Friend - 2004

I stood with my face pressed against the window, trying to see the shed next to our house. For three days, the whirling, howling wind had threatened to blow our house down. We were in the middle of a big blizzard. My family was living in Wisdom, Montana, where Dad was working on a large cattle ranch. He said I was his best cowhand, aside from Mom, of course.

“Danny, it’s time to go feed the cows,” Mom called as she walked into the room carrying my two-year-old sister Brenda. My other sister, June, trailed behind.

We bundled up in our coats, hats, and gloves, and climbed into the red pickup. “We should have a truck with four-wheel-drive in these conditions,” Dad said, shaking his head. Mom looked at Dad with concern. But she knew that the cattle must be fed, even in a fierce storm like this.

The raging wind yanked the truck from side to side as we drove to the haystack. A frozen snowdrift completely covered the fence. It was frozen so hard that the cows could walk right over it and eat the hay.

When Dad opened the truck door and jumped out, a cold blast of wind made us huddle in our coats. It took Dad a long time to dig the tractor out of the snow and load it with hay. It took even longer to move the hay to where the cows could eat it. The wind kept blowing it away.

Finally the cattle were fed, and we headed for home. The wind had picked up speed and was blowing snow from the open fields all around us, surrounding us with white. Snow had also blown across the road, creating huge snowdrifts. Dad had to speed up before each snowdrift. Without a running start, the truck couldn’t make it through them. It seemed like it took forever just to go a short distance.

About the time Mom said we were a mile from home, we hit a drift that stopped us in our tracks. Dad and Mom worked for some time to dig us out, but we stayed stuck. They climbed back into the truck and Dad thought for a moment.

“Danny,” he said, “you and I will walk to the house and come back for Mom and the girls on the snowmobiles.”

“Good idea, Dad!” I exclaimed. Excitement welled up inside me. I loved riding the snowmobiles! I slid out of the truck and walked in Dad’s footprints through the snowdrifts toward home. Even though the wind threatened to knock me down, and the snow blowing against my face felt like bundles of knives skinning me, I still felt like I was having a great adventure with Dad.

Anticipation kept my feet going until we arrived at the shed with the snowmobiles. I looked up at Dad. “Can I ride up over the hill?” I asked. “I’ll stay alongside the road and then go on down to the truck.”

“No, Son. Please stay on the road,” Dad said without hesitation. He turned and looked right at me. “Blizzards are very dangerous, Danny. You need to stay on the road and go straight to the truck. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Dad.”

He started a snowmobile for me. “Can I go now?” I asked.

“OK, but remember to stay on the road. It will guide you back to the truck.”

I climbed on the snowmobile and headed out. “I’ll go over the hill. It will be faster. I can beat Dad back to the truck,” I thought once I was out of Dad’s sight. I quickly turned and drove up the hill. The wind swirled around me and I was having trouble seeing very far ahead. But I was having fun. Surely I could beat Dad to the truck.

I rode and rode in what I thought was the right direction. No truck. I rode further. Still no truck. Fear started to creep up inside me. “I should be to the truck by now.” I came to a large ravine, stopped, and looked around, trying to recognize my surroundings.

“Where am I?” This wasn’t fun anymore. My glorious adventure was gone, and I was freezing! The wind yanked at me. It was so loud I couldn’t think.

I was lost and plain scared. “What can I do?” I remembered Dad’s words and how I had disobeyed him. I closed my eyes tight, trying to hold back the tears. Suddenly I realized I could die in this blizzard!

“Oh please, someone help me.” My words were scattered by the wind just as the hay had been.

Then I felt a warm, tingling feeling spread over me like a blanket. I knew what I needed to do. I quickly climbed off the snowmobile and knelt beside it to offer a simple prayer. “Heavenly Father,” I said, “I’m lost. I’m sorry I disobeyed Dad. Please help me get home.”

As soon as I finished my prayer, a feeling inside me said, “Look up.” I looked up and saw the power lines. This was the way home and an answer to my prayer!

I hopped back on my snowmobile and carefully followed the power lines back to the house. Leaving my snowmobile running, I ran inside to see if Dad had made it back with Mom and the girls. No one was there. I turned and ran back outside, jumped on the snowmobile, and started for the truck, this time following the road. But I only made it a few yards when the snowmobile ran out of gas. I was so cold! I ran back inside and curled up in a sleeping bag to warm up.

Moments later, Dad, Mom, and my sisters arrived home on the other snowmobile. “Danny!” Mom exclaimed as she rushed in, pulled me to her, and held me tight. “What happened? Why didn’t you make it to the truck?” I looked up into her eyes and told the truth: I had disobeyed Dad and gotten lost. “Mom, I know Heavenly Father loves me because I made it home safe again. He answered my prayer today.”

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Song of Faith

By Ronda Gibb Hinrichsen
Friend, Jan 2004, 19
(A true story)

The song of the righteous is a prayer unto me (D&C 25:12).

It had just started to rain when seven-year-old Angela stepped into the tent. Her two older brothers, Michael and Mark, were already inside. Mom and Dad had their own tent set up not far away.

“Let’s say our prayers before we get into our sleeping bags,” Michael said.

The three children knelt in prayer. Angela thanked Heavenly Father for her many blessings, and she asked Him to keep them safe from the storm and to help them sleep well.

