “Hi,” I called, skipping across front yards. “My name is Kellie, and this is my mom.”

He stood up carefully and held out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. I’m Arthur Dunbar.”

“We live in that house over there,” I told him, pointing.

“Yes, I’ve seen you,” he said with a friendly smile.

“How are you doing?” Mom asked.

“Just a little slower than usual,” he replied. “Ever since my stroke, I haven’t been allowed to drive or go to work.” He looked down at his hands. “I get restless being housebound, so I like to sit outside in the shade—but I expect to be up and around again soon.”

“I have a new ring,” I said, holding out my hand. “I got it for my birthday.”

“That’s a very pretty ring,” he said, “and you’re as cute as a bug. How old are you, Miss Kellie?”

“I’m four years old.”

“A very grown-up four-year-old, right?” Mr. Dunbar asked, smiling.

“Yes,” Mom agreed, also smiling. “We’d better go now and let Mr. Dunbar rest.”

“I’ll come see you tomorrow, OK?” I asked. Mr. Dunbar looked at Mom. Both nodded, and we said good-bye.

Mr. Dunbar and I quickly became friends. When my cousin sent me a postcard, I ran across the yard and asked him to read it to me. When I found a beautiful rock in his flower bed, I brought it to his porch and let him feel its smooth edges. Later, he’d sometimes go to the store with Mom and me. I invited him to my soccer game, and when I played good defense, I could hear him cheering louder than anyone else.

One Sunday as we came home from church, he was sitting in his chair. I jumped out of the car to show him my outfit.

“Well, young lady, where have you been, dressed up so pretty?” he asked.

“Church,” I said, twirling around. As I twirled, I bumped into Dad, who had followed me.

“Hi, Peter,” Mr. Dunbar said. “I see you take your family to church.”

“Yes sir.” Dad looked down at me and grinned, then reached to shake Mr. Dunbar’s hand. “Would you like a ride to church sometime?”

“I’d like that,” Mr. Dunbar said after a pause.

“What church do you go to?” Dad asked.

Mr. Dunbar ran his fingers through his gray hair. “Well, what church do you all attend?”

“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” I volunteered.

“Your church would be fine.” He smiled.

I took another spin in my new dress, adding a little jump. “We leave pretty early in the morning,” I told him.

“That’s all right, Miss Kellie,” he said. “I like to get up early and watch the sunrise.”

Mr. Dunbar had a great time at our ward. I introduced him to my friends and told him to go with my dad to classes. Soon after, he came to our house to listen to the missionaries. He said he felt peaceful when he heard the gospel. He decided to be baptized.

At the baptism, one of the speakers said that Brother Dunbar was joining the Church because I had been a good missionary. I was surprised. I hadn’t visited Mr. Dunbar to teach him about Jesus Christ. I just wanted him to be happy. Later, our stake president told me that being a good friend is a big part of being a missionary.

I’m glad that Brother Dunbar is now a member of the Church, and I’m glad to know that even a little child like me can help Heavenly Father—just by being a friend. Mom and Dad and I are still close friends with Brother Dunbar. We always will be.

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Joey

By Teresa Bateman
Friend, Mar 2001, 40
Fiction

Adam fell that men might be; and men are, that they might have joy (2 Ne. 2:25).

It was early morning when Joey and his brother and sister stumbled into the living room for scripture study. His older sister, Candice, collapsed on the sofa with a moan. His baby brother, Keith, curled up in the middle of the floor and pulled his blanket over his face.

“Good morning!” Mother chirped, and Father joined in with a cheery “Rise and shine!”

A groan arose from the sofa; a soft snore from the living room floor.

“Hi,” Joey yawned. He opened his Book of Mormon to Second Nephi, where they had left off the day before. He tried to follow along as Father read something about Lehi, but his eyes kept closing. They opened wide, though, when he heard his own name.

“What?” he asked groggily. “Was Lehi talking about me?” He sat up and tried to look more alert. After all, if he was in the scriptures, he must be pretty important.

His mother smiled. “Not Joey, dear—Joy. ‘Men are, that they might have joy.’ It means that we’re all supposed to be happy.” [2 Ne. 2:25]

Joey frowned thoughtfully. His mother might be right, but he knew deep down inside that this was still his scripture. He was thinking about it later that morning when a new idea popped into his head. His eyes widened. If this is my scripture, maybe it’s my job to do something about it—to help people have joy.

The next morning he put his plan into action. “Candice is that she might have joy,” he whispered softly to himself as he gave his sister a big smile during scripture study.

“What’s your problem?” she growled, scooting away. “Nobody should be that happy this early in the morning.”

This set Joey’s plan back a bit, but he was determined to succeed. He smiled at Candice all during breakfast and gave her a good-bye hug as she left for school. She looked puzzled at him and said to a friend that she was glad to be going to school to get away from her funny little brother. But he thought he saw a smile on her face as she hurried out the door.

Half an hour later, he went to school himself. He smiled at Mother as he left. (Moms are that they might have joy, after all.)

At school, he smiled at his teacher and his friends. “What do you think you are, a jack-o’-lantern?” his best friend, Tony, asked.

“I’m just happy today, I guess,” Joey replied, grinning.

He smiled at the lunchroom ladies, the playground monitors, and the crosswalk guards. They all smiled back at him and then at the next person they met as well.

By lunchtime, his jaw ached from smiling so much. He had never realized how much work it was to follow the scriptures. Still, he stuck to his plan. He smiled when he opened his lunch and realized that he had a tuna fish sandwich. He didn’t like tuna fish.

He smiled during music, even though he didn’t get to use one of the tambourines. He smiled especially hard when Tracy Gilbreath pushed in front of him at the drinking fountain. She stared at him in amazement, then stepped to the back of the line, looking guilty.

By the end of school, Joey was exhausted. It was a relief to go home.

Mom is that she might have joy, he thought as he helped set the table for dinner.

Dad is that he might have joy, Joey thought as he carried his father’s briefcase into the house for him.

Baby brother is that he might have joy—and strained peas, Joey thought as he spooned green glop into Keith’s mouth at dinner.

That night Joey lay in bed, thinking about his day. Mom is that she might have joy. Dad is that he might have joy. Candice is that she might have joy. Keith is that he might have joy. Teachers, librarians, friends, crossing guards, and everyone in the whole world—all are that they might have joy. It was a big idea, and he thought about it a long time.

Joey was tired after a hard day of smiling. But, remembering all the smiles he had received in return, he couldn’t keep a new smile from growing on his face. He yawned and snuggled into bed.

He had one last thought before falling asleep: Joey is that he might have joy.

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(April)

Day Mystery Activity

By Stacey A. Rasmussen
Friend, Apr 2001,2
Based on a true incident

Jesus took bread and blessed it, and brake, and gave to them, and said, Take it, eat. Behold, this is for you to do in remembrance of my body. (Mark 14:20–21 in the Joseph Smith Translation, page 805, following the Bible Dictionary.)

“What were you assigned to bring?” Melissa asked Clara as they walked to Sister Wilson’s house for their Achievement Day activity.

“Four cups of flour,” Clara answered. “How about you?”

“Some yeast.”

“I wonder what we’re doing today. Hannah is bringing flour, too. Sister Wilson has kept it such a secret.”

“I know,” Melissa agreed. “All she would say was that it’s going to affect many ward members this Sunday.”

Still talking about the mystery, the girls soon came to Sister Wilson’s house. Before Clara could knock, Sister Wilson opened the door and invited them in. Tina, Jenny, and Susan were already sitting on the couch. A tape of Primary songs was playing softly in the background. Just as Clara and Melissa sat down, Hannah arrived. Now all the girls were present, and the mystery project would soon be revealed.

Sister Wilson offered the opening prayer, asking that they might understand the importance of the great sacrifice Jesus Christ made for them. She also prayed that the food they would prepare might be blessed for the sake of all who would eat it.

After the prayer, they made their way to the kitchen with their assigned ingredients. A couple of bowls and a mixer waited on the counter.

“Let’s see,” Sister Wilson began, “who was assigned to bring the yeast?”

“I was.” Melissa stepped forward.

“Good. We’re going to put the yeast into some warm water and let it dissolve. Meanwhile, we’ll put some of the other ingredients into this larger bowl. Who has the flour, sugar, and salt?”

“I do,” Clara, Hannah, and Jenny answered together.

As the girls worked, they visited, laughing and giggling. Amidst the chatter, Clara asked, “What are we making, and how will it affect the ward members?”

“Does anyone have any idea?” Sister Wilson asked.

“Are we making cookies?” Susan asked.

Sister Wilson smiled. “No, we are making the bread that will be used for the sacrament.”

The giggling stopped suddenly, and the girls spoke almost in whispers as a quiet reverence filled the room. They weren’t making bread just to learn how, but for use in a sacred ordinance!

When the yeast was dissolved, Susan poured in the milk she had brought and Tina added her oil. Then the girls combined the liquid and dry ingredients and mixed them together. They took turns kneading the dough on a flour-dusted counter. When it was smooth, the dough was covered with a cloth and allowed to rise. Then it was punched down, divided in half, shaped into loaves, and placed in loaf pans. While the dough rose a second time, they went into the next room for a lesson on the sacrament.

“Can anyone tell me what the bread and water represent?” Sister Wilson asked.

“The flesh and blood of Jesus Christ,” Melissa answered.

“That is right. Shortly before His crucifixion, Jesus gathered His Apostles around Him in an upstairs room. He knew that He was going to die, and He wanted the Apostles to always remember Him so that they could be strong and faithful to His teachings. He blessed bread and broke it into pieces. He gave it to His disciples to eat in memory of His body. He blessed wine and gave it to them to drink in memory of His blood.

“When we partake of the sacrament, we renew the covenant we made when we were baptized. Can anyone tell me what we promised to do?”

“I know,” Clara said. “We promised to keep the commandments.”

“We promised to remember Jesus Christ,” Jenny added.

“Very good,” Sister Wilson said. “We also promised to take upon us the name of Jesus Christ. The way we act, the things we do, the words we say should let others know that we are followers of Christ. The Lord promised us that if we keep our covenant, we will always have His Spirit to be with us.

“Is there anything special we should do during the sacrament service?” Sister Wilson continued.

Hannah raised her hand. “My mom always tells us that we should be reverent.”

“She’s right. We should also be prayerful and think of the Atonement. We need to examine our lives, looking for ways to improve ourselves and become more like Christ. And we should think about the promises we are renewing.”

After more discussion about the sacrament, the lesson ended. By then the dough had risen again, and it was time to put the pans into the oven. While the bread baked, the girls planned upcoming activities.

When the loaves were taken from the oven, they were a golden brown. “After they cool, I’ll slice them. Then I’ll give them to Bishop Carmichael. He’ll make sure they are used on Sunday.”

On Sunday, as the girls sat with their families in sacrament meeting, they sang the sacrament hymn reverently. They listened carefully as a priest blessed the bread, and when they said “amen,” they really meant it. Then the deacons passed the bread. When Clara took a piece from the tray, she was suddenly filled with gratitude for all the Savior had done for her. She thought about the Last Supper and what Jesus had taught His disciples about the sacrament. She knew that there were things she could do better to show that she was trying to keep the commandments.

Clara glanced quickly at Melissa out of the corner of her eye. From the look on her friend’s face, she knew that the sacrament had touched her heart, too.

After the meeting, the girls stopped in the foyer to talk a moment before going home. “I’m glad Sister Wilson let us help make the sacrament bread,” Jenny said.

“I thought it made the sacrament extra special,” Tina added.

“It wasn’t just the bread that made it special for me,” Melissa replied thoughtfully. “It was really thinking about the sacrifice of Jesus Christ and what the sacrament means in my life.”

Clara smiled. “I felt the same way. It wasn’t the bread that made the difference. It was the Savior.”

When we take the sacrament we promise to

• take upon us the name of Jesus Christ,

• always remember Him,

• keep the commandments.

(See D&C 20:77, 79.)

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Alan’s Miracle

As told to Judy Arrington
Friend, Apr 2001, 8
A true story

I, the Lord, forgive sins, and am merciful unto those who confess their sins with humble hearts (D&C 61:2).

My name is Alan Matthews.* I’m nine years old and have listened to many lessons in church and family home evening. None ever taught me so much about Heavenly Father’s love for me as the lesson I learned through our ducks.

I’m an animal lover. I have a huge collection of small plastic animals from all over the world, and I’ve read nearly every book on animals that our school library has to offer. The fact that I love animals so much is what makes what happened to me so amazing.

My parents, my brothers, and I live in the state of Washington. We have a huge yard with trees, a pond my dad made, and our own little hill. Last spring, my parents surprised us by coming home with two baby ducklings, Samson and Delilah. We raised them in the house until their adult feathers grew in and it warmed up a bit outside. They were cute and cuddly, and we loved to sit and hold them. But once they were old enough to set loose in the backyard, it was pretty hard to catch them when we wanted to hold one.

One day I found myself sitting by the edge of the pond, watching them dive for bugs and bathe themselves. The longer I watched, the more bored I became and the more I wanted to catch one of them to hold. I circled the pond several times, trying to get them to come out of the water. But they knew exactly what I intended and swam away from me. Finally, tired of going in circles, I sat down to try to come up with another idea.

That’s when I came up with what I thought was a foolproof plan. I began to toss small stones into the water beyond the ducks. The splash startled them and made them instinctively swim closer to me. With each stone, I became more confident that I’d soon have a duck to hold. Then the unexpected happened: I looked down to pick up a stone, and there were none left.

Fearful that the ducks would retreat to the other side of the pond, I quickly searched behind me for another rock. I spied one a little way off. Without taking my eyes off the ducks, I grabbed the rock. My fingertips barely had time to feel its smooth edges before I hurled it into the water.

In my hurry, my aim was a little off. Everything would have been fine except that Samson, spooked by my sudden movement, jerked around and headed right into the stone’s path. With a small thud, the rock hit him squarely in the head. For a moment, I sat frozen, shocked at what I’d done and afraid that he’d been badly hurt.

Delilah started beating the water with her wings and screeching at me. Samson jumped out of the water and ran straight across the yard to a little hut we’d built for them. I was relieved that he seemed to be OK, but my heart was beating so hard that I went to lie on my bed for a while.

Two days later the scene came back to haunt me. Mom was out feeding the birds and found Samson nearly drowned at the edge of the pond. Scooping him up and hollering for one of us to get Dad, she rushed Samson into the house. Delilah, who normally set up quite a wail when separated from her mate, followed and stood patiently on the back porch next to the door.

Samson was very cold and could not stand or control his wings very well. Dad wrapped him in towels and put him in a tub under a heat lamp. He showed no sign of improvement after an hour, so Dad brought in Delilah. She nestled right up to Samson.

The next few days, I spent a lot of time by the side of the tub, cleaning up after the ducks and feeding them. I found little comfort in helping them. Everyone tried to guess what had caused Samson’s illness. I felt terrible, knowing what was wrong and that it was my fault.

A week passed. We had seen little change in Samson. It was a warm spring day, and we were all outside enjoying the sunshine. I walked around aimlessly, hitting the ground with a stick that I’d picked up somewhere. I didn’t hear my mother walk up behind me. I jumped as she gently placed her hand on my shoulder.

“Alan, your father felt that I should ask you about Samson.” When I didn’t respond, she continued. “Sometimes we do something we’re not proud of, and it can make us very unhappy inside. It can make us so unhappy that it is like carrying a huge boulder around with us everywhere we go.”

I turned to face her. Tears began to well up in my eyes. I wanted to cry out, “Yes, that’s just how I feel!” but I remained silent.

“When that happens, we need to confide in our Heavenly Father and ask for His forgiveness and for the burden to be removed,” she said.

Finally I mustered up the courage to speak. I asked, “Is that all I have to do?”

“No,” Mother said. “We need to confess our sins, do whatever we can to make the wrong right, and promise that we will never do it again.”

I thought about what she had said. I knew that she was right, and I knew what I had to do. I looked up at her, unable to hold back the tears any longer. “Mom, I hit Samson in the head with a rock. I didn’t mean to hurt him, and I don’t want him to die.”

She pulled me close to her and hugged me tightly. “That surely has been a heavy burden to carry around all this time.”

I nodded. Then, pulling out of her comforting arms, I said, “I need to go to my room for a few minutes.”

She nodded in understanding, and I ran inside.

As I knelt beside my bed, I told Heavenly Father that I’d done something very wrong and that I was very sorry. I explained that despite our efforts, Samson was not getting any better, and I asked Him if He would help make things right. I asked for His forgiveness and promised that I would try to never again do something so careless. Closing in the name of Jesus Christ, I arose, amazed at how much better I felt inside already.

For the first time all week, I joined in the dinner conversation and played with my brothers. I now understood what my mother was saying about the weight, because I felt as light as a feather.

When I awoke the next morning, I hurried to check on the ducks and to get their food and water. As I went around the corner, the first sight that met my eyes was Samson, standing up and preening his feathers! He looked his old self again, and he started quacking for his breakfast. He had been healed! Excitedly I ran to tell my parents the good news. I had been forgiven, and I knew that Heavenly Father had helped make Samson better.

That evening I sat on my bed, writing in my journal:

“I know that I am a child of God, that He hears and answers my prayers, and that even a nine-year-old is important enough for a miracle.”

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The Perfect Present

By Clare Mishica
Friend, Apr 2001, 20
Fiction

All things which come of the earth … are made for the benefit and the use of man, both to please the eye and to gladden the heart (D&C 59:18).

Jake looked through his bag of marbles. He had bumblebee marbles and cat’s-eyes. None would do. He opened a box and picked a sparkly stone out of his rock collection. He tossed it back. He wanted to find something super special for Nana’s birthday.

Nana, Jake’s grandmother, lived with him and his mom and dad because she needed help. Her legs were not strong, and she used a wheelchair. Jake loved having Nana nearby. She was never too busy to play checkers, and she showed him how to do magic tricks. Best of all, Nana told him stories about all the seashells on her bedroom shelf. Nana had loved walking along the seashore.

Thinking about the different things Nana liked, Jake searched his room again. He found his glow-in-the-dark yo-yo, a baseball cap, and his toy spaceship. But Nana liked seashells and the seashore. What could he do?

Jake put on his jacket and went outside. Maybe he could find some pretty flowers or a four-leaf clover. He looked all over his grassy yard, but he found only three-leaf clovers and lots of dandelions. Finally he plopped down in his sandbox to think some more. He took off his shoes and dug his feet into the sand. It tickled his toes. No wonder Nana had liked walking along the seashore. Suddenly Jake knew the best gift for Nana. He put on his shoes and hurried off to find a box.

Before long, Jake had a big present waiting for Nana on the table.

“Happy Birthday!” Jake yelled as Nana opened the package.

“What is this?” Nana asked, peeking inside. “Is this a box full of sand?”

“No,” giggled Jake. “It’s a box full of seashore!” Dad helped Jake put the box on the floor. Jake took off Nana’s slippers and put her bare feet in the sand.

“Oh my!” Nana smiled. She closed her eyes. “This is wonderful! I feel like I’m walking along the seashore again.”

Jake smiled too. He had done lots of looking and thinking, but at last he had found the perfect present. Now Nana could enjoy the sandy seashore every day, even while she was sitting in her wheelchair.

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Amazing Chicken Soup

By Brenda Smith
Friend, Apr 2001, 34
Fiction

Succor [help; take care of] the weak (D&C 81:5).

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.

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(May)

A Prophet’s Counsel

By Jane McBride Choate
Friend, May 2001, 2
Based on a true story

If ye do keep his commandments he doth bless you and prosper you (Mosiah 2:22).

Deborah hadn’t meant to listen to her friends’ conversation, but when she heard her name mentioned, she couldn’t resist listening.

“Did you know that Deborah’s mother is having another baby?” Cassie remarked.

“How many children does that make for them?” Tiffany asked.

“Five. Or six. Something like that.” Cassie laughed. “I don’t know how Deborah stands it. I can’t stand one little brother, and she has three—or four. Plus a baby sister!”

