Gobo Fango

By Tess Hilmo
Friend, Mar 2003, 28
(Based on a true story)

By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another (John 13:35).

Mother knelt down and brushed the red clay from the tombstone. Sarah read the faded words: “GOBO FANGO, AGED 30 YEARS.” She paused a moment and then asked, “Who is Gobo Fango?”

Mother began pulling the weeds that had grown up around the old stone. She motioned for Sarah to sit down next to her under the shady tree that covered this part of the cemetery.

“Gobo was a valiant Saint,” Mother answered, “a courageous child from South Africa. He was one of the first African pioneers to join the early Saints in the West, and he is a member of our family.”

Sarah looked confused. “But, Mother, we are not from South Africa. We are from California.”

Mother laughed. “We are now, but our ancestors back at the time of the pioneers came from all over the world.”

“What is an ancestor?”

“Good question. An ancestor is a member of our family who lived a long time ago.”

“You mean like Granny?”

“Yes, and her parents before her, and their parents before them. Learning about them is what we call family history,” Mother explained. “Would you like to hear the story about Gobo Fango?”

“Oh, yes!”

Mother sat back and started the amazing story of a little boy and his mother who was very ill. “Gobo was a three-year-old boy in 1857. His mother knew that she was dying and could no longer care for him, so she tucked him into the branches of a tree on the Talbots’ property. Ruth Talbot soon found the starving boy and gently coaxed him from the tree. Tired and cold, little Gobo climbed down and into the arms of his new mother. The entire Talbot family cared for Gobo as one of their own.

“When the family was taught by Mormon missionaries and joined the Church, they had a strong desire to follow President Brigham Young’s counsel to join the Saints in America. The Civil War was starting, and it was dangerous to bring Gobo to America because he was black. When the ship’s captain refused to allow Gobo on the boat, Henry Talbot knelt and asked for Heavenly Father’s guidance. He knew that Gobo would not be able to take care of himself if left behind.

“An idea came to Brother Talbot—his prayer was answered! He would roll Gobo into a large rug and smuggle him on and off the ship. Gobo was afraid to be wrapped inside the dark, heavy carpet. However, he had faith in the prophet’s counsel to go to America, so he remained very still and quiet. No one knew of the precious treasure tucked away in the old, faded rug.

“Once in America, Gobo was excited to start his new life there. He wanted to meet the prophet and see the temple that the missionaries in Africa had told him about.

“The family journeyed mostly by train. At one station, they were startled by an angry mob boarding it. Someone had told them that a child slave was being smuggled through. Gobo was not a slave, but the mob would not have believed it.

“Quickly Sister Talbot lifted her large hoop skirt and hid him underneath. Gobo pulled his knees tightly against his chest and held his breath until the mob left and his mother took him upon her lap. She reminded him that he was a child of God and explained that their home with the Saints in Utah would be a place of acceptance and love for their entire family, including Gobo. She assured him that their fellow brothers and sisters in the gospel understood what it was like to be persecuted and judged. Surely they would not turn Gobo away.

“Sister Talbot was right, and as soon as they could, the Talbots adopted Gobo.

“Once in Utah, Gobo grew into a righteous, hardworking sheepherder. He was always faithful to his baptismal covenants. In 1886, when a tablet of paper cost two cents, he willed his entire life savings—some five hundred dollars—to help build the Salt Lake Temple. Years later, the temple work was done for Gobo and he was sealed to Ruth and Henry Talbot in the very temple he helped build.”

Sarah’s mother smiled. “And that is the story of Gobo Fango.”

“Wow!” Sarah exclaimed. “I never knew that he was part of our family!”

“It is important to remember that pioneers came from all areas of the world,” Mother said, “North America, South America, Europe, and Africa.”

Suddenly, the thought of family history and pioneers meant something more to Sarah. It wasn’t something just for adults. It was for her. Even an eleven-year-old girl like herself could learn a lesson of love and acceptance and faith from little Gobo Fango.

Grandma Emily’s Chicken

By Sara Lewis
Friend, Mar 2003, 47
(Based on a true story)

His people … are willing to bear one another’s burdens, that they may be light (Mosiah 18:8).

Rachel ran through the living room and rushed up the stairs to her bedroom. She and her best friend, Becca, were going to the park to try out Becca’s new rollerblades.

As Rachel was pulling her own rollerblades out from under her bed, Mom came into the room. “I’m going over to Sister Heaton’s for a few hours, and I need you to stay with David.”

“But Becca and I are going to the park right now!”

“I’m sorry to ruin your plans, Rachel, but Sister Heaton still isn’t feeling well after her operation, and I promised to help take care of her today. David will be up from his nap in about a half hour, and then you two can play for a while until Dad gets home.”

“But I don’t want to play with David—I want to go to the park!”

“I know you do, but today you need to stay home and take care of your little brother. You can go to the park tomorrow. I’m sorry, but Sister Heaton needs me, and I need you to help me.”

As Rachel watched Mom going down the street, she was so angry that she almost cried. Why did she have to take care of David? It wasn’t fair that she had to give up a trip to the park just so her mom could take care of somebody.

She called Becca to tell her the bad news, and as she hung up the phone, the doorbell rang. It was Aunt Pearl, her mom’s younger sister.

“Hi, Aunt Pearl. Mom’s not here.”

“That’s OK—I can’t stay. I just came to return your mom’s sewing machine. Mine is fixed now, so I don’t need hers anymore. And I thought that maybe I’d spend a few minutes with my favorite niece!”

Rachel gave her a weak smile and tried to seem happy, but Aunt Pearl noticed Rachel wasn’t really feeling happy.

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, I was going to go to the park with Becca, but Mom told me I had to stay and take care of David so she could help a woman in our ward.”

“That’s too bad. If it were any other day but today, I’d stay so you could be with your friend. But I have a doctor’s appointment, and I can’t reschedule it.”

“I guess I’ll be OK. It’s just that I really wanted to go to the park today.”

“You know, there might be something I could do.”

“What?”

“Sit down with me, and I’ll tell you a story.”

Rachel wasn’t sure a story would fix things—a story couldn’t baby-sit for her. But Aunt Pearl usually knew what she was talking about, so Rachel followed her to the couch.

“When your great-great-grandmother Emily Burk left Nauvoo to come west, she had an old hen she wanted to bring with her. It had been doing something rather unusual—sitting on a nest of duck eggs—and Emily just couldn’t leave her behind. So she set up a box in the wagon for the nest. Soon the ducklings hatched, and every night when the wagon train stopped, Emily filled a washtub with water and let the little ducks swim. Everyone in camp came to watch them.

“You see, Rachel, part of being a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is helping others. There’s even a scripture in the Book of Mormon that tells us how important it is to ‘bear one another’s burdens’ [Mosiah 18:8]. Heavenly Father wants us to take care of those who can’t take care of themselves.”

“You mean, just like Emily took care of the chicken and like the chicken took care of the ducks?”

“And just like the Lord took care of the pioneers and how He still takes care of all of us. He wants us to be happy, so He watches over us.”

“Why doesn’t He take care of Sister Heaton instead of having Mom do it?”

“That’s how He is taking care of Sister Heaton—through your mother. Most of the time Heavenly Father answers our prayers through someone else.”

“So Mom is Heavenly Father’s answer to Sister Heaton’s prayers?”

“Probably. Your mother is helping Sister Heaton rest and get her mind off her troubles, sort of like those ducklings helped the tired pioneers find a little bit of enjoyment at the end of their long days.”

“But why do I have to baby-sit?”

“So your mom can help Sister Heaton. The ducks wouldn’t have been able to bring some enjoyment to the pioneers if the chicken hadn’t cared for them. Your mom wouldn’t be able to help Sister Heaton if she did not know you would take good care of your brother while she’s gone.”

“So, in a way, I’m helping Sister Heaton too?”

“In a very big way.”

“Then I guess I don’t feel so bad about waiting until tomorrow to go skating.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

As Aunt Pearl left, Rachel heard David waking up. On her way upstairs to get him, she thought more about what Aunt Pearl had said. Rachel was still a bit disappointed to miss out on the trip to the park, but it helped to know that taking care of David helped Heavenly Father take care of Sister Heaton.

(April)

Just for Now

By Rachelle P. Casto
Friend, Apr 2003, 5
(Based on a true story)

Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted (Matt. 5:4).

Cami felt her mother’s arm around her shoulders. As she wiped away more tears, she couldn’t help but notice how beautiful the cemetery was. The warmth of the sun felt good on her swollen eyes and calmed her as people came across the grass to hug her and her family once more.

“Give yourself time, Cami,” Sister Bowen, her Primary teacher, said. “These things take time.”

Cami nodded without really listening. She was thinking about how strangely peaceful it was here. It was like those pictures of Easter morning she had seen in Primary—the beautiful flowers, the smell of the lilac bushes, the breeze in her hair. It was very different from the hospital room where she had watched her father take his last breath. There, it had been like another planet with a room crowded with people who loved him and didn’t want to let him go, everyone softly crying and hanging on to whomever stood nearby.

“It isn’t supposed to happen this way,” she thought. “Dad was much too young to die. Dads aren’t supposed to die when you’re only ten years old.” But he had died.

She saw movement from the corner of her eye and looked just in time to see a white bunny and then a speckled one hop and stop, hop and stop from behind a gravestone, their noses twitching in the air. Then they scurried safely under some bushes.

“Are you ready to go, Cami?” Mom’s voice was tired. “We’ll visit here anytime you want to, sweetheart.”

Cami nodded. But as she rode in the car with her brothers and sister, she wanted right then to turn around and go back to the cemetery. Home reminded her of Dad when he was alive. Home made the sadness seem too huge to hold. She thought of Sister Bowen’s words, “These things take time.”

“How much time? How can I survive till then, whenever then is?” She forced herself to think good thoughts. Thinking about Jesus, about His Resurrection, and about the promise of her dad’s resurrection helped.

At home, she just sat all afternoon, not sure of what to do or how to feel or of how long before the next tears would fall. “Will I ever stop crying? What will it be like to have birthdays and Christmas and go on vacation without Dad? To have dinner, to go to church, to have family prayer without Dad?”

As evening came, the sadness seemed even bigger. She didn’t feel like praying, but she went ahead anyway, in her heart.

“Please, Heavenly Father, help me. I feel so sad and lonely. I know that I’ll see Dad again. I know that Jesus was resurrected after He died, and I know that someday Dad will be resurrected, too. But that’s someday. What about now? How do I get through today? Please help me know what to do to stop hurting so much.”

As Cami ended her prayer, she heard Mom calling everyone together for family prayer. Without even thinking, she went to Dad’s bedroom closet, pulled down his Sunday jacket, and put it on. It was gigantic on her ten-year-old body, but it was Dad’s. It felt like him, it looked like him, it even smelled like him. She pulled the collar up around her face and took in a deep breath. She felt safe. Now she could feel like he was near during family prayer.

When she went into the living room, the rest of the family was already kneeling. They looked up and stared at her. She didn’t care. She just went to the couch, knelt, and bowed her head.

No one started to pray, so she peeked to see what was happening. Her family was gone—but just for a minute. One by one, they came back. Her big brother had on Dad’s slippers. Mom had on his robe. Little Jimmy clomped in wearing Dad’s big shoes, and her older sister had on Dad’s favorite sweater.

Everyone knelt as Mom began to pray. She thanked Heavenly Father for the beautiful funeral services and for all the love that friends and neighbors had shown them. She thanked him for the good memories with Dad. And she thanked Heavenly Father that they could feel Dad close by.

It wouldn’t be easy with Dad living in heaven instead of at home with them, but for now—for tonight—with something he had worn close to each of them, waiting to see Dad again would be a little bit easier. For Cami, it was like being wrapped in his arms—just for now.

Choosing Sides

By Kimberly Webb
Friend, Apr 2003, 20
(Based on a true story)

Choose you this day whom ye will serve; … but as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord (Josh. 24:15).

Sarah sat on her bed, waiting to hear Mom’s tap on the door. She tried to gulp away the sobs, but tears kept trickling down her face.

Earlier that day, she and her friend Megan were pretending that they had discovered a buried treasure. They placed Sarah’s allowance, some foreign coins from Dad’s mission, and Megan’s plastic jewelry in a shoe box. When Megan saw the old, worn poetry book on the living room shelf, it seemed like the perfect antique to finish off their treasure. “Grab that old book,” she said. “Let’s pretend it’s a diary.”

Sarah knew that she wasn’t supposed to play with it—it had belonged to her great-great-grandmother, and its yellowing pages almost crumbled when touched. Mom cherished it as one of her family heirlooms. But Sarah was sure that nothing bad would happen to it if she borrowed it for only a little while.

She and Megan sneaked out the back door to “bury” the shoe box under some bushes.

A sick feeling welled up in her stomach even before her brother Spencer told Mom.

Mom knocked on the bedroom door and slipped in. “Have you been thinking?” she asked. Sarah nodded. “And how do you feel?”

“Awful.” Sarah sniffled. “I took your book when I knew I wasn’t supposed to.”

Mom smoothed Sarah’s hair and kissed her forehead. “Heavenly Father doesn’t want you to feel awful. He wants you to feel sorry.”

“No problem!” Sarah thought. It seemed that she had been feeling sorry a lot lately.

“I forgive you,” Mom said, “but you need to pray for forgiveness, too. Since you were baptized last month, you are now accountable for your sins.”

“That’s just it!”

“What do you mean?” Mom looked surprised.

Sarah blinked at the floor, hating how puffy her eyes felt. “When I got confirmed, I was given the gift of the Holy Ghost, right?”

“That’s right. As long as you’re worthy, the Spirit will be with you.”

“Then why is it still hard?” Sarah wiped her eyes, angry that the tears wouldn’t stop falling. “I thought that the Holy Ghost would make it easy to be good. But it seems that ever since I’ve been baptized, I’ve made as many mistakes as I did before.”

Mom hugged her. “That’s why there’s repentance. Even when the Holy Ghost helps you know what the right thing is, what you do is still your choice. Sometimes it’s hard to do what you know is right.”

Sarah nodded. She was confused, though. Even before her baptism, she’d had enough sense to know that taking Mom’s book would be wrong, but she’d never been tempted to do it. What had happened today?

Sarah sighed. She’d just have to try harder. When Mom left the room, she got down on her knees to pray.

In school on Monday, Marcus slid his math assignment next to hers.

“Let me check my paper,” he said. “I want to make sure I have the same answers you do.”

Sarah handed him her paper, as she always did, but this time she saw Marcus scribbling out his answers and writing hers down. He wasn’t checking—he was cheating! Sarah knew it was wrong to let Marcus cheat, but she didn’t want to make him feel bad. Wasn’t being nice more important than being honest about one little math assignment? After all, she wasn’t cheating—he was.

A familiar, uneasy feeling crept into the pit of her stomach. Remembering how bad she had felt a few days ago, she yanked her paper away.

“What are you doing?” Marcus cried.

“I can’t let you cheat,” Sarah said. Even though Marcus gave her a dirty look, she didn’t give in to the temptation to let him copy her answers. She realized that she had made a right choice because she felt calm and happy inside. “That’s what the Holy Ghost feels like,” Sarah thought. Her quick decision hadn’t been easy, but she had done what was right.

After school, Mom drove Sarah to Megan’s soccer game. On the way there, Sarah told her about the experience she’d had.

“I’m proud of you, Sarah!” Mom said. “See? You’re learning from your mistakes.”

“I guess so,” Sarah agreed. “Now I know what the Holy Ghost feels like, but I’m still confused about something else.”

“What’s that?”

“I wonder why I think about disobeying lately. I never wanted to touch your book until Megan told me to, and I never wanted to let anyone cheat until today. I almost let Marcus copy my paper, even though I knew I shouldn’t.” Mom was quiet, so Sarah continued. “That isn’t all. Sometimes I’m mean to Spencer. Sometimes swear words pop into my head, and I want to say them. I want to be good, but I keep being tempted!”

“That’s what happens when you join a team,” Mom said. “The opposing team gets mad.”

“What?”

“Think of watching soccer,” Mom said. “It’s obvious that you’re loyal to Megan’s team, because you cheer for them. The other team might not like it, but you’re on the sidelines. You can’t help them to win or lose as much as if you jogged onto the field and started playing.”

“What do you mean, Mom?”

“When you were baptized, you chose sides,” Mom said. “You know that baptism shows Heavenly Father your love and commitment to obey. Don’t forget that it proves to Satan whose side you’re on, too. He’ll tempt you to change your mind.”

“I went to church every week before I was baptized,” Sarah protested. “Didn’t my going to Primary upset Satan just as much then?”

Mom pulled into the parking lot and turned off the engine. “You were on the Lord’s side, but you were cheering from the sidelines. Now you’re in the game. Being righteous will take more effort than it has before. And it will take more courage, and it will definitely take more repentance.”

Sarah thought about that. “I guess watching a game is much easier than playing it.” No wonder the gift of the Holy Ghost hadn’t taken away all of her problems. The Spirit could help her see when Satan was tempting her, but the temptations wouldn’t just disappear. “Is that what ‘opposition in all things’ (2 Ne. 2:11) means?” she wondered. She had read in the Book of Mormon that without agency to choose between good and evil, no one could become more like Heavenly Father.

“Even if it’s harder, it’s more worth it to play than to just watch,” Sarah decided aloud.

“Especially when you win,” Mom added with a smile.

Sarah got out of the car and walked toward the field. She silently promised herself that she would really, really try to follow the Holy Ghost, no matter how much she was tempted. She had chosen the Lord’s side. As long as she did her best to be worthy, the Spirit would bless her with the courage to keep choosing the right.

A Great Day

By Judy Murphy
Friend, Apr. 2003, 30
(Based on a true story)

This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it (Ps. 118:24).

The warm sun came through Aaron’s bedroom window. “Today is going to be a good day,” Aaron thought. “I’m going to see Grandma and Grandpa.”

Grandma and Grandpa lived just down the road, and he usually visited them after breakfast. It was the best way to start the day. Aaron jumped out of bed.

After breakfast and chores, Mom smiled and said that he could go to Grandma and Grandpa’s house. As he went, the late morning sun felt good on his back. The sand squished under his shoes. It made him laugh. “This is going to be a good day,” he said out loud.

He saw a shiny black rock with a stripe down the middle. “I bet Grandpa would like to see this.” Aaron slipped the rock into his pocket.

He checked the pine tree just outside Grandma’s back door. The robin was sitting on her nest. “I think she has eggs.” Aaron climbed the fence. Standing on tiptoes and stretching his neck as far as he could, he thought he saw something blue in the nest. “I’m going to tell Grandpa!” He slid down and ran to the kitchen door.

Grandpa thought he was right about the eggs. “Pretty soon there will be little birds,” he said. Grandma had made applesauce cookies. They were really good! Grandma and Grandpa both liked his rock.