Deborah wanted to tell the girls that she loved all three of her brothers and her little sister. She wanted to tell them that her family was none of their business. But her throat was so tight from being upset that she could barely swallow back her tears, much less speak.

After school, instead of waiting to walk with her friends, she hurried home by herself. She found her mother in the living room, rocking two-year-old Samantha.

Deborah smiled at the sight. Samantha was snuggled against her mother, thumb in her mouth.

“Let me take her.” Deborah lifted her little sister and carried her to the crib. After kissing Samantha’s cheek, Deborah laid her down.

Mom began picking up the toys that littered the living room floor.

Deborah took over the task. “You shouldn’t be doing that. Didn’t the doctor say you’re supposed to take it easy?”

Her mother gave her a grateful smile. “Thanks, sweetheart. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

The words wrapped Deborah’s heart in a cocoon of warmth.

“Why are you and Dad having another baby?” she asked hesitantly as she put the toys into a basket.

Her mom sat down and placed a hand on her rounded stomach. “There’s a life growing here. A special spirit that Heavenly Father has chosen to send to our family. It’s a wonderful feeling. And a sacred one.” She looked at her daughter curiously. “I thought that you were excited that we were having another baby—aren’t you?”

“I am.” Deborah had looked forward to having another baby in the family since the moment her parents had announced the news.

“But?” her mom prompted.

Deborah thought about making something up, but she could never fool her mother. “Some girls at school were saying that our family has too many children already.” She swallowed hard. “They said that the world has too many people, that you shouldn’t be having any more children.”

A shadow crossed her mom’s face. Deborah sat beside her and leaned against her mother’s arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

“I’m just sorry that you had to hear that. Many people don’t understand the blessing it is to bring another spirit child of Heavenly Father into our home.” Her mother settled back in the sofa. “When we were married, your dad and I didn’t wait to start our family, like many couples do. When you were born, he was still in college, studying to be a teacher. People told us then that we should wait to have children.”

“Wait for what?” Deborah asked.

“Until your dad was out of school and had a good job. Or until we had a house and money in the bank. People have a lot of reasons for waiting to have children.

“President Ezra Taft Benson was the prophet then. He counseled families to not wait to have children, so we didn’t.” Her mother squeezed Deborah’s hand. “You were our first. And you were very, very precious to us. It didn’t matter that we didn’t have a lot of money or that we had to make do with what we had. You were more than worth it, and you still are. So are your brothers and your sister and whoever is coming this time. Your dad and I love each of you with all our hearts.”

“I’m glad you listened to the prophet.”

“So am I, sweetheart.”

The following day, Deborah found Cassie and Tiffany and other friends in the cafeteria. She took a deep breath. “I heard you talking yesterday, and I know that you think our family is too big. The truth is, we’re not big enough. There’s another spirit in heaven waiting to come to earth, to be part of our family.”

The girls looked embarrassed. “Do you really like having so many brothers and sisters?” Tiffany asked at last.

“Sometimes they can be a pain,” Deborah said honestly. “But I love all of them. And I wouldn’t trade any of them for a new pair of jeans or anything else.”

Cassie slid over to make room for Deborah. “Sit down and have lunch with us. Maybe you can teach me how you put up with little brothers.”

Deborah grinned. “First, you have to know how to make truck noises.”

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“I Dare You!”

By Teresa Bateman
Friend, May 2001, 14
Fiction

They were exceedingly valiant for courage, and … were true at all times (Alma 53:20).

“It was a dare!” Brett said, avoiding his father’s eyes. “I mean, I had to do it, or everyone would think I was a wimp, especially Alan.”

His father sighed. “Do you care so much what other people think?”

Brett blinked. “Of course I care what people think. I mean, a guy has a reputation to keep up.”

“But what sort of reputation do you want to have?” his father asked. He waited, but Brett was silent, so he laid down the law. “I don’t care who dares you. You are not to go out on the roof again, and certainly not wearing flippers.”

“Aw, Dad …” Brett knew from the look on his father’s face that it was pointless to argue. He quickly changed his tactics, smiling sweetly. “OK. I promise not to go out on the roof in flippers again.”

His dad gave him a close look and raised an eyebrow but said no more.

Brett was relieved. He hadn’t promised that he wouldn’t take any more dares. He’d just promised not to dance on the roof with flippers. Who’d dare him to do that again?

Still, Brett felt a little guilty for giving his dad the wrong impression. It was almost like lying. The thing was that all of his friends liked to do dares. It was easy to say you shouldn’t accept a dare when you were talking to your dad, but it was a lot harder when you were with a friend.

The next day, Brett dared his best friend, Alan, to run through the school office wearing his gym shorts on his head. Then Alan dared Brett to do a handstand in the cafeteria during lunch.

Then they both spent an hour after school in detention. Brett didn’t mind. After all, he’d proved how brave he was.

That night when his family was reading the scriptures, they read about the sons of Helaman.

“Now there’s an example of courage,” his mother pointed out. “They were willing to fight for what they believed in, and they even risked death for it. They trusted in the Lord.”

Brett frowned. Sure, that was courageous, but had any of them ever put a silly hat on the neighbor’s cat, then sent it back home and watched the fun?

“This has always been one of my favorite stories,” his father said. “I also like the story of Nephi, when he stood up for what was right even when his brothers disagreed.”

Brett had the impression that his parents were trying to tell him something. Still, the next day, when Alan bet him that he couldn’t climb the flagpole at school, Brett took the dare. He remembered his father’s words, but the dare was just too tempting. Climbing it was easy. Climbing it without a teacher seeing him do it was the hard part.

That was the part that he messed up on. That and getting down again. He slipped. Fortunately the custodian managed to get underneath him, or he might have been seriously injured.

His father came to pick him up from the principal’s office. Brett expected his dad to yell at him or lecture him. Instead, they walked to the car in silence. Brett got in and watched his dad. His dad didn’t slam the door. He just quietly slipped into the driver’s seat, rested his hands on the steering wheel, and closed his eyes.

Was his dad napping? Was he gathering his energy for a really big yell that would shake the car to its rubber tires? Brett was prepared for a good bawling out. It would clear the air, and everything would be all right again.

Then he realized that his father was praying. It wasn’t a quick prayer, either. It went on and on and on. Brett grew more and more nervous. Yelling was something he could cope with—but praying?

His father opened his eyes and silently drove home. As they pulled into the driveway, he stopped the car, then turned to look Brett in the eyes. “You could have been seriously hurt today. You could have been killed. Your mother and I love you, but you are showing poor judgment.”

“Dad, it was a dare,” Brett tried to explain. “I didn’t have a choice.”

His father opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. For a moment it seemed like he was listening to something. Then he turned to Brett. “You think that kind of a dare is hard—that it proves you’re a brave person?”

Brett nodded. “Yeah. Why else would I take it?”

“Could you handle a harder dare? One that really takes courage?”

Now Brett was on familiar ground. “I can handle any dare,” he announced proudly. “I haven’t missed one yet.”

“Then I dare you to do the right thing.”

“Ah, Dad,” Brett replied, “that’s just a ‘parent dare.’ ”

“What’s the matter? You can take the easy dares, but you can’t take the hard ones? That doesn’t sound all that brave to me.”

Brett got out of the car without saying a word and marched into the house.

That Sunday in Primary, they sang “Dare to Do Right.”*

Brett squirmed in his seat.

“Dare to do right! Dare to be true!” The words echoed in his head. What was this, a conspiracy?

On Monday, Alan met him walking to school.

“So, what’s it going to be today?” Brett asked him.

Alan grinned. “Today’s easy. I dare you to sneak into Mr. Suther’s desk during recess and get a copy of tomorrow’s math test.”

Brett swallowed. “But that would be cheating,” he said.

“Cheating, schmeating! We don’t have to use the test. I just dare you to steal it. Hey—not even steal. Borrow. I dare you to borrow the math test.”

Brett suddenly heard the words to the Primary song go through his head again. He turned to Alan. “No.”

“No? But I dared you.”

“Sorry.” It was hard, but Brett held his ground. “I have another dare to do, instead.” He swallowed again, then offered hopefully, “I’d be happy to help you study for the test.”

Alan stomped off in disgust. Brett didn’t know what to think. He’d done the right thing. Doing the right thing wasn’t supposed to make you feel lousy, right?

Later that day, Brett saw Mr. Suther walking Alan to the principal’s office. His teacher looked at him as they passed. He could tell that his teacher was surprised to not be marching two kids to the principal. Suddenly Brett realized what sort of a reputation he had made for himself. It wasn’t one he wanted.

The words to the Primary song rang through his head again—“Dare to do right! Dare to be true!” He promised himself that he would keep only the dare his father had given him.

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To Catch a Butterfly

By Marilyn Wood
Friend, May 2001, 20
Fiction

Be still and know that I am God (D&C 101:16).

They were twins, but they really didn’t look alike. Josy was taller than Kelsey. She had bright blue eyes, bouncy hair, and dimples that danced on her cheeks whenever she giggled. Kelsey, on the other hand, had a long golden ponytail that went swish, swish when she walked. Kelsey loved to tease. Her deep brown eyes would sparkle when she told a joke.

The people in Littleton loved them. Mr. Brooks, at the supermarket, said it was because of their smiles. “No,” Mrs. Applebee said. “It’s because they always say hello to everyone.” Little Max liked them because they played games. Jim, the delivery boy, said the girls were just plain fun to be around. Whatever it was, everyone agreed that the twins made people happy. Everyone, that is, except Sister Crane and Sister Goodwin.

“What are we going to do about them?” Sister Crane said. “I try to teach a new song in Primary, and they sing too loudly. Kelsey sings off-key, which makes Josy laugh. Soon the whole Primary is laughing. They need to learn to sing quietly.”

“What are we going to do about them?” Sister Goodwin asked. “I try to tell a story about Jesus. At first the girls listen, but then Kelsey finds something funny in the story, and Josy starts to laugh. Soon the whole class is laughing. They need to learn to listen.”

“The girls were twirling down the hallway last Sunday.”

“They don’t always sit on the bench.”

“Sometimes they take their shoes off in class.”

“They giggle in the middle of the quiet song.”

“We need to tell their parents.”

“No, we need to send them to their parents.”

“Break them up. Don’t let them be in the same class.”

Sister Turner, the Primary President, listened quietly. The twins weren’t bad children. They were just a little disruptively happy. “I think that maybe I should have a talk with Josy and Kelsey. Maybe I can make a difference.”

The next day, Sister Turner backed her bright yellow van out of her driveway. She chugged down the street, over the bridge, and across the park to the twins’ house. Josy came running out of the house. “Hi, Sister Turner,” she called. “Look at our new puppy!”

Just then Kelsey came out of the house, chasing a black and white puppy. Kelsey giggled as the puppy darted back and forth just out of her reach. Josy joined in chasing the puppy around in circles. Round and round they went, until the girls gave up and dropped to their knees on the grass. The little puppy pranced up to them and sat on Josy’s lap.

Sister Turner started to laugh. Suddenly she had an idea. “Girls, would you like to go to the zoo with me to see the new butterfly house?” Josy giggled. Kelsey grinned. They loved the zoo. After getting permission from their mother, they were on their way in Sister Turner’s bright yellow van.

A butterfly fluttered by Josy’s face as she opened the door of the butterfly house. “Wow,” she giggled as clouds of colorful butterflies flew over her head. She grabbed at a pink one, but it flitted away. “Let’s catch one,” Kelsey yelled, running to the other side of the room. Yellow, blue, pink, and white butterflies flew gracefully over her head.

Some of the butterflies landed on tree branches. Josy cupped her hands and crept up behind a black and orange butterfly. It flew quickly away. Kelsey turned round and round surveying the room. The beautiful butterflies were everywhere. They hovered over the pond, covered the trees like blossoms, and even dotted the path. Laughing and giggling, the twins chased the butterflies everywhere. But the beautiful insects always stayed just out of reach.

Finally Josy and Kelsey became tired and sat on a bench by Sister Turner to rest. “I guess you just can’t catch a butterfly,” Kelsey said.

“You can, if you know how,” Sister Turner replied. Josy and Kelsey looked at Sister Turner with interest. Sister Turner smiled. “Girls, do you know what reverent means?”

“Sure,” Josy answered. “It means fold your arms and don’t talk.”

Sister Turner chuckled. “Well, being quiet is part of it, but that’s not really reverence. Reverence is a feeling. It’s hard to explain, but maybe I can show you. Do you want me to?”

Kelsey grinned. She didn’t know what this had to do with butterflies, but Sister Turner knew just about everything.

“You need to sit very still and be quiet,” Sister Turner continued. “That’s the part about reverence that you already know. But if you’ll do that part, I think you’ll be surprised by the rest.” She took each girls’ hands and dipped them in the pool of water. For several minutes they just sat there with their hands cupped in front of them.

Kelsey listened. It was very quiet in the butterfly house. All you could hear was the drip, drip of the water tap.

Josy watched as the butterflies flew in the trees and hovered over the pool. They were very close. Slowly, slowly a butterfly fluttered toward her, dipped down, and landed on the palm of her hand. Josy started to giggle, but Sister Turner shook her head. Josy sat very still, watching the butterfly sip at the water on her fingers.

Sister Turner took Kelsey’s hand and placed it next to a butterfly on a nearby flower. The butterfly gracefully walked onto her hand to drink the water. A warm glow filled the girls. They had tried hard to catch a butterfly, and now, just by being quiet, each was holding one in her hand.

As the girls held their butterflies, Sister Turner whispered softly, “Reverence is a lot like these butterflies. You don’t catch a butterfly. You let it come to you. You don’t catch a reverent feeling, either. It just comes to you when you are quiet. It’s the warm feeling you are feeling right now. You can also feel it when you think about Jesus Christ or anything else wonderful. When you are in Primary next Sunday, think about how quiet you had to be to have these butterflies in your hands. Then think about Jesus, and see if you get that same reverent feeling.”

The next Sunday the twins hurried to Primary. Sister Turner greeted them at the door. She smiled and pinned a small paper butterfly on each of their dresses. “Now remember, girls, don’t scare your butterflies.”

Josy smiled. Kelsey grinned. Reverently they walked to their chairs and sat down. It was quiet in the Primary room. Kelsey listened to the soft music Sister Crane was playing. Josy closed her eyes and thought about Jesus. Slowly the girls felt a warm feeling come to them.

“Look at the twins,” Sister Goodwin whispered. “They are being reverent. What did you do?”

Sister Turner smiled. “It was easy,” she whispered back. “I just showed them how to catch a butterfly.”

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(June)

Claire In-Line

By Janice Barrett Graham
Friend, Jun 2001, 8
Based on a true incident

I will therefore that … women adorn themselves in modest apparel (1 Tim. 2:8–9).

Claire’s friends were here. She grabbed her in-line skates from the shelf in the hallway.

“Bye, Mom!” she called to her mother, who was sewing in the other room.

“Bye, Claire! I know you’ll be good and have a good time, too!”

Mom always said that same thing whenever Claire went off with her friends. She was eleven, about to turn twelve. A few weeks back, Claire, Jessica, Amanda, and Whitney had decided to skate once a week at the Recreation Center downtown. After school on Fridays was Claire’s favorite time of the whole week. And today she even had a cute new outfit on—a red plaid button shirt over a cream tank top.

At the Center, Claire sat by Jessica as they put on their skates. “Let’s try the jump today,” she said.

“And let’s work on our turns,” Jessica said. “Everybody ready?”

The girls hopped off the wooden bench and sailed onto the floor. Claire threw out her arms and caught her balance, teetering around like a listing sailboat. Halfway around the room, she felt suddenly at ease, her feet relaxing inside her skates, her body gliding effortlessly along the glistening sea of wooden floor as if pushed by a wind.

“Hey, Claire, that’s a cute shirt,” said Jessica. “Is it new?”

“Do you really like it? My mom found it on sale.”

It wasn’t long before the girls were ready for the jump. A wooden ramp was set up in the middle of the skating rink, reminding Claire of an ocean wave. The four girls lined up behind her and sped around the rink, building up speed for the jump. Claire hit the ramp and for a split second floated on air a few inches above the floor. “Whee!” The others followed with squeals of delight.

After several jumps, Claire wiped her forehead. “I’m hot. Let’s work on our turns, Jessica.”

The two friends went over to a quiet corner of the rink. Full 360° turns required patience and a lot of slow practice.

“I did it!” Jessica exulted. “Now you.”

Claire took one glide forward and twisted her body, her skates making a half circle. Around she went in a shaky, slow-motion twirl. “I did it, too! But it needs work.”

“You get better every time,” Jessica called over her shoulder, in the middle of another turn. “Is that a tank top you’re wearing underneath your new shirt? Is it new, too?”

“Yes, I got it just to wear under my shirts. I think the layers look cool.”

“They look cool, but it’s hot skating and you’re wearing two shirts,” Jessica pointed out, skating around Claire. “Why don’t you take off your shirt and skate in your tank top?”

Claire finished a turn and looked straight at Jessica. “I promised my mom—” She stopped when she noticed that Jessica had taken off her sweater and was skating in a thin-strapped tank top herself. Her bare arms and shoulders looked cool. Still, she remembered her mother’s words as she left the house. “I know you’ll be good and have a good time, too.” Claire also remembered what her mother was sewing—a prom dress for Claire’s big sister because there weren’t any modest ones in the stores.

“Come on, Claire,” said Jessica. “Look at Whitney and Amanda. They’re wearing tank tops, too.”

Claire braked and stood up straight. “I promised my mom I would only wear the tank top if I wore it under other shirts. Besides I like my outfit just like this. Let’s do some more jumps.”

Jessica shrugged. Claire led the way, sailing around the rink, building up speed for the jump. She hit the wave and flew, her new red plaid shirttails flapping in the breeze.

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The Errand

By Craig Thompson
Friend, Jun 2001, 19
Fiction

I seek not mine own will, but the will of the Father (John 5:30).

“Oh no,” Michael moaned to himself. “Not another errand!” He knew that he shouldn’t feel this way. He loved his father. But ever since his father’s accident, it seemed like all he ever did was ask Michael to run errands for him.

“I’m coming.” Michael could hear the irritation in his words and guiltily hoped that his father would hear it, too, and respond with a “Never mind.” But there was no reply, so Michael slowly made his way to his parents’ bedroom.

Even though it had been over four months since the car accident, it still seemed strange to see his father in bed during the daytime hours. Michael knew that it was difficult for his father to lie there day after day, but it was difficult for him, too. He had been eager to run errands for his father during the first few weeks. But lately it was getting harder to give up what he wanted to do. Again today he had had to tell his best friend, Brad, that he couldn’t come over after school because he was needed at home.

It didn’t help that in a few days Michael would turn twelve. There would be few presents and no party with his friends. His mother and father had said that they were sorry—they didn’t have the time or the money this year for a friend party. It would have to be a family-only party.

Life before the accident seemed like a distant dream. Money had not been a real problem then. Now Michael worried more and more about what would happen to him and his family. His mother had taken a part-time job at a bakery to help make ends meet. Michael knew that as the oldest child in his family, he had a responsibility to help as much as he could. Lately, though, that responsibility seemed to weigh more and more, even though he did the same things: caring for his younger siblings, mowing the lawn, vacuuming the carpet, washing clothes and dishes, helping prepare meals when Mom worked late, and running errands for Dad.

As Michael went into his parents’ bedroom, the afternoon sun spilled through the window and across the multicolored quilt tucked around his father. His father turned the quilt back and slowly pushed himself up against the pillows behind him. “Michael, come here a minute, please.” Even though his face showed the strain of sitting up, he smiled at Michael. “I have an errand for you.”

Michael could feel the irritation building again. He didn’t want to run any more errands.

“Please get my scriptures for me. They’re on top of the dresser.” Michael’s father pointed toward the far end of the room.

Michael had always liked the smell and feel of the leather cover of his father’s worn scriptures. He handed them to his father and was about to leave, when his father said, “Hold on a minute. I want to say something to you. I know that these past four months have not been easy for you. You’ve given up a lot to help take care of me and the rest of the family. I want you to know how much I appreciate what you have done and how much I love you.” As Michael felt his irritation begin to seep away, his father continued. “There’s something else I want you to know. Even though you’ve given up many things, I’ve noticed that you’ve acquired others that are more important.”

“Huh?” Michael could think of several things that he’d given up, but nothing that he had gained during the past four months. “What things?”

“Well, every time you run an errand for me, you come back with something for both of us.”

None of what his father was saying made any sense to Michael. Maybe the accident caused some brain damage, he thought with concern.

Michael’s father saw his look of bewilderment and laughed softly. “Let me explain. I’ve seen you grow more these past four months than at any other time in your life. Every time you went on an errand, you came back with more maturity, more talents, and more skills.” He held up the scriptures. “The Savior taught that He only did the things His Father sent Him to do. His whole life was an errand for His Father. He willingly gave up His will to do the will of His Father. Because of that, He received everything His Father has.* In a few days, you’ll receive the Aaronic Priesthood and will be ordained a deacon. Do you know what that means?”

“I’ll be able to pass the sacrament, and I’ll go to priesthood meeting instead of Primary.”

“That’s right. But it means much more than that. It also means that you will be on the Lord’s errand. If you always do what He asks of you, even if it means giving up everything you have, what you receive in return will be far more valuable than any earthly possession or entertainment.”

Michael left the room with a completely different feeling than he’d had when he had entered. Pondering what his father had said, he realized that not all the changes in his life had been too hard—not if they made him a better person.

From downstairs, he heard his mother call, “Michael, can you run an errand for me?”

This time, he responded quickly and with joy.

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Teresa’s Dream

By Jane McBride Choate
Friend, Jun 2001, 44
Based on a true story

And this is my gospel—repentance and baptism by water (D&C 39:6).

Teresa Perez had had the same dream for three nights in a row. In her dream, she saw a small room filled with white clothing hanging from a line.

Could the dream have something to do with the lessons she and her family had been taking from the Mormon missionaries?

Elder Nichols and Elder Benjamin had started teaching her family three weeks ago and challenging them to read the Book of Mormon and to pray.

She and her parents had started reading the Book of Mormon and praying together. Teresa knew that her parents were struggling with the decision to accept the gospel that the American missionaries taught and to join The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

In their small town outside of Madrid, Spain, nearly everyone belonged to the same church. Some family members and friends had made unkind remarks about the “Mormons” and ridiculed Teresa’s family for even listening to the missionaries.

Teresa didn’t understand everything that the missionaries taught, but she liked the warm feeling she had as she listened to them. They spoke of Jesus Christ and of His love for all children. Teresa liked that. In her old church, she rarely heard about Jesus’ love.

She saw love for the Savior and His gospel in the elders’ eyes. She heard it in their voices when they spoke of Him.

When the missionaries arrived that day, Teresa told them of her dream.

“Can you describe the clothes?” Elder Nichols asked.

“There were lots of white clothes hanging from a line. Pants. Shirts. Dresses. Some were little and some bigger.”

Elder Nichols looked at Teresa’s papa. “Can you meet us at the church tomorrow evening?”

Papa nodded. “We will be there.”

The lesson continued, but Teresa barely heard what the young elders said. Her dream and Elder Nichols’s request filled her mind.

That night, the dream came once more. The beautiful white clothes were so white that they shined.

Teresa and her parents made the hour-long trip by bus to the chapel. Elders Nichols and Benjamin met them at the door and led them down a hallway to a small room.

“Is this what you saw in your dream?” Elder Nichols asked.

Teresa looked at the white clothes of all different sizes hanging from a large rack. There were dresses, pants, shirts, just as in her dream! “Yes. It is just as I saw in my dream.”

“These are baptismal clothes.” Elder Nichols explained, “When a person gets baptized, he or she wears all white. It’s a symbol of purity.”

A frown crossed her papa’s face. “We have been baptized. When we were babies. For Teresa, that was only ten years ago.”

“We understand,” Elder Benjamin said. He pointed to the scriptures he always carried. “We learn from the prophets that those who take upon themselves the name of Christ must be baptized by the proper authority.”

Teresa remembered that from the discussions. “The priesthood.”

Elder Benjamin nodded. Then he bore his testimony. Elder Nichols followed. Tears filled his eyes as he spoke of his love for Jesus Christ and of his gratitude for the priesthood which he held and which included the proper authority to baptize people.

Teresa heard the truth in the testimonies. Even more, she felt it. She turned to her father and mother. “It is good, what we hear. I feel it.” She placed a hand on her heart. “I feel it here.”

Elder Nichols smiled. “The word gospel means the good news.”

Teresa’s papa wiped tears from his eyes. “Good news. You have brought us very good news.”

“Always we search for something,” her mama said. “Now we have found it.”

“When can we be baptized?” Teresa asked.

Elder Nichols’ smile widened. “How does Saturday sound?”

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(July)

Farewell, Nauvoo

By Leslie C. Anderson
Friend, Jul 2001, 4
Based on actual events

Therefore, fear not, little flock; do good; let earth and hell combine against you, for if ye are built upon my rock, they cannot prevail (D&C 6:34).

Aurelia stood on the bank of the Mississippi River and looked back across it. Never before in her eleven-and-a-half years had she been west of the wide river, and now here she was in Iowa.

She shivered in the February cold and tucked one hand into her coat. With the other, she held George’s hand. He was only six and was her responsibility. Ellen, thirteen, and nine-year-old Catherine walked ahead with seven-year-old Howard; little Lucy rode in the wagon with Mama, who was still very sick. But Aurelia and George stood and looked back across the river to Nauvoo.

Nauvoo! How could they bear to leave their beautiful home? All was cold and gray across the river, but Aurelia remembered how the city had looked when she first saw it.

It was already a bustling, growing city when the Spencer family arrived. Thousands of people lived there, and more were coming every day. There were hundreds of log cabins and many brick homes. People were building, buying and selling, planting, working everywhere! Aurelia had never seen so many people—and most of them were Latter-day Saints.

Her family had rented a room until Papa could build a house for them. He had chosen a lot on a hill above the town, a little northeast of where the temple was being built.

Their lot, like most in Nauvoo, was big enough to plant a large garden and some fruit trees. Ellen and Aurelia had helped Papa plant the trees that first spring—peach and apple trees, Papa said, although they looked like twigs to Aurelia. She had asked Papa why he planted the tiny trees so far apart.

“They are small now,” he had said, “but if we want them to grow large and give fruit, they will need space to grow.” Aurelia had watched them grow until last year they had finally blossomed and borne fruit!

All of Nauvoo blossomed in the spring. The mud in the streets was deep enough to suck the boots right off your feet, but flowers and fruit trees bloomed in every yard. Aurelia wished she could see spring come to Nauvoo again. But the Prophet Joseph was dead, and soon his beautiful city would be deserted.

George had been too young to remember the first time he and Aurelia met the Prophet. Aurelia remembered it clearly. She had met a real, living prophet! He had come to their home to visit, and he limped very slightly when he walked, just like Papa! Papa told her later it was caused by the same illness that had caused his limp—typhus fever, which had settled in his leg.

Lucy was born there, and when Joseph saw her, he exclaimed, “Oh, what a little black head!” Even as a baby, Lucy’s hair was thick and dark. Joseph had laid his hand on Lucy’s head and blessed her. Aurelia had loved the Prophet from that moment. He was God’s own prophet and the most important man in Nauvoo, yet he loved little children and liked to be with them.

Aurelia shivered as she remembered the terrible day two years later, when Joseph and his brother Hyrum were killed by a mob in the nearby town of Carthage. Aurelia could scarcely believe that anyone could be so wicked as to kill a kind man like the Prophet.

Aurelia’s Papa had taken her to the Mansion House to see Joseph’s body. A great crowd was there, all crying and crowding to look. Aurelia couldn’t see, so Papa had lifted her up to the window from where she could see Brother Joseph one last time. That had been nearly two years ago.

Things had been hard since Joseph’s death. Nauvoo wasn’t allowed to use its police force, so bad men did what they wanted. They burned farms outside town and caused trouble in Nauvoo. Then some of the Latter-day Saint boys formed the “Whittling and Whistling Brigade.” When one of the bad men came to town, the boys followed him everywhere, whistling and whittling pieces of wood with their pocketknives. There were too many boys for the man to fight, and they wouldn’t let him out of their sight long enough for him to do anything bad, so finally he would leave and look for mischief someplace else. Howard and George couldn’t wait to join the brigade, but they were only six and four then, and Mama wouldn’t let them use her knives to learn to whittle. They practiced whistling, however. Finally, though, even the brave boys couldn’t keep the bad men away.

Aurelia squeezed George’s hand and pointed to show him the temple across the river. Even on this cold, gray day, the tall building seemed to shine on the hill. She remembered when its roof had caught fire one day. She lived only a block away and had run with a bucket of water to help fight the fire. It had been put out, and work on the temple had continued. Just two months ago, Mama and Papa had gone to the temple to be sealed together. Mama said that that was the hardest part of leaving Nauvoo—leaving the temple they’d worked so hard to build. It still wasn’t quite finished. “Heaven only knows when we’ll have a temple again,” Mama had said. “We’ve been blessed to have this one.”

Aurelia looked to the left of the temple to see if their house was visible from here. She couldn’t see it. But she did see Mary Ann Stearn’s house. Mary Ann and her cousin Ellen Pratt were Aurelia’s best friends. They had gone to school together and played together. Aurelia stared at Mary Ann’s house, but she knew that Mary Ann wasn’t there. She, too, was going west with her family. Aurelia wondered if they’d meet again on the way to the Rocky Mountains. Oh, she hoped so! It was hard leaving everything and everyone to travel to a strange land. Why shouldn’t the bad men have to leave instead? It wasn’t fair to be forced to leave friends, homes, gardens, orchards, the temple!

Thinking of Mary Ann made Aurelia remember something else. At the last general conference, in October, Mary Ann’s stepfather, Parley P. Pratt had spoken to the Saints. People had crowded into the temple to listen. Elder Pratt spoke about how hard the Saints had worked to build a beautiful city and temple and how hard it was to leave it all behind. But the Lord had other plans for this people, Elder Pratt had said. He explained that a small nursery could produce many thousands of fruit trees, but that as they grew, they must be transplanted. They need room to grow if they are to produce fruit. He promised that the Lord had a place for the Saints to grow, where they wouldn’t be crowded and where they would enjoy liberty and equal rights.

Aurelia knew that it was true. She thought of those tiny twigs of fruit trees she and Ellen and Papa had planted. She had seen them grow and blossom and produce sweet fruit. It was hard to leave Nauvoo, but it was time to be transplanted to a place where she and her family and all the Saints could grow strong and bloom.

Aurelia murmured, “Farewell, Nauvoo,” and turned with George to face the west. It would be a long journey to the Rockies, but she had her family and the true gospel. She was ready.

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Aurelia

In February 1846, more than three thousand Latter-day Saints fled nauvoo, crossing the Mississippi River into Iowa. Many left without adequate food and shelter, and suffered terribly from cold and hunger.

One of those Saints was Aurelia Spencer. When her family had traveled only thirty miles, Aurelia’s mother died. The grieving family returned to Nauvoo to bury her before continuing their journey west.

Aurelia’s father, Orson, was called to preside over the Church in Great Britain, so she, her three sisters, and her two brothers spent the next winters in Winter Quarters with only kind neighbors to keep an eye on them. During the first, harsh, winter, their horse and seven of their eight cows died. Most of the money their father sent never reached them, and they suffered great poverty.

They left for the Salt Lake Valley in May 1848 with President Brigham Young’s company. In the Valley, they lived in a log room their uncle built for them, until their father’s return.

In 1851 Aurelia married Thomas Rogers. They settled in Farmington, sixteen miles north of Salt Lake City. There Aurelia gave birth to twelve children, only seven of whom lived to adulthood.

Concerned because Farmington’s boys were often getting into mischief, Aurelia asked Eliza R. Snow, the sister of Lorenzo Snow, if there should not be an organization to help little boys grow into good men. Sister Snow relayed the suggestion to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, the governing body of the Church following the death of Brigham Young. John Taylor, the President of the Quorum, gave his approval, and Sister Rogers was called upon to organize and serve as the president of the first Primary in the Church. She wisely decided that girls should also be part of the organization, and the first Primary was held in Farmington Ward on August 25, 1878.

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Thomas and the Tabernacle Organ

By Paula Hunt
Friend, Jul 2001, 10

Praise the Lord with … music (D&C 136:28).

Note: Although Thomas, his family, and some of the other people in this story were not real people, the author made them up according to how people really lived in that area at that time. And the story of how they found the wood for the Tabernacle organ is true. See the sidebar for other interesting facts about it.

Thomas hoed a stubborn weed out of the corn as the sun beat down on his back. Wiping the sweat from his face, he lifted his eyes longingly to the cool mountains. How he wished he was in the whispery shade of the trees there!

He loved the rustle of the white pines and the cool breezes that created soothing music among their branches. He loved the smell of the fresh wind filtering through the pines. Those ancient trees standing straight and tall seemed to him like soldiers on guard.

How he loved it when it was time to head for the hills! Every fall they took their team up to the mountains to cut firewood. He knew that they needed the wood to keep their family warm, yet every time one of those giant pines fell, he hurt inside. He felt a reverence for them. They had lived so long. They were so tall and straight.

When they brought the wood down to their farm, they sawed and chopped the logs into firewood. Thomas had a natural love for good wood and saved any exceptionally nice pieces. Then, during cold, snowy, winter days, he carefully sawed, carved, and fitted wood pieces together to make fine furniture. He loved the feel of this good wood in his hands.

Thomas remembered Grandfather Heiler. He, too, had a feel for wood. Before he had left Germany, Grandfather was a master cabinetmaker. He had planned to teach Thomas his craft but died in Winter Quarters before he could teach the boy much. Crossing the prairies was not a good place to learn woodworking. Still, it made Thomas feel good to turn this beautiful white pine wood into pieces of furniture that his grateful mother lovingly polished.

Returning to his hoeing, he stopped dreaming of cool pine forests. It wasn’t likely that he’d get up to the mountains for weeks. There was too much to do here. Even craftsmen had to delay their work to grow crops. There were no stores to buy food at in this pioneer land. His family must grow what they ate, and they worked hard to get it.

As he hoed, he spotted a carriage pulling up to their home. He watched as their neighbor, Brother Erickson, got out. Ether, Thomas’s little brother, ran to the fields to fetch his father. What was happening? What would bring a neighbor out during farming season on a Tuesday morning?

Thomas kept one eye on his hoeing and one eye on the house. When his father came in from the field and greeted Brother Erickson, Thomas worked his way closer to hear their conversation.

“The word is out that Brother Brigham [President Brigham Young] is looking for some fine wood to help build an organ for the new tabernacle,” Brother Erickson told Father. “I thought you’d like to know that.”

“Yes,” Father said slowly. “That’s interesting. But what has it to do with me?”

Brother Erickson pointed to their cabin. “Just look at those logs. The finest logs I’ve seen anywhere. They’re long and smooth, and there is not a knothole in the whole of it!”

“That’s true,” Father said. “Those logs made a snug cabin for us. Are you thinking we should let Brother Brigham know about the pine we have around here? It’s over three hundred miles to Salt Lake City! Couldn’t they find some closer?”

“Brother Robert Gardner and his son William have been traveling all over the territory, searching out good wood. Brother Brigham charged them with that responsibility. I don’t think the distance would be a problem if the wood was good.”

Father nodded. “Pine Valley would be proud to help with the furnishing of that great building. Let’s do it! Let’s send a piece of one of our very best logs.”

Over the next weeks, several men from the valley gathered at their cabin to help select and cut just the right wood to send to Salt Lake City.

Thomas wished that he could be the one to take the wood there. He ran his hand over the smooth surface of the pine chest he was making. He knew that when the Gardners saw this wood, they would want it.

“We’ll send it with one of the missionaries heading that way,” Bishop Johansen told the men. “There’s no need for a special trip.”

Hanging his head, Thomas went back to work. He longed to travel to Salt Lake City and see how the work on the organ and the tabernacle was getting along. But he knew that his family still needed every spare moment they had to provide a living for themselves. There just was no time for trips anywhere.

Over the next months, Thomas waited to hear if their beautiful white pine had been chosen for the organ. No word came. Then in the spring, men came with ox teams to haul the superb logs to Salt Lake City.

“Dad,” Thomas exclaimed happily when he saw the teams snaking up the mountain, “they’re going to use our wood!”

His father smiled at him. “It was the best they found in the territory. They’ll use our wood for some of the pipes. The metal pipes are being made back East by the Simmons company. But the largest of the wood pipes are of our wood. And they’re encasing some pipes in pine that comes from a canyon close to Salt Lake City. They’ll paint that wood to look like oak.”

Thomas grinned from ear to ear. “I sure would like to hear that organ when it’s completed.”

His father put his hand on his shoulder. “I think we could manage a trip, even one that far, to attend general conference one of these years.”

It was a promise he kept, but Thomas had to wait two whole years for the organ and the Salt Lake Tabernacle to be ready for a conference. However, in September 1867, after the crops were safely in their bins, Thomas’s family began the slow wagon ride to Salt Lake City. They arrived in plenty of time for the conference on October 6.

That morning, Thomas slid into his seat. He listened in awe to the partially finished organ. He knew that it would take Brother Ridges several more years to finish it, but he loved the sound.

Here in the wilds of Deseret, beautiful music was forming. The organ would someday be world famous. Thomas knew that as it was completed, it would only become better. For now, he was happy just to listen to its beautiful strains.

Later that day, his father introduced him to Joseph Ridges. When he found that Thomas was interested in the instrument, he showed him what they were doing. Then he introduced him to Niels Johnson, Shure Olsen, David Anderson, William Pinney, and John Sandberg, men he had been training to work on the organ, too. They were all there that day to hear its beautiful tones.

The following Wednesday, as his family traveled home, Thomas was still marveling at what he’d seen and heard. Here in the wilds of Deseret, the Lord had helped his servants use what materials they had, and what skill they had, to begin building one of the greatest organs in the world. He had felt the Spirit very strongly as its music flowed through that great building. He thrilled at the messages of the prophets. He loved the music the choir sang, accompanied by the organ. How proud he was that some of the wood inside it came from his valley.

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The Tabernacle Organ: Fascinating Facts

When the Tabernacle on Temple Square in Salt Lake City, Utah, was being built, President Brigham Young wanted an organ built for it that was just as special as the Tabernacle itself. He asked Joseph Ridges for a plan. When he saw what Brother Ridges wanted to build, he was stunned. “Can we do this thing?” he wondered. Then he declared, “Yes, we can! … Go ahead with this, Brother Ridges.”*

Neither the Tabernacle nor its organ were complete when the organ was first played for general conference in October 1867. In fact, the organ was only one-third finished! The finished organ had 27 pedals, 35 stops, and 2,648 pipes—some metal, some wood. Over the years, changes have been made. Today the organ has 11,623 pipes!

Although, like a piano, an organ uses a keyboard, it is really a wind instrument. Air forced through its pipes is what makes them sound. In those early days, men below the organ ran on a treadmill connected to a bellows that forced air through the pipes. A big electric fan driven by a 30-horsepower motor does the job now.

The littlest pipes in the Tabernacle organ are less than 3/8″ (1 cm) long! The largest are 32′ (37.5 m) high! The bigger the pipe, the lower the sound. Some notes are so low that they are felt rather than heard, and the highest notes are so high and soft that only those with really keen hearing can hear them.

Foot pedals play the lowest sounds and control the loudness of the notes. The organist uses both feet, and both heel and toe, to play the pedals needed.

The Tabernacle organ has five keyboards, each of which can create different sounds. The sounds of trumpets, violins, flutes, and many other instruments can be made by pulling round knobs called stops. These make certain sets of pipes sound. To read the music, set stops, play with two feet and two hands, and follow the conductor at the same time takes a lot of skill and practice!