On the way home, Aaron noticed that the lilac bush was covered with purple flowers. This was such a great day!

That night as Aaron got ready for bed, he thought about everything that had happened. He said his prayers, thanking Heavenly Father. “Thank Thee for the beautiful flowers, the warm sun, the sand, and the robin’s eggs. Thank Thee for Grandma and Grandpa. Thank Thee for this whole great day! Oh, and Heavenly Father, I love Thee.”

As Aaron climbed into bed, he remembered something his Primary teacher had said. When we feel love for Heavenly Father, that feeling is called reverence. Aaron fell asleep feeling very reverent.

Just One Egg

By Dorothy Baughman
Friend, Apr 2003, 40
(Based on a true story)

Let him give; not grudgingly, or of necessity: for God loveth a cheerful giver (2 Cor. 9:7).

Johnny slowed his bike before turning into Mrs. Jones’s driveway. It was the day before Easter, and it was time for the neighborhood Easter egg hunt.

“I knew it,” he thought. “There’s Randy Mills. He’ll get the prize. He always does. I’ll have to listen to him brag for another year.”

“Hey, come on, slowpoke!” Randy yelled.

“I’m coming.”

Randy laughed. “Why are you frowning? Afraid you’ll get beat again?”

“Come line up, children,” Mrs. Jones called. “When I say, ‘Go,’ the smaller children will run to the backyard. When I say it again, the older children will follow.”

A few minutes into the hunt, Randy ran up to Johnny. “How many eggs have you found?”

“Nine.”

“Me too. Maybe we’ll tie for the prize.” He ran off to find more.

Johnny poked about here and there. He sure hoped to find another egg and beat Randy. He was looking under an already-searched bush when he heard a small sniff. A little girl was standing behind the bush crying. It was Laurie, Johnny’s neighbor.

“Hi, Laurie. Why are you crying?”

“I don’t have any eggs!” Laurie sobbed. “If I could find just one egg …” Laurie was much younger than most of the children, and she was crying as if her heart would break.

“Children, I believe all the eggs have been found. Let’s count up,” Mrs. Jones said.

“Now I’ll never find one.” Tears ran down Laurie’s face.

Johnny felt very bad for the little girl. As he looked at his full basket, an idea hit him. He quickly slipped his prettiest egg under the bush. “Laurie, did you look really well under here?”

“I think so.” She came around to his side of the bush, her eyes searching everywhere. Suddenly her face lit up. “Ooooh! Look at the pretty egg!”

Randy walked up and pounded Johnny on the back. “Well, we tied for first prize with nine eggs apiece.”

“I only have eight,” Johnny said quietly.

“I thought you said you had nine.”

“I made a mistake.”

“Wow! The prize is mine. Say, you’d better learn to count better, Johnny.” He laughed over his shoulder.

Johnny watched Randy claim the prize. He would have to listen to Randy brag for another year, but somehow it didn’t matter anymore. He smiled, remembering Laurie’s face as she found just one egg.

Danny’s Butterfly

By Laura F. Nielsen
Friend, Apr 2003, 47
(Based on a true story)

And be ye kind one to another, tenderhearted (Eph. 4:32).

“Today we’re going to start raising butterflies,” our den mother, Sister Sills, said.

“Butterflies!” whooped my brother, Danny. He jumped up and ran in a big circle, waving his arms as if they were wings.

“Danny,” I hissed. “Sit.”

Danny stopped and looked around. Everybody else was sitting down, so Danny sat down, too. But he kept flapping his arms.

Sometimes it’s really embarrassing to have Danny for a brother. He’s actually two years older than me, but he was born with Down’s syndrome, so he doesn’t do everything at the same age as everyone else. Danny just waits until he’s ready. That’s why he’s in my Cub Scout den.

I love him, and I try to help him, but sometimes I get mad because he’s so slow at everything. Danny never complains when I do things without him, but he looks sad. I don’t like him to be sad, so I try to be patient with him.

Sister Sills explained how we were going to raise our butterflies. Then we made butterfly houses—shoe boxes with plastic windows and air holes. We also filled clear plastic cups with chopped green leaves that Sister Sills called “caterpillar food.” We called it “green goo.”

The caterpillars were so small that Sister Sills used a paintbrush to put them into our cups. We put a lid with air holes on the cups.

“That’s a butterfly?” Danny asked.

“It will turn into a butterfly, Danny,” Sister Sills told him. “Then it will fly.”

“Wow!” Danny exclaimed.

We each took two caterpillars home. Those little things ate and ate. We had to add more chopped leaves. I couldn’t believe how fast they grew. Finally they hung upside down from the lids of their cups and shed their fuzzy skins. It was like watching someone wriggle out of a very tight snowsuit. Underneath was a smooth, green chrysalis (a covering that shelters the caterpillar while it turns into a butterfly).

We moved the lids with the chrysalises attached to them to our butterfly houses and waited and waited for nearly two weeks. Danny was the first one to notice when something happened. “I got a butterfly!” he squealed. Then he ran around the room flapping his arms. This time, I just let him.

During the next day, all four butterflies emerged. We watched them exercise their new wings, and we fed them sugar water sprinkled on flowers for three days. Then we took them outside to set them free.

At first, the butterflies didn’t know what to think of the sunshine and the wind. Then one took off, and then another and another. We watched them flutter around our yard until they were out of sight.

When we looked back down, there was still one butterfly left. I gently picked him up on my finger. “Fly,” I ordered. But the butterfly stayed perched right where he was.

“I don’t think he can fly,” Dad said, looking closely. “He’s missing part of his wing.”

Mom bent down to look. “He has only four legs,” she said. “He’s supposed to have six.”

“So what do we do now?” I asked.

“I think we’d better keep him,” Dad said. “He’ll get eaten by a bird or something if we leave him out here. He probably won’t live very long, anyway.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Danny said.

I wasn’t sure about that. Sometimes Danny breaks things because he has a hard time being careful. I didn’t think he could take care of something as tiny as a butterfly without squishing it. But Dad said, “Let him try.”

Every day, Danny fed the butterfly. And every day he took it out for a walk. “Butterflies don’t need walks,” I said.

“My butterfly does,” Danny said. “He needs to learn to fly. Sister Sills said so.”

“That butterfly is never going to learn to fly. He’s missing half a wing,” I pointed out.

“It’s OK,” Danny said. “He’s trying.”

That’s what Danny always said when the poor butterfly waved its wings. I couldn’t believe how patient and gentle he was. Every day he took the butterfly outside on his finger to exercise its wings. Sometimes it stepped out onto a flower to eat.

Then one day, in a puff of wind, the butterfly flew off Danny’s finger and circled the apple tree twice before landing in the grass. There it fluttered helplessly until Danny picked it up. But as soon as he did, it spread its wings and tried again.

“He flew!” Danny exclaimed. “He flew! He tried and tried, and he flew!” I’d never seen Danny so excited.

Danny took the butterfly outside to fly every day until it got old and its wings lost so many scales that you could see right through them. Finally it died. Dad helped Danny bury it. I was afraid Danny would be really upset, but he wasn’t. He was smiling. “Heavenly Father will give my butterfly new, strong wings,” he said, “because he tried!”

I still get impatient sometimes when Danny is slow or he forgets how to behave or he does something really silly. But when I do, I remember how kind Danny was to that poor butterfly and I say to myself, “It’s OK—he’s trying.” I figure if I work really hard, I can be as patient and kind as Danny.

(May)

Unexpected Answer

By Alison L. Randall
Friend, May 2003, 10
(Based on the life history of Hester Neal Harris, the author’s grandmother)

Pray without ceasing (1 Thes. 5:17).

I stood on the step of the train and hugged my father good-bye. “Have a nice time in Wales, Hetty,” he said.

“I will,” I answered, smiling.

The spring of 1910 was one I would never forget. I had been baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints just a short time before, and now I was going on a trip all alone from Bristol, England, to Wales to visit my Aunt Nell.

“Hetty”—Father caught my hand—“don’t forget to say your prayers.”

I squeezed his hand. “I won’t, Father.” But as I turned to go, I added under my breath, “I hope.”

I had a hard time remembering to say my prayers at night. Before the missionaries visited our home, I had sometimes said a little prayer before going to sleep that started, “Now I lay me down to sleep.” But the missionaries taught us that prayer was actually talking to Heavenly Father. I wasn’t used to that—and I wasn’t always sure I had anything important to tell Him. But at Aunt Nell’s house there would be lots to tell Him. I didn’t think that I’d forget there.

That night I didn’t forget. I thanked Heavenly Father that the train hadn’t derailed and that Aunt Nell had been there to meet me. I thanked Him for the lovely green Welsh hills and for the pastures filled with sheep.

The next night was different, though. I spent all day exploring the hills with Aunt Nell. I was so tired at the end of the day that I fell into bed and went right to sleep.

“Oh, dear,” I thought the next morning. “I forgot to say my prayers. Well, I’ll say them tonight.” But we spent all day visiting Aunt Nell’s relatives in the nearby village, and the same thing happened that night. And the next.

The next morning, Aunt Nell surprised me. “Hetty,” she said, “how would you like to go into the village by yourself today and buy something for me?”

“I’d love to!”

She gave me some money and told me where to find what she needed. Then she said, “Now, remember—don’t stay too long. A fog often comes in from the sea in the late afternoon. If that happens, you might not be able to find your way home.”

I told her that I’d be careful. Then I skipped off. I had to go over a bridge, walk down a long lane, and cross two fields to get to the village. The fields were surrounded by high hedges. They had stiles, or steps, in them that allowed people but not animals to go through. After I crossed the last stile, I went straight to the village store, made my purchase, and turned toward home.

“Hetty!” someone called. I turned back and saw some of Aunt Nell’s cousins playing on their doorstep. “Can you stay and play?”

“Well …” I hesitated. The sun was still high in the sky. It wouldn’t hurt to stay a little while. “OK,” I said, “but not long.”

“Not long” turned into “too long.” The sun was getting low in the sky when I started back to Aunt Nell’s. I crossed the first field just fine, but as I entered the second field, the fog came rolling in. I walked around and around the field, but I couldn’t find the stile.

Finally I stopped and stood shivering in the thick, damp fog. My father’s words echoed in my head: “Don’t forget to say your prayers.” I knew I needed Heavenly Father’s help, but how could I pray to Him after I’d been disobedient?

I knelt in the wet grass. “Heavenly Father,” I whispered, “I’m sorry I’ve been forgetting to say my prayers. And I’m sorry I stayed too long in the village. But please help me find my way.”

Just then, a horrible “Eeee-Aaaa!” sounded right by my ear. Terrified, I leaped up and stumbled away from that awful noise. And there, right in my path, was the stile! In an instant, I climbed up and over it. Then I ran down the lane, heading straight for a lantern bobbing towards me. It was Aunt Nell! I threw myself into her arms.

“There, there,” she soothed, and she took me home. That night I knelt and thanked Heavenly Father for helping me, and I promised to never again forget to pray.

The sun was out the next morning. I asked Aunt Nell to go for a walk with me. We crossed the bridge, walked down the lane, and came to the stile. I took a deep breath and climbed it. As I reached the top, I looked down into the field and saw the answer to my prayer. There, tethered near the bottom of the stile, was a donkey.

I laughed.

“What is it?” Aunt Nell asked.

“Oh, I’m just happy,” I answered. And I was. I’d found out for sure that Heavenly Father loves me and answers prayers—sometimes in unexpected ways. He might even use a donkey to do it.

David’s Lesson

By Pamela Hinkler
Friend, May 2003, 18
(Based on a true story)

Children, obey your parents in the Lord: for this is right (Eph. 6:1).

Mom poked her head into David’s room. “I have a surprise.”

David looked up from his toy cars and smiled. “What is it?”

“We’re going to lunch with your cousins.”

“Yes! Can we get tacos?”

“That’s a great idea. But before we go, put your cars away.”

“I’ll do it later.”

Mom frowned. “You know the rules, David. You have to clean up before you go anywhere.”

He didn’t want to put his cars away. “Rules, rules, rules.” Suddenly he remembered something he had learned in his Sunbeam class. One of Heavenly Father’s rules was to obey your parents. He put his cars away.

At the restaurant, David stared at the huge taco on his plate. There were also rice, beans, and little green things. He picked up one of the green things.

“No, David!” his sister yelled. “Don’t eat that.”

“She’s right,” Mom said. “Don’t eat that. It’s a hot pepper.”

“More rules,” David thought. He popped the small green thing into his mouth and chomped down. Very spicy pepper juice filled his mouth. His mouth and throat felt on fire. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He coughed. “Water! My mouth … my mouth is burning.” He grabbed his water and drank every last drop. “Eat a corn chip,” Mom said. “It will help.”

He grabbed the chip and chewed. His mouth felt better, but his throat still hurt. The taco on his plate didn’t look good anymore. Tears still rolled down his cheeks. He looked at Mom. She had tears in her eyes, too.

Sadness came over him. He should have listened. Mom loved him. She didn’t want anything bad to happen to him, just like Heavenly Father loved him and didn’t want anything bad to happen to him. That’s why Heavenly Father gave him a wonderful mother and the commandment to obey his parents. His mother’s rules and Heavenly Father’s rules would help him to be happy and safe.

He wiped away the tears. The taco started to look good to him again.

Blessed for Following the Prophet

By Douglas J. Vermeeren
Friend, May 2003, 25

Despise not prophesyings (1 Thes. 5:20).

Prophets are sent to protect and guide the children of Heavenly Father. There has always been safety in following the prophet. In the days of Joseph Smith, many learned this important truth.

On April 6, 1830, the day The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was formally organized, at least 30 people were in attendance. One of them was an 11-year-old boy named David Lewis. As the events of that day unfolded, David became convinced of the truthfulness of the gospel.

He approached the Prophet Joseph Smith and asked to be baptized. Joseph was happy for him but felt that it was important for him to get permission from his parents first.

Following the Prophet’s counsel, David went home to discuss his feelings with his parents. They gave him permission, and he was baptized 29 days later, on his 12th birthday.

Soon after his baptism, clouds outside darkened. Thunder and lightning cracked through the sky. Joseph suggested that David might want to stay overnight and wait out the storm. David replied that he had promised his mother that he would return that night. Joseph told David that it was important to keep the promise to his mother and that if he left right away, the Lord would protect him.

David followed the counsel of the Prophet and hurried off into the downpour. He hadn’t gone far before he became confused, and he realized that he was lost. Remembering the Prophet’s words that he would return home in safety, David knelt under a tree and prayed for the promised protection and guidance.

After the prayer, he started on his way again. He saw a faint light through the trees. It looked like a person with a lantern in the distance. Something in his heart told him to follow it.

It led him down a path through the trees.

After he followed the light for some time, it suddenly disappeared. What had happened to it? He looked around and saw that he was now in front of his own house!

On another occasion, Joseph Smith, Brigham Young, and a man named Brother Barnard were traveling to Far West, Missouri. The journey was difficult. The ground was frozen. After crossing a small stream, they found that the axle on their carriage had become bent.

Brother Barnard, a blacksmith, felt that they could not continue traveling with the axle bent so badly. He said that if they tried to straighten it, it would break.

Joseph inspected the axle and suggested that they try to spring it back into shape, anyway.

Again, Brother Barnard warned that it would break.

Joseph told him that he could straighten it, and it would be fine. He found a pry and, with the help of the brethren, bent the axle back into place. It gave them no further trouble, and the brethren arrived safely in Far West. Brother Barnard turned to Brigham Young and said that he would never say again that a thing could not be done when a prophet said that it could.

One day in Nauvoo, the Prophet Joseph Smith was in the yard, playing with his children Joseph and Frederick. A gentlemen in a carriage drove up to the gate, looking for him. Greeting the Prophet, the man drove his horse and carriage up to a tie post, but did not tie the horse up. Leaving the lines lying loose, he got out of his carriage and came up the steps of the house.

“Mister,” Joseph said, “I think you would do well to tie your horse; he might get a scare and run away and break your carriage.”

The gentleman, thinking he knew best, responded, “I have driven that horse for some years and never tie him. I am a doctor and cannot afford to tie him up at every place I call.”

Joseph persisted. “You had better tie him all the same. Your horse might get a scare and run away.”

The doctor told Joseph not to worry, that there would be no problems with his horse.

Entering the house, the men sat down to talk.

Within moments, the horse became startled. It bolted down the street, towing behind it the carriage. A wheel struck against a post, and pieces of the carriage were scattered for a block or more.

The doctor rushed to the street and saw the trail left by the frightened horse. He turned to Joseph and said, “I’ll be … if you aren’t a prophet.”

Our prophet today may not give us advice on bending carriage axles or tying up horses, but the instruction he gives us is important for our own situations. We should seek to follow his counsel in all things. By following the prophet, we will be prepared against the dangers that we face today.

The Button

By Pamela M. Moody
Friend, May 2003, 36
( A true story)

By prayer and … with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God (Philip. 4:6).

Jessica slipped her arms into her new spring coat. It was beige and blue and had tiny silver buttons. She’d wanted a new coat for a long time. Her old one was too small.

“I’m ready for our walk, Mom,” she called up the stairs.

Every evening they went for a walk. Mom was going through cancer therapy, and the only thing that made her feel better was to walk around the park. She said that the fresh air and sunshine were Heavenly Father’s medicine.

“How far shall we walk today?” Mom asked as she came down the stairs.

Jessica shrugged. “As far as you want. My homework is done.”

Mom smiled. “I feel good today. Let’s take a long walk.”

Eager to get going, Jessica led the way out of the house into the sunshine. A cool breeze tugged at her new coat. She buttoned it up.

Many families were out enjoying the grass and the creek that flowed through the park. Jessica saw dogs, children, and even a few kites as she and Mom walked along the sidewalk. Everything seemed perfect.

A soccer ball rolled in front of Jessica. She picked it up and tossed it back to the small boy who had kicked it in her direction. Feeling warm now, she unbuttoned her coat. “Oh, no!”

Mom stopped and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“A button on my new coat popped off.”

“It couldn’t have gone far. Let’s look for it.”

Jessica nodded, and they began searching.

After several minutes, Mom said, “Maybe we’d better check a little farther back. You might have lost it when we entered the park.”

They walked slowly, scanning every inch of the path. Finally they gave up and went home.

Over the next several days, things kept going wrong for Jessica. She lost her homework, had an argument with a friend, did poorly on a test, cut her finger, and caught a cold. At the end of the week, she went home from school feeling sad. “If one more thing goes wrong,” she told her mom, “I’m going to cry for a month.”

Mom wrapped her arms around Jessica. “When I’m having one of those days or weeks when I don’t think I’m going to make it, I pray extra hard. I pour my heart out to Heavenly Father. I thank Him for the many blessings I have. I tell Him how much I love Him, and I tell Him that I can’t make it without Him.”