The first Tabernacle organist was Joseph Daynes. President Brigham Young had heard Joseph play a small pump organ when he was only eleven years old. He was just sixteen when he played the Tabernacle organ for the 1867 conference. His feet didn’t reach the pedals, so he added pieces of cork to the soles of his shoes.

Joseph Daynes wrote the music for many hymns. The two we probably sing the most often now are “Come, Listen to a Prophet’s Voice” and “Lord, Accept Our True Devotion” (Hymns, nos. 21 and 107).

Another Tabernacle organist was Alexander Schreiner. He became famous all over the world for his organ playing. He played his first recital on the Tabernacle organ when he was a teenager, and he wrote music for many Primary songs, including “Jesus Is Our Loving Friend” (Children’s Songbook, page 58).

Near the end of his life, President Spencer W. Kimball said, “As I listen to the lovely melodies of the Tabernacle Choir and organ, I am comforted by the assurance that there will be beautiful music in heaven.”

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To the Last Frontier

By Sheryl Zimmerman
Friend, Jul 2001, 28
A true story

Be obedient unto the things which I shall give unto [the prophet] (D&C 28:3).

The October dawn was frosty as I helped load our belongings into the covered wagon. The weight I carried in my ten-year-old heart was heavier than the bundles of clothes and food under which I struggled. It just isn’t fair, I thought. I don’t want to leave our home and my friends and travel three hundred miles to an unknown place.

It was 1877, and our home near St. George, Utah Territory, was already one of the farthest away from Salt Lake City.

My mother called. “Mary Agnes, please make sure everything is cleared from the back porch before we leave.”

As I made my way around the house, I thought back to the day six months ago when my father had returned from the dedication of the St. George Temple. Mother and I had stayed home because my baby brother was very ill. One look at Father told me that something serious had happened.

Mother spoke first. “William, what is the matter?”

My strong father took her in his arms with tears streaming down his face. “We must leave our beautiful home.” He could say no more.

Leave? How could we leave? After years of saving and doing without, we had finally been able to buy 260 acres of farmland and build a comfortable brick home where the ten of us could live. We had many horses, cattle, and other farm animals. We lived near my grandmother and my cousins. I was able to attend the school in town. Who would ask us to sacrifice all this?

Later, I heard my parents discussing what was happening. Families were needed to extend Church settlements and influence farther south. Brigham Young had called my father to move with his family. He counseled my father to sell all that we had so that we would not be tempted to return to Utah. We were needed in Arizona.

Arizona. A place where there was very little water. Where there were great distances with nothing to see. Men had been called there by the prophet last year. Many had returned to Utah because they could not endure the hardships. Father said no greater sacrifice could be asked of him.

Mother’s voice brought me back to the present. “It is hard to leave, is it not, Mary Agnes? Do you know the real reason we are moving?”

I shook my head.

“We are going to Arizona because the prophet gave that call to us. Remember what I told you about when I was your age and my family lived in Nauvoo? After the Prophet Joseph Smith was killed, there were contentions with nonmember neighbors. The Brethren told us to leave our homes and move west. There our lives would be spared, and we could worship as we pleased in peace.

“Terrible as it was to leave our home, there was nothing else to do unless we turned away from God, the Brethren, and the Church. We made the long, hard journey to the valley of the Great Salt Lake. We sacrificed again when we followed President Young’s direction to leave there and settle here.

“Now we have been asked to go to Arizona. We do not have to go to the unsettled desert. No one is forcing us. We are not fleeing for our lives. We could make excuses to not go. This time the struggle to obey comes from within.”

Mother hugged me to her as she continued. “In the Doctrine and Covenants, the Lord said that when we receive a commandment ‘whether by mine own voice or by the voice of my servants, it is the same.’*

“Our prophet has spoken to us. I know he speaks for God. Your father and I decided long ago that we would follow the counsel of the prophet, no matter what the sacrifice.”

The Spirit warmed me as I listened to Mother’s testimony. I gained strength to face the uncertainties ahead.

As I climbed in the loaded wagon, I took one last look at our home, then turned to face the trail to Arizona. I realized that I, too, had a testimony of God’s representative on earth. Like my parents, I would follow the prophet, even to the last frontier.

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Lucy’s Prayer

By Jane McBride Choate
Friend, Jul 2001, 40
Based on a true incident from a family history

The prayers of the faithful shall be heard (2 Ne. 26:15).

“Lucy, I’m tired,” four-year-old Eliza complained. “I want to go home.” Home was a covered wagon in a wagon train bound for Utah.

“As soon as we fill our baskets, we’ll head back,” Lucy promised. She glanced at her brother to find him eating the berries as soon as he picked them. “Hyrum, stop eating those, or we’ll never finish!”

“Aw, Lucy, I just ate a few.”

His purple-stained teeth made her smile. At almost eight years old, he was only two years younger than herself. “If you eat all the berries you pick, we won’t have enough for pies!” she declared.

His and Eliza’s faces lit up at the mention of pies.

There hadn’t been much to smile about since Papa had died two years ago. When the Saints had prepared to leave Nauvoo, some people had tried to discourage Mama from joining them, claiming a widow with small children would only slow the others down.

Mama had ignored them and had used what little savings the family had to buy the wagon and supplies needed for the journey. Keeping up with the rest of the wagon train took so much of Mama’s energy that there wasn’t much left for things like pie-making.

When she suggested that Lucy take Hyrum and Eliza berry-picking that afternoon while the wagons stopped for repairs, Lucy had eagerly jumped at the chance.

A roll of thunder rumbled through the air.

Looking up, Lucy saw a funnel cloud approaching rapidly. Only once before had she seen such a cloud. When it had touched down, the tornado had ripped through their small farm in Nauvoo, destroying everything in its path.

With her heart pounding in rhythm to the roar of the thunder, Lucy took Hyrum by one hand and Eliza by the other and began to run for shelter. Eliza couldn’t keep up the pace, so they were forced to slow down. The tornado gained on them, a frightening monster that whipped dirt and dust into their faces and spewed up rocks around them.

“Don’t worry—Heavenly Father will protect us,” Lucy shouted over the roar to her brother and sister. “He won’t let anything happen to us.” She repeated the words over and over, partly to reassure them and partly as a prayer for help.

The words uttered by her father at the time of her baptism suddenly sounded in her mind. “Know that the Lord loves you. You are a choice daughter of God. Pray always. Look to Him for guidance. He will not desert you in your hour of need.”

There was no time, no place to stop and pray. But Lucy prayed as hard in her heart as she’d ever prayed on her knees, all the while holding onto Eliza and Hyrum. Please, dear Lord, let me know what to do. I need Thy help. We all do!

They stumbled their way through the blinding gusts of dirt. Eliza began to cry as Lucy tugged on her hand. “We have to keep going,” Lucy said, urging her little sister forward. “We can’t stop. Not here.” Not when the wagon train was still a distance away.

And then the voice came. She heard it as clearly as she heard the howl of the wind.

Lie down in the gulch.

Lucy shook her head, sure she must have misunderstood. Lie down here, with nothing but a shallow gulch for shelter? she wondered. She looked at her brother and sister, surprised that they hadn’t heard it as well.

The storm is sweeping up everything in its path. We have to keep going, she decided. She started to pick up Eliza to carry her when the voice came again.

Lie down. Now!

Lucy couldn’t dismiss the voice this time.

It wasn’t loud but held a quiet authority that wouldn’t be ignored. She pushed Hyrum and Eliza down and covered them with her own body. The ground seemed to tremble beneath them as the storm raged overhead.

Please, Heavenly Father, Lucy prayed silently. Protect us from the tornado. The words gave her strength even as the wind howled around them.

The voice came once more. Do not fear. I am here.

A sweet calm settled over her. Hyrum and Eliza quieted as Lucy whispered soothing words to them, promising that everything would be all right.

When the tornado had passed, they got to their feet again and started toward the camp once more.

When they arrived at the camp, Mama fussed over them, crying and laughing at the same time. When she had assured herself that they were all right, she fell to her knees and offered a prayer of thanksgiving.

After Mama’s prayer, Lucy shared her startling experience with Mama and Hyrum and Eliza as the four of them gratefully clung together.

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A Different Kind of Pioneer

By Heather Christensen
Friend, Jul 2001, 46
Fiction

Children today can be pioneers too, … Walking our pathway with heaven in view (Children’s Songbook, page 215).

Cody stared at the blank piece of paper in front of him. It’s no use, he thought disgustedly. I’m never going to come up with anything, even if I sit here all day. While he sat worrying about his problem, there was a knock on his bedroom door. “Come in,” he said.

In walked Jason, his next-door neighbor and the best friend in the whole world. He was carrying a dirty orange basketball. “Come on—let’s go shoot some hoops.”

“I can’t,” Cody answered. “I have to finish my Primary talk.”

“You’re still working on that? Don’t you have to give it tomorrow?”

Cody nodded as Jason sat next to him on the bed. “What’s it supposed to be on, anyway?”

Cody frowned. “That’s the problem,” he said. “Sister Hansen said she wants me to talk about ‘My Pioneer Ancestors.’ I told her I don’t have any pioneer ancestors because my parents are both converts. She just smiled and said, ‘As members of the Church we all have pioneer ancestors, Cody.’ ”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jason asked.

“Beats me. I’m probably the only kid in the whole Primary who doesn’t have at least one ancestor who pulled a handcart across Wyoming.”

“Why don’t you just read a story about some pioneer?” Jason asked.

“Because after she told me that business about everyone having pioneer ancestors, she told me that she didn’t want me to read some old story out of a magazine or something.”

“Boy, she really knows how to make it tough,” Jason sympathized. “I know! Why don’t you borrow one of my pioneer ancestors.”

“Great idea!” Cody slapped Jason on the back. Then he slumped down again. “Wait a minute,” he said, “that won’t work. Your mom teaches the CTRs. She’ll know what I’m doing.”

“Oh. Right. Are you positive you don’t have any pioneer ancestors? Not all the descendants of some of my pioneer ancestors stayed in the Church. Maybe one of your ancestors joined the Church, crossed the plains, then left Utah.”

Cody’s face brightened. “Maybe so. I never thought of that. Let’s go downstairs and see if anyone knows.”

Cody’s sister, Karyn, was just coming in the front door when they got downstairs. “Karyn,” Cody asked, “Do you know if we have any pioneer ancestors?”

“What kind of pioneer?” she asked, as she hung up her coat in the hall closet.

“What do you mean?” Cody asked. “How many kinds of pioneers are there?”

Karyn smiled. “Oh there are lots of kinds. My history teacher told us that a pioneer is anyone who prepares the way for others to follow.” The boys looked confused, so she explained further. “Like how the pilgrims prepared the way for others to come to America. Or how early doctors paved the way for better medicine.”

“How about Christopher Columbus?” Cody asked. “Wasn’t he a pioneer for other explorers?”

“Sure,” Karyn said, smiling. “That’s another good example.”

“I thought pioneers were only the people who pulled handcarts across the plains,” Jason said.

“Well, they were pioneers, too,” Karyn said. “Because of their great sacrifices, the Church grew strong. For many of them, the decision to join the Church affected their families for generations. That’s what made them such great pioneers.”

Cody thought for a minute about Karyn’s definition of pioneers. He was pretty sure that none of the other kids in Primary had thought of pioneers like that before. Suddenly he had a terrific idea for his talk.

“Thanks, Sis. I know exactly what I’m going to give my talk on now.”

Jason looked at him in surprise. “You do? What?”

Cody grinned. “You’ll have to wait until tomorrow to find out.”

The next day in Primary, Cody sat in the front of the room, watching everyone else. He saw Jason sitting with the rest of his class. They were all being more reverent than Cody had ever imagined they could be. Jason must have told them all about Cody’s mysterious talk, and they were all anxious to hear it. Then he saw his mom, dad, and sister come in and sit in the back and smile at him.

Soon Primary began. After everyone sang the birthday song, it was time for his talk. He slowly walked to the pulpit.

“For my talk, I decided to bring along a couple of real pioneers,” he said. Jason stared at Cody. The rest of the children were craning their necks, looking for pioneers. Even some of the teachers were searching for something out of the ordinary.

“These pioneers didn’t cross the ocean, or pull a handcart across the plains, or even freeze any toes or fingers. But they did suffer a lot as the first ones in their families to join the Church. Their friends and family tried to discourage them from joining. They had to change their lives. And when they were married in the temple, no one in their families could be there. I think they are as much pioneers as anyone who crossed the plains to Utah. In fact, without their pioneering spirits, I wouldn’t be standing here today. Mom, Dad, could you please come up and share your pioneer testimonies with us?”

Cody watched his mom and dad walk up to the front of the room. Karyn smiled at Cody and gave him a big wink, as if to say “Good for you!” Cody sat back and listened intently to his mother’s testimony. Maybe, he thought, someday I’ll be a pioneer, too.

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(August)

Ruining the Backyard Grass

By Patricia Reece Roper
Friend, Aug 2001, 4
A true story

The prophet said to plant a garden, so that’s what we’ll do (Children’s Songbook, page 237).

A loud, whirring noise broke into the game Debbie and her little sister, Becca, were playing with their dolls. The sound was coming from the backyard. Debbie and Becca looked wide-eyed at each other and left the dolls, clothes, and furniture made from shoe boxes to run outside.

When they came to the backyard, they stopped and stared at the curious sight. Daddy was there with a strange machine the size of a lawn mower. It was ripping up the beautiful green grass of the backyard and leaving only ugly brown dirt behind.

“What is he doing?” Becca asked. Debbie didn’t answer. She could only shake her head and run to the kitchen to find Mommy.

Mommy had just finished peeling potatoes and was cleaning the peelings out of the kitchen sink. When Debbie stood beside her quietly sobbing, she stopped and asked, “What on earth is the matter? Are you hurt?”

Debbie swallowed her sobs and pointed to the backyard. “Why is Daddy ruining the grass?”

Mommy sighed with relief. “Oh, is that what’s bothering you?” She placed her hands on Debbie’s shoulders. “Honey, the prophet said that we need to plant a garden. He told us at the last general conference. So Daddy borrowed that tiller, and we’re going to obey the prophet and plant a garden.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know why the prophet wants us to. I guess he wants everyone to be self-sufficient.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means to be able to take care of ourselves. If we’re hungry, we can feed ourselves.”

Debbie sighed loudly as she went to the counter and sat on a stool. “Can’t we just go to the store?”

“No, we need to learn to follow the prophet—like the Saints that came across the plains. When they did what the prophet told them, they were blessed and they were able to bless others, too.”

Debbie looked at her mother but didn’t say anything. She knew that Daddy and Mommy had made up their minds.

Their backyard would no longer be a wonderful place to play. Now over half of it would be a big brown spot with garden plants, weeds, and bugs. She slid off the stool and went to her bedroom.

“Don’t worry, Debbie,” Mommy called after her. “I’m sure that we’ll have lots of blessings for following the prophet, too.”

In her room, Debbie just sat on her bed. Her dolls didn’t even look fun to play with anymore. Everything was ruined. She would never have fun at home again.

“Daddy says we’re going to plant carrots and corn, and I get to help with the weeding,” Becca chirped happily when she came into the bedroom.

Debbie frowned at her.

“It’s going to be a lot of fun,” Becca told her. “Daddy says there’s nothing better for growing bodies than fresh vegetables from the garden. He said he always had plenty of them when he was a little boy.”

“I’ll bet it’s the worst stuff we’ve ever eaten.” Debbie got off the bed and began putting away her dolls.

Becca quietly watched her for a minute, then asked, “Don’t you want to play anymore?”

“I never want to play anything again!” Debbie stuffed the last doll into a box and pushed it under the bed. She lay down and buried her face under her pillow, hoping anything Becca had to say wouldn’t come through the soft down.

“I’ll bet one day you’ll be glad we have a garden.”

Debbie pretended that she hadn’t heard and held as still as if she were sound asleep. She hoped that Becca wasn’t right. She hoped that she would always hate the garden and what it had done to the beautiful grass.

But as the weeks went by, Debbie began to change her mind. Tiny carrot plants with feathery leaves were beginning to grow in a straight row, and beside them grew beans with dark green leaves shaped like hearts. She had to admit to herself that she did like to see the plants grow bigger and bigger. It was even fun to pull the weeds and pretend that they were terrible beasts trying to steal all the water and food from the tender little plants.

Daddy showed her how to carefully water each row with the hose turned low so that the ground could soak up plenty of moisture and not be washed away.

Once, while she was supposed to be weeding, she pulled a pea pod from the vine and carefully opened it. Tiny round peas were inside. She tasted one. It was the best-tasting pea she had ever had.

“I saw that!” Becca ran up behind her.

Debbie whirled around. Seeing that she was caught, she held out the pod for her sister to try a pea.

Becca tasted one, and her eyes lit up. “Wow! Those are good!”

Debbie nodded. “I never thought peas could taste good enough to eat,” she admitted.

“So are you glad we have a garden?”

Debbie looked down and smiled. “I guess so.”

Several weeks later, Debbie learned to be really grateful for the garden. Daddy’s company had some trouble, and many of its employees lost their jobs. Daddy was one of them. He didn’t know how long it would be before he could find another job.

“It sure is a good thing we planted that garden,” Mommy remarked at the dinner table one evening. “Without it, we wouldn’t have any food to bottle and save for winter.”

“You mean we would be hungry?” Debbie asked in surprise.

“No.” Her mother shook her head. “We would just not be eating as well. Thanks to the garden, we haven’t had to buy as much food, and I’ve been saving some money. Now that we’re not sure when we’ll be getting any more, it’s a good thing we saved extra.”

“We have more food and extra money, all because of the garden,” Daddy explained. “This is a testimony to me that the Lord certainly does bless us when we follow the counsel He gives us through His prophet.”

“Yes,” Mommy added, “I knew He would bless us—I just didn’t think it would be this soon.”

Debbie quietly nibbled at an ear of corn. She was glad that her parents had decided to follow the prophet. She knew that if they hadn’t, their family wouldn’t have been blessed with the things they needed. She went to bed that night with a full stomach and a happy heart, knowing that the Lord had watched over her family and He was blessing them because they listened to the prophet.

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Family Preparedness

By President Spencer W. Kimball

We call upon Latter-day Saints everywhere to strengthen and beautify the home with renewed effort in these specific areas: food production, preservation, storage; the production and storage of nonfood items; fixup and cleanup of homes and surroundings. …

We encourage you to grow all the food that you … can on your own property. Berry bushes, grapevines, fruit trees—plant them if your climate is right for their growth. Grow vegetables and eat them from your own yard. Even those residing in apartments or condominiums can generally grow a little food in pots and planters. …

Make your garden … neat and attractive as well as productive. If there are children in your home, involve them in the process with assigned responsibilities.
(Ensign, May 1976, page 124.)

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Baby-sitting Job

By Jane McBride Choate
Friend, Aug 2001, 11
Based on a true story

We believe in being honest (A of F 1:13).

“Thanks again, Alanna,” Brother Tolley said. “You did a great job.”

“You’re welcome.” Alanna Johnson could barely keep the excitement from her voice.

Her first baby-sitting job had gone perfectly. She’d taken the child-care kit that she’d made at a Primary Achievement Day activity and played games with the Tolley’s three children until it was bedtime.

Brother Tolley walked her to her front door and waited while she let herself into the house.

Alanna hadn’t even looked at the money Sister Tolley had pressed into her hand at the end of the evening. She’d expected five or six dollars. Now, she saw that it was a twenty-dollar bill!

That’s eighteen dollars, she thought, after I pay my tithing. Alanna imagined her parents’ faces when she handed them the eighteen dollars.

Things hadn’t been easy for the Johnson family since Dad had lost his engineering job a year ago. Her sixteen-year-old brother, Steve, had found an after-school job at the supermarket. And, for the first time Alanna could remember, her mother had taken a part-time job.

Still, the family struggled to make ends meet. There had been no new clothes or movies in the last year. They no longer went out to eat on Fridays or to the bowling alley on Saturdays. Alanna didn’t really mind, as long as their family was together.

But now she could help. Eighteen dollars! That was enough to fill the car with gas or to buy a bag of groceries.