Jessica nodded and wiped a tear that escaped from the corner of her eye. “Does it work?”

Mom smiled. “Of course it works! I believe in Jesus Christ and that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is His church. I also believe that He lives and that He loves us more than we know. I couldn’t get through my cancer treatments without Him. He wants to help us.”

A warm glow filled Jessica. She knew that what Mom said was true.

“Why don’t we go for our walk right now?” Mom suggested. “Fresh air and sunshine will lift your spirits.”

“Can we go in a few minutes? I think I’ll go to my room and pray first.”

Mom smiled. “Let me know when you’re ready to go.”

A little later Jessica was walking quietly beside her mom. The afternoon sunshine made her smile. Suddenly a warm tingle started in her heart and chest. She stopped. “Look down,” a voice in her head said.

Jessica looked down. She froze. In the crack of the sidewalk was the silver button she had lost the week before. Joy filled her from head to toe. “Mom, look!” She picked up the tiny button and held it out in her hand.

“See, I told you Heavenly Father loves you.”

Knowing that Heavenly Father loved her so much that He would even help her find a button filled Jessica’s mind and heart with wonder. Her hand closed over the button. Today was turning out to be a very good day.

As I Have Loved You …

By Ray Goldrup
Friend, May 2003, 42
(Based on a true story)

Both he that soweth and he that reapeth may rejoice together (John 4:36).

Jessica stood on the sidewalk outside Sister Richards’s house, straddling her bike and staring with uncertainty at an open side gate that led to the Richardses’ backyard. Planting a summer garden wasn’t at the top of her list of fun things to do on an already-too-hot Saturday morning. In fact, it wasn’t anywhere on her list!

Besides, she told herself, she had never gardened in her life and had rarely attended Sister Richards’s Valiant 9 Primary class. She barely knew the others in the class, and when she did go to church, one of them—Karlie—never seemed to want to even be seen with her.

She wondered why she had said yes when Sister Richards invited her to help plant the vegetable garden. It was to be a service project, and what was grown would be shared with others in the neighborhood.

“If only it was something other than planting and tending a garden!” Jessica thought as she started to turn her bike around. She liked to help others, “but there will be other chances to—”

Jessica saw Karlie approaching. Karlie’s eyes avoided Jessica’s as she rode through the side gate.

As Jessica again started to turn her bike around, something else stopped her. This time it was her Primary teacher’s voice. “Jessica! I’m so glad you’ve come. We’re just about ready to start planting.”

“If only Sister Richards’s smile wasn’t so kind and genuine,” Jessica thought, “I could tell her I’ve changed my mind about wanting to help.”

“Everyone is here, dear,” her Primary teacher went on. “Tyler, Karlie, Daniel, Joseph, Allie, and Michael. For a couple of them, Jessica, it’s a first—the first time they’ve come to a Primary activity.” She winked as if sharing it in confidence. “I think they’re curious.” As Jessica hesitated, Sister Richards added, “All you need for our project is a caring heart and willing hands, and I happen to know that you have both.”

In the backyard, Jessica saw a nicely cultivated, rich-soiled plot of earth surrounded by children. She found herself recalling other words Sister Richards had said: “The Savior spent his whole life helping others. He even died for us. His message is as simple as the sacred hymn that declares it: ‘As I have loved you, Love one another’ (Children’s Songbook, 136).”

One afternoon a few weeks later, Jessica and Karlie found themselves on their knees side by side, thinning and weeding the tender, sprouting plants. Jessica came across a large weed that stubbornly held its place among young cornstalks. Try as she might, she could not pull it out. Suddenly Karlie grasped it, too. With one united tug, they jerked it out of the ground.

They giggled as they fell backward, their laughter dissolving into quiet, affectionate looks as they suddenly understood why they had avoided each other before. They simply had not known enough about each other to feel comfortable. Jessica flicked a piece of dirt off Karlie’s face, realizing as she did that they might become good friends. She smiled at Karlie.

“Are you going to Primary this Sunday?” Karlie asked.

“Are you?”

Karlie nodded.

Jessica smiled again. “Me, too.”

As the two girls brushed dirt off each other, Tyler stopped and blinked sweat from his eyes, and Michael paused to examine a blister. Sister Richards winked as she paraphrased a Book of Mormon scripture, “God will consecrate our afflictions for our gain (2 Ne. 2:2).”

Tyler grinned as he said, “Some cold lemonade would also help our afflictions. Hint, hint.”

“I’ll show you affliction!” Daniel playfully flung a handful of weeds at Tyler. Tyler tossed a few thinned carrots back at Daniel, but they missed and rained on Michael instead. By the time Sister Richards began to sprinkle them with a hose, everyone else had joined in.

As Jessica laughingly stepped back from the fun-filled fray to catch her breath, she found herself thinking back to that first, uneasy Saturday when she had straddled her bike in front of Sister Richards’s house. “So much has changed since then!” she thought. “Lots of things have grown, not just the vegetables. Our group has grown, too, because we’ve invited our other friends, and some of them aren’t even Church members. …”

“Are you all right, honey?” Sister Richards joined Jessica. “You look so far away.”

Jessica smiled at her Primary teacher. “I’m very all right, Sister Richards. I was just thinking. I didn’t know I could ever feel this good about what we’re doing.”

“You mean about taking time out for a little fun?”

“No—about planting and growing a sharing garden. And all our friends coming, too, and not just here but to Primary! And do you know what? That feeling keeps getting bigger, just like that corn over there.”

Sister Richards pulled Jessica close to her. Jessica looked up and saw that Sister Richards was crying.

Tyler and Lindsey, who was a longtime friend of Jessica’s and who was not a member of the Church, stopped playing upon seeing Sister Richards wipe her eyes. “We’re sorry, Sister Richards,” Tyler apologized. “We’ll stop horsing around and—”

“No, no, Tyler, it’s not that.” Not wanting to break Jessica’s confidence, Sister Richards simply said, “Haven’t you ever gotten anything in your eye before?”

A few short weeks later, as they picked, cleaned, and placed ripe vegetables into baskets for neighbors, Daniel paused to fan his hot face with a towel. Sister Richards told him with a grin, “The seeds of service are watered by the sweat of labor.” Daniel rolled his eyes and then grinned back.

Jessica smiled, thinking, “Yes, Sister Richards really does have a way with words.”

The group placed their produce in two worn red wagons and started down the street. At one stop, they made their way up a little flowered walkway to the door of an elderly widow. The house was small and seemed forlorn. When the door opened, Jessica and the others offered the old woman a small sack with several different vegetables in it. The smile of sweet surprise that rippled across her wrinkled face squeezed tears not only from her eyes but from some of the children’s as well.

As they started back down the walkway, Tyler told Joseph, who had playfully poked him, “What’s the matter, haven’t you ever gotten anything in your eye before—like ‘the sweat of labor’?”

One afternoon after giving away that day’s harvest, the empty wagons rattling behind them, Sister Richards started to sing, “ ‘By this shall men know Ye are my disciples—’ ”

The children helped her finish it, “ ‘If ye have love One to another.’ ”

Sister Richards asked them, “So how do you feel?”

Michael fanned his face with his hand. “It’s hot, but I still feel good.”

“Doing good makes you feel good,” Allie reasoned aloud, “no matter what else doesn’t.”

“And right now”—Tyler grinned at his Primary teacher—“I believe some of your cold lemonade will make feeling good feel even better!”

Sister Richards grinned back at Tyler as she ruffled his hair. “Such wisdom for one so young!”

(June)

Mary’s Baptism in the Cimarron River

By Shirley Bock Testi
Friend, Jun 2003, 4
As told to the author by Mary Connors; this story took place around 1930.

As many as did believe were baptized (Alma 19:35).

Mary Connors wiped the sweat off her face with her forearm. Summer in the Oklahoma panhandle was hot. She knew Pa needed everyone’s help to chop weeds out of the corn.

Mary looked sideways to check on her brother James. He was eight years old, two years younger than she was. They had two older brothers and an older sister. Her two little sisters stayed back at the house with Ma and their older sister.

Pa came up the row. “Mary,” he said, “you and James take the pails and get water from the river.” Even at 10 years old, she knew how important it was to keep new corn watered.

She and James walked across the sloping field to the Cimarron River. It was shallow, and Mary knew that it wouldn’t be easy to dig a hole deep enough to fill their pails.

As they waded barefoot into the river, the water curled like bracelets around their ankles. They scooped the pails into the sandy riverbed. As soon as one small hole was made, sand quickly filled it in.

Hearing voices behind her on the bank, Mary turned and saw two young men approaching. They were dressed in white shirts and ties, even though it was only Wednesday. Each carried a small suitcase and a suit jacket.

“Hello!” they called, stopping near the edge of the river to watch Mary and James scooping sand.

“Hi.” Mary wasn’t sure they should be talking to these strangers.

“What are you doing?” asked the taller young man.

“Digging for water,” James said.

“Need some help?” asked the shorter young man.

Mary shrugged, but James stood up and held out his pail with a big smile on his face. “Sure!”

The shorter man pulled off his shoes and socks, rolled up his pant legs, and stepped into the river. He took James’s pail and quickly made a deep hole. His companion had also stepped barefoot into the river and was using Mary’s pail. The children dug with their hands. Finally, when both pails were full, the men asked if they could help further by carrying the water to the children’s home.

Mary nodded. “We’re supposed to water the corn.”

“We’d like to meet your pa and your ma,” the taller man said.

They walked back to the cornfield where Pa and the boys were still chopping weeds. Pa looked up in surprise when he saw that they had company.

The young men set down the pails of water and introduced themselves. “I’m Elder Watson,” the taller one said. “My companion is Elder Masters. We’re missionaries.”

Pa shook their hands. “Do you believe in Jesus Christ?” he asked.

The elders looked at each other and smiled. Elder Masters said, “The name of our church is The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. A young prophet, Joseph Smith, talked to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.”

Pa’s eyes met his children’s. He cleared his throat. “I’d like to hear more about this young prophet. How about having supper with us?”

Mary could tell that the elders were pleased with the invitation. James was sent to tell Ma that they had company. Then they all pitched in and finished hoeing and watering the corn. When they went to the house, Ma and Rachel were setting out bowls of mashed potatoes, fried squash, sliced tomatoes, and new peas. A stack of hot biscuits stood beside a dish of fresh-churned butter.

Pa gestured to Elder Watson. “We always say a blessing on the food. You probably ought to say it tonight, Elder.”

After supper, Pa showed the elders the hayloft, and James and Mary carried quilts and pillows out for them. Pa asked what the elders were doing in the Oklahoma panhandle.

Elder Watson explained. “We are walking missionaries. We walk through the area looking for people who want to know more about Jesus Christ and about the Book of Mormon.”

Pa nodded. “That’s me. I want to know more. What’s the Book of Mormon?”

The missionaries stayed until Saturday morning. In between helping Pa with the crops, they taught about the Book of Mormon, Joseph Smith, and Jesus Christ.

On Saturday morning, Elder Masters asked, “Do you believe that Jesus said that we must be baptized to enter His kingdom?”

Mary nodded her head. She saw each person in her family nod in agreement.

“Do you want to be baptized?” Elder Masters asked.

A chorus of amens answered his question. Soon they were all headed toward the Cimarron River, carrying shovels, pails, and kettles. It would take a lot of digging to make the river deep enough.

They sang hymns as they dug. Mary could scarcely stand the excitement and joy that she felt inside. She was glad that she was 10 years old and could be baptized.

At last Elder Watson pronounced the hole deep enough.

One by one, starting with Pa, the whole family, except for the two little girls, were baptized in the Cimarron River.

Later, dressed in dry clothes, each sat on a kitchen chair while the elders confirmed them members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and gave them the gift of the Holy Ghost. Mary couldn’t remember seeing her parents cry before, but she knew that these were happy tears.

On Sunday, the family attended their first sacrament service out under the apple trees. The elders talked about all that they had learned and how it was now their turn to teach their neighbors.

On Monday morning, the walking missionaries set out to find others to teach.

Mary remained faithful throughout her life, and when she was an old woman, she told the story of how she had helped dig her own baptismal font with her bare hands in the Cimarron River of Oklahoma.

Isaac’s Talk

By Dawn Nelson
Friend, Jun 2003, 28
( Based on a true story)

We speak [what] we do know (John 3:11).

Isaac could tell that his Primary class was almost over, because he could hear people moving around outside the door. Sure enough, his teacher asked someone to say the prayer.

As soon as he said, “Amen,” Isaac stood up and hurried to the door. He liked his Primary class, but he was always eager to see his mom and dad and little brother, Luke. Before he could open the door, however, his teacher said, “Isaac, would you come here for a minute, please?”

“Sure,” Isaac answered as Sister Nelson called a few more children over to her chair. Sister Nelson held out some little pieces of paper to him and the others. “Will you please give a talk in opening exercises next week?” she asked him.

“Oh, OK.” Isaac was five now, so he could see that his name was written on the paper with a lot of other words. He didn’t try to read them—he was sure they just said stuff about his talk. He had said yes because he always tried to do what his teacher wanted him to do, but he was scared to talk to the whole Primary. He knew that even the youngest children took turns giving talks, scriptures, and prayers, but he couldn’t remember doing any of those before.

He thought about the talks other children had given. Sometimes children read stories for talks, but Isaac couldn’t read that well yet. Some of the other talks were so hard to understand that he forgot to even listen. He couldn’t imagine what kind of a talk he could give when he was only five!

“Oh well,” he said to himself, “maybe she’ll forget she asked me.” He stood in the doorway and soon saw his mom and Luke coming toward him from the nursery room. “Hi, Mom!” he said, giving her a big hug.

“What’s this?” Mom asked, taking the paper out of his hand. “Wow! You get to give a talk next week.”

Isaac tried to smile, and he nodded his head a little. Maybe Mom would forget too, he hoped.

On the way home, Mom told Dad about Isaac’s talk. “How exciting!” Dad said. “We’ll be sure to come hear you, Isaac. Do you want Mom or me to help you give your talk?”

Somebody could help him with his talk? He suddenly felt a lot better about it. “Mom, I guess,” he said.

“OK,” Mom answered. “We’ll start working on it soon.”

Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday went by, and Isaac forgot all about the talk. But on Wednesday, Mom said, “Isaac, let’s get your Primary talk ready!”

“Oh, no!” he said to himself. “She remembered.” He walked slowly over to where Mom sat holding a pen and notebook. His stomach felt funny. “I don’t really want to give a talk, Mom. I don’t know how, and I’m scared.”

“It will be all right. Let’s just talk about it for a minute.” Mom put her arm around his shoulders. “Your talk is supposed to be about faith in Jesus Christ. What do you think faith is?”

Isaac remembered his Primary teacher talking about faith, and Mom and Dad talking about it in family home evening. But he was pretty sure he didn’t know enough about it to give a whole talk. “Is it like praying and keeping the commandments?” he asked, his forehead wrinkled with worry.

Mom wrote something in the notebook. “Sure,” she said. “Why do we pray and keep the commandments?”

“Because Jesus and Heavenly Father want us to.” That was an easy question.

Mom wrote something else down in the notebook. “What happens to your faith when you pray and keep the commandments?”

“It grows.” He remembered his teacher saying that choosing the right helps your faith grow.

“How do you feel when it grows, Isaac? How do you feel when you pray and keep the commandments?”

“Happy!” Isaac wished it was as easy to give a talk about faith as it was to talk with his mom about it.

“Just a few more questions,” Mom said. “Do you believe in Jesus Christ?” When he nodded, Mom asked, “Why?”

“Because the scriptures say He lives.” Isaac had a nice feeling inside when he talked about Jesus. He could feel Jesus loving him. He smiled and leaned against his mom while she wrote.

Suddenly Mom surprised him by saying, “OK! You’ve finished writing your talk! Now let’s practice giving it.”

On Sunday morning, Isaac stepped carefully to the front of the Primary room. He unfolded the paper his mom had written on when she asked him questions. His answers were his talk! He had practiced giving it to Dad a few times. Now Mom moved to his side and began whispering the questions he had answered before. Isaac gave his talk in his very own words:

“Faith in Jesus Christ means praying and keeping the commandments. We pray and keep the commandments because Heavenly Father and Jesus want us to. When we do, our faith grows. I feel happy when I pray and keep the commandments, and my faith grows. I believe in Jesus Christ because the scriptures say He lives. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”

He saw Dad smile at him from the back of the room, and everyone was quiet—they had been listening! When he walked past his teacher, he saw that she was happy. He felt really good inside. He had given a talk that was really his, and he was sure that Jesus was happy about it too!

(July)

Miracle of the Fishes

By Cindy Law
Friend, Jul 2003, 4
( Based on a true story)

And all things, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive (Matt. 21:22).

“Rhoda, will you offer the blessing on the food?” Mama asked.

Rhoda looked at the small potato on her plate. “But there is still so much plate showing around my dinner,” she wanted to say but didn’t. “Yes, Mama,” she said.

Bowing her head, she began, “Heavenly Father, thank Thee for the food, and please bless it. Watch over Daddy in England that he will find those who are looking for the truth. And please provide food and safety for us while he is away. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”

Rhoda opened her eyes and noticed her sister, Louisa, staring at Mama’s empty plate.

“Mama, where’s your food?” Louisa asked.

“Willard is out working in the fields,” Mama replied. “When he comes in, he’s going to want more than just water to drink.”

Rhoda could see worry lines around her sister’s eyes. “Are there no more potatoes?” Louisa asked.

Mama shook her head. “Those are the last ones. So eat up before they get cold.”

Rhoda stared at Mama. “But Mama, what will we do for breakfast in the morning?”

“Well, in your prayer you asked the Lord to provide for us while Daddy is away,” Mama replied. “I trust He will answer your prayer.”

“Mama!” Willard burst through the door. “Quick! The Judds have turned the canal water into their ditches!”

“Hurry, girls,” Mama said. “Buckets are outside!”

Rhoda jumped from the table, following Willard and Louisa outdoors. Each one grabbed a large, wooden bucket and raced down the dusty path to the canal.

Even though Rhoda was only eight years old, she understood about the canal. Like a man-made river, the canal was the source of water for all the homesteads in the area. The canal also provided water for irrigating crops. Farmers would turn some of the water from the canal into ditches lining their crops. Then the water would flow out of the ditches and flood the land. But once in a while, a farmer would turn all the canal water into his ditches, leaving the homesteads downstream without water until he finished irrigating his crops. And Rhoda knew that even one day without water in this scorching heat would be dangerous.

When the children arrived at the canal, the water flow had already stopped, leaving a still bed of water resting in the bottom. Rhoda filled her bucket with water, carried it back to the house, and poured it into the large rain barrel beside the front door. Back and forth the children ran, trying to fill the barrel before the water dried up.

“One more bucket each ought to do it,” Mama called.

Even though the sun hung low, almost touching the horizon, the dirt felt hot and gritty on the bottoms of Rhoda’s feet. Reaching the canal, they found that the stream was now dried up, leaving a muddy bed pocked with small, shallow pools. Rhoda jumped down into the damp streambed, mud spurting between her toes. Reaching the edge of one of the shallow pools, she leaned over to dip her bucket into the water. Suddenly she lost her balance and fell, splashing into the pool.

Willard and Louisa laughed as Rhoda stood up. Her dress clung to her back and belly, and warm water dripped down her arms and legs. When she reached down to grab her bucket, something slippery slithered past her ankles. “Snake!” Rhoda screeched, scrambling out of the pool.

Willard raced over, peering at the small pool.

“There!” Rhoda cried, pointing a finger at the water.

Willard’s eyes scanned the murky water. His hand circled the surface, then suddenly he thrust his arm into the water and grabbed at something.

“It’s a fish!” Willard shouted, holding a small, wriggling fish in his palm. “I caught a fish!”

“Look! There must be more in that pool over there!” Rhoda pointed.

“And over there,” Louisa shouted, pointing at another. All the small pools of water rippled with life.

“Let’s fill our buckets and take them to Mama,” Louisa suggested.

There was little water left in the pools and the fish swarmed in tight bunches, making it easy for the children to snatch them up. Soon their buckets were filled and the children carried them back to the cabin.

“Mama! Look what we found in the canal!” Rhoda called as they reached the cabin door.

“Fish? In the canal?” Mama looked confused. “There aren’t any fish in that canal.”

“There are tonight. The shallow pools are full of them,” Louisa said.

“But there have never been fish in that canal,” Mama said quietly, staring at the full buckets of fish. “Children, this is a miracle. Just as He sent manna to the hungry Israelites, the Lord has sent fish for us to eat.”

Reaching for Rhoda’s bucket, she continued, “And just like the children of Israel, we must gather all we can while there are fish to catch. Go and see if there are any more, and I will begin cleaning these and packing them in salt.”

The sun sank into the prairie grasses and a full moon lit the night as the children returned to search for more fish. As Rhoda knelt down in the mud, she closed her eyes and spoke softly. “Heavenly Father, thank Thee for answering my prayer and for taking care of us. Thank Thee for sending us the miracle of the fishes.”

Summer Serenade

By Alma J. Yates
Friend, Jul 2003, 30
( Based on a true story)

Humble yourselves … under the mighty hand of God, … Casting all your care upon him; for he careth for you (1 Pet. 5:6–7).

Usually I didn’t like milking our mean cow Georgina, but the afternoon that Dr. Steed checked Father’s leg was one time when I wanted to be anyplace but in the house. Ever since his accident, Father had been in terrible pain. I prayed that Dr. Steed would do something to help Father, because I couldn’t bear to hear his moaning any longer.

Georgina seemed to know that I was upset—she didn’t cause me one lick of trouble. Grabbing the one-legged stool and the tin pail, I sat down to milk.

Even though I was only eleven, I had been milking cows since I was five. Today, I was milking fast and furiously, my mind a jumble of worries and fears.

Up until Father’s accident two days earlier, everything had gone well for us. Our crops were growing better this year than any time that I could remember. Not a single calf or cow had died during the winter or spring, which was probably a first.

Father had even started building a new barn. We figured to have it finished before we brought in the third crop of alfalfa hay in August. Father had been on a scaffold working on our barn when he slipped and fell 30 feet (over 9 m), landing horribly hard on his right leg.

The first time Dr. Steed looked at Father’s bulging, bloody ankle, he shook his head. “It looks mighty bad. The bone’s shattered. There’s nothing to set—it’s just a bunch of bone fragments.”

“What do we do?” Mother’s face was a mask of wrinkled worries as she clutched Father’s hand.

Father gritted his teeth and managed a faint smile that looked strange and out of place on his gray, tense face. “The good Lord will look after us, Dr. Steed,” he said weakly but confidently. “A busted leg doesn’t mean that the Lord doesn’t have His eye on us.”

I had always believed my father, especially when he talked about the Lord, but I began to wonder how He was watching over us when disaster hung over our home like a thick, heavy black cloud. Was He going to grow Father another leg?

The pain didn’t go away in Father’s leg. It got worse, lots worse! His leg from the knee to his toes swelled up something fierce. It looked as though it was going to burst. The skin turned almost black in places. Father wanted to wait longer to see if his leg would get better on its own, but Mother finally insisted that Dr. Steed take another look.

I closed my eyes and leaned my head against Georgina’s warm flank as the pail started filling up with the white foamy milk. I didn’t know what we were going to do with Father laid up. I knew that I was still too young to run the farm by myself. Maybe I could do it a day or so, but when it came time to cut the hay, harvest the grain, and bring in the corn, I’d need more help than my two little brothers could give me.

The shed door squeaked open. Mother stood there, her eyes wide and her face white as her apron. She wet her lips. “Your father’s leg …” The words died in her throat. She swallowed and tried again. “Charlie,” she got out, “Dr. Steed says your father’s leg has to come off from the knee down.”

“Cut off his leg?” I jumped up.

“Charlie, it’s his leg or his life,” Mother said softly, looking away. “Dr. Steed can’t save it. If he doesn’t take it off soon, your father will die. There’s no other way. Run and get Bishop Hunt. Your father wants a blessing before Dr. Steed starts cutting.”

I raced over to Bishop Hunt and gave him the bad news, but I didn’t go back to the house with him. Instead, I went down to the creek and hid in the bushes, wanting to be as far from Father’s moans and groans as I could get.

It was dark when I finally returned to the house. I crept into the house and stole silently down the hall to Mother and Father’s half-open bedroom door.

Father lay on his back, his eyes closed, his face ashen. Mother sat in the rocker next to the bed, holding his hand. Tears trickled down her cheeks. I studied the blanket covering Father and stared at the horrible empty place where his foot and lower leg should have been.

Mother saw me and smiled weakly. “Dr. Steed thinks he’ll be all right if he can rest through the night. Pray for him, Charlie. The Lord’s blessed us plenty. We need to ask for another blessing from His hand.”

I turned away. “How has the Lord blessed us?” I wondered. “Father is lying there without his leg. We still have the farm and the cows to take care of. The barn isn’t finished. And how can Father do any of those things with only one whole leg?” I fought back bitter tears of frustration and fear, wishing desperately that I were older so that I could carry the load.

I was busy from early morning till late at night, doing my very best to run the farm. Two days after Dr. Steed took off Father’s lower leg, I dragged into the house late, tired clear to the bone. I was shocked to see Father sitting in the rocker by the kitchen table with his stub leg propped up on a pillow in a chair. He looked better than he had since his accident. “Well, Charlie,” he said with a faint smile, “your mother says you’ve been doing a mighty fine job keeping things up around here. You’re a real man.”

I heaved a sigh and felt a hard lump in my throat, thankful for Father’s praise and mighty glad that he was doing better. Even so, I was overwhelmed by the huge job before me. I dropped down on a kitchen chair. Mother set a plate of hot food in front of me. I was almost too tired to lift my fork to feed myself. “I don’t know if I can do it alone,” I gulped.

“We won’t be doing it alone, Charlie,” Father said gently. “The Lord’ll be there. He always has been.”

“How can you say that?” I burst out, my mouth full of Mother’s homemade bread. I couldn’t bring myself to look at Father’s stump wrapped in white bandages.

The younger children were in bed and Mother and Father didn’t say anything while I quietly ate. As I wiped my plate clean with a chunk of bread, I heard the faint strum of a lone guitar. At first I wasn’t even sure I’d heard it until the guitar was joined by the low moan of a harmonica and then a fiddle. There was no mistake about it—there was music playing! Voices began to sing.

Mother and Father looked at each other and then at me. “Who do you suppose that could be?” Mother dried her hands on her apron.

I pushed back from the table and charged for the door. Flinging it open, I peered out into the night.

Four people were holding lanterns, three men strummed guitars, two played harmonicas, and one had a fiddle up to his chin. Crowded around them were other neighbors. All were playing or singing, “Master, the Tempest Is Raging.”

Then I saw our front porch—loaded with flour and sugar and potatoes—and my mouth dropped open. There was a basket of apricots, fresh summer squash, green beans, and a few ears of early corn, too. There were also a couple pies, a sack of shelled walnuts, and a plate of fudge.

I felt Mother come up behind me. Touching me on the shoulder, she whispered, “I think your father would like to see this.”

It wasn’t easy getting Father to the front porch. With Mother on one side and me on the other, we helped Father out onto the porch and eased him down into a rocker.

“Well, George,” someone called from the crowd when they finished the hymn, “a few of us got together and figured you could use a little serenading. We might not make the best music in the world, but we sing with a whole lot of feeling.”

“We figured you could use a little something in the kitchen, too,” a woman called out. “If that isn’t enough, we’ll bring more.”

“And don’t fret about your barn being half done,” another voice called from the crowd. “There are enough hands around here to make short work of that little project. And when it comes time to mow your alfalfa, there’ll be a crew here.”

I glanced at Father. Big tears coursed down his face. “You folks are …” His voice quavered and the words died in his throat. “You folks are mighty kind,” he started again. “You treat me so fine that I’ll be tempted to go out and break my other leg.”

Everyone laughed, and then they began to play and sing again. They stayed for 30 minutes and serenaded us, singing our favorite songs and hymns. When they left, they all filed past Father, shook his hand and assured him that he didn’t have to worry about things.

When Mother, Father, and I were alone again on the porch, Father turned to me and said quietly, “That was the best music I’ve heard in a long, long time. It sounded like it came straight from heaven.” He took a deep breath and added, “Charlie, like I told you earlier, the good Lord is watching after us. We might stub our toes along the way, but he’s always there to lift us up and help us through.”

Swallowing back the big lump in my throat, I grabbed the sack of flour and nodded. As always, Father was right.

Where Are They?

By Sarah L. Sorensen
Friend, Jul 2003, 43
( Based on a true story)

Look unto me in every thought; doubt not, fear not (D&C 6:36).

Eleven-year-old Christine hurried out of the gas station. She knew she needed to be fast—her family was waiting. She threaded her way through the aisles and out the doors. She stopped.

They were gone!

At the gas pump where her family’s beige van had been was a small red sports car. Her stomach flipped. “Where are they?” she asked herself, trying not to panic.

She scanned all of the parking spaces. No van and no family. She walked around to the other side of the gas station to check the gasoline pumps there. Several 18-wheeler trucks were filling up with diesel fuel. “The van would be hard to miss,” she thought. “A beige 15-passenger van pulling a trailer isn’t going to just disappear.”

She looked toward the highway. A green car followed by a blue minivan zoomed past. Other cars hurried on to their destinations. Still no sign of her family’s van.

Only ten minutes before, Christine had jumped out of the van at the gas station. Dad had been filling it up with gas, her younger brothers had been trying to clean its almost-too-tall windows, and Mom had been coming back from taking three-year-old Mark to the rest room. Mom had told everyone that if they needed to use the rest room, they’d better do it now.

Her family was driving to Utah for a family reunion, and they had only started their two-day drive that morning. Christine knew that the next time they’d stop would be for lunch, so she had run inside to use the rest room.

She walked around the gas station once more, hoping to see them. Vehicles of all sizes were coming and going, but none of them looked like her family’s van.

Feeling very alone, she walked to the back of the gas station and saw a covered deck and several picnic tables. She slowly climbed the steps to the deck and sat down. From here she could see all the highway traffic.

Fear crept into her heart as she watched people coming and going. “I hope nothing is wrong with them,” she thought. “I hope that they miss me soon.”

A small rainstorm passed by. She moved to a different corner of the picnic area so that she wouldn’t get wet.

She bowed her head and whispered, “Dear Heavenly Father, please bless my family to come back and get me. Please bless that they are OK. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”

When Christine looked up, the rainstorm had cleared and the sun was out. Her fear and loneliness left, and she felt that her family would be back for her soon.

After walking around the gas station again to see if she had missed seeing them return, she went back to the deck, sat down, and waited. Remembering the feeling that she had felt after praying, she stopped fretting.

Soon, a beige 15-passenger van pulling a trailer came down the highway. God had answered her prayer.

She ran to the front of the gas station to meet her family. They pulled up, and she jumped into the van to the welcoming chorus of her brothers and sisters.

Mom turned sideways in the front seat to give her a hug. “I’m so glad you’re OK. When we realized you had been left behind, we were so worried!”

“Well, I’m OK. I said a prayer that you would come back,” Christine replied.

“I’m glad you remembered to pray,” Mom said. “From now on we’ll be more careful to not leave anyone behind.”

Christine looked out the window as the gas station gradually disappeared. Silently she thanked Heavenly Father for bringing her family back to get her.

Ben’s Gift

By Howard R. Driggs
Friend, Jul 2003, 46
( Based on a true story)

Whosoever he be of you that forsaketh not all that he hath, he cannot be my disciple (Luke 14:33).

Ben loved his father’s wagon shop. It was a busy place, with the music of saws, planes, hammers, and chisels filling the air all day long.

“Don’t get too close to the workers,” his father often warned the curious boy. “And leave the sharp tools alone.”

“But I want to make a wagon of my own, Daddy. Why can’t I?”

This plea usually earned him some boards, a few tools, and a spot out of the way where he could hammer to his heart’s content.

Then came a joyous day when his father promised to make him a wagon for his birthday. It would be exactly like the big ones—only smaller.

“Just think,” he told his mother, “a real wagon—all my own! I can take baby brother for rides, and I can bring things for you from the store. Won’t that be fine?”

Mother agreed that it would be. She was almost as happy as her little son.

On the morning of Ben’s seventh birthday, he awoke to find his dream had come true. There in the living room was his beautiful new wagon, gleaming with a fresh coat of paint. Tears filled Mother’s and Father’s eyes as their happy son gave them a loving squeeze. Then out he went to run up and down the street and show his friends the rare gift.

True to his promise, Ben took his baby brother for many rides. He also ran errands for his mother most willingly. Ben and his dog, Bones, became a familiar sight around the streets of Nauvoo. With his father’s help, Ben rigged a harness and trained the clever animal to pull the wagon and his young master around the streets near home.

One of Ben’s favorite errands was to start down Mulholland Street, turn past the lot where the great temple was being built, and go on to Parley P. Pratt’s store. It was a stirring sight to see the workers shaping and placing the stones as the stately building rose above the hill. Besides, there were good things at the Pratt store. Ben often brought a jug of sweet molasses home to Mother.

One day he paused near the temple lot to watch a worker carving a stone. The chip, chip, chip of the chisel driven deftly into the stone was so captivating that Ben lost track of time. He did not notice that two workers had also paused to look intently at his little wagon.

“That wagon would be a mighty handy thing to haul our tools about in,” one of the men said. “Sonny, how would you like to let us have your wagon to help build the temple?”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that,” Ben replied.

The man looked at him closely. “Isn’t your father the boss of the big wagon shop?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, we’ll talk to him about it.”

Frightened at the thought of losing his precious wagon, Ben ran home with Bones at his heels. Arriving, he burst into tears. “Mother, you won’t let them take it away, will you?”

Mother looked up in alarm. “What are you talking about, Ben?”

“Some men at the temple asked me for my wagon to haul their tools in. When I said I couldn’t give it to them, they said, ‘We’ll see your father.’ ”

“Perhaps they were just joking. Come now, you are late for dinner. You’ll feel better after you eat something.”

But he was too worried to eat much. And just after his father finally came home, the same two men appeared at the door.

That night Ben and his parents had a heart-to-heart talk. “You see, Ben, everybody is giving something to help build the temple,” Father said. “I know how you feel about your wagon, and I’m not going to make you give it away. But just think about it. Ask Heavenly Father to help you decide what to do. It is the house of the Lord we are building.”

“I know you will do what is right,” Ben’s mother said. At bedtime she kissed his tearstained face, patted his rumpled hair, and left him to say his prayers alone.

The next morning, Ben pulled his wagon down Mulholland Street and over to the temple lot, followed by his faithful dog. Walking up to the man who seemed to be in charge, he said, “I’ve brought you my wagon to help the men building the temple.”

Looking into Ben’s face, the kind man replied with feeling, “God bless you, my boy. I know what this means to you. No one has made a greater sacrifice to help build the Nauvoo Temple.” He gripped Ben’s shoulder gently.

Ben walked slowly home with Bones by his side. He had done his part.

(August)

Change of Heart

By Denise Page
Friend, Aug 2003, 4
( Based on the history of the author’s great-grandmother)

Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution … ? Nay, in all these things we are … conquerors through him that loved us (Rom. 8:35, 37).

The clock struck nine. Flora watched her father thumb through the Bible’s pages to find his place. Elder Roberts, who had been teaching them about the Church, laid down the saddlebag he was mending. Flora’s sister, Matilda, set aside her needlework to listen to Father read: “ ‘Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee’ ” (Isa. 41:10).

“Amen,” Elder Roberts said as Father finished reading.

“Now, Elder Roberts, would you read from the Book of Mormon?” Father asked.

Elder Roberts opened the well-worn Book of Mormon. He cleared his throat and began, “ ‘Now this is the commandment: Repent … and come unto me and be baptized in my name’ ” (3 Ne. 27:20).

Flora leaned closer to Matilda and whispered, “You can be baptized if you like, but I never will.”

“Why not, Flora?”

“Just look what has happened to us for even listening to the missionaries. Mr. Cardston, who has always treated us like his own daughters, will not speak to us. He won’t let Amy and Gertrude associate with us.”

“It is hard.”

“But that isn’t the worst of it. Think of Isaac, driven from the street with stones. He was almost killed just for passing out pamphlets about the gospel.”

“But do you know what he whispered to me as I fed him his supper? ‘Matilda,’ he said, ‘I am so happy that I am baptized and that I am counted worthy to hold the office of a deacon in the Church and kingdom of God.’ ”

“Well, you can be baptized like Isaac and Father, but I shall not,” Flora declared firmly.

“Daughters,” Father said, “please say good night to Isaac before going to bed.”

“Yes, Father,” the girls chimed.

Isaac’s arms and face were black and blue with bruises. He moaned a little as he attempted to roll onto his side, but he forced a partial smile when he saw his sisters in the doorway.

“Oh, Isaac!” Flora exclaimed. “How can you stand what they have done to you?”

“There, there, Flora. I’ll mend in no time. You’ll see.”

“Weren’t you frightened when they began stoning you?”

“Yes, little one, my knees trembled, yet I did my best to magnify my office and calling.”

“You are so brave, Isaac.”

“It isn’t bravery—just love, Flora. My whole being is filled with the love of Christ. I even love those who threw the stones today.”

“How can you love people who were trying to hurt you?”

Matilda said, “I think I understand what you mean, Isaac.” She kissed his forehead on a spot that wasn’t bruised.