Her excitement faded as she wondered if Sister Tolley realized how much money she had given her. Could she have made a mistake? Alanna frowned as she remembered that Sister Tolley had simply pulled the money from her purse without looking at it.

Maybe Sister Tolley meant to give me the twenty-dollar bill. Baby-sitting three children is a lot of work. Alanna remembered that the Tolleys didn’t seem to have much money, either. But, she silently argued with herself, they gave me the money. I didn’t steal it. Alanna looked around the living room. Though the room had only a few pieces of furniture, her mother had hung pictures of the Savior, the Prophet Joseph Smith, and President Gordon B. Hinckley on the walls. Alanna remembered helping her mother cut the pictures from the Ensign and put them in frames they’d found at a garage sale. President Hinckley seemed to be looking intently at her from his framed picture.

He wouldn’t keep the twenty dollars, she thought. Not if it didn’t really belong to him.

She found her parents in the kitchen. Her mother was cooking; her father was paying bills at the table.

Alanna took a deep breath and told them what happened. “I wanted to give the money to you, to help out the family, but I think Sister Tolley made a mistake.” She swallowed hard. “I’m going to give it back to her.”

Dad settled his big hand on her shoulder. “You just gave us the best gift there is, Alanna. Knowing that you want to do what is right is worth far, far more than eighteen dollars.”

Mom kissed her. “We’re very proud of you, sweetheart.”

When her family arrived at church the following morning, Alanna looked for Sister Tolley. “I think you overpaid me last night,” she said and handed the twenty-dollar bill to her.

Sister Tolley looked startled, then relieved. “I didn’t know where that money had gone! I knew that I had put it in my purse. Then this morning, I couldn’t find it.” She started to cry. “It’s the last payment for something my husband needed. I didn’t know what I was going to do if I didn’t find it.”

Alanna discovered that she was crying, too.

Sister Tolley opened her purse and counted out six dollars. “I hope you’ll baby-sit for us again. Our children think you’re the best baby-sitter they’ve ever had—and so do I.”

Alanna gave her mother five dollars. After paying her tithing, she had only forty cents left, but somehow she felt very rich.

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Bad Habits and Miracles

By Alma J. Yates
Friend, Aug 2001, 20
Fiction

I will show miracles … unto all those who believe on my name (D&C 35:8).

There was a tiny glow of growing yellow light just above the mountains to the east as I crept across our front lawn and headed for Buddy’s place next door.

“Well, good morning, Aaron,” Buddy greeted me in a soft, surprised voice. “I would have bet my best fishing pole that you’d never get that mattress unstuck from your back at this time of day.”

“And you would have lost that fishing pole,” I teased back.

Buddy chuckled. “It’s rare for a ten-year-old boy to get himself out of bed at four o’clock just to help his neighbor irrigate his yard.”

Buddy was old enough to be my grandpa. I used to call him Mr. Chambers or Brother Chambers until he told me that his name was just plain old Buddy. Mister, he said, made him sound too old, and Brother made him sound like a preacher.

I’d been helping him with his yard, in his shop, or around his house for as long as I could remember. When I helped him work on his truck or car, he explained how everything worked and why he had to change the oil or the spark plugs or pour in antifreeze. When we planted his garden, he asked me where we should put the carrots and the tomatoes and the other vegetables like I was the expert and had to be the one to decide. He usually planted them right where I suggested.

When I arrived that morning, the irrigation water was gurgling into Buddy’s backyard because he had already pulled up the headgate that let the water in from behind his backyard fence.

For the next hour, Buddy and I sloshed around in the cool brown water as we irrigated the garden, the fruit trees, the lawn, and the flowers.

“We have to be careful that we don’t let in too much water back here,” he told me, “or it will overflow the patio and run into the basement. It happened once, and it took Marva and me a week to pump all the water out and get things cleaned up. We had to replace the carpet and almost everything else downstairs. Marva hasn’t let me forget that boo-boo. That’s why I needed you out here today to keep me on my toes. Another accident like that, and I’ll be sleeping in the shed for the next two years.”

When we finished, he said, “I’m hungry. What do you say we drive down to Burt’s cafe?”

I had eggs and bacon alongside a stack of pancakes floating in blueberry syrup. Soon I was so stuffed that I could hardly move. “Buddy,” I asked, “would you come to Primary with me on Sunday?”

“I’m afraid I’m too old for Primary. They ran me out of Primary years ago. I don’t think they’d let me back now.”

I rolled my eyes. “I don’t mean that, and you know it. I’m going to give a talk this Sunday. I thought you’d like to hear me give it.”

“I’d love to hear you preach, Aaron. I’ll tell you what, you get your talk all polished and practiced, then come over and give it to Marva and me.”

“But I want you to hear me give it in Primary.”

Buddy wagged a finger at me. “You’re a sneaky guy, but I know your tricks. You’re just trying to get me to go to church. I already told you that it’s been so long since I went to church that the whole building would fall down if I walk through the door.”

“That’s not true,” I came back. “You were there when I got baptized, and it’s still standing.”

Buddy smiled. “That was a special occasion. Special occasions don’t count.”

“Sundays are special occasions,” I pestered. “Marva would love to have you there. She hates always going to church alone. Why did you stop going to church, anyway?”

Buddy set his fork down. “Oh, somebody hurt my feelings. It doesn’t seem like a big thing now, but it seemed pretty important back then. I decided I’d stop going, and I just got out of the habit. Now I’m in the habit of staying home, and it’s a tough habit to break. Besides, I’m too old to go back. And nobody cares, anyway.”

“That’s not true. I care. So does Marva.”

“Aaron, it would take a miracle to get me back inside the church.”

“What kind of miracle?”

“Oh, a little one would do fine, but I don’t think anybody’s passing out miracles these days. But when you get your talk ready, you come over and practice on Marva and me.”

“Mom, do you believe in miracles?” I asked my mother later that morning as I helped her clean the family room.

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

“What do you think a miracle is?”

Mom thought for a moment. “I suppose a miracle is something that doesn’t normally happen, and when it does happen, it’s because the Lord helps it happen that way. For example, when you had an earache in the middle of the night last year and there was no way to get you to the doctor, Dad gave you a priesthood blessing. Right away the pain stopped, and you went to sleep. That wasn’t a huge miracle, but it was a miracle.”

“Do you think it would be all right for us to pray for a miracle for Buddy? He says he won’t go to church unless he has a miracle.”

“Well, Aaron, the scriptures tell us that we aren’t to ask for signs. A miracle might be considered a sign. We could pray that Buddy would decide to go to church, but I’m not sure asking for a miracle for him would be the right thing to do.”

I worked on my Primary talk. I decided to talk about how the Lord answers prayers. I included the story about my earache. When I finally had the talk as good as I could get it, I went over to Buddy’s house and practiced on him and Marva.

“It’s a mighty fine speech, Aaron,” Buddy said.

“So will you come to Primary and listen to me give it there?” I coaxed.

Buddy laughed. “You don’t ever stop pestering me, do you? Besides, Marva and I are going to be out of town for three or four days, including Sunday. In fact, I need you to keep an eye on things while we’re gone. Will you water the flowers and pick the green beans and cucumbers?”

I was disappointed, but I didn’t stop praying for Buddy.

Monday morning I watered Buddy’s flowers. I picked the green beans and cucumbers. I even pulled the weeds. Then I checked all around the yard to make sure everything was all right before going home.

On Monday afternoon as I was reading a mystery book, I got to wondering about Buddy’s place again. I went back to my book, but I couldn’t concentrate. I kept thinking of Buddy’s place. I’d done more than he’d asked me to do, but something kept pestering my mind.

Finally I set my book down and muttered to myself, “I’ll go back and check again.” I wandered around Buddy’s front yard, making sure all the flowers had received water. I looked through the front window. Everything was all right in there. The rose bushes on the side of the house were all fine.

I was starting to feel kind of silly. Then I went through the gate. The backyard was a huge pond, and the water was just a few inches from running into Buddy’s basement! Someone had taken the headgate from the irrigation ditch when it was empty. But now it was full, and the water was gushing into Buddy’s yard.

Without stopping to pull off my shoes and socks, I sloshed over to the ditch and pushed the headgate into place. The water stopped rushing into Buddy’s yard. It had started trickling into the window wells, but it didn’t look like it would flood the basement.

When Buddy and Sister Chambers came home, one glance at his backyard told him what had happened. “Well, Aaron,” he said, “I owe you a great big thanks. As soon as I walked back there, I remembered taking that headgate out to clean the ditch. I forgot to put it back. I almost thought I’d had a miracle.” He grinned. “But it wasn’t a miracle at all—you look out for me all the time. I’m sure glad that I’d asked you to keep an eye on things.”

“But, Buddy,” I said seriously, “I think it really was a miracle. I’d already checked on your place once today, and everything was fine. I’d done everything you’d asked me to do. I had no reason to go back and check on anything. But this afternoon something in my brain kept insisting that I needed to check again. That’s why I went back.

“The other day you said that nobody cared about what you do. That’s not true. The Lord was watching out for you. He was the one who sent me over here to check up. I don’t know everything about miracles, but if you ask me, that’s a miracle. It might be just a little one, but it’s still a miracle.” I hesitated. “Maybe you’ve had more miracles than you know about. Maybe you just haven’t recognized what they were.”

The next morning I went over to help Buddy clean up his backyard. We didn’t say very much at first, but when we took a short rest, he said, “I’ve been doing some serious thinking since last night. You were right. Even though I’ve stayed away from church so long, the Lord hasn’t forgotten me. He still knows where I live. I didn’t think He did.

“And He doesn’t even mind sending a miracle or two my way, even when I don’t deserve them. I guess I’m going to have to break an old habit—staying home Sundays.” He took a deep breath. “It’s been a long time since I’ve walked through those church doors, but if you’ll walk beside me and take me by the hand, I’m going to see if I can do it without the whole building falling down.”

I smiled. “You missed my Primary talk,” I teased him, “but that’s OK, because more than anything, I want you to come back to church. For good. Next Sunday will be best of all, because I’ll know that you’re not there for a special occasion. You’ll be there because you’re finally changing a bad habit for a good one.”

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He Takes Care of His Church

By Angie Bergstrom
Friend, Aug 2001, 34
Based on an actual event

The duty of the President of the office of the High Priesthood is to preside over the whole church, and to be like unto Moses (D&C 107:91).

My mom called all the children in my family together one morning. She told us that President Howard W. Hunter had been sick and had died. We were sad. President Hunter was the prophet, and we loved him.

“Who will run the Church now?” Erik, my youngest brother, asked.

“Well, the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles will be in charge until another prophet is chosen,” Mom answered. “But remember, Jesus Christ is the head of this Church. We will not be left without a prophet.”

“Really?” I asked. “We’ll have a new one?”

“Absolutely,” Mom said. She explained to me that when a prophet dies, the members of the First Presidency return to their former positions in the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, and with the guidance of the Lord, the Apostles reorganize the First Presidency. Mom also explained that the Church follows a pattern established by the Lord. When the Lord calls a new Apostle, that Apostle gradually moves forward in seniority in the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles as other Apostles die. At the death of the President of the Church, the senior Apostle becomes the new President of the Church. Mom said that we can pray to know for ourselves that the new Church President has been chosen by the Lord.

A little while after President Hunter died, I got a phone call from my friend Molly, who is not a member of the Church. “Hey, Angie, that’s too bad about your prophet. My dad and I were really worried about you. Is your church going to shut down now?”

I almost dropped the phone from surprise.

“Of course not,” I said, remembering my mother’s words. “The Lord promised us that we would always have a prophet.”

“You mean, they’ll choose a new one?” Molly asked. “Don’t you need an angel to come down and declare that he’s the prophet?”

“I believe God will choose another prophet. Jesus Christ is the head of the Church,” I said with a smile because I knew it was true.

“But how do you know the new prophet is chosen by God?”

She didn’t understand that we could pray to Heavenly Father and find out. But I knew that that was exactly what I was going to do. Right after I finished my prayers that night, I knew that the Lord would take care of His Church.

A few days later an announcement was made that the new President of the Church was Gordon B. Hinckley.

I raised my hand high a few weeks later during general conference to sustain President Hinckley as the prophet. And in the years that have followed, I have continued to raise my hand to sustain him. I support him in all he says and does. I am thankful that President Hinckley has been called of God to be the prophet. Truly, the Lord does not leave us alone.

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(September)

“It’s Really Simple”

By Patricia Reece Roper
Friend, Sep 2001, 4
A true story

Wherefore, hear my voice and follow me (D&C 38:22).

Jake stared unhappily at his Primary teacher while she gave the lesson. He knew that she didn’t know that he was upset, because she kept smiling at him. It wasn’t that he didn’t like his teacher. The problem was that he didn’t like the lesson. It was about how we can follow the prophet. The more she taught, the sadder he became. Finally he raised his hand and asked, “Why do they always want us to do such hard things?”

Sister Roper looked confused. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

Jake sighed deeply. How could he explain it? “I just don’t know why we have to do so many hard things. How are we supposed to follow the prophet? We’re not big enough yet.”

“Well, yes, you are,” Sister Roper told him. “Jesus even said that all of us should try to be like little children, so you must be able to do things right.”

Jake looked at the other children in the class. They didn’t seem to know what he meant, either. “But it’s just too hard to remember everything,” Jake explained. “And I can’t do what older people do.”

Sister Roper thought for a minute, then said, “I think I know what you mean, Jake. And if you listen really closely, I’ll tell you a story that might help.”

Jake and the other children shuffled in their seats for a moment until they were comfortable. They liked to hear Sister Roper’s stories.

“Is it a true story?” Jake asked.

Sister Roper nodded. “A few years ago, when my son Micah was your age, we had a similar lesson in Sharing Time. We were talking about how we can follow Heavenly Father. The counselor in the Primary presidency had a big banner in front of the Primary room. She told the children to raise their hands when they thought of a way to follow Heavenly Father. Then she would write their answers on the banner.

“The children began giving wonderful answers, like ‘Read your scriptures’ and ‘Say your prayers’ and ‘Be a good example.’ Micah raised his hand, and when the counselor called on him, he said, ‘Brush your teeth.’ ”

Jake laughed with the other children in the class. “How can that show that you’re following Heavenly Father?” he asked.

Sister Roper was laughing, too. “You know, I think we all wondered that. I thought that Micah hadn’t been paying attention. Poor Micah! Everyone was laughing, and I could tell that he was really embarrassed. He looked like he was ready to cry. I know that he was sorry that he had raised his hand.”

“Did everyone stop laughing then?” Lisa asked.

“Well,” Sister Roper went on, “there were still a few snickers, but almost everyone stopped. The great lesson that I learned that day came when the counselor said, ‘Very good, Micah. We do show Heavenly Father that we love Him when we take care of the bodies that He has blessed us with. I’m glad you thought of that.’

“No one was laughing while she wrote ‘Brush your teeth’ on the banner. I looked at Micah, and he was happily beaming. I was glad the counselor had helped both him and the rest of us see that his answer really was correct.”

“But does that really show Heavenly Father that we love Him?” Jake asked.

“Absolutely,” Sister Roper replied. “That’s what I learned that day. We don’t have to make following Heavenly Father by following His prophet’s counsel something hard. It’s as simple as brushing our teeth. We just obey and do what’s right. They don’t ask us to do anything that we can’t do. It’s really simple—just obey.”

“But what if he asks us to do something hard?” Jake was still worried.

Sister Roper cocked her head to one side as she carefully thought how to answer. “If you study it over in your mind, I think you’ll find that there isn’t anything really hard that we are asked to do. Is it too hard to say nice things? Or go to church? Or pay our tithing?”

Jake thought for a minute, then shook his head.

“I think you’re right,” Sister Roper said and smiled. “Following the prophet is like brushing our teeth in another way, too—we need to remember to do it.”

Jake sighed happily. He felt as if a heavy backpack had been lifted off his shoulders. He was grateful to learn that following the prophet wasn’t a problem. “Teacher?” Jake raised his hand as another thought came to his mind.

“Yes, Jake?”

“Does that mean we follow the prophet in lots of little ways? You know, doing little things like picking up a pencil someone drops, or answering the telephone politely, or waving at our neighbor?”

“That’s a great question, Jake,” Sister Roper told him. “What do you think?”

Jake thought for a minute, then nodded. “I think ‘yes.’ ”

“And I think,” Sister Roper concluded, “that if we start with little things and keep working and working at it, whatever the prophet asks us to do will be simple. Even if we are asked to leave our homes and move to the desert, like the early Saints who went to the Salt Lake Valley in Utah, we can do it. If we follow the prophet with the little things and take a step at a time, we can always do it.”

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Sunday Eggs

By Alma J. Yates
Friend, Sep 2001, 16
Note: This is a true story from the history of Snowflake, Arizona. However, except for Sister Ballard and Bishop Hunt, who were real people, the author has used fictional people to tell it.

Choose the right! There is peace in righteous doing (Hymns, no. 239).

“I don’t care what everybody else is doing,” I snapped, charging from the barn where I’d been gathering eggs with my older sister, Minnie.

“Nobody needs my eggs.”

“But they do, Penelope. They don’t want all your eggs—just the ones the chickens lay on Sunday. It’s to help rebuild the church.”

One of the first things the people of Snowflake had built when they first settled here along the banks of Silver Creek was the church. We’d all been proud of it. Two weeks ago it burned.

I glared at Minnie standing in the barnyard with her bare feet peeking out from under her skirt. “I’m not giving away my eggs.”

“But Bishop Hunt wants you to give your eggs.”

I shook my head furiously. “Right in church yesterday, he said that nobody had to give their eggs. He said that the Lord doesn’t want anything from anybody who doesn’t want to give it. That’s how I know He doesn’t want my eggs.”

“But that’s being horribly selfish.”

“Minnie,” I exploded, “I have plans for my eggs.” I thought of the catalog at the general store, where eight months earlier I’d seen the prettiest pair of black, pointed, high-heel shoes with buttoned laces on the sides. I wanted those shoes more than anything so that I could go to church in something really nice. But they cost five whole dollars. In 1894 in Snowflake, Arizona, five dollars was a lot more money than any ten-year-old girl had.

I had even prayed about those shoes, and two days later, Pa gave me an egg. I called it my treasure egg and kept it warm in a rag by the fire. It hatched in three weeks, and I had my first chicken.

I took really good care of that chicken. It wasn’t long before she was laying eggs and having chicks herself. Now I had sixteen chickens, all laying eggs. I’d just started selling those eggs for ten cents a dozen. I knew that when I sold enough eggs, I’d be able to buy that pair of black, pointed-toe shoes.

“What about the church?” Minnie demanded.

“Minnie,” I grumbled, “my few eggs won’t get the church rebuilt any sooner.”

“You’re just thinking of those black shoes in the catalog.”

“What if I am? I want something nice to wear to church.”

“Except there won’t be a church for you to wear them in because you won’t help rebuild it.” Minnie stalked back into the barn.

Snowflake’s Sunday egg project was Sister Ballard’s idea. She was the Relief Society president and had asked all the people in Snowflake to donate the eggs that their chickens laid on Sunday. The Sunday eggs were to be sold and the money given to rebuild the church.

Any other time, I’d have joined the Sunday egg project, but most of my chickens had just barely started laying and I’d need every dozen eggs I sold to buy my shoes. Last Sunday, my chickens had laid twenty-one eggs, a real record!

Minnie came stomping out of the barn with a wooden bucket in each hand. She held one out to me. “Will you at least go around town to collect eggs from everybody else?”

“I can help collect the eggs,” I muttered. “I’ll be helping with the project then. That will be more important than my few eggs.”

“Have you gathered your eggs yet?”

I swallowed and pressed my lips together. “I’m going to do it right now.”

After I’d looked in every single nest, I charged out of the barn. “You stole some of my eggs, didn’t you? I have only nine eggs, not even a dozen! Just last week I had twenty-one. You must have taken some of mine.”

Minnie wagged a finger at me. “I didn’t touch your old chicken eggs.”