“Are you girls going to be baptized?” he asked.

“Yes, I am—this Sunday, in the Matlock Baths.” Matilda’s face was radiant.

“No, Isaac.” Flora sighed. “I just can’t.”

“Is it because you don’t know if the Church is true?”

“I know it’s true. When I read the Book of Mormon, my whole mind seemed filled with light. But I just can’t be baptized.”

“Why not, little one?”

“All my friends will turn away from me. And Father said that if we all join, we will sell everything and go to America. How can I part with everything and everyone that I love and hold dear? I’m afraid, Isaac.”

“That is to be expected. You pray and let God guide you.”

On Sunday, Flora was happy that Isaac, although still weak, joined her and Matilda as they made their way to where Matilda would be baptized. At first, the neighbors silently watched them. Then some began to shout horrible lies about the Church.

Flora’s stomach churned with fear. If only Father were with them! He had gone earlier with Elder Roberts to prepare for the baptism. She glanced at Isaac’s blanched face, perspiring from the effort of walking. He looked close to collapsing.

“This is as far as you go,” spoke a harsh voice. “There will not be any of this Mormon baptizing done today.”

Flora eyed the crowd that was closing in around them. She shuddered as she looked into their faces. Former friends now seemed like strangers, their faces dark with anger. Flora winced as a stone hit her ankle. “Let’s stone them!” someone shouted.

“Heavenly Father, I am so afraid. Please guide and strengthen me,” Flora prayed. Peace and love filled her heart, and she felt stronger. Was the Holy Ghost with her? She felt that He was.

“Do not be afraid,” Flora said. Her voice, clear and steady, easily reached the back of the crowd. “We are your neighbors, and we love you. We wish to show our love for Heavenly Father this day by being baptized in the name of His Son, Jesus Christ.”

An old woman shook her cane at the crowd. “They’re just children,” she said. “Let them alone. You should all be ashamed of yourselves.”

Flora held her breath as she listened to the angry crowd murmur. “Come now,” a man growled. “Beatrice is right. These children haven’t done us any harm.” The crowd slowly scattered.

“Who is the brave one now?” Isaac whispered. He smiled, and Flora knew he was pleased with her.

“Flora, did I hear you say ‘we’ are to be baptized?” Matilda asked.

“Yes, I said ‘we.’ You and I are going to be baptized today.” Flora linked her arm with Matilda’s.

So Matilda and Flora were baptized at the Matlock Baths. Afterward, they sang: “

‘O Jesus, I have promised To serve Thee to the end; Be Thou forever near me, my Master and my friend; I shall not fear the battle If Thou art by my side, Nor wander from the pathway If Thou wilt be my guide.’ ”

Katie’s Peaches

By Diana Faught
Friend, Aug. 2003, 18
(A true story)

And he gathered up all the food of the seven years, which were in the land of Egypt, and laid up the food in the cities (Gen. 41:48).

Six-year-old Katie loves peaches. But she lives in Las Vegas, Nevada, where it is too hot for peaches to grow well. Luckily she has a neighbor named Daun who knows a lot about growing fruits and vegetables. He and his wife, Alice, have a peach tree that grows big, beautiful, very tasty peaches.

One day Alice came over with a big bag full of peaches. “Would you like some peaches?” she asked. “This year we seem to have more than usual.”

Katie’s mom thanked her and took the peaches into the kitchen. She washed them and put them into the refrigerator.

Later that week, while Katie was at a friend’s house, Mom bottled all of the peaches in big glass jars for their food storage. When Katie got home, she cried, “What did you do to my peaches? Now I don’t have any to eat.”

“I’m sorry,” Mom said. “The next time Alice brings over peaches, I’ll be sure to save you some.”

A few days later, Alice brought more peaches. Katie helped Mom wash them. Then she watched Mom put most of them in boiling water. After they were dipped in cold water, Katie cut them in half with a butter knife. She couldn’t help tasting a piece. She kept tasting pieces until she got full. “Mommy, why are we putting my big, beautiful peaches into these glass jars?” she asked.

Her mother explained that they were for food storage. “We are going to do what Joseph in Egypt did.” Katie wanted to hear about Joseph, so while they bottled the peaches, Mom told her the story of Joseph and his coat of many colors. She told Katie about how his brothers sold him into slavery in Egypt, where he became a friend of Pharaoh. She explained that Joseph told Pharaoh to store food during the seven years when there was lots of it. Then they could eat it during the seven years when there would be very little food for them.

“The prophet has asked us to store food while we can, because we may need it later,” she said. Katie wanted to follow the prophet, so she decided that putting the peaches in bottles was a good idea. She had learned a lot more than how to bottle fruit.

Katie didn’t want to wait for a famine, though. She was glad that they had saved some of the big, beautiful, very tasty peaches for her to eat right away.

Treehouse

By Kathy Elliott Zeyer
Friend, Aug 2003, 30
( Based on a true story)

Ye have entered into a covenant with [the Lord], that ye will … keep his commandments, that he may pour out his Spirit … upon you (Mosiah 18:10).

“How many more boards do you think we need?” Jordan* asked as he and Derek huffed and puffed up the driveway to Ben’s backyard.

“Oh, maybe one more load,” Derek said. “My dad says we can use all the scrap wood we need from the pile in our backyard.”

The boys were hauling wood in Derek’s wagon for the treehouse they were building in Ben’s oak tree. When it was finished, it would be their clubhouse.

During the summer, the boys had formed a club. The treehouse would make their club extra special.

Jordan and Derek dumped their load on the pile of boards. Jordan called up to the tree, “How’s it coming?”

“Pretty good,” Brandon answered. “The floor is a little crooked, but we’ve nailed it in tight. We’ll start on the walls next. Send up a couple of really straight boards.”

All week long they worked on the treehouse, and even when it got really hot outside, they didn’t mind. Ben’s mom sent out frozen treats, and the four boys sat in the tree, eating the treats and talking about how fun their treehouse would be when it was finished.

Finally the treehouse was ready. It was getting close to dinnertime, so they all climbed on their bikes to go home. Derek yelled over his shoulder, “Remember, Jordan, ten o’clock tomorrow—our first meeting in the treehouse!”

“I’ll be there!” Jordan hollered back.

The next morning, Jordan wolfed down his scrambled eggs and toast, then hurried through his chores. “May I go now, Mom? We’re having our first club meeting in the treehouse.”

“Sure, Jordan. Just be back at noon.”

Jordan hopped on his bike and headed to Ben’s house. He could tell by the bikes in the driveway that his friends were already there. As Jordan climbed the wooden planks nailed to the tree trunk, Derek popped his head out of the treehouse door.

“Stop right there, Jordan,” he said. “You have to give the password first.”

“Huh? We’ve never had a password.”

“Well, we do now. It’s—”

As Derek said the password, Jordan got a sick feeling in his stomach. “But that’s a bad word,” he thought. Aloud, he said, “Derek, what are you talking about? I’m not going to say that.”

“Then you can’t be in our club!”

“Come on, Derek, I don’t feel good about saying that, and I really want to try out the treehouse today.”

Jordan heard laughs and snickers coming from inside. It was Brandon and Ben.

“Jordan’s chicken!”

“Come on, Jordan—we all said it.”

Jordan was quiet for a minute. Then he squared his shoulders and said, “I guess I can’t be in the club, then. I won’t say that.” He climbed down the steps, got on his bike, and slowly rode home.

When he came in the back door, Mom said, “Hi, buddy. You’re home early.”

“I guess I didn’t feel much like playing today.” His lip quivered just a bit.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

Jordan hesitated, then blurted out, “The treehouse is finished, but the others say unless I say the password, I can’t be in the club.”

“Well, what’s the password?” Mom asked.

“I can’t tell you. It’s not a nice word.”

“I see.”

Mom walked over to the refrigerator, poured him a glass of chocolate milk, and sat down at the table. She was quiet for a minute, and then said, “Jordan, do you know the story of Abinadi and King Noah?”

“Yes, Sister Nielsen told us that one in Primary.”

“Well, when Abinadi was brought before King Noah and tried to teach the king and his priests about Jesus Christ, Abinadi told them to repent. Do you remember what King Noah thought about that?”

“Didn’t he tell Abinadi that if he didn’t take it all back and deny Jesus Christ, they would kill him?”

“That’s right. And what did Abinadi do?”

“He wouldn’t say it, because he knew it was wrong.”

“Well, isn’t that like what you did today?”

Jordan was puzzled. “I don’t get it, Mom. What does that have to do with my club?”

“Well, Abinadi wouldn’t say something he knew was wrong. He stood up for what was right, and so did you.”

“I guess you’re right, Mom.” He took another gulp of chocolate milk. “But even though being kicked out of the club isn’t anywhere near as bad as getting burned to death, choosing the right can be hard sometimes.”

Mom smiled. “That’s true. But don’t you feel better for making the right choice?”

“Yes, I do. You’re right, Mom. Thanks.”

Just then the doorbell rang. It was Brandon. “Jordan,” he said, his head down a little, “I’m sorry. We never should have had that crummy password. I wish I could have been brave like you. Can we still be friends?”

“Sure, Brandon! What do you say we go over to the park and shoot some baskets?”

“OK! I’ll go home and grab my ball!”

Jordan smiled as they rode their bikes to the park. “Mom was right,” he thought. “It feels lots better to choose the right!”

Broken TailLight

By Sheila Kindred
Friend, Aug 2003, 39
( Based on a true story)

Faith and repentance bringeth a change of heart (Hel. 15:7).

The apple went spinning to the ground. Clint was getting pretty good with his homemade slingshot. He had made it from a strong Y-shaped stick and a thick rubber band and had been practicing with it all day. Now his aim was good enough to knock an apple right out of a tree.

He saw a car coming down the road and wondered if he could hit a moving target as small as a taillight on a car. He closed one eye, pulled the rock back to his ear, and let it go. Crack! The sound of breaking plastic and glass was followed by the tinkle of pieces of glass and plastic hitting the pavement. Clint gasped. He’d actually hit the taillight of that car!

In a panic, he dropped his slingshot and scooted up the apple tree, hiding among the leaves. The car screeched to a stop, and a man jumped out. He walked around to look at his broken light, then glared straight at Clint’s hiding place.

“I know you’re up there!” he bellowed. “I saw you. You’d better get down here before I call the police!”

Clint didn’t move. He recognized the man. It was Brother Ernest, who always complained about how noisy the kids were when he went to church. Clint did not want to talk to him.

After a few minutes, Brother Ernest got back into his car and drove away. Clint waited a long time. It was nearly dark when he finally climbed down. He picked up his slingshot, pulled off the rubber band, then flung the stick into the bushes and walked slowly down the road, feeling worse with every step. By the time he got home, he was miserable, and it showed.

“What’s wrong?” Clint’s mother asked when he came into the house. Feeling that he could carry the burden no further, he blurted out everything. His mother put a hand on his shoulder. “What do you think you should do now?” she asked softly.

“I know what I need to do,” Clint said. “I just don’t want to do it.”

She nodded. “It’s hard to make things right when you’ve done wrong. But if you do your part, the Lord will take care of the rest. And you’ll feel good again. I’ll drive you to Brother Ernest’s house, if that will make it any easier.”

Without a word, Clint went out to the car. When they arrived at Brother Ernest’s house, he saw the car with its broken taillight in the driveway. He was relieved that there were no police cars.

The house was dark, and he had a glimmer of hope that maybe Brother Ernest wasn’t home. Clint slowly climbed the front steps and rang the doorbell. A dog barked. The porch light suddenly came on, and the door was flung open.

There stood Brother Ernest. “Ah-ha! You’ve come to pay your dues!”

“S-sorry about your car light, B-brother Ernest,” Clint stammered. “I’ll pay you for it.”

“You bet you will! I’ll send the bill to your parents, and if you don’t pay, I’m calling the police.” He slammed the door and turned off the light, leaving Clint standing alone in the dark. It took Clint more than three months to repay his parents.

It took all his allowance, all his paper-route money, plus anything extra he earned doing chores. But at last the bill was paid in full. And Clint discovered that his mother had been right. He did feel good again. He was glad that he had done the right thing. He was particularly glad the next time he saw Brother Ernest. …

It was Clint’s first Sunday as a deacon, and he and another deacon, Dan, were assigned to collect fast offerings. He was surprised when the second house they visited was Brother Ernest’s. It was shabbier than Clint remembered. The front step was warped, and the porch light was broken. Seeing the porch light brought back all those memories about the broken car light. He wondered briefly if someone had broken the porch light with a slingshot and hadn’t repaired it. Suddenly he felt sorry for Brother Ernest.

“This one’s yours,” Dan whispered, handing Clint the fast-offering envelope. Clint took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and rang the doorbell.

There was a sound of movement within the house. Then the front door opened slowly and Brother Ernest peered out. “What do you want?” he asked gruffly.

Clint swallowed hard. “We’re from the Church, Brother Ernest. We’re collecting fast offerings.”

“Don’t you people ever give up?” Brother Ernest grumbled. “Go away and stop bothering me.”

Clint was turning away when the front door suddenly opened wide, and Brother Ernest stepped out onto the porch. He peered closely at Clint. “Don’t I know you, boy?”

Clint stood up straighter. “Yes, sir.”

“Weren’t you that boy who—”

“Who bought you a new taillight? Yes, sir, I am.”

Brother Ernest stared at him in surprise for a few moments and then did something Clint had never seen him do before. He smiled. “You’ve changed, boy,” he said.

Clint shrugged. “When we do our part, the Lord takes care of the rest.”

Brother Ernest seemed to ponder Clint’s words a moment. He nodded. “You keep your envelope. I’ll pay my offerings next week at church. And I expect to see you there, too, young man. I don’t want to find you hiding in some apple tree.”

Clint smiled. “I don’t need to hide anymore.”

(September)

The Note

By M. L. Pearson
Friend, Sep 2003, 5
( Based on a true story)

There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear (1 Jn. 4:18).

Tyler turned away from his friends, hoping the recess bell would ring soon. His friends continued to tease Adam, the new boy in their fourth-grade class. Ron and Mike didn’t like Adam because he had pierced ears. Tyler looked for the aide but couldn’t see her anywhere on the playground. He felt heartsick. He knew he should do something to help Adam, but if he did, his friends would turn on him.

After recess, Ron pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. He whispered to Tyler, “I stole Adam’s math assignment. Come with me to the bathroom, and we’ll rip it up.” This wasn’t the first time.

Tyler shook his head. “I have some problems of my own to finish.”

Ron left for the bathroom and came back a few minutes later, smiling.

Tyler closed his eyes while the teacher, Miss Johnson, called for assignments. When she called Adam’s name, he answered, “Unprepared.”

Miss Johnson paused. “Adam, that’s the second missing assignment today. Please go to the principal’s office.”

Tyler slipped lower in his chair as Adam left the room. Tyler had to do something, but what? If he told on Ron and his other friends, they’d tease him and steal his assignments. Miss Johnson would never believe that his homework had been stolen. Neither would his parents.

What bothered Tyler even more was that his friends were members of the Church and were in his Webelos den. They were being terrible examples. Something had to be done.

After school, he didn’t wait for Ron or Mike. He ran straight home. His mother sat at the kitchen table, busy paying bills.

He dropped his backpack down by her chair. “Mom, my friends are bullying a new boy in our class. They’ve told everyone not to play with Adam or sit with him.”

His mother looked up. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Tyler fidgeted with the straps of his backpack. “If I tell on them or try to do anything to help Adam, they won’t be my friends anymore.”

His mother hugged him. “It sounds like you have a serious problem. That’s why Heavenly Father gave you the gift of the Holy Ghost. Why don’t you ask Heavenly Father what you should do? I’ll support you in whatever you decide.”

Tyler nodded. He went to his room and knelt by his bed. Even though he knew that Heavenly Father knew the whole story, Tyler told Him everything. He explained how bad he felt about what was happening and how scared he was. Then he asked what he should do. He waited for an answer, and an idea came to his mind. Pulling a piece of paper from his desk, he folded it in half, then wrote:

Dear Adam, I’m glad you moved to our neighborhood. I’m sorry some of the kids in our class are mean to you, but I want you to know I like you and I’m glad you’re in my class. Signed, Your Secret Friend

Tyler looked at the note. What a strange idea. How could this be the answer to his problem? His stomach tingled with excitement. Tomorrow he’d find out. He would put the letter in Adam’s desk when no one was looking.

The next morning at school, Tyler lagged behind after the recess bell rang. When everyone else had left, he slipped the note into Adam’s desk.

Mike waited for Tyler in the hall. “Let’s hurry. Ron wants us to help him catch Adam.”

A warm feeling inside made Tyler tug on Mike’s arm. “Wait. Do you remember last week in our den meeting when we memorized the Scout Oath?”

“Sure I do.”

“Well, do you remember the part about doing our best to help other people at all times?” Tyler asked.

Mike’s shoulders drooped. “Maybe we should just play basketball instead.”

Tyler smiled as he raced Mike out to the basketball court. When Ron saw them playing basketball, he quit chasing Adam and joined the game.

After recess, Tyler watched as Adam found the note in his desk and read it. Adam sat up taller in his chair and looked around the room. Tyler looked away before Adam saw him watching. Now the letter idea made perfect sense—since Adam didn’t know who gave it to him, he would believe that every member of the class might be his secret friend.

At lunch, Tyler noticed Adam sitting at the end of the bench, alone. The warm feeling inside him made it easy to scoot next to Adam and ask, “Do you have anything you want to trade?”

Adam showed Tyler his lunch: a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, an orange drink, a roll of fruit leather, and a package of sunflower seeds. “Do you want anything?”

Ron walked up and stood across from Tyler with a scowl on his face. “Why are you sitting next to him?”

“We’re trading,” Tyler answered.

Mike came over and sat down. “I love sunflower seeds. I’ll trade you for my cookies.”

Adam smiled and handed Mike the package of seeds.

When Ron finally sat down by Adam, Tyler gave a silent prayer of thanks to Heavenly Father. He couldn’t wait to tell his mother how the Holy Ghost had helped him. With the Holy Ghost guiding him, he hadn’t been afraid to do what was right.

A Teacher Cared

By Tamra Flake Kriser
Friend, Sep 2003, 15
( A true story)

I am the good shepherd, and know my sheep (John 10:14).

Mandy was a friend in my ward when I was growing up. We went to Primary together. She had no brothers or sisters and lived with her mother, who seldom went to church.

In those days, Primary was held on a weekday afternoon. One time while we were waiting for Primary to start, some of the girls in our class said some things that hurt Mandy’s feelings. She began to cry and went home.

Later in class when our teacher was taking roll, she paused when she came to Mandy’s name and asked if anyone knew where she was. The room became silent, and a couple of girls began to squirm in their chairs. It didn’t take long for our teacher to learn what had happened.