I went with Minnie and my best friend, Harriet, to collect eggs that Monday morning. I had never seen so many eggs. I was afraid that we were going to break half of them as we lugged our buckets around town. I told Harriet all about the fancy catalog shoes. “Nobody’s going to have shoes as nice as mine,” I boasted.

“They do sound like mighty fine shoes, Penelope. I can hardly wait to see them.”

Just then we passed the church. The thick adobe walls were still there, but the roof was gone and there were ugly black holes where the windows and doors used to be. I could hear the men working inside, and suddenly I felt a worm of uneasiness wiggle inside me. I looked away. “I can hardly wait to get my new shoes,” I repeated awkwardly to Harriet. She just stared sadly at our poor church.

“Why, you girls have surely been busy this morning,” Sister Ballard greeted us. “I can’t believe how well the chickens have been laying since we began our Sunday egg project. We’ll have that church rebuilt before you know it.”

Minnie laughed cheerfully. “The chickens must know we’re using these eggs for the church, because they’re laying more than ever on Sundays.”

“I certainly hope you’re right, Minnie,” Sister Ballard chuckled.

I had a little notebook under my pillow in the loft. On the first page, I kept a record of how many eggs my chickens laid each day. Before the church had burned down, my chickens laid heaps of eggs. But since the egg project began, it was as if they dried up. I fed them and coaxed them to loosen up, but they sure had a hard time.

There were other troubles. Three times during the week, skunks prowled around the barn at night and scared the chickens until Mustard, our dog, chased them off. Another night, a coyote sneaked in and ran off with one of Pa’s best laying hens. And Silas’s dog next door got through a crack in the wall and gobbled up half a dozen of my eggs.

With everything happening, my chickens were so nervous and afraid that they practically stopped laying eggs altogether. In fact, the next Sunday, they laid only four eggs among them. My notebook showed that they didn’t do much better all week.

Monday morning when it was time to gather the Sunday eggs, I told Ma that I wasn’t feeling well, so she let me stay in bed while Harriet and Minnie collected the eggs. I wasn’t exactly sick, but I was miserable. I didn’t want to ask other people for their eggs when I wasn’t willing to give up mine.

In the distance I heard the hammering and the sawing at the church. It was a horrible, annoying sound. I ducked under the sheet and buried my head in my pillow so I wouldn’t have to hear it.

That afternoon, Ma sent me to the store to buy two cups of sugar. Before I got it, I took another peek in the catalog. For some reason, my shoes didn’t seem as pretty and fancy as they had.

Saturday night, as I studied my egg record for the week, I frowned. I had gathered only twenty-two eggs all week—not even a whole two dozen. I remembered the Sunday I had gathered twenty-one eggs in one day. Tears welled up in my eyes. It wasn’t fair—I was working hard, but my chickens weren’t cooperating.

I thought about asking the Lord to bless my poor chickens. After all, I’d prayed to get my treasure egg in the first place, and He had answered that prayer. But then I got a sick feeling in my stomach. How could I ask the Lord to help my chickens so I could get some fancy shoes, when I wouldn’t even share my eggs to help Him rebuild His church?

I looked at my record again. The Sunday before, I had gathered six eggs. “I can give the Lord six eggs,” I muttered to myself.

As soon as I said those words, a warm, peacefulness suddenly drove away my misery. I dropped to my knees. I didn’t ask the Lord for one thing. All I did was promise that until the church was rebuilt, I’d give away all my Sunday eggs.

As soon as I pushed up off my knees, an ugly thought pushed its way into my head. What if tomorrow my chickens lay another twenty-one eggs? I closed my eyes. I could give six eggs away, but could I give twenty-one? For a moment, I wondered if I should go back to the Lord and change my promise. The old misery started twisting in my stomach again. I clenched my fists, closed my eyes, and stomped my foot. “A promise is a promise,” I whispered firmly. “I don’t care if the chickens lay a hundred eggs.”

The next day, I was tempted to check my chickens, but I didn’t. Monday morning, I was up bright and early and charged out to the barn. Before I slipped through the door, I said a little prayer, reminding Heavenly Father what I’d promised and letting Him know that no matter what, every single egg belonged to Him.

What if there are only five eggs? Or even four or three? I asked myself. I suddenly felt horrible and closed my eyes again. “And if there aren’t very many,” I whispered softly, “Thou canst have some of my Monday and Tuesday eggs, too.”

I didn’t have to worry, though, because those silly chickens must have known what I’d promised. When I went around to their nests, they’d been working overtime. I collected twenty-two eggs!

I gathered them as fast as I could, and without waiting for Minnie or Harriet, I raced down the street to Sister Ballard’s house. I wanted mine to be the very first eggs she collected that Monday morning. As I ran by the church, the men were already working. I could hear the saws whine and the hammers bang, and it was beautiful, soothing music in my ears. It was my music because my few eggs were going to help it keep sounding beautiful and soothing until the church was finished.

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Baptism Miracles

By Jane McBride Choate
Friend, Sep 2001, 35
Based on a true event

Thus God has provided a means that man, through faith, might work mighty miracles (Mosiah 8:18).

Miguel Arrellano looked out the window of the tar-paper shack. Thunderclouds had opened up, pouring forth torrents of rain. Such storms were not unusual in his small village set in the mountains of Colombia.

Normally Miguel did not mind the rain. It watered the crops that the family depended upon for a living. Today, though, he prayed for the rain to stop.

It was a special day—the day he and his parents would be baptized members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

He remembered when the two missionaries had found them. Elder Berger and Elder Santos, dressed in dark pants and white shirts, had appeared at their door. They wore small, black, name badges proclaiming that they represented the Church.

Elder Berger was tall, almost two meters. He came from Utah in the United States of America. In Colombia, men are rarely so tall. Papá was only a few centimeters taller than Miguel. Elder Santos was a native missionary and even shorter than Papá.

Miguel had practiced saying Elder Berger’s name. The syllables sounded strange upon his tongue. They laughed together as the American missionary tried to say Arrellano.

The elders told the family the story of Joseph Smith and the Restoration. When Elder Berger bore his testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel, tears streamed down his face. He and Elder Santos both testified that Joseph Smith had been a prophet and that Gordon B. Hinckley was now the prophet. Though Miguel was only eleven, he knew that he was hearing the truth.

Mamá had cried when the elders had spoken of families being together forever. “Always, we search for something,” she had said. “Now I know we have found it.” She’d placed her hand on her heart. “I feel it. Here.”

The rain continued to fall in sheets and showed no signs of letting up.

Miguel looked from Mamá to Papá. “We must go. We told Elder Berger and Elder Santos that we would be there.”

Papá pointed to the flooded road. “There will be no bus today.”

The family had no car and had to rely on the bus. They had to change buses twice to reach the church. Each week, they carefully counted out the coins necessary to buy the bus tokens for Sunday. This week, they had taken money from their small food budget to pay for the extra trip to the church.

Papá worked very hard, but there was never enough money. Mamá had saved a little and made them new clothes. She had sewn Miguel and Papá shirts and herself a blouse. Miguel thought that she looked pretty in the bright yellow color.

He remembered the picture of President Hinckley the two young elders had shown the family. The prophet would not give up. He would find a way to get to the church, Miguel decided, and so will we.

“Señor Tomás,” Miguel said, glancing out the window and seeing their neighbor. “He goes to the city every day. Maybe he will give us a ride.”

Miguel ran across the muddy yard to their neighbor’s humble home. Señor Tomás nodded agreeably as the boy explained the situation. Miguel and Papá climbed into the back of the truck; Mamá rode in the cab with their neighbor.

They held on tightly as the old truck bounced over the rough roads. When they arrived at the small meetinghouse, they were wet and very tired, but happy.

The elders greeted them. Their clothes were wet and wrinkled, too, but the smiles on their faces were the brightest Miguel had ever seen.

“We weren’t sure you could make it,” Elder Berger said. “We’ve had problems here, too.”

They shared stories. Elder Santos explained that the pipes that carried water to the chapel had burst so that the baptismal font could not be filled. After praying, the elders had filled buckets with rain water and carried them inside the church to fill the font.

Miguel and his parents explained how they had found a ride with their neighbor.

“It’s a miracle you made it,” Elder Santos said.

Papá looked at the baptismal font and said, “We have many miracles today.”

“And much to be thankful for,” Mamá added.

Miguel and Papá changed clothes in a small dressing room while Mamá changed clothes in another one. Miguel touched the crisp white shirt and pants the elders had given him. They felt strange against his skin.

The water was so shallow that the elders had to kneel to perform the baptisms.

Miguel waited while his parents were baptized. When the time came for his own baptism, he felt a warmth come over him, even though the water was cold.

After everyone had changed into dry clothes, Elder Berger and Elder Santos confirmed Miguel and his parents members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Miguel hugged his parents, then Elder Berger and Elder Santos. He would never forget this day or the baptism miracles.

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(October)

Call from the Prophet

By Myrna Hoyt
Friend, Oct 2001, 4
Based on a true incident

How deeply grateful I am for the … loyalty of the members of the Church … who respond to every call, no matter the inconvenience, no matter what comfort they must forgo [give up] (President Gordon B. Hinckley, Ensign, May 1999, page 70).

Matt’s hero was his big brother Nate. Although Nate was ten years older than Matt, they were very good friends.

When Matt was seven, he wrote this essay for school:

Wouldn’t It Be Great If I Grew Up to Be Like My Big Brother?

Wouldn’t it be great if I grew up to be like my big brother? My big brother is an awesome basketball player. He can sink three-point shots, and he almost always makes his foul shots. He can really jump high, so he gets a lot of rebounds. My favorite thing is when he plays me a game of one-on-one. It is even fun to play when he beats me with all of his slam dunks. I’m glad I have such a neat big brother. I hope I can be the same kind of big brother to my little brother someday.

Matt still felt exactly the same way about his brother two years later, but along with those happy feelings were some feelings of sadness. Nate was nineteen now, and he had recently met with the bishop and stake president to send in his mission papers. Matt wanted Nate to serve a mission, but he knew that two years would seem like a very long time. He would really miss his brother.

When the mission-call envelope arrived in the mail, the family all sat around Nate. He read his call from the prophet:

You are hereby called to serve as a missionary of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. You are assigned to labor in the Brazil Florianopolis Mission. It is anticipated that you will serve for a period of twenty-four months.

Nate continued reading, but Matt didn’t hear the rest of the letter. All he understood was that his brother was going to go to a place Matt had never heard of and that he would be gone for two years. Matt knew that his family and Nate were excited, so he kept his sad feelings to himself and tried to share in the celebration.

The next few months were busy ones as everyone helped Nate prepare for his mission. They found maps and pictures of Brazil and hung them on the wall. Mom bought some tapes so that the family could all learn a few words of Portuguese. Nate bought a lot of white shirts and ties. Matt thought that Nate already looked like a missionary in his new suit.

Matt was very proud as Nate spoke in sacrament meeting on the Sunday before he was to leave. Matt felt all warm and fuzzy inside as Nate shared his testimony. As much as he was going to miss Nate, Matt knew that his brother was going to be an awesome missionary.

The day before Nate was to leave, Matt was out in the driveway, shooting a few hoops. He was trying to not feel sad, but tears were beginning to pool in his eyes.

“Hey, what’s up?” Nate asked as he rebounded the ball after Matt’s shot. Matt didn’t want Nate to see him cry, so he choked back the tears and challenged his older brother to a game.

Nate had noticed the tears in Matt’s eyes, though, and agreed to the game under one condition. “If I win, you have to make me a chocolate milk shake. Deal?”

“You’re on!” Matt grinned as he grabbed the ball, dribbled past Nate, and swished a three-point shot.

It was a hard-fought game, but Matt finally won by a point.

“Good game, champ!” Nate gave Matt a high five. “I hope that they have basketballs in Brazil so I can practice once in a while, or you’ll really skunk me in two years.”

Matt laughed, moving close to his big brother as they sat down under the shade of the apple tree in the backyard.

“I guess the treats are on me today.” Nate smiled as he handed Matt his favorite candy bar and pulled another from his pocket for himself.

“I was really hoping for a chocolate milk shake,” Nate said as he took the last bite of his candy bar. “I’m not sure I’ll get any of those in Brazil.”

Matt tried to smile, but a few tears slipped out of the corner of his eyes and down his cheeks.

Nate put his arm around his little brother. “I’ll be fine, champ. I think I’ll survive for two years without chocolate milk shakes.”

Matt smiled but couldn’t keep his voice from cracking. “You might survive without milk shakes, but I don’t know if I will survive without you.”

“Can I share a secret with you?” Nate said in a quiet voice.

Matt nodded.

“I’m really going to miss you and the rest of the family. I am also very nervous about going to a country so far away where they speak a different language.”

Matt was surprised. “If you’re nervous and scared, why are you going?”

Nate was quiet for a few moments. Then he said, “Champ, do you believe that President Hinckley is a true prophet of God?”

Matt nodded. “Sure I do.”

“Our prophet has said that all worthy young men should serve a mission. Even though I am nervous and know it will be very hard, I want to follow the prophet. If he says that the Lord wants me in Brazil, then I need to go.”

As Matt gave his brother a hug, he said, “I promise to write to you and pray for you. I really am glad that you are going on a mission.”

“I appreciate that, champ!” Nate wrapped his arms around Matt in a huge bear hug.

Although the next day, it was hard to tell his brother good-bye for two years, Matt thought that the Missionary Training Center was awesome. He had never seen so many missionaries, and he had a really warm, happy feeling inside while they were there. He knew that Nate would be all right.

Matt enjoyed the letters that came from Brazil. In one letter, Nate described the excitement of the people when President Hinckley went to Brazil to dedicate a temple near them. Nate knew one family who had the opportunity to personally talk with President Hinckley. They later bore testimony of him as a true prophet of God.

Matt knew that President Hinckley was the prophet for the whole world, but he hadn’t thought about how important it is for everyone in the world to have the opportunity to learn about him and about the gospel of Jesus Christ.

One day, a letter arrived from Brazil from a girl named Aline. Matt’s mother took it to a friend who had served a mission in Brazil several years earlier. He translated the letter into English for them. In the letter, Aline told how thankful she was that Nate and other missionaries had taught her the truth and had baptized her. Matt felt a warm feeling inside as he finished reading her letter:

I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I am sixteen years old and have been a member of the Church for four months. It is true, and I have a serious happiness in the church in which the elder baptized me.

I am a stake missionary now, and I know how important missionary work is. Missionaries receive much happiness, blessings, and make many friends, and they dedicate everything with this great love they have.

I am very happy in this Church that is so true, and I am also happy for my family that is in the Church.

I want to give a very strong hug for all of your family. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

After reading the letter, Matt sat down and wrote a letter to Nate. He told his brother how thankful he was that Nate was in Brazil, teaching people about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Matt also did some serious thinking. He didn’t want just to be a good basketball player like Nate when he grew up. He wanted to be like Nate and follow the prophet and be a good missionary, as well!

[Prophets]

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Brothers and Sisters in the Gospel

By Jane McBride Choate
Friend, Oct 2001, 14
Based on a true story

And let every man esteem his brother as himself (D&C 38:24).

Lisa Toemei* paid extra attention to sweeping the floor of the one-room house. It was a special occasion. The missionaries were coming today. It would make the fourth time the American elders had visited her family.

Lisa had never been off the island of Pohnpei, which is just north of the equator in the Pacific Ocean. She looked forward to the visits of these missionaries from a land so far away. She had many questions for them.

At last the missionaries arrived. As was the custom, they removed their shoes before entering the house. “Brother and Sister Toemei, thank you for inviting us into your home.” Elder Choate greeted them in their own language.

Elder Tyson did the same.

Lisa liked listening to them, even though they spoke with a funny accent.

Barney, Lisa’s little brother, smiled shyly at the two young men.

Elder Choate and Elder Tyson came from the United States of America to teach the people about Jesus Christ. They were dressed in dark pants, white shirts, and ties. Their name badges proclaimed that they were from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Elder Choate was tall and fair, his hair so light that it appeared almost white. Even the hair on his arms was white! Lisa had never seen such pale skin and blue eyes. He was from Colorado. He showed it to her on a map. It was a small square surrounded by other squares and shapes—and very far from the ocean!

Elder Tyson was not so tall, but he still towered over her papa. His hair was bright red, making Lisa think of the sunset.

During each of the missionaries’ visits, Lisa and Barney couldn’t get their questions out fast enough. What was the United States like? How did people live without being near the ocean? What made their skin so light?

The missionaries answered the questions and then asked questions of their own. Did they know that their family could be together in heaven? Did they want to be an eternal family? Did they believe the Church was true, and if so, would they be baptized?

“An eternal family,” Mama said, her hands clasped. “It is the truth you bring us. Always we know there is something more than what we have, but we do not know where to find it. You honor us with this gift.”

Papa nodded, his face grave. “This baptism you speak of—you can do it for us?”

The elders grinned. “It would give us great joy to baptize you,” Elder Choate said. “Since Lisa is ten, she can be baptized along with you and Sister Toemei. Barney will have to wait until he is eight years old.”

“You will stay for a meal,” Mama said, already bustling about in the far corner that served as their kitchen.

What will we feed the Americans? Lisa wondered. The family had only a little food to last through the week.

Mama prepared the meal, all the while listening as the elders continued teaching from the dark blue Book of Mormon.

Lisa’s eyes widened when she saw the amount of food on the table. Rice, fresh tuna, and bananas filled the serving bowls! There was enough for several meals.

The elders held up their hands. “This is your family’s food,” Elder Choate said. “We cannot eat it.”

“You hold the everlasting gospel in your hands,” Mama said. “You must have our best.”

The young men continued to protest until Papa said quietly, “Would you turn away a gift from a friend?”

The elders looked at each other. “Thank you,” Elder Tyson said at last. “We would be honored to share your meal.”

Why?” Lisa asked her mother in a low voice as the missionaries went to wash their hands. “Why do you give them all our food? We will not have enough for the rest of the week.”

“Did you not hear what these men of God said? They bring a message from the living prophet. What is a bit of food compared to the truth and light that they teach to us?”

There was much laughter at the small wooden table during the meal. Lisa felt the Spirit warm her from the inside out. She especially liked hearing Elder Choate bear his testimony about Joseph Smith, the first President of the Church, and President Gordon B. Hinckley, the current prophet. She listened closely as Elder Tyson told of his recent visit to Guam.

Lisa scraped the last of the rice from the bowl as she put away the leftovers. She knew there would be little food for the next week, but she didn’t mind anymore.

The elders returned the following day. Each carried a sack. There were boxes of cereal and cans of fruit and vegetables.

“It is too much!” Mama said, tears bright in her eyes. “Too much.”

“Would you turn away a gift from a friend?” Elder Choate asked, using Papa’s words. “The gospel of Jesus Christ makes us all brothers and sisters. We could not let our brothers and sisters go hungry.”

Brothers and sisters—Lisa liked that.

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Micah’s Understanding Heart

By Patricia Reece Roper
Friend, Oct 2001, 30
A true story

Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them (Matt. 7:12).

The energetic little girl hurried past Micah and his friends toward the carnival’s train ride. Some in the crowd stared at the brace on her leg. A couple of Micah’s friends mimicked her limp and laughed.

“Hey, don’t, you guys,” Micah told them firmly. “That’s mean.”

Jason shrugged. “So what? We’re not hurting anyone. She can’t even see us.” He went on limping.

“Yeah, she’s too busy running for the train,” Matthew chimed in, swinging his leg stiffly.

“What’s it to you, anyway?” Jason asked. “We’re not making fun of you.”

Micah looked down, trying to find the right words. “A few years ago it was me that people like you stared at and laughed at.”

“How come?” Matthew asked. “I never saw you wear a brace.” He and Jason stopped limping and listened.

Micah shook his head. “I never did, but I did have an accident. I guess you’ve forgotten.”

Matthew looked puzzled. “How old were you?”

“I was six.”

“Matthew wasn’t living here then, Micah,” Jason reminded him. “But I remember now—it was at the rodeo.”

Micah nodded. “Yep. One minute I was just sitting there on the fence, watching the rodeo. The next, I was flat on my face, eating dirt.”

Matthew stifled a laugh. “What happened?”

“I was getting down to ask my dad for a hamburger, but my feet somehow got tangled up in the fence slats. I just flipped over and landed on my face.”

“What did it do to you?” Matthew asked, still trying to not laugh.

“Nothing, as far as I could tell. I just got up, ran over to where my Dad was sitting, and asked him for a hamburger. He kept staring at my face, and then he started asking me to smile and frown and stuff. When I fell down, I must have hit an important nerve in my cheek, because the whole left side of my face wasn’t moving.”

“Weird!” Matthew exclaimed.

“It was pretty funny at first,” Micah said. “But when we went to the doctor, he said that the nerve probably wouldn’t heal for six months and that it might not heal completely at all.”

“I remember when it happened,” Jason put in. “My mom sat me down and told me to not make fun of Micah. It was hard sometimes, because he really did look weird.”

Micah nodded. “I probably would have laughed at someone else, but there were a lot of things about it that weren’t funny. I couldn’t close my eye. I had to tape it shut at night so I could sleep. The doctor was afraid I might get an ulcer on my eye, so I had to keep putting eye drops in. I couldn’t use my mouth and tongue right, so I said some things funny, and anything I drank spilled out of the side of my mouth.”

Matthew pulled a face. “Gross! How embarrassing! But did any of the kids laugh at you?”

Micah’s face reddened. “Lots of them. Not everyone was like Jason and his mom. Most of the kids laughed and mimicked me. Even when I cried, some kids kept right on making fun of me.”

“I guess that would be pretty hard,” Matthew admitted. “But you look OK now.”

“Yeah,” Jason added, “I’d forgotten it even happened.”

Micah shook his head. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget how it felt to want to be just like everyone else and to not be able to. The hurt from people laughing at you is pretty tough to get over, too. I don’t like to make fun of people—even if they can’t see it. It’s just wrong.”

The boys reached the train ride as the little girl with the brace was getting off. A couple of girls about Micah’s age stared at her but didn’t say anything until she was out of hearing. Then they started making jokes.

“She can’t help wearing that,” Matthew told them.

“What if something like that happened to you?” Jason added. “How would you feel?”

The girls blushed. “Sorry,” one of them said. “Is she your sister or something?”

“I don’t know her,” Micah told them, “but I know that she has feelings.”

“Next time we’ll be kinder,” another girl promised.

“Good for you,” Matthew said. “So will we.”

[Kindness]

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Promises

By Lisa H. Fernelius
Friend, Oct 2001, 46
Based on a true story

Be of good cheer, little children; for I am in your midst, and I have not forsaken you (D&C 61:36).

Zoey dashed to the door the moment she heard the bus stop. Flinging the door open, she raced down the driveway.

“Zach! Zach!” she called. “I kept my promise. I didn’t go into your room once after I got home from kindergarten.”

“Good job!” Zach said, patting Zoey on the back.

“Now can I have the piece of gum that you promised me?”

Zach stopped. He stuck his hand into his pocket, but it was empty. “I’m sorry, Zoey. I forgot and traded it to David for a cupcake.”

“Oh.” Zoey turned and walked slowly back up the driveway. She found Mom in the kitchen, getting out flour, sugar, and salt. Zoey’s face brightened. “Is it time to bake the cookies you promised I could help you make after I got my toys picked up?”

“I’m sorry, Zoey. I forgot that I need to bake cinnamon rolls for a meeting at school tonight.”

“Oh.” Zoey trudged into the living room, flopped onto the couch, and thumbed through the Friend magazine that had just arrived. When she saw a picture of Jesus Christ surrounded by little children, she smiled, remembering how much Jesus loves little children.

The phone rang, and she jumped up to answer it. Hearing who it was, she chirped, “Dad, guess what? I told everyone at school today about the bike ride you and Zach and I are going on tonight. What time will you be home?”

Zoey’s shoulders drooped. “But, Dad, you promised we could go if we helped you weed the garden last night.” She listened as Dad explained. “Oh.” Zoey hung up the phone. Tears spilled out onto her cheeks.

“Who was on the phone?” Mom asked as she came into the living room.

“Dad.” Zoey sniffled. “He said you need to get a baby-sitter for tonight. He forgot he has to work late.”

Mom took Zoey’s hand and gently sat her on the couch beside her. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Nobody keeps their promises!” Zoey blurted out. “I stayed out of Zach’s room, but he traded the piece of gum he promised me. I cleaned my room, but you baked cinnamon rolls instead of cookies.” Zoey wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “And Zach and I helped weed the garden, but Dad can’t take us on the bike ride, after all. I’m never going to believe anyone’s promises again.”

Mom hugged Zoey a long time. Then she picked up the Friend Zoey had been looking at. “Zoey, there is Someone who never breaks a promise.”

Zoey wiped her eyes. “Who?”

“Jesus.” Mom pointed to the picture of Jesus and the children. “In two years, you’ll turn eight and be baptized. When we’re baptized, Jesus promises us the gift of the Holy Ghost, membership in His church, and forgiveness for our sins. Do you know what we promise Him?”

“To be good?”

“That’s right,” Mom said. “We promise to obey His commandments and to take His name upon us. That means we’ll act like Jesus Christ—like He would want us to act. And we also promise to always remember Him.”

“I know why He asks that,” Zoey said firmly. “You can’t keep promises if you forget what you promised.”

“That’s right. One reason we have the sacrament every week is to help us remember our promises.”

“But how does Jesus remember His promises?”

“Let me read you something very special that Jesus said.” Mom reached for the scriptures on the table, turned to 1 Nephi 21:15–16 [1 Ne. 21:15–16], and read, “Yea, they may forget, yet will I not forget thee, O house of Israel. Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands.”

Closing the book, Mom asked, “Do you know what that means, Zoey?”

Zoey closed her eyes and remembered the pictures she’d seen of Jesus on the cross. “Does it mean Jesus remembers because of the scars from the nails in His hands when He was killed?”

Mom nodded. “Jesus never forgets His promises.”

“Wow! That means I can always believe Jesus’ promises. It makes me want to work extra hard to keep my promises to Him.”

Mom gave Zoey another hug. “We all need to work extra hard at keeping our promises, both to Jesus Christ and to each other. Will you give Zach, Daddy, and me another chance to keep ours?”

“OK.” Zoey smiled. Then shaking her finger at Mom, she added, “But don’t forget that with promises, it’s important to remember.”

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(November)

A Challenge Just for You

By Patricia Reece Roper
Friend, Nov 2001, 4
A true story

Let one speak at a time and let all listen unto his sayings, that … all may be edified [improved, uplifted] (D&C 88:122).

Tyler watched as some of his Primary friends went to the front of the chapel. It was fast and testimony meeting. Every month, his friends shared their testimonies in front of the whole ward. Even little Sunbeams and CTR five-year-olds did it. Tyler squirmed in his seat. He wanted to share his testimony, too, but he was afraid that everyone would make fun of him.

Tyler had been in speech therapy since he was four years old. At first, he had worked on sounds that he’d never been able to make. Slowly he became really good at them. But now that Tyler was seven, he had a different speech problem. It seemed that when he talked, no one listened. He wanted everyone to hear what he had to say, so he kept starting over. His speech teacher called it “stuttering.” Some of the older kids on the school bus called him “stupid.” Tyler knew that he could not talk as well as the other kids his age. He also knew that he wasn’t stupid. Still, being called names hurt his feelings.

“Why don’t you say your testimony?” Tyler’s little sister, Michelle, asked loudly as he sat hunched over on the bench with his family.

Tyler knew that his face was turning red. “Don’t worry about me,” he hissed at her.

Mom leaned over and whispered to Michelle, “Tyler will share his testimony when he’s ready.”

After church, Tyler found his mother studying her Primary lesson at the kitchen table. He had waited until he could talk to her alone. “I can’t say my testimony because I stutter,” he blurted out to her.

She looked up from her lesson manual and smiled at him. “Everyone has challenges in their lives to work on. This one is just for you.”

Tyler looked down. Tiny tears were starting to form in the corners of his eyes. “But, Mom, no one else stutters.”

His mother was very quiet. Tyler looked up at her and thought he saw tears in her eyes, too. Finally she said, “No one else in our family stutters, but even some grown men have speech problems. Even some of the Lord’s prophets were afraid to share their testimonies because of their speech problems. We don’t know what we would call their problem today; the scriptures describe it as being ‘slow of speech.’ ”*

“Grown men? Even prophets had trouble talking?”

His mother smiled at Tyler’s excitement and nodded. “In the scriptures, there are two prophets that I can think of who were worried about sharing the gospel because of their speech. They both learned to follow the counsel of the Lord and overcame their fear of speaking. They did great things for the Lord.”

Tyler’s eyes twinkled with joy. “Who were they?”

“Well, one of them was Moses.”

“Moses!” Tyler exclaimed. “He was a great prophet. He led the children of Israel to the promised land. But I thought his brother, Aaron, did all the talking.”

“Very good,” Mom said. “I can tell that you were listening in family home evening. That’s right—Aaron did talk at first. But Moses gradually overcame his fear and did a lot of the talking himself.”

“I didn’t know that,” Tyler said. “Who was the other prophet?”

“You might not have heard of him,” Mom told him. “His name was Enoch. He lived before Noah and the flood.”

“No, I haven’t heard of him. What did he do?”

“He taught his people the gospel.”

“What’s so special about that?” Tyler wanted to know. “All the prophets do that.”

Mom nodded. “Yes, but with Enoch, the difference was that his people listened.”

“To a prophet who couldn’t talk very well?”

“Absolutely. They listened to him so well that their city of Zion was translated, or taken up to heaven to be with Heavenly Father. The scriptures say that they were so righteous that the Lord couldn’t keep them from His presence, and He took them to Himself.”

“The people really didn’t laugh at Enoch, did they?”

Mom closed her manual and folded her arms on top of it. “Tyler, when people listen with the Spirit of the Lord, they listen to what you say, not how you say it.”

Tyler traced the pattern on the tablecloth with his finger as he thought about what Mom had said.

“You know, Tyler,” she continued, “there are General Authorities today who come from different parts of the world. Often they don’t speak English as well as they would like to when they speak at general conference. But every time I listen to them, I have a warm feeling inside. I know that what they’re saying is true.”

“I bet some people would make fun of them, too.” Tyler frowned.

Mom nodded. “I think you’re right. Some people probably do. But if they do, they’re only hurting themselves. They’re missing out on a wonderful spiritual experience.”

Tyler was quiet as this new thought went through his mind. “Thanks, Mom. That helps a lot.”

When the next fast and testimony meeting came, Tyler was ready. He didn’t care if some of the other children laughed. He was going to bear his testimony. He had wanted to do it for a long time, and now he wasn’t going to let other people’s rudeness stop him.

To his surprise, no one laughed. No one even snickered or pointed. Tyler spoke to the whole ward about what was in his heart, what he had felt the Spirit testify was true. It wasn’t a long testimony like adults sometimes give, but it was his testimony.

When Tyler returned to his seat, Mom leaned over. “That was one of the most beautiful testimonies I’ve ever heard. Thanks, Tyler.”

The warm feeling inside of Tyler grew. He knew that it was the Spirit of the Lord making him feel good. All he could think of to answer his mom was, “Thank you, too, Mom.”

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Blessings Everywhere

By Patricia Reece Roper
Friend, Nov 2001, 14
Based on a true story

Thou shalt thank the Lord thy God in all things (D&C 59:7).

Rachelle pulled her shoelaces as tightly as they could go. Last Friday, her laces had come undone, and she had tripped with her lunch tray. Now as she stretched them with all her might, she silently hoped that she wouldn’t be embarrassed again.

Pop! Rachelle fell back on her bed, holding a broken shoelace in her hand. She didn’t want to cry, and the tears that started in her eyes only made her mad. Taking the shoelace, she hurried to the kitchen and held it out for Dad to see.

“Oh no!” Dad frowned. “I don’t think we have any more. We’ll just have to tie it together and hope it holds that way.”

Rachelle threw the lace on the floor and angrily stamped her foot. “All the bad things happen to me!”

Dad chuckled. “Sometimes it does seem that way.”

Rachelle didn’t see how her father could laugh. Now she would probably trip with her lunch tray again. If she did, everyone would think she was really weird. “It’s not fair. Why am I the only one with bad luck? Why don’t I get to have blessings?”

This time when Dad answered her, he was more serious. “I know that sometimes life seems to have a lot of troubles. But I think that if you don’t see the blessings in your life, it’s because you’re not looking for them.”

“I looked,” Rachelle argued. “There aren’t any there.”

“Honey,” Dad gently scolded. “There are blessings everywhere. Really, you have more than you imagine.”

Rachelle rolled her eyes as she sat at the breakfast table. She watched Dad finish spreading butter on her toast and stir her orange juice again. Usually by now, he was getting ready for work. Today he was helping Mom, instead.

“Was Mom up all night with the baby again?” Rachelle quietly asked.

Dad nodded. “Now, there’s a blessing we all enjoy; however, he just doesn’t enjoy sleeping at night like the rest of us.”

When they had finished eating, Dad helped Rachelle read out of the Book of Mormon. They knelt together for prayers, and then Dad helped her put on a jacket and her backpack. When she turned around to give him a kiss good-bye, he held her face in his hands and said, “Rachelle, I want you to do something for me today.”

“Sure, Dad. What?”

“Look around you all day long and try really hard to find blessings the Lord has given you. Write them down in your notebook and share them with us tonight during family home evening.”

“That sounds like a school assignment.”

“In a way it is,” Dad answered. “Just as you sometimes do schoolwork at home, this time I want you to do home work at school.”

Heaving an exaggerated sigh, Rachelle promised that she would. “But don’t be surprised if my paper is blank,” she called over her shoulder as she left the house. She heard her dad chuckling as he closed the door behind her.

When Rachelle was joined by her friends Misty and Stormi, she almost completely forgot about her assignment. But she remembered it when Misty grumped that they lived just too near their school to not be included on the bus route. It seemed like the walk to school was always too long.

“You see,” Rachelle announced her thoughts out loud, “of course I have to walk to school! I’m just one of those people who don’t get any blessings. This is going to be one of the easiest assignments I’ve ever had.”

Misty and Stormi looked at each other, but neither of them said anything. Whatever was bothering Rachelle would most likely be forgotten by lunchtime.

In a way, they were right. By noon, Rachelle had not written anything on her paper for family home evening. She was happily eating her green salad and chatting with Misty and Stormi in between bites, when a loud noise and a lot of laughing caught her attention. At the front of the lunchroom, where everyone could see, stood the new boy. His hair was a mess as usual, his clothes looked dirty, and even though his face was turning red, his ears and neck looked like someone forgot to remind him to scrub them.

All the kids in the lunchroom were pointing and laughing at him because he had dropped his tray.

“Wow!” Rachelle exclaimed. “I sure am glad that wasn’t me.” She remembered how worried she had been that she would drop her tray. But the shoelace Dad had fixed had held just fine, and she hadn’t tripped. “I’d better write that down.” She took a piece of notebook paper from her pocket. “I didn’t drop my tray, and my shoelace stayed together.”

The new boy walked quickly to a seat in the lunchroom. He passed Rachelle’s table on the way. She noticed something else about him. He didn’t have any shoelaces.

“I guess I ought to write that, too,” she mumbled to herself. “I have shoelaces.”

“What on earth are you doing?” Stormi asked.

“Oh, it’s just an assignment my dad gave me today,” Rachelle explained. “I have to write down all my blessings.”

“Why?” Misty wondered.

Rachelle shrugged. “I don’t know. I think it might be because my dad doesn’t think I’m grateful or something.”

“Uh-huh.” Stormi nodded. “My dad does stuff like that to me, too.”

“So you wrote stuff you have that the new boy doesn’t?” Misty guessed.

Rachelle nodded.

“Isn’t he in our ward?” Stormi asked.

Rachelle and Misty shrugged.

“I heard my mom say that his only family is his grandma,” Stormi told them. “Mom said that they moved their trailer house here last week. I guess they move a lot.”

“Does he have any brothers or sisters?” Rachelle asked.

Stormi shook her head. “There are just him and his grandma.”

Rachelle wrote, “I have a house to live in” and “I have a baby brother” and “I have a mom who takes good care of me” and “I have a dad.” She looked over to the table where the new boy was hungrily eating. He didn’t seem to notice that no one was sitting by him, and some kids were making rude faces at him. He ate his food as if it were a feast for a king. Rachelle wrote, “I have a nice school lunch” and “I have good friends.” She was quiet as she looked at her paper. The list had gotten really long in just a short time.

“Come on, Rachelle,” Misty called. She and Stormi were standing by the table, ready to scrape their trays and go outside.

“Um, I’ll come in a minute.” Rachelle was glad her friends left without saying anything else. A lump was forming in her throat. How could she have complained about anything? She was probably one of the most blessed girls in the whole world. Rachelle felt really ashamed for her grumpiness that morning. She found where she had written, “I have a dad” on her paper and added “who puts up with my complaining.”

That night in family home evening when Dad asked for her paper, she unfolded it and tried to read. But the lump started to form in her throat again.

Dad smiled understandingly. “I can tell by the look on Rachelle’s face that she has done her assignment very well.”

Rachelle nodded and turned her paper over so her parents could see. “It’s a lot more than I thought I would have,” she admitted.

Mom held a small sack out for Rachelle to take and said, “Rachelle, Dad told me you needed new shoelaces, so I managed to get to the store to buy some for you today.”

Taking the laces out of the sack, she asked, “Mom, would it be OK if I gave these to someone else?”

Mom and Dad looked in surprise at each other, and Dad asked, “Who?”

“There’s a new boy in our ward who doesn’t even have any broken laces to tie together.”

Mom nodded. “I think I know who you mean. That’s a wonderful idea, Rachelle.”

“The idea is really Dad’s,” Rachelle told her mother. “He wanted me to see that I have all kinds of blessings and shouldn’t complain.”

Dad picked up Rachelle’s paper and wrote something down.

“What are you writing on my paper?”

“I’m just adding something that you missed.” Dad handed her the paper.

Rachelle read, “I have a giving heart.”

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Book Buddies

By Mary Kimball Mackey
Friend, Nov 2001, 27
Based on a true event

Jesus said love ev’ryone; Treat them kindly too (Children’s Songbook, page 61).

The screen door slammed its familiar afternoon bang. “Mom! I’m home!” Marcus called out.

“I’m in the kitchen,” Mom called back.

Marcus pulled his shoes off by the front door, then made his way to the kitchen. His nose told him hot cinnamon rolls were waiting. He smiled.

“Would you like one?” Mom asked, pouring him some milk. “How was school?”

“It was OK.” Marcus sank his teeth into the warm roll. “There’s a new girl in my class.”

“Oh?”

“Her name is Karen, and I feel really sorry for her,” Marcus said, staring quietly out the window.

“How come?”

“Well, she has only one arm. And you could tell she was scared to come to a new class. She looked at her shoes all day and didn’t talk to anyone.”

Marcus’s family had moved recently, and he knew how difficult it was to be the new kid at school. He couldn’t imagine how hard it would be if you looked different, too.

“I hope that you were kind to her,” Mom hinted.

“I smiled and said hi, but I don’t think she noticed. Most of the kids stared at her missing arm all day. Some even whispered and pointed, and you knew they were talking about her.”

Mom frowned. “I don’t imagine that that made her feel very welcome.”

“No, probably not.” He didn’t mention that one of the boys who had joked and pointed the most was his new friend, Tim. Marcus had been embarrassed each time Tim did it, but he hadn’t known what to do about it.

That night, Marcus’s father gave the lesson for family home evening. He talked about President Hinckley’s great love for all people and his counsel that each of us should be a little kinder to those around us. Dad asked each member of the family to think of someone to whom they could show a little more kindness.

Marcus thought hard while his little sisters took their turns. When Dad called on him, he replied, “I can show more kindness to Karen, a new girl in my class. She doesn’t have any friends yet.” Mother gave Marcus a smile of encouragement and a quick wink.