Our Primary teacher set aside the lesson she had prepared and taught a lesson I have never forgotten. She stood up and told us that we were all going to Mandy’s house to apologize and to mend our friendships.

We were silent as we walked the two or three blocks to Mandy’s house. At first, it was awkward when she came to the door with red and swollen eyes. But apologies were given and accepted. Our friendships were renewed, and soon we were all in tears.

Mandy came back to Primary that day. She continued to come every week and remained faithful as a youth. When she grew up, she married a returned missionary in the temple. Today she and her husband are raising a beautiful family. They remain active and involved in the Church.

I am thankful for a Primary teacher who cared enough to teach us about love and repentance by taking us to find a lost lamb. Through her example, I came to know just how much Mandy—and each one of us—mattered, not just to her, but also to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. I have never forgotten that lesson.

Carl’s Messy Room

By Kimberly Webb
Friend, Sept. 2003, 20
( Based on a true story)

By love serve one another (Gal. 5:13).

Carl and his friend Spencer liked to play with toy race cars and soldiers. One day, Spencer had to go home before they were finished playing.

“What a mess you boys made!” Mommy said. “You’d better clean your room before dinner.”

Carl frowned. He didn’t think he could ever put away all the toys that he and Spencer had accidentally spilled. He started to pick them up one by one, but there were so many! He went to the kitchen, where Mommy was cooking. “It’s too hard to clean my room.”

His sister, Kimberly, was setting the table. “Cleaning is easy,” she said.

Mommy kept slicing vegetables. “Try a little harder,” she said.

Carl went back to his room and picked up a few race cars, but there were many more still on the floor. “I’ll be cleaning forever!” he thought. He went back to the kitchen and said, “It’s too hard to clean my room.” “Cleaning is easy,” Kimberly said again. She finished setting the table and disappeared down the hall. Daddy was stirring juice. “You can do it,” he said. “You made the mess, so cleaning it up is your special job.” Carl went back to his room and picked up several soldiers. But there were still many more on the floor, and he was getting tired. “Spencer helped make this mess, and he went home and no one is helping me clean it up,” he thought. “It isn’t fair!”

He ran back to the kitchen. “The mess is too big to clean up by myself,” he wailed.

Mommy’s eyes twinkled. “Maybe you have too many toys,” she teased. “Would it be easier to clean your room if we gave some of them away?”

“No!” Carl stomped back to his room in tears.

When he opened the door, he could hardly believe his eyes! There were no more toys on the floor. He wiped away his tears and peeked into the toy box. Like magic, race cars and soldiers were stacked neatly inside. Then he saw Kimberly hiding in the corner.

“Surprise!” she yelled.

“How did you clean my room so fast?” He was so happy!

“Cleaning is easy,” Kimberly said. “I’m older than you are, so some chores are easier for me. Next time I’ll show you a game I learned that helps me to clean faster.”

“But why did you clean my room?” Carl asked. “Daddy said it was my special job.”

“Jesus helps us to do things that are hard. This time, I think He wanted me to help you with your special job.” She hugged Carl. “Jesus wants us to make other people happy.”

Carl was happy because Kimberly had helped him. He was so happy that he wanted to please Jesus by making others happy, too. He started by squeezing Kimberly tight and saying, “Thank you!”

The Silo

By John Allen
Friend, Sep 2003, 30
( Based on a true story)

Listen to the counsel which I shall give unto you (D&C 100:2).

“Hey, Mike, let’s run out to the silo,” Lance called to his younger brother as he ran past him.

“Wait up!” Mike ran as fast as he could to catch up.

The two boys lived on a big farm in the country with their mother and grandfather. They loved the fresh air, the open space, and the green fields that turned gold in the fall. But most of all, they loved the silo. To Mike, it looked like a giant soup can without the label.

As the boys got closer to it now, they could see its rusty patches, dents, and cracks. Once Mike had asked Lance about them. Lance explained, “You know how Grandpa’s face is kind of wrinkled and how he has brown spots on his hands? It’s because he’s old. Well, that’s how it is with the silo. I bet it was shiny and smooth when it was new.”

For two boys with active imaginations, the silo was all sorts of things. Some days it was an ancient castle. Sometimes they pretended it was a tall skyscraper or a pirate ship. Mike especially enjoyed standing in the center of it and yelling as loud as he could, then hearing his echo bounce off the curved walls.

When the boys reached the silo, Lance said, “Let’s play spaceship.” For the next twenty minutes, they pretended to soar through space and discover new planets.

They took turns climbing to the top of the steel ladder rungs welded inside and outside the silo, pretending that they were on the spaceship’s observation deck. Just as Mike spotted a new planet, Mother’s voice brought both space explorers back to earth.

“Mike! Lance! Time for supper.”

During supper, Grandpa asked the boys what they had been up to.

“We were playing spaceship in the silo,” Lance said.

“You boys sure enjoy that old silo, don’t you?”

“You bet,” Mike said. “Grandpa, can I ask you a question? Back in the old days, what was the silo used for?”

“Well, it was kind of like a big closet to store things in,” Grandpa said. “When this farm was in full swing, we needed somewhere to store all the feed for the cattle.”

Mike’s eyes grew big. “You mean you filled the whole silo with just feed? You must have had a lot of cattle!”

“We did. I remember when my papa had the silo built. I was just about your age. It was new and shiny, and one of the tallest things I’d ever seen.”

After supper, Mike cleared the table, and Lance helped Mother wash the dishes. When the dishes were done, Lance asked if he and Mike could go play.

“No,” Mother said. “I want to talk to you both. Let’s go into the front room.”

From the look on Mother’s face, Lance knew that she had something serious on her mind. The boys followed her into the front room and sat down.

“I know how much you enjoy playing in the silo,” she began, “but today I had a strong feeling. Right before I called you in for dinner, I felt that you shouldn’t play in it anymore.”

“But Mom, that’s our favorite place to play!” Lance cried.

“Yeah, Mom!” Mike frowned.

“I know you like playing there. But I can’t deny what I felt. You’ve learned about the Holy Ghost at church, and we’ve talked about Him at home. Mike, what does the Holy Ghost do?”

“He helps us figure things out.”

“Yeah, and He helps us know what’s true,” Lance added. “But what does that have to do with the silo?”

“I want to tell you about a couple of things that happened to me,” Mother began. “When your dad and I were first married, we went on a trip to Yellowstone National Park. Even though it was getting late in the day, your father wanted to push on to the next town before stopping for the night. But I had a strong feeling that we should stop right where we were. I couldn’t explain why I felt that way, but I did. I told your father, and he said, ‘If that’s what you feel we should do, we’ll do it.’ Now, to this day, I don’t know why I felt that way, but I’m glad that we didn’t drive any farther until the next morning.

“One more thing,” Mother continued. “The night your dad died—before I got the phone call telling me what had happened—I already knew. All that night I had had a feeling that something was terribly wrong.

“In both cases, I am absolutely certain that it was the Holy Ghost speaking to me.”

“And that’s how you feel about the silo?” Lance asked.

“That’s right. I can’t give you any other reason except that I strongly feel you shouldn’t play there anymore.”

Later that night, when they were both in bed, Mike asked, “Lance, do you really believe what Mom said about the Holy Ghost?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“How come?”

“I’ve never told anyone this, but do you know Bobby Morrison?”

“The tall kid with red hair?”

“That’s the one. Well, last year he and I planned how to cheat on a history test. I’m not going to tell you what the plan was, because I don’t want you trying a dumb stunt like that.”

“If it’s so dumb, why did you do it?”

“Well, I’m getting to that part. When the test started, it was like I could feel this voice. And it was really strong. It said, ‘You know it’s wrong to cheat.’ After that, I just couldn’t go through with it.”

“And that voice was the Holy Ghost?”

“Yeah. So I know that there is a Holy Ghost. If Mom says that He spoke to her, I believe her.”

“So you’re not even going to sneak over to the silo?”

“No.”

“Well,” Mike said reluctantly, “I guess I won’t either.”

The next few days were hard for the boys. They had to think of new games to play that didn’t involve the silo. One afternoon Lance said, “Let’s put a puzzle together.”

“Ah, who wants to do that?” Mike groaned.

“Do you have any better ideas?”

Since Mike didn’t, they set up a table on the porch and started working on a puzzle. But Mike had a hard time concentrating—his eyes kept wandering in the direction of the silo. The good old silo. “Too bad we can’t play there anymore,” he thought miserably.

“Hey, stop daydreaming,” Lance said.

Before Mike could reply, Mother came out with a pitcher of cool lemonade.

As the three of them drank from frosty glasses, they heard a low rumble. The ground trembled, and the puzzle pieces on the table started doing a crazy dance.

“Look!” Mike pointed at the silo.

It wobbled and leaned to one side. The rumble grew louder while another sound filled the air—the sound of metal scraping, grinding, and ripping. A great cloud of dust rose up as the silo crashed to the ground.

Grandpa came running out of the house. “What in the world?” Then he saw the silo. “Oh! Oh, my!”

That night Mike lay in bed awake. Mother really had been prompted by the Holy Ghost. He was glad that he and Lance had listened to her. He promised himself and Heavenly Father that he would live the kind of life that would allow him to hear for himself the Holy Ghost’s still, small voice.

Watermelon Blessing

By Kimberly Webb
Friend, Sep 2003, 40
( Based on a true story)

If ye will hear his voice, harden not your hearts (Heb. 4:7).

Kelly smiled at the fields whizzing by outside her window. Hay bales stood in neat rows, soon to be stored in the barn. Dad whistled to the radio as he drove. Mom and the baby were sleeping. Soon they would all be at Aunt Lizzie’s farm, surrounded by cousins, aunts, and uncles.

All year, Kelly looked forward to the first weekend in September—the weekend of the family reunion. It was finally here! She couldn’t wait to see her favorite cousin, Angie. Every year they built hay forts, rode horses, and waded in the river.

Kelly jumped out of the car almost before the tires stopped rolling. “We’re here!” she bellowed. She found Angie jumping on the trampoline with a girl she didn’t recognize.

“Kelly!” Angie called.

“Angie!” Kelly called back. She leaped onto the trampoline and hugged her cousin.

“Kelly, this is my best friend, Tricia. My mom said I could bring a friend this year!” Angie bubbled.

Kelly eyed Tricia suspiciously, jealous that Angie had a best friend. Kelly knew it was silly to feel that way—she had friends at home, too. She made an effort to smile.

“Let’s go build a hay fort,” she said to both girls. “Want to?”

Tricia pulled a face. “I’m allergic to hay.”

“What about horseback riding?” Kelly suggested next. “I bet Uncle Jeff would saddle up horses for us.”

“Nah,” Angie said. She looked quickly in Tricia’s direction. “I think we’ll stay here for now.”

Kelly’s heart sank. She could already tell that this reunion would be much different than all the others.

That afternoon, after the hot dog roast, Kelly couldn’t find Angie and Tricia anywhere. “They probably went horseback riding without me!”

“What are you doing, Kelly?” Mom asked. She sat down next to Kelly on the grass, balancing baby Michael in one arm and a juicy slice of watermelon in her other hand.

“Nothing,” she said. “I think I’m going to walk down to the river and go wading.” The river had always been Kelly’s favorite place.

Mom’s smile disappeared. “That’s not such a good idea. Aunt Lizzie says that it’s been raining the past few weeks and that the water is so high you can touch it just by dipping your toes off the bridge.”

“Then I’ll sit on the bridge. I won’t get in the water.” Kelly wanted to be alone.

“I don’t think you should go near the river, not even to the bridge,” Mom said. “Why don’t you go get some watermelon and come back here? Michael and I will keep you company.”

“Oh, Mom.” Kelly pulled herself to her feet and headed for the backyard, even though she didn’t really want any watermelon.

“I’ll sneak off to the river, anyway,” she thought. “Mom will get talking with some aunt or uncle. She won’t notice if I don’t come back.”

Kelly decided to just keep going through the backyard and down to the river.

Don’t go to the river.

Kelly stopped in her tracks. Was the voice real or imagined? “But I want to!” she silently argued. “I’ll be careful.” She started walking again toward the dirt path that led to the bridge.

Mom said not to go.

Kelly frowned. She had been baptized a few months before, and she knew that the Holy Ghost could protect her from danger—if she listened to Him.

“I’m just feeling guilty because Mom would be worried,” Kelly reasoned to herself. “But she’ll never know. And I’ll be OK.”

Kelly passed a deserted picnic table with half-eaten watermelons and butcher knives on it. “Maybe I will have some watermelon. It’ll be nice to have a snack while I’m there.” Kelly swerved toward the table and grabbed a sticky knife. She jabbed the blade into the thick green rind.

“Ouch!”

The knife clattered onto the cutting board as blood seeped out of a cut on Kelly’s thumb. She felt dizzy. She knew the cut was deep.

“Are you OK?” Uncle Jeff ran to her side. Crying, Kelly showed him her bleeding thumb. “You might need stitches,” he said. He pulled a clean white handkerchief out of his pocket, wrapped it around Kelly’s wound, and went to find her parents.

In Aunt Lizzie’s bathroom, Mom cleaned Kelly’s cut and bandaged it.

“Will I need stitches?” Kelly whimpered.

“I don’t think so.” Mom smoothed Kelly’s hair. “But you’d better stay inside and sit still for a while, so your thumb doesn’t start bleeding again.”

Angie and Tricia peeked through the bathroom doorway. “Kelly, we heard you got hurt,” Angie said.

Kelly nodded, holding up her thumb.

“Do you want to come play a board game with us?” Tricia asked.

Kelly smiled. “I’d like that.”

As the three girls made their way to Aunt Lizzie’s den, Angie and Tricia explained that Aunt Susan had made them take a nap after lunch. They hadn’t been hiding from Kelly after all!

The girls pulled a game off the bookshelf and settled onto the floor.

“I’m sorry about your thumb,” Angie said. “I heard your mom say that you can’t play outside—that means no wading or horseback riding or anything!”

“It’s OK,” Kelly said. She remembered the promptings she had received before picking up the knife. She imagined the roaring river, deep enough to cover her head. Perhaps some good had come from cutting her thumb after all.

She would never know what could have happened at the bridge. But she knew that the Holy Ghost would protect her if she listened to His promptings. A warm feeling of gratitude filled her heart. Even though she had wanted to disobey, Heavenly Father had protected her this time so that she could learn to listen. She remembered her Primary teacher saying that when you ignore the Holy Ghost, He leaves. Kelly never wanted that to happen.

“Heavenly Father,” she prayed silently, “I will listen to the Holy Ghost—the first time—from now on.”

(October)

Penguins Don’t Fly

By Rachel C. Murdock
Friend, Oct 2003, 5
( Based on a true story)

By this ye may know if a man repenteth of his sins—behold, he will confess them and forsake them (D&C 58:43).

One day at school, Matthew sat doodling on the cast on his leg while his classmate Andrea was giving her report about penguins. His cast was blue and was pretty much covered with messages from friends. He had broken his leg at a soccer game—the very first game of the season! Now he was going to miss the entire season, and he had to use crutches to get around. At least he didn’t have to be pushed in a wheelchair anymore, as he had the first few weeks. Matthew was thinking about how long it would be before he could walk normally again when he heard Andrea say, “And here’s my very own penguin!”

That caught his attention. Andrea was holding a model penguin, and it looked pretty good. She must have spent a long time making it. “What did you make it out of?” Rebecca asked. “I used papier-mâché, chicken wire, and tissue paper.”

“What did you use for its eyes?” John wanted to know.

Andrea was still answering questions when the lunch bell rang.

Mrs. Smith, Matthew’s fourth-grade teacher, smiled at Andrea. “Thank you for an excellent report. You were very thorough, and your project shows a lot of hard work.”

Then she turned to Matthew. “Who would you like to have stay with you today, Matthew?” Since the classroom was outside in a trailer, and it was hard to go up and down the stairs on crutches, Mrs. Smith let Matthew stay in the classroom to eat his lunch each day. He also got to choose a friend to stay and eat with him.

All of his friends raised their hands. “Me! Me! Let me!”

Matthew looked around. “Evan, I guess,” he said.

Evan cheered and pulled out his sack lunch while the rest of the class filed out to the lunchroom.

“What is your report about?” Matthew asked as he munched his peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

“Lions,” Evan replied. “What about yours?”

“Cheetahs. They’re my favorite animal.”

“What are you doing for your project?” Evan asked. “I drew a picture of some lions.”

Matthew nodded. “You’re really good at drawing. I’m going to put a plastic cheetah next to a car to show that a cheetah can run faster than a car for a little while. But my project isn’t very good compared to Andrea’s. Did you see her penguin?”

“Not very well,” Evan said. “My seat was too far away.”

“You should take a look. She must have spent hours on it.”

Evan shrugged. “She gets so crazy about things. You’d think penguins were the only animals on the planet.” He walked over to the side cabinets where Andrea’s penguin was on display. “She did do a good job,” he said. Suddenly he picked up the model penguin. “Hey, didn’t she say penguins can’t fly? Let’s see if she’s right!” He tossed the penguin across the room toward Matthew.

“Hey, watch it!” Matthew lunged for the flying bird and grabbed it by the feet. A few pieces of orange tissue paper fell off. “Flying back at you,” he yelled, flinging the bird toward Evan. It landed with a thud on the top of the overhead projector.

“She was right,” Evan said, laughing. “They don’t fly very well at all.”

When Evan picked the penguin up, several pieces of black and white tissue paper fell to the floor. “I think he’s shedding,” he said. “Oh, no! He has a bald spot on his wing! And it’s dented!”

Matthew hobbled over and studied the tattered project with dismay. “What are we going to do?” he asked. “Andrea’s going to be really mad.”

“Why don’t you pick up all the pieces of tissue paper and throw them away? I’ll just put the penguin back with the bad wing toward the wall. Maybe no one will notice.”

“I don’t know …” Matthew said. But he leaned over, balancing on one foot, picked the pieces up, then stuffed them in his pocket. He felt awful. “Do you think we ought to tell her?”

“No way!” Evan said. “We’ll get in big trouble.”

The bell rang, and soon the rest of the class returned. All during math and science, Matthew avoided looking at Andrea or the teacher. And he especially avoided looking at the penguin. What should he do? How would he feel if he had worked that hard on a project and someone ruined it?

But what would happen if he told? Matthew didn’t like calling attention to himself. And any punishment he received was sure to be something people would notice. Maybe he would have to sit in the principal’s office during lunch. Maybe he would have to pay Andrea for the penguin. Maybe they would call his mother from the office. None of those things sounded good.

But he knew that Andrea had to pick up the penguin sometime, and she would definitely notice the big bald spot and dent on the wing. She would know that someone in the class had ruined her bird—someone without enough courage or respect to tell her about it.

Matthew knew that the twisted knot in his stomach wouldn’t go away until he had done the right thing. He got up and went to the teacher. Pulling the crumpled tissue paper out of his pocket, he told Mrs. Smith what he had done.

Matthew could see from her face that she was really disappointed. “Thank you for letting me know,” she said. “Andrea, can you come here, please?”

Telling Andrea what he had done was very difficult, but Matthew felt a great sense of relief afterward. “I’m really sorry,” he added.

“How bad is it?” Andrea asked, going to look at the penguin. “Oh,” she said. She didn’t look very happy. But she took the tissue paper from Mrs. Smith. “I guess I could probably fix it,” she said.

“May I help you?” Matthew asked.

“Sure,” Andrea said. “Thanks.”

Matthew wished he had never thrown the penguin with Evan. But he was glad he had decided to confess, apologize, and do what he could to make it right.

Butterflies and Prayer

By Jane McBride Choate
Friend, Oct 2003, 15
( Based on a true story)

And ye shall seek me, and find me, when ye shall search for me with all your heart (Jer. 29:13).

The ward Primary sacrament meeting program was next week. Mandy didn’t have a speaking part in the program this year. She was playing a piano solo instead. She had played prelude music for Primary before, but she had never played in front of the whole ward.

Mandy had been taking piano lessons since she’d turned eight last year. She loved her lessons. She especially liked learning to play the Primary songs. Right now, she played from a book of simplified arrangements. Someday, her teacher said, she’d play from the Children’s Songbook.

“I don’t know if I can play in the program,” Mandy said to her mother one night as they finished doing the dinner dishes. “I get all nervous just thinking about it.”

After Mother dried her hands on a dish towel, she said, “Did you know that Sister Hatch gets nervous, too?”

Sister Hatch was Mandy’s piano teacher, and she was also the Primary pianist. “Why would Sister Hatch be nervous? She plays great.”

“She still gets nervous. Just like you.”

At her next piano lesson, Mandy asked Sister Hatch, “Do you get nervous when you have to play in front of a whole bunch of people?”

Sister Hatch made a face. “All the time.”

“What do you do?” Mandy asked.

“First, I practice a lot. I try to do everything that I can to make sure I do a good job. Then I say a prayer.”

Mandy frowned. “What if you want to say a prayer right before you start to play?”

“I say the prayer in my head,” Sister Hatch said, “and in my heart. Heavenly Father knows what’s there even if I don’t say the words out loud.”

Mandy thought about that. “What if I make a mistake anyway?”

Sister Hatch grinned. “I make at least a couple of mistakes every Sunday when I’m playing for Primary.”

Mandy stared at her teacher in surprise. “You do? I’ve never noticed.”

“And no one will notice if you make a mistake. The important thing is to keep going. You know the song. Let your fingers do what they’ve been practicing.” Sister Hatch put her arm around Mandy’s shoulder. “I’ll be sitting right next to you during the program. If you start feeling afraid, reach over and squeeze my hand. And I’ll do the same if I feel scared.”

The morning of the program, Mandy felt sick to her stomach. She walked into her sister’s room. Sara was putting on her makeup.

“My stomach feels funny,” Mandy said.

“It’s just butterflies,” Sara said.

“It doesn’t feel like butterflies,” Mandy said. “It feels more like big, scary bats!”

“Don’t worry,” Sara said. “You’ll do fine.”

Mandy went to the piano and practiced her song. She had played it so much that she had memorized it. Still, she planned to take her book with her.

At church, Mandy sat with the other Primary children in the first three rows of the chapel. When the children went up to the stand following the sacrament, Mandy took her place beside Sister Hatch. Julie, who was also playing a solo, sat on the other side. As the Primary president introduced the Primary theme for the year, Mandy started to reach for Sister Hatch’s hand. Then she noticed that her teacher was reaching for hers at the same time. They looked at each other and smiled.

They squeezed hands, then Sister Hatch stood to go to the piano. The Primary children sang the first verse of “Follow the Prophet.”

As the time grew nearer for her to play her song, Mandy’s stomach started to feel funny again. Then she remembered what Sister Hatch had said about saying a prayer in her head and heart.

When it was Mandy’s turn to play, she placed her book on the piano, even though she didn’t need it. Her fingers did what they were supposed to do. When she played the last note, she let out a long breath and returned to her seat.

Sister Hatch gave Mandy a quick hug. “You did great,” she whispered.

Mandy felt great. The butterflies in her stomach had been replaced with a prayer in her heart.

I Want to See the Prophet

By Sara V. Olds
Friend, Oct 2003, 38
( Based on a true story)

Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you (Matt. 7:7).

When Sally was about eight years old, she lived in Salt Lake City. President David O. McKay (1873–1970) was the prophet. Sally had heard many stories of people having the chance to see him. After general conference, he always came out a back door of the Tabernacle and climbed into a big car. A huge group of people waited outside the Tabernacle to see him, hoping to shake his hand, say hello—even just see him in person instead of on television. Sally thought it must be wonderful to actually meet the prophet.

She decided she would ask her parents if they would take her to Temple Square during general conference. But she did not tell them that she wanted to wait with all the other people and maybe have the chance to talk to President McKay. This was her special secret.

It was a beautiful day—not too hot, not too cold—when Sally’s family went to Temple Square during an afternoon session and listened to conference on the Tabernacle grounds. Large speakers carried the meeting to everyone outside, because the Tabernacle—every bench, every seat—was filled with people.

As Sally walked by the open doors, she caught a glimpse of the Tabernacle Choir and the General Authorities. Her heart leaped with excitement as she thought, “Today’s the day! Today’s the day! I’m going to meet President McKay!”

She could see people starting to gather at the back of the Tabernacle. After receiving permission from her parents, she joined the group and struggled toward the front. She wasn’t very tall, so if she didn’t stand right in front, how would she meet the prophet?

At last, with a wriggle here and jostle there, she reached the front of the crowd, where ropes blocked off a pathway between the Tabernacle and the road. There, just as she had heard, waited the big shiny car.

“Not much longer to wait,” she thought. She could hear the closing hymn being sung. “Sing faster! Sing faster!” she silently urged. After the closing prayer, the organist began to play the powerful Tabernacle organ once more. It was really time!

The crowd around her pressed forward, pushing against the ropes a bit. People were pouring out of the building, many of them joining the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of the prophet, too.

The big car started and pulled forward a little. A large door at the back of the building opened.

But much to Sally’s dismay, now that the car had moved, she couldn’t see a thing but the car! She could also see the heads of a few men. But President McKay was not well, so although he was a tall man, he now sat in a wheelchair. Sally couldn’t see him at all—not even to catch a glimpse of his wheelchair’s rubber wheels. How was she supposed to see the prophet, let alone meet the prophet, if she couldn’t see anything?

She wanted to dash under the rope and run to the car. She wanted to climb in the car and shake his hand, say hello—something.

But all too quickly, the door slammed shut and the big car pulled slowly onto the road. It was over. He was gone.

Sally stood stunned. Her dreams! Her plans!

The crowd scattered, leaving her standing alone, staring at the ropes that had been dropped to the ground after President McKay left.

Then, a quiet whispering thought entered her mind: “Why do you want to meet him, anyway?”

“To see him and to know for myself that he is a prophet,” she almost said aloud, feeling the sting of tears.

Suddenly, she sensed a warm feeling in her heart. It was sweet and loving and slightly reproving. The thought came: “You do not need to see him to know. All you need to do is ask.”

Ask?

It was so easy, so simple! Before she could even begin to say a quick prayer in her heart, an incredible warmth filled her from the top of her head down to her toes. She knew. The man in that car, the one who had sat so quietly all through conference, the one who seemed so frail—who, to her, seemed like he must have lived forever—was without a doubt a prophet of the Lord. She didn’t need to meet him. And she didn’t need to shake his hand. He didn’t need to pat her on the head or speak to her. She just knew.

And now she understood that for the rest of her life, she could always find out that the man who became the prophet and President of the Church was called of God. All she had to do was ask.

(November)

The Birthday Present

By Jane McBride Choate
Friend, Nov 2003, 5
( Based on a true story)

But the Comforter, which is the Holy Ghost … shall teach you all things, and bring all things to your remembrance (John 14:26).

Kaylie’s fingers shook as she opened the brightly wrapped present. “Hurry up,” Erica said. “I picked it out just for you.”

Kaylie couldn’t remember a better birthday party. Her parents had let her plan the party all by herself. She had invited 10 friends. They’d had cake and ice cream in the kitchen, then went to her bedroom to open presents.

Erica, her best friend, had told Kaylie that she’d brought something “way cool.”

Eleven now, Kaylie wanted grown-up clothes. She’d be going to middle school next year and wanted to look like Erica and the rest of the girls in her class. They all wore clothes bought from stores in the shopping mall.

Kaylie’s dad had started a new business last year. There wasn’t money for new clothes, so her mother made her clothes or bought them from the thrift store.

“Finally!” Erica exclaimed when Kaylie’s fumbling fingers undid the tape.

Kaylie ripped the paper from the box and lifted the lid. The girls squealed as she pulled the blue sweater from the box.

“It has a butterfly on it,” Erica said.

Kaylie collected butterflies. She had butterfly barrettes, notebooks, and necklaces. But it wasn’t the butterfly that she was staring at. The sweater had tiny straps, so thin that they were practically invisible.

“Th—thank you,” she stuttered. “It’s beautiful.”

“Try it on,” one of the girls suggested.

Kaylie went into the bathroom. She pulled off her T-shirt and slipped on the sweater. It fit perfectly, but she had never worn anything so revealing.

“Cool,” the girls shouted when she went back into the bedroom.

She wore the sweater for the rest of the party, but she didn’t feel comfortable in it.

After Kaylie thanked each of the girls for their presents and walked them to the front door, she joined Mom in the kitchen.

Mom raised her eyebrows at the sweater. “One of your presents?”

“Erica gave it to me. She knows I like butterflies.” One of the straps slipped from her shoulder. Self-consciously, she pulled it back in place.

Mom put down the carrot she was grating and gestured to the kitchen table. Kaylie knew that look. Her mom was getting ready to tell her something important.

“I know,” she said before Mom could say anything. “It’s different from what I usually wear.”

Mom waited a long time before speaking. “It’s not very modest.”

“Erica’s my best friend.” Kaylie knew she sounded defensive. “You’re probably going to say I can’t wear it.”

Mom shook her head. “No, I’m going to let you decide what to do.”

Kaylie knew her mom was telling her that she was old enough to make her own decisions. Sometimes she wished she could go back to being a little girl.

“You know our standards,” Mom said. “I know you’ll make the right decision.”

Kaylie wandered back to her room. She looked at all the presents she had received. Ordinarily, she’d be showing her parents everything. Now she couldn’t think about anything but the butterfly sweater. Once again, the strap slipped from her shoulder. She knew she would never feel comfortable wearing the sweater and changed back into the T-shirt she’d been wearing earlier.

She remembered the sharing time lesson in Primary last week. Sister McClure had asked Jason to blindfold Sam. Sam then had to walk across the room. Sister McClure said Sam would have to listen carefully to Jason, who would whisper the right directions to him. At the same time, the other children and teachers called out to him, trying to lure him away from the straight path.

When Sam made it to the other side of the room, Sister McClure thanked him and then asked if he’d had a hard time crossing the room blindfolded.

Sam nodded and said that all the voices had confused him and tempted him to stray from the path. Only Jason’s directions had kept him going in a straight line.

Sister McClure said that members of the Church had someone who could lead them in the right direction because he talked with Heavenly Father. She asked if the children knew who that was.

Kaylie raised her hand. “The prophet.”

Sister Rojas, the chorister, then led them in singing “Follow the Prophet” for the closing song.

The words of the song echoed through Kaylie’s mind now.

What would the prophet do? Kaylie knew the answer instantly. He would never do something that made him feel uncomfortable. The confusion that had clouded her mind cleared.

An idea flashed through her mind. She pulled the sweater over the T-shirt, then looked at herself in the mirror. They looked good together. She walked back to the kitchen.

Her mom wrapped an arm around Kaylie’s shoulders. “I knew you’d figure out a solution.”

Kaylie hugged her mom back.

Missouri Skies

By Susan B. Mitchell
Friend, Nov 2003, 11
( Based on a true story)

God has not ceased to be a God of miracles (Morm. 9:15).

Samuel Billings was only seven years old, but tonight he got to stay up late. His family was spending the Independence Day holiday in Independence, Missouri, with his grandparents.

Stretched out on the lawn on Grandma’s puffy quilt, Sam and Grandpa waited for the fireworks celebration to begin.

“Sam, do you realize that we are on the very spot our pioneer ancestors stood on the night the stars fell?” Grandpa asked.

“When the stars fell?” Sam was confused. “What do you mean, Grandpa?”

Grandpa smiled and began the story. Sam listened with wonder.

George Pierce Billings was only seven years old, but no one had told him to go to bed. Never before had he been allowed to stay up so late. He was beginning to wish that he could go to bed, but the air was thick with suspense and fear. Sleep was impossible.

Father had taken his wagon down to the river time and time again. George had wanted to ride along, but there was no room. Father was helping people move out of Independence, Missouri, before morning. Angry men had threatened to burn anything and anybody still there when the sun rose.

George kept checking the night sky. Father had been gone a long time, and Mother was still busy packing. George was worried. His job was to watch his little sister, but he was watching for sunrise, too.

Four-year-old Eunice was getting very tired. Leaning against the wooden porch, George cradled her small curly-haired head in his lap and thought about their Missouri home. He had been only five when they had come, and they had planned to stay forever. He had watched and tried to help his father clear the land. Together, they had built this home and the barn. Father had planted crops on most of the 34 acres, not only for his family, but also for the many new Saints who would not have time to raise a crop that season. George liked Missouri. He liked playing in the trees. He liked catching fireflies. “Even the fireflies must be sleeping now,” he thought.

Then he remembered the big fire. Father had cut 24 tons of hay and hauled it six miles to the property rented by Bishop Partridge from Governor Boggs. He had stacked it there in a long, tall pile. Then, last month, someone had set it on fire and burned it to the ground. George felt sorry for his father.

The night was very dark. Where was Father? Why didn’t he come to get them?

George thought he heard an explosion. Light flashed, but he couldn’t tell where it had come from. In fear, he jumped to his feet, startling Eunice. Light exploded all around him. No, it was above him, high above him—higher than any cannon or musket could fire. George could not believe his eyes! They were fixed on lights in the heavens bursting and streaming across the sky.

George rushed into the house, Eunice right behind him. “Mother! Mother! The sky is on fire!” Mother pulled them close. “Have the mobs come for us already?” she cried.

“No, Mother, no!” George pulled her to the doorway. “It’s not the mobs, Mother. It’s a miracle from Heavenly Father!”

And so it was. The heavens danced with a glorious meteor shower for the rest of the night. Stars raced back and forth across the November sky, lighting the way for the fleeing Saints. In the miraculous light, George saw his father’s wagon returning. Cheered and strengthened by the heavenly signs, George’s family and many others safely settled themselves along the Missouri River banks before sunrise. The meteor showers continued until dawn.

As Grandpa ended the story, the fireworks began. They were spectacular. But even better, Sam thought, was the memory of a miracle performed in the heavens long ago. Sam and Grandpa watched the sky, remembering.

Guests for General Conference

By Kimberly Webb
Friend, Nov 2003, 32
( Based on a true story)

Every man shall hear the fulness of the gospel in his own tongue (D&C 90:11).

Abbie lived near Temple Square in Salt Lake City, Utah. She loved to see the Christmas lights twinkling in the winter and the tulips blooming in the spring, and hear the Tabernacle Choir singing all year round.

One day in sacrament meeting, Bishop Allen made an announcement: “Some Church members from Mexico are thinking about coming to general conference, and they’ll need places to stay. If any of you can host these guests, please talk to me after the meeting.”

On the way home from church, Abbie asked, “Will any of the visitors from Mexico come to our house for general conference?”

“I’m not sure, sweetie. But we’ve volunteered to let a family stay with us if they need to,” Dad said.

“Why do they want to come all this way for general conference? Can’t they watch it on TV?”

“They can watch it at their stake center,” Mom explained. “But until now, they have never had the opportunity to see a prophet in person. Do you remember how you felt when you saw President Hinckley?”

Abbie nodded. “I felt the Spirit really strongly when he walked into the room.” She had never been to general conference, but she had seen the prophet and two Apostles speak in other meetings. She had even gotten to shake an Apostle’s hand. Until now, she had never really thought about how special that was.

“Not every member of the Church gets a chance to see the prophet,” Dad said. “Some watch conference at a stake center and others listen to him on the radio. Some people can only read what he says weeks or months later.”

“Listening to him any way you can and obeying his words is what matters most,” Mom added.

Abbie knew that Mom was right, but she was still glad she had been able to see President Hinckley. She imagined living far away from Salt Lake, not being able to hear the prophet speaking inside the Conference Center or see the tulips blooming around the temple nearby. “I would travel a long way, too,” she decided aloud, “just to see the prophet once.” She hoped that the families from Mexico would come.

When the bishop called to tell Abbie’s dad that they would have guests for general conference, Abbie was excited and worried. Her family’s house was small. Would the visitors like staying here? She was also worried about the language differences. She didn’t know any Spanish! How would she talk to them?

Three weeks later, she stood with her parents in the stake center parking lot, waiting for their guests to arrive. Soon a dusty bus pulled into the lot. It jerked to a stop, and people piled out the door. They looked tired, and their clothes were wrinkled, but they were smiling.

Dad walked over to the group and started speaking in Spanish. He had learned it while serving a mission in Argentina. Soon he came back with a couple and their two children.

“This is Bishop Martinez, Sister Martinez, and their children, Isabel and Alejandro.” Alejandro was barely old enough to walk, but Isabel seemed to be only a bit younger than Abbie. Then Dad introduced Abbie and her mom to the Martinezes in Spanish.

“Hola,” Isabel said shyly.

“Hola,” Abbie repeated. Her dad had taught her that it meant “hello.” As Isabel smiled at her, Abbie’s worries disappeared. They couldn’t speak very well to each other, but they could still be friends.

After dinner, Isabel followed Abbie into her room. Abbie pulled out her box of toy dishes and food. Picking up a plastic apple, she told Isabel the English word.

“Apple?” Isabel repeated. “Manzana.”

“Manzana,” Abbie said. Isabel pretended to gobble it up, and they both laughed.

Isabel rummaged through the box and pulled out a little milk carton. “Leche,” she said. Abbie repeated the Spanish word, then told her the English word. One by one, they learned all the toys’ names.

“This is fun,” Abbie thought.

Suddenly, Isabel covered her face with her hands and cried, “Adios!” Abbie knew that meant good-bye. Confused, she wondered if she had somehow hurt Isabel’s feelings. But then Isabel opened her hands like shutters and yelled, “Hola!” She giggled. Her hands flapped shut again. “Adios!”