After he and Mom told whom they would be kinder to, Dad said, “OK then, I’ll expect to hear a report from everyone tomorrow night at dinner.” He closed the lesson by bearing his testimony about how important it is to follow the prophet’s counsel.

That night, Marcus fell asleep wondering how he was going to make friends with a girl who stared at the floor all day. And he worried about what Tim and the other guys in his class would think when he tried to be nice to her.

When Marcus walked into his classroom the next morning, he half-hoped that Karen would be absent. But she was sitting at her desk, looking straight down at a book and seemingly unaware of anyone else. That’s when Marcus had an idea. He went and spoke quietly to his teacher, Mrs. Meyers.

Every Tuesday was “book buddy” day in Marcus’s class. After lunch, Mrs. Meyers announced that they would divide into pairs to read out loud to each other. As she called out the book-buddy assignments, she paired Marcus with Karen. Tim grinned as he leaned over and whispered, “Tough luck! Guess you’ll have to hold the book and turn the pages, since she has only one arm.”

Marcus looked at Tim and smiled, “That’s OK. I don’t mind.” Tim’s grin disappeared as he watched Marcus cross the room to Karen’s desk.

A warm feeling filled Marcus’s heart as he smiled into Karen’s hesitant eyes. “Hi! I’m Marcus. What do you want to read?”

Karen looked up at him blankly, then ducked her head without saying anything.

“Do you like the Magic Time Machine series?” Marcus continued. “I just finished the one where they go to ancient Rome. It was great!”

“Really? That’s the one I’m reading right now!” She looked him right in the eyes and grinned happily.

“No way!” Marcus grinned back. “You’re going to really like the ending.” Marcus made himself comfortable in the chair next to her. He thought about his father’s challenge, and he was grateful for President Hinckley’s counsel. Not only had he found a way to be kinder, but he’d made a new friend, too!

[Be Kinder]

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Prayer in the Storm

By Cindy Roland Anderson
Friend, Nov 2001, 46
Based on a true story

And they shall also teach their children to pray (D&C 68:28).

Emily’s family had spent a wonderful weekend at Grandma’s house, and now it was time to leave. Emily was sad to say good-bye but happy that it was her turn to fly home with Dad in his small airplane while her sisters and brother drove back with Mom in their car. Emily loved flying with Dad. It was so peaceful in the sky. She liked to gaze across the tops of the puffy clouds and pretend that she could jump down onto them and run about.

“We’d better get going,” Dad said. “Although when I turned in my flight plan, the airport official said that we should easily miss the storm coming in, it’s almost dusk. I don’t like to take chances, even on a short flight like this one.”

Emily hugged Grandma good-bye and climbed aboard. Soon they were in the air.

It quickly became dark and began to rain. “Are you OK, Emily?” Dad asked. Emily nodded. The weather was making the flight bumpy, but she did not mind. The bumps made her tummy tickle.

The storm grew worse. Rain pounded the windows, and lightning flashed all around. The little plane bucked and shook. Emily started feeling scared. She knew that Dad must be nervous, too, because he stopped talking to her and concentrated on flying.

Then Emily remembered something she had learned in Primary. Sister Adams had told them that whenever they were afraid, they could pray to Heavenly Father. “Dad, can we have a special prayer to help us get home safely?” she asked.

Dad smiled at her. “I’ve already been praying in my heart. Will you please say a prayer for us out loud?”

Emily closed her eyes and folded her arms. She asked Heavenly Father to bless them to fly safely home and to help her to not be afraid.

“Thank you for praying, Emily,” Dad said. “We should be home in about thirty minutes.”

Emily felt peaceful and calm. The wind and rain continued to lash the plane, and the ride was still bumpy, but she was no longer afraid. Instead, she felt sleepy.

When the wheels of the airplane hit the runway, they made a squeaky sound that awakened her. “We made it, honey,” Dad said. “Let’s go home.”

The next morning when Emily got up, there was a letter by her pillow.

Dear Emily,
I wanted to tell you how much I love you. Last night I was afraid. I couldn’t believe that I had taken my little girl with me in such a bad storm. After your sweet prayer, I looked over to see how you were doing. When I saw that you were asleep, an overwhelmingly peaceful feeling came over me. I knew that if you could sleep while the plane was being tossed around in a lightning storm, you must have tremendous faith that we would be OK. Then I, too, had faith that we would be OK. I knew that Heavenly Father was watching over us and that I would be able to fly us home safely. Thank you, Emily, for not only having faith in me, but faith in our Father in Heaven.
Love,
Dad

Emily felt good inside. She loved Dad and her family so much! She knelt by her bed and thanked Heavenly Father for such a wonderful family and for the gospel. She couldn’t wait to get to school and tell her friends all about her airplane ride in the storm.

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(December)

To Hear the Angels Sing

By Sheila Kindred
Friend, Dec 2001, 4
Based on a true incident

He that hath ears to hear, let him hear (Matt. 11:15).

Carrie settled down on the floor in front of a display case full of Christmas jewelry. She waved to her big brother, and he grinned. He was standing on the risers with other members of the children’s choir waiting to begin their Christmas concert at the mall. She thought he looked very handsome in his choir uniform. The boys in the choir were all dressed alike in white shirts with red-striped ties. The girls all wore blue dresses with lacy white collars and a red rose. They looked very dressed-up.

Carrie thought back to earlier in the day, when the choir had given a concert in a local church. The church had very tall stained-glass windows that reflected a softly-colored rainbow of light across the children’s faces as they sang. Their beautiful voices rose to the high rafters of the church. Mom had said that they sounded just like angels. Like the angels that announced the birth of Jesus Christ to the shepherds long ago, Carrie hoped.

Now the choir was giving the same concert at the shopping mall, but things felt different here. Carrie looked around. She was impatient for the concert to begin, but not if it was going to be this noisy. A nearby cash register was making loud beeps as a store clerk rang up sales. There was a person in a teddy-bear costume entertaining some giggling children. People were talking loudly around a large Christmas tree decorated with gifts that could be bought at the different stores in the mall.

Finally the concert began. A boy in the choir stepped forward and began to sing a solo with a violin accompaniment. When Carrie had heard this song in the church, it made her feel joyful. At the church, everyone had listened quietly. She had even noticed tears in the eyes of some of those in the audience. As she looked around the shopping mall now, few people were listening. Most were busy shopping or chatting or eating. She didn’t see reverent tears in anyone’s eyes.

When the concert was over, she was sad that hardly anyone had really listened to the beautiful music. Taking her mother’s hand, she walked out of the mall to meet her brother.

“Did the shepherds listen to the angels, Mom?” she asked. “Or were they too busy tending the sheep?”

Mom smiled. “They listened, Carrie. That’s how they knew where to find Baby Jesus.”

“Did the angels sing for anyone besides the shepherds?”

“I don’t know. The scriptures don’t tell us about anyone else.”

“What about all the people staying near the stable? You told me that there were so many people in Bethlehem that there wasn’t any room in the inns for Mary and Joseph.”

“The city was very crowded that night. But I suppose those people were too tired to listen to angels after their long journey to Bethlehem. Or maybe they were busy finding a place to sleep, preparing food, or thinking about the taxes they’d have to pay.”

Carrie thought about that for a few minutes, then sighed. “Mom, I hope that no matter what I’m doing, I’ll always be able to hear the angels sing.”

“Me, too.” Mom gave Carrie a hug. “Me, too.”

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The Chocolate-Covered Cherry

By Scott Hamm
Friend, Dec 2001, 14

See that ye love one another; … learn to impart one to another (D&C 88:123).

It’s what’s inside that counts, at least that’s what Mom always said. And while Joshua didn’t understand everything that that meant, he was sure that his mom knew what she was talking about when it came to chocolate-covered cherries. They were one of his dad’s favorite treats at Christmastime, and they had become one of Josh’s also.

This wonderful candy was shaped like a little pitcher’s mound with a swirl of chocolate on top. And while the chocolate outside was good, it was the inside that Joshua really loved: a gooey, sticky, sweet, white cream and liquid surrounding a delicious maraschino cherry. The liquid center sometimes made it a little difficult to eat without making a mess, but that challenge was all part of the fun.

Sometimes he bit right into the top and looked down as if looking into a volcano with a red-hot-lava cherry. Sometimes this caused the side to break, and the hot lava came gushing out onto his hand, making him slurp and lick as quickly as he could to keep from getting sticky all over. Sometimes he tried to eat one in one gigantic bite. Being only six, that was a lot of candy in his mouth and sometimes a little juice squirted out onto his chin.

But his favorite way to eat a chocolate-covered cherry was to turn it upside down and carefully nibble off the bottom piece of chocolate. That left him with a little cup full of delicious syrup with a cherry floating in it like ice cream in root beer floats. Then he would sip a little juice and nibble a little chocolate. He could eat the cherry inside whenever he wanted, but he usually saved it for his last bite!

One Saturday before Christmas, Dad asked that magic question, “Who wants a chocolate-covered cherry?” The family had just finished lunch, and Joshua thought that it was the perfect time for just such a treat.

Joshua and his brother, Jacob, both cried, “Me! Me!” Jaclyn, their older sister, would certainly want one, too, but she had finished lunch early and was in another room on the computer.

“Wait!” Dad said. He was standing in the kitchen, holding the box of cherries with a sad look on his face. “There are only two chocolate-covered cherries left. What should we do?”

Josh thought about it. They could cut one in half. They had done that before with other candy. But cutting a chocolate-covered cherry would only make a big mess and ruin the candy. They could just quietly eat them in the kitchen, and Jaclyn wouldn’t even know. But he knew that that wasn’t really fair.

He started to think about the family home evening lesson they’d had that week. They had learned that Christmas is the celebration of Christ’s birth and how He came to earth to give us all a very special gift that only He could give. The family had talked about how Christmas isn’t about all the things you get but about showing love to your family and friends.

Suddenly a wonderful and terrible thought entered his mind. It was terrible because it meant missing out on his favorite treat. It was wonderful because it was what Joshua knew that Jesus would want him to do.

“Dad,” he said, “you can give mine to Jaclyn.” He almost couldn’t believe his own mouth was saying those words. But as soon as he said them, he felt a wonderful, warm feeling inside. It was as if his whole insides had become like the inside of a chocolate-covered cherry—sweet and happy.

“Are you sure, Josh?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Josh said, this time with a smile on his face.

Dad gave the last piece to Jaclyn, and Josh couldn’t believe that he could be so happy about not getting a chocolate-covered cherry.

That night, after pajamas were put on, teeth were brushed, prayers were said, and Mom and Dad had kissed everyone and tucked them into bed, Joshua lay awake thinking about his day. As the glow from the Christmas lights on the house filtered into his room, he thought about his decision to give the last chocolate-covered cherry to Jaclyn and how happy she had been and how wonderful that had made him feel. And then he realized his mom was right—it is what’s on the inside that counts!

[Agency]

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What a Joyful Day!

By Diane Nichols
Friend, Dec 2001, 21

And he also spake concerning the prophets, how great a number had testified … concerning this Messiah, … this Redeemer of the world (1 Ne. 10:5).

Imagine that you lived over two thousand years ago in a city named Zarahemla. The city is surrounded by a high wall that protects the people from their enemies. Imagine that one day, while walking through the city with your parents, you hear a lot of commotion ahead of you. As you come nearer, you see a man standing upon the city wall. He is prophesying of the coming of the Messiah and the things that will happen in both Zarahemla and in the land of Jerusalem as signs that He has been born.

You and your parents stop and listen to this man’s message. He is named Samuel and is a Lamanite prophet. The Lamanites have been your enemies for many years, but as you listen to him, you feel that the things he is saying are true. He says that in five years the Messiah will be born in the land of Jerusalem and that when He is born, a new star will appear in the heavens. There will be a day and a night and a day without any darkness. It will appear to be as one day. When these things happen, the people in Zarahemla will know that the Savior has been born. Some of the people around you, however, do not believe Samuel and are very angry with him. They begin to throw stones at him and try to shoot him with arrows. He cannot be injured, though, and he escapes.

After returning home, your parents tell you that the man you heard is a prophet of God and that the things he taught are true. You and your family are baptized and prepare for the coming of the Messiah (see Hel. 16:1–5). You study the scriptures together, pray to Heavenly Father, and listen to the teachings of the prophets. In five years, a new star does appear and there is a night without darkness. You know that the Savior has been born, just as the prophet Samuel had said. What a joyful day!

It is fun to imagine that we lived long ago and heard Samuel prophesy about the coming of Jesus Christ. Many prophets besides Samuel told the people of their times about the Savior’s birth. Those prophecies were fulfilled that night in Bethlehem. Just as the prophets testified of the Savior’s birth, they have prophesied that He will come again. At His Second Coming, Jesus Christ will come not as a child but as an adult, and He will then rule and reign forever. All people everywhere will know that He is the Son of God and the Redeemer of the world.

Although we do not know when He will come again, we have been told to prepare for that time. We can prepare for His Second Coming just as the righteous people in Zarahemla prepared for His birth. We can follow the words of the prophets. We can study the scriptures and pray to Heavenly Father. We can keep our baptismal covenant and heed the promptings of the Holy Ghost.

Prophets today continue to prophesy that the Savior will come again. If we follow the prophet, we will be prepared. What a joyful day that will be!

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Geese in Church

By William G. Hartley
Friend, Dec 2001, 34
A true story

Thou shalt give heed unto all his words … which he shall give unto you as he receiveth them (D&C 21:4).

Oliver DeMille liked to go to church with his parents on Sundays because church was held outdoors. Nauvoo had no church buildings yet, so for sacrament meetings, the Prophet Joseph Smith met with the Saints in one of the groves of trees. People sat on plank benches, on blankets on the ground, or in their wagons or carriages. Speakers had to shout sometimes, especially when wind rustled through the trees.

One warm summer Sunday, Oliver, about thirteen, was trying to listen to Joseph Smith preach. The Prophet said that he had had a revelation, and he began to tell it to the people.

“Just then,” Oliver said, “a flock of geese flew over where the meeting was held.” The geese made honking noises, “and most of the people turned their eyes to look.” Oliver did not look but “kept my eyes on the prophet.”

Joseph Smith was concerned because the people turned their attention from him to the geese. He said, “If you care more for the quacking of a wild goose than for the revelations of the Almighty God, I’ve no more to say to you at present.” He stopped preaching and sat down. The people did not get to hear about the revelation that he wanted to share with them.

Oliver was disappointed. But he remembered the lesson the Prophet taught that day—we should pay attention whenever the servants of God speak to us.

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Words of a Prophet

By Charlotte G. Lindstrom
Friend, Dec 2001, 38
Based on a true experience

Love one another; as I have loved you (John 13:34).

Standing on the edge of the broad sidewalk leading from the front doors of the meetinghouse, Brian could see people milling around in the foyer. The meeting was just over.

Brian was actually going to meet a real prophet! When the missionaries called him a few minutes ago, he couldn’t believe his ears. They told him that President Spencer W. Kimball was visiting a neighboring ward to attend the blessing of a great-grandchild. Brian could meet the prophet, they said, if he came quickly.

As he hung up the phone, Brian yelled to his mom that he was going to the church. Then he jumped on his bike and raced the four blocks there. The missionaries were waiting for him. They stood on either side of him now. Other people were waiting on the sidewalk, too. Brian guessed that they’d also heard that the prophet was here today and had come to see him.

Brian glanced down and was dismayed to see his scuffed and tattered tennis shoes and his old T-shirt. He hadn’t thought about changing before he came over. He might have missed meeting the prophet if he had. But what would the great leader think of him?

Brian hastily tucked in his shirt. He couldn’t do anything to change his shoes, but maybe the prophet wouldn’t notice them. Suddenly he felt a wave of uneasiness. Turning to the missionary on his right, he asked, “Elder Turner, how do I look?”

Elder Turner peered at him closely and pointed to the corners of his own mouth. Brian quickly wiped away any traces of lunch, then looked at the missionary again. Elder Turner nodded with a smile.

Until meeting the missionaries a few weeks ago, Brian had never even heard of a modern prophet. He knew about Noah and Moses and other prophets in the Bible. But he’d never thought that a prophet might be on the earth today. The missionaries told him that the prophet tells people what Jesus would tell them if He were here.

He had seen pictures of Old Testament prophets with long white hair and flowing beards. So he was surprised when the missionaries showed him a picture of President Kimball. He did have white hair, but it was neatly trimmed. Brian thought that he looked like a kindly grandfather.

One day, when the missionaries had taken Brian to Primary, he heard a song about following prophets. He looked around him in amazement at all the children who believed in a prophet.

Brian’s attention returned to the church. The doors opened, and a small group came out. They moved slowly, greeting people as they made their way down the sidewalk. Some fathers held little children in their arms or on their shoulders so that they, too, could see and greet the prophet.

Brian could tell that someone was stopping and shaking hands. Grown-ups blocked his view, but he caught a glimpse of white hair and a dark suit. It surprised him that the man wasn’t much taller than he was.

As they came closer, someone moved and Brian could see clearly. He saw the man whose picture the missionaries had shown him. The man spoke softly and kindly to the grown-ups and children he shook hands with.

Brian felt worried. What would the prophet say to him? Would he sense Brian’s doubts and questions? Would he say something to try to persuade Brian that the Church was true?

Then President Kimball reached out his hand again, and Brian heard a familiar voice.

“President Kimball, it is so great to meet you. My companion, Elder Turner, and I would like you to meet our friend, Brian. He’s investigating the Church.”

It was Elder Ellis who was speaking and shaking hands with the prophet. His other hand reached out and rested on Brian’s shoulder.

The prophet turned and looked at Brian. He caught his breath as President Kimball smiled at him.

Extending his hand, Brian spoke haltingly. “I’m … very … glad to meet you, sir.” He felt his face becoming warm.

President Kimball took his hand in a soft but firm grip. Then suddenly the prophet released Brian’s hand and threw both arms around him and gave him a big hug. With his face close to Brian’s, he said softly, “I love you.” His voice was low and raspy.

When he released Brian, he smiled and then turned to greet Elder Turner. Brian was speechless.

He watched the prophet of the Lord continue to shake hands until he reached a car at the curb. Helping his wife into the backseat, he turned and raised his hand to the people gathered on the sidewalk. Then he climbed into the backseat, and the car pulled away from the curb.

Three words! That’s all he had said. Yet Brian felt deep inside that they were true. He knew that a prophet had spoken those words. A prophet! Were they the words Jesus would say to Brian if He were here? A warm feeling began in Brian’s chest and spread through his body. Yes, he thought, they were the same words.

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Baptized by the Prophet

The Dog Who Comes to Church

DOs and DON’Ts with Guide Dogs

The Best

The Prophet’s Counsel: The Six Bs

Be Grateful

Be Smart

Be Clean

Be True

Be Humble

Be Prayerful

Elsie’s Prayers

Singing with Grandpa

Just by Being Friends

Joey

Day Mystery Activity

Alan’s Miracle

The Perfect Present

Amazing Chicken Soup

A Prophet’s Counsel

“I Dare You!”

To Catch a Butterfly

Claire In-Line

The Errand

Teresa’s Dream

Farewell, Nauvoo

Aurelia

Thomas and the Tabernacle Organ

The Tabernacle Organ: Fascinating Facts

To the Last Frontier

Lucy’s Prayer

A Different Kind of Pioneer

Ruining the Backyard Grass

Family Preparedness

Baby-sitting Job

Bad Habits and Miracles

He Takes Care of His Church

“It’s Really Simple”

Sunday Eggs

Baptism Miracles

Call from the Prophet

[Prophets]

Brothers and Sisters in the Gospel

Micah’s Understanding Heart

[Kindness]

Promises

A Challenge Just for You

Blessings Everywhere

Book Buddies

[Be Kinder]

Prayer in the Storm

To Hear the Angels Sing

The Chocolate-Covered Cherry

[Agency]

What a Joyful Day!

Geese in Church

Words of a Prophet

The Prophet’s Counsel:
The Six Bs