“It’s like peekaboo,” Abbie realized. She joined in. “Hello! Good-bye! Hello! Good-bye!”

The next day during conference, Abbie imagined Isabel sitting at the Conference Center, listening to a translator through headphones. She couldn’t wait for her new friend to come back and tell her what she thought of everything.

When the Martinezes returned, Isabel chattered excitedly. Abbie had never heard anyone talk so fast!

“What’s she saying, Dad?” Abbie asked. “Did she like conference?”

“Yes,” Dad answered with a smile. “She saw the prophet.” Abbie grinned.

In no time at all, Abbie and her family were taking the Martinezes back to the stake center to board their bus for home. Abbie felt so sad she couldn’t even look at Isabel. She didn’t want anyone to see her cry. But Isabel wasn’t going to leave without a good-bye. She hugged Abbie. Then she brought her hands up to her face. “Hola! Adios! Hola! Adios!” She laughed as she played their peekaboo game.

“Hello! Good-bye! Hello! Good-bye!” Abbie replied. She giggled, too, even though there was a lump in her throat.

As the bus drove away, Abbie tried to smile. “Can we have guests for general conference every year?” she asked. “I liked making a new friend.”

A New Best Friend

By Vicki H. Budge
Friend, Nov 2003, 39
( Based on a true story)

There is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother (Prov. 18:24).

On Monday morning, Jonathan sat between Rob and Braden as the bus bumped along toward school. His friends were being really funny that morning, and Jonathan was laughing so hard that his sides ached.

Suddenly Rob joked about something that wasn’t very nice. Braden broke into hysterics and answered with another joke that was even worse. Then he threw in some bad language.

Jonathan squirmed. The bad language and jokes were happening a lot lately. He glanced at Sara, who was sitting across the aisle. She was the only other member of the Church in sixth grade. She looked back at him, her bright brown eyes wide. Jonathan looked away. Sara probably thought he talked that way, too. He looked up and saw the bus driver staring directly at him in the rearview mirror. She shook her head and mouthed the word no.

Jonathan looked down. His stomach churned like it did when he was about to throw up.

The bus pulled into the school yard, and children started to pile out. Jonathan was thankful for the fresh air that rushed in. As they stood in the aisle, Braden pushed from behind and laughed. Usually Jonathan would have pushed back or poked Rob in front of him. But not today. He didn’t feel like laughing or pushing. When he and his friends got to the front of the bus, the driver frowned and pointed for them to sit down.

“Busted!” one boy said as he walked past.

After everyone else got off, the bus driver set the air brakes with a loud spisshhh and turned around. No one said anything funny. No one laughed.

“I didn’t care for the way you were talking,” the bus driver said. “Would you talk that way in front of your mothers?”

The boys squirmed. None of them answered.

By the time the bus driver let them go, they had missed most of the free time before school.

“I hope she doesn’t call my mom,” Rob said.

“I don’t care if she calls mine,” Braden said. “My mom doesn’t care.”

Jonathan thought about his mom. What if she heard the way his friends talked? She would feel so sad. What if she thought he talked that way, too? He shuddered. It was bad enough that Sara and the bus driver thought so.

Jonathan sighed as he walked into his classroom. What a rotten way to start the day.

After math, Mr. Price said, “Everyone take out a piece of blank paper and fold it four times. We are going to make some new friends.” Jonathan knew what that meant. They were going to learn new vocabulary words. He folded and unfolded his paper and got ready to write a new word on each of the sixteen little squares. Then they would play bingo with the new words. He liked his teacher’s way of introducing new words by playing fun games with them. Mr. Price said that each time you learned a new word, it was like making a new friend.

A new friend! An idea began to grow in Jonathan’s head. As the class practiced their new words, the idea grew stronger. He would make a new best friend who liked good words and didn’t use bad words. But who?

At lunchtime Jonathan looked around. There were a lot of kids in his school. Surely he could find one new friend.

He looked at a table where a bunch of kids from his sixth-grade band class sat. Most of them liked bad jokes, though. That wouldn’t help. He looked across the cafeteria at some kids from another classroom. They were really nice guys, and he’d never heard any of them use bad language. But every seat at their table was taken. No one there would be looking for a new friend.

Finally he saw Sara sitting with her friends. She did not use bad words, and neither did her friends. But he couldn’t sit with them. They were all girls.

Sara stood up and carried her empty tray toward the kitchen. Jonathan stopped her. “Hey, that wasn’t me swearing on the bus.”

“I didn’t think it was,” Sara said. “But I wondered.”

“Well, I just want you to know I don’t talk like that. Actually, I’m looking for a new best friend who doesn’t talk like that either. Rob and Braden are still my friends, but when I’m with them I get blamed for what they say.”

“Who is your new best friend going to be?”

Jonathan looked around the cafeteria. Kids were everywhere—eating, talking, and laughing. “I don’t know,” he said.

That night he sat on the side of his bed and told Mom about his problem. As he talked, another good idea came into his head. “Heavenly Father knows who my new best friend is,” he said. “I’ll ask Him.”

Jonathan knelt by his bed and said his prayers, talking to Heavenly Father about his problem just like he had talked to his mom. Every night that week he asked Heavenly Father if there was a nice boy in sixth grade who could be his new best friend. Each day at school he searched and wondered who it could be. It seemed as if everyone had all the friends they needed.

On Monday after math, Mr. Price said, “Everyone get ready to make some new friends.” He wrote ten words on the board and gave several definitions for each word. “Choose someone in the class to discuss the words with,” he said. “You must each use every word in five different sentences. The first team to use all ten words is the winner.”

Rob picked Braden, and they started talking really fast, intent on winning the prize. Jonathan looked around. He had no idea who to pick. He noticed that a boy named Dale was looking around also. The two had never really spoken, but they both needed a partner, so they smiled and sat down together.

“The first word is keen,” Jonathan said. “My hockey skates are very keen.”

“So are mine,” Dale replied, “but I’m not too keen on the gash I got from another player’s skate after I fell on the ice.”

“I didn’t know you played hockey,” Jonathan said. “I’m guessing that someone was keen to get to the puck ahead of you.”

Dale nodded. “You obviously have a keen mind. It was a keen battle, but my team won.” He held up a bandaged left hand. “But the wind was keen that night, and my hand ached all the way home from the rink.”

Jonathan laughed out loud. This was fun. Then he realized that he had never heard Dale use a bad word.

“Your story has given me keen pleasure,” he said.

Dale gave him the kind of smile a friend gives a friend. “That’s keen,” he said. “Really keen.”

Rob and Braden finished first and won the contest, but Jonathan knew that he had won something much better.

(December)

Christmas Gift

By Nycole S. Larsen
Friend, Dec 2003, 4
( Based on a true story)

Therefore … saith the Lord, turn ye even to me with all your heart (Joel 2:12).

The Christmas I remember best happened when I was 12 years old. It all started one evening about a month before Christmas. The room had fallen totally silent. We all stood staring at Father, our jaws dropped in shock.

Just moments before, my three brothers and I had been wrestling with our two big dogs. My mother had watched, smiling, from the nearby kitchen table. But now, even her hands had gone perfectly still, stopping in midair as she sewed buttons back on a blue Scout uniform.

“What do you mean ‘No presents this year’?” my 16-year-old brother Mick asked slowly.

“Just what I said,” Father answered calmly. He sat down across the table from Mother. “Christmas has become all about ‘things.’ We worry too much about what we’re getting, how many presents are under the tree. Your mother and I have always taught you children the real reason we celebrate Christmas.”

“It’s Jesus’ birthday!” I piped up.

Father nodded. “That’s right, Nellie. But even though we all know the story of baby Jesus and can recite Luke chapter 2 by heart, I just feel that our home doesn’t have the right spirit in it during the holiday season. I think that if we forget about buying presents and really concentrate on the true meaning of Christmas, we’ll be more in tune with Jesus Christ and His gospel.”

“But, Dad,” I said, “we’ve always talked about how giving each other presents at Christmas is symbolic of Heavenly Father giving Jesus Christ to the world. Isn’t that true?”

Father considered this. “You’re right, Nellie. OK, let’s do this. No gift given in this family may be store-bought. Whatever you give each other must come from you,” he put his hand on his chest, “from inside you. You figure it out.” He got up and left the room.

“This is going to be the worst Christmas ever,” I thought.

“Is he serious?” Tyler asked Mother.

“He sure sounded like it.” She had already resumed her uniform mending.

“No presents …” Mick seemed in a daze.

Neil, my eight-year-old brother, looked like he was going to cry.

“So, what are we supposed to give each other?” I asked.

“Well, you all have about a month to ‘figure it out,’ as your father said,” Mother replied. She stood up with the finished shirt and left the room, humming a Christmas song.

Over the next four weeks, our house slowly filled with the Christmas spirit. We were all very secretive about what we were planning for everyone else, and we were excited about what we were giving. I never even thought about what I was getting.

Christmas morning dawned, chilly and white outside. For the first time since they had become teenagers, Mick and Tyler were the first ones up.

“Come on! Come on—get up!” They ran from room to room, waking up the rest of us.

Mother laughed. “I can’t believe you two. This alone has made my Christmas!”

Right after family prayers, the gift-giving started. What a wonderful, spirit-filled morning! We exchanged original poetry and songs. Neil had made “I’ll-do-you-a-favor” coupons for everyone. Mother had made copies of black-and-white photos of both sets of grandparents and framed them by hand for each of us.

All the gifts were truly given with love. But the one I remember the most was the one my father gave to me.

He handed me a plastic bag. Inside, I could see a slightly browned paper folded in thirds. All eyes were on me as I took the paper out and unfolded it. I gasped. It was the letter Father’s mother had written to him when he was 14 years old and she was dying of cancer. Her name was Nell, and I’m named after her. I had heard about this letter but had never seen it. I knew how precious it was to my father. And now he was giving it to me.

I started to read. The faith and spiritual strength of my grandmother radiated from her words. I read the six-page letter over and over again. The love she expressed for my father made me cry. The part that touched me the most was when she talked about leaving her family to join the Church:

“You’ll probably never get to meet your grandparents, Son. They’re in Hickory County, Missouri, with all eight of my brothers and sisters. I still remember the last time I saw them. It was during a summer rainstorm, and the humidity wrapped around me like a wool blanket as I stood there on the front porch, facing my parents. They wouldn’t even come out the door to say good-bye. Nor did they let any of my siblings come outside that house to hug me—not even my twin sister, Nora.

“ ‘The day a body puts some crazy fool church before her own family is the day that body loses herself. She loses her family,’ my daddy told me through the screen door. My mama was behind him. I could see she was crying. Then he said, right before he slammed the door, ‘You are no longer my daughter.’ I’ve never seen any of them since.

“Now, Son, I don’t tell you this story to make you feel sorry for me. I tell you this because I want you to know how firmly I believe this church is the one true Church on the earth. I was willing to sacrifice my family to come here to Utah because of the truth.

“Was it hard? It was very hard! Did I ever feel lonely? Absolutely. Have I ever for one single minute regretted it? No, Son, I have not. The gospel is true. I would never deny it. If I hadn’t followed my heart and joined the Church, it would have driven me insane. I knew the Book of Mormon was true the first time I read it. Sometimes, Son, you have to do the right thing, even though everyone around you is telling you otherwise.

“One night when I was feeling very discouraged, I was kneeling to say my prayers and felt myself embraced by strong, warm arms. I suddenly felt safe and reassured. There was no one there—it was our Father in Heaven letting me know that He was there and that He loved me.

“When you have children of your own someday, you be sure to tell them how much their grandmother loves them. You tell them that the gospel is true and that it’s worth all the sacrifices they will have to make. Oh, and tell them that I’ll always be right there beside them, watching out for them—just as I will be for you.”

I shared the letter with my brothers so that they could know Grandma, too. We’ve all grown up now, served missions, and been married in the temple. Every now and then, I pull out my father’s letter and read it again. Ever since my father gave it to me that Christmas long ago, it has been a source of strength for me. And I know, without a doubt, that my grandmother kept her promise to my father and has always been “right there beside” us.

A Bed for Nils

By Diane L. Mangum
Friend, Dec 2003, 16
( Based on a true story)

Every one that hath forsaken houses, … or lands, for my name’s sake, shall receive an hundredfold, and shall inherit everlasting life (Matt. 19:29).

Nils heard creaking, cracking, and then a great big crash! Everyone in the house jumped up to find the two missionaries buried in a pile of blankets and boards that had been Nils’s bed. His bed had been too small for these two grown men who were in Sweden preaching the gospel.

They had come just after supper and had stayed so late that Mama had insisted they stay the night. She had let them sleep in Nils’s bed while he slept on the floor.

Dismayed, Nils looked at his broken bed. Mama whispered, “Don’t worry. Papa will make you a new one.”

But Papa didn’t seem to have time. He worked all day and talked to the missionaries in the evenings. He said that the Book of Mormon explained everything he hadn’t understood in the Bible.

Soon Mama, Papa, Peter, Botilla, and Bengt were baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Nils and his baby sister would have to wait for their eighth birthdays. Even though they were happy, everyone else in town seemed angry—especially Grandmother and Grandfather. Nils’s family decided to go to America where they could be with other Church members.

“You will like America, Nils,” Mama said, “and when we get there, we will get you a new bed.”

The ship to America was crowded with other Swedish and Danish members of the Church. Nils slept on top of two giant water barrels. He was afraid that when the ship rocked back and forth he would roll off! He could hardly wait to see land and sleep in a bed that held still.

But Nils’s first bed in America didn’t hold still. After leaving the ship, they got on a train. Nils fell asleep listening to the clacking of the wheels. When they got off the train at a place called Council Bluffs, they loaded their belongings in wagons pulled by oxen. Nils had thought the ship was crowded, but this was worse!

“No room for mattresses or pillows,” shouted the man in charge. “Pack only your clothes and blankets!”

“No pillow, no mattress, and no bed,” Nils sighed.

His family shared a wagon with a widow and a newly married couple. Every night Nils and his family slept on the ground, and day after dusty day they walked until they made it to Salt Lake City. Once there, they shared a house with another family.

The family’s first home of their own in the valley was a little room dug from a hillside, with a dirt floor. They slept in blankets that could be rolled up during the day. They longed for a more permanent home.

Finally Papa found them some land for a place of their own. Once again, they packed everything into their wagon and rode to Huntsville, Utah. The valley there was green and full of tall grass, and the hillsides were covered with trees. Their second home was a rough cabin with a leaky willow-branch roof and corn-husk mattresses on the floor.

Finally, on Christmas Day, they moved into a real log home with a wood floor, pine shingles on the roof, and real beds! Four and a half years after leaving Sweden, Nils snuggled under his quilt in his own new bed. It creaked a little when he moved, reminding him of the night his old bed broke. How much had changed! Nils smiled. Maybe someday he would grow up to be a missionary in Sweden, too. If he did, he would watch out for little beds!

Years later, Nils P. Lofgren did return to Sweden as a missionary.

The Light House

By Karen K. Bjork
Friend, Dec 2003, 39
( Based on a true story)

When ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God (Mosiah 2:17).

Each Christmas season Anna and Rose looked forward to the family tradition of driving to the “light house,” a farmhouse that was covered from top to bottom with Christmas lights. When it came into view, they would cry, “Drive slower!” “Turn around!” “Go back!” One drive past all the lights that blinked and winked and flashed and chased was never enough.

On the first day of December the girls were eager to see the light house again.

“Can we go to the light house tonight?” Anna asked.

“It’s a little too early,” Mom said.

“We’ll go there when it’s a bit closer to Christmas,” Dad said.

Rose and Anna decided to go to their room and practice saying “ooh!” and “aah!” They wanted to be ready when the time came.

Finally, it was time to see the lights. The girls eagerly climbed into the car with their parents. As Dad drove, Anna leaned forward and sang, “ ‘Jingle bells, jingle bells,’ ” in his right ear while Rose belted out, “ ‘Now bring us some figgy pudding,’ ” in Mom’s left ear.

“How about a little ‘Silent Night’?” Dad asked with a smile.

Looking down the street, Mom frowned and asked, “Are you sure you turned on the right road?”

“Of course,” Dad replied.

“But I can’t see any lights up ahead,” Anna said.

“It’s dark!” Rose cried.

“I wonder what could be wrong,” Mom said.

“Maybe they got tired of stringing up all those lights,” Dad said.

“I don’t think so,” Mom replied. “Just last week my friend Marsha said she saw Mr. and Mrs. Watt outside, and Mr. Watt was climbing up a ladder with some lights.”

“I wanted to say, ‘Ooh,’ ” Rose said disappointedly.

“And I wanted to say ‘Aah,’ ” Anna said.

“Maybe they forgot to turn them on or they had to go away tonight. We’ll come back tomorrow night,” Dad said.

When the family drove to the farmhouse the next night, it was still dark.

Mom frowned. “I don’t like this. I think there might be something wrong.”

“Maybe they went away for the holidays.” Rose sighed.

“Or maybe the light bill was too expensive,” Dad suggested.

Anna whispered, “What if they died?”

Mom smiled and said, “I don’t think so, dear.”

The next day Anna and Rose were sifting through the newspaper to find the comics. Suddenly Rose exclaimed, “Look!” She pointed to a picture of the light house.

“Let me see,” Dad said. Everyone gathered around him as he read, “ ‘Families will have to miss the much anticipated tradition of viewing the thousands of lights at the country home of Mr. and Mrs. Watt. Mr. Watt is recovering from surgery at a local hospital. Mrs. Watt said, “Christmas won’t be the same without all the folks driving by our place this year.” ’ ”

Disappointed, Rose and Anna went to their room. But a while later they came rushing back with smiles on their faces.

“Remember when you and Dad helped build the school playground?” Anna asked Mom.

“And a bunch of other moms and dads helped?” Rose added.

With puzzled looks, Mom and Dad nodded their heads in agreement. Then, slowly, big smiles spread across their faces, too.

“Wouldn’t that be a wonderful surprise!” Mom declared. “I’ll call around and see if I can get us some help.”

On the long drive home from the hospital on Christmas Eve, Mrs. Watt sighed as she caught sight of several light displays.

“Next year will be different, dear. We’ll get the lights up for sure next Christmas,” Mr. Watt promised.

“Oh, my,” said Mrs. Watt, “there’s a lot of traffic on our road tonight. Word must not have reached everyone that there are no lights this year.”

As their house came into view, Mrs. Watt gasped. Every window, every door, and even the garden gate were strung with colored lights. Birdhouses, doghouses, pine trees, big barns, little barns, toolsheds, and even the silo were aglow with lights. Nestled in the snow, from the mailbox to the garage, paper sacks filled with candles lighted the pathway home. And a giant Christmas card hung from the front door that read:

“Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

From your friends.”