After her prayer, she slid into her sleeping bag. For a long time all was quiet except for the plomp, plomp, plomp of the rain against the roof of their tent. Then she heard Michael’s voice. “Hey, Angela, wasn’t Mount Rushmore cool?”

“Yes,” she answered with a yawn.

“So were the animals in the park,” said Mark.

“I liked them, too,” Angela agreed. She pictured the buffalo calves grazing so close to the road that she could see their eyes watching the slow-moving cars.

Flash! Boooooom!

Angela squeezed her eyes tight. “Go to sleep,” she told herself. “It’s just thunder.” It had rained almost every day that her family had been on vacation. Every time it rained, lightning shot across the sky like hot arrows, and thunder echoed on and on like beating drums. Flash! Boooooom! Angela pulled the sleeping bag over her head. “Go to sleep,” she told herself again.

“Mark, are you awake?” Michael whispered into the darkness.

“Hmmm?” Mark’s voice was heavy with sleep.

“Are you awake?”

Flash!

Mark opened his eyes. “I am now,” he said.

Boooom!

“Angela, are you awake?” Michael asked.

“Yes,” Angela whimpered. “I’m scared. I want to go to Mom and Dad’s tent.”

“It’s raining too hard,” Michael said. “You’ll get soaking wet. Besides, it’s not safe to go out in the lightning.”

Angela frowned. “But I’m really scared.”

Flash! Flash!

“You don’t need to be scared,” Mark said. “The lightning is really cool! It’s just a bunch of static electricity in the clouds.”

Boooom!

“And the thunder sounds like a big whip!” he added.

Angela shuddered. “I don’t like it!”

Flash! Boooom!

“Well, then think of things that make you happy,” Mark suggested. “That might help.”

Angela closed her eyes and thought about a field of yellow flowers. She imagined herself running down a hill into the field, laughing.

Flash! Boom! Flash! Flash! Booooom!

“It’s not working,” Angela said, shaking. “I’m still scared.”

Suddenly, rain began pelting their tent. Angela scrunched deep within her sleeping bag. What could she do to stop feeling scared? Then a quiet thought entered her mind. “Why don’t we sing?” she shouted, hoping her brothers could hear her above the noise. “My Primary teacher said that singing Primary songs can help us feel better.”

“OK,” Mark said loudly. “What should we sing?”

“How about ‘I Am a Child of God’?” Michael suggested.

Slowly, quietly, Angela started to sing.

“I am a child of God, And he has sent me here …”

Angela stopped. Her brothers weren’t singing with her. “They must not be able to hear me,” she thought. So she sang louder.

“Has given me an earthly home With parents kind and dear.”

Her brothers were singing now.

“Lead me, guide me, walk beside me, Help me find the way. Teach me all that I must do To live with him someday.” (Children’s Songbook, 2–3.)

Flash! Boom!

“Now what should we sing?” Angela asked.

“Let’s sing that one again,” Michael said.

Over and over, Angela, Michael, and Mark sang “I Am a Child of God” until the storm passed and peace returned to their tent.

“It worked!” Angela told herself as she snuggled into the warmth of her sleeping bag. “Finally I can go to sleep.” As she closed her eyes, another thought gently filled her mind. “I am a child of God, and I know He will help me find the way.”

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Petey Didn’t Want to Be a Sunbeam!

By Lori Mortensen
Friend, Jan 2004, 33
(Based on a true story)

All men should have charity, which charity is love (2 Ne. 26:30).

Petey didn’t want to be a Sunbeam. I knew because I sat on the row behind the little chairs. At first they were empty. Then, one by one, the new Sunbeam class walked in.

I nudged my friend Ryan. “Hey, there’s your little sister Maggie!”

He shrugged, but I could tell by his smile that he was proud to be a big brother in Primary now.

I knew some other Sunbeams, too. There was Ralph’s little brother Jakey and Caitlyn’s little sister Ashley. The only one I didn’t know very well was the boy with the wild brown hair—Petey. His hair stuck out all over the place like a bird’s nest.

The bishop had introduced Petey’s family to the ward during sacrament meeting just last week. I’d turned around to see if they had a boy I could play with, but the only names he announced were the parents’ names and “Peter Alexander.” Petey didn’t have any brothers or sisters. Maybe if he’d had a brother or sister, he wouldn’t have been so scared.

As soon as the Sunbeams walked to their chairs in front of the whole Primary, Petey started to cry—loud. Sister Evans tried to make him feel better by holding him on her lap and showing him her happy/sad-face puppets, but it didn’t do any good. He sucked in big gulps of air and cried even louder. Finally, Sister Evans carried him out.

Some of the children giggled when they could still hear him bawling in the hallway, but I felt sorry for him. I remembered going to a friend’s birthday party once. There must have been 20 children there who I’d never seen before. It was scary being around a bunch of people I didn’t know, but at least I knew my friend and his parents.

Petey probably didn’t know anybody at Primary. That’s when I got an idea—what if I wrote him a letter? I could draw him some pictures and tell him that I’d be his Primary buddy if he wanted. I was so happy with my idea that I didn’t even mind when Janice kept kicking the back of my chair or when my brother took my favorite spot on the bench during sacrament meeting.

With Mom’s help, I wrote my letter that night. It was fun! I told Petey he’d learn a bunch of neat songs in Primary. And I told him about the Primary talent show that was coming up. Maybe he’d get to hear me sing with my brothers and sisters. Then I drew a picture of Nephi shooting an arrow and my remote-control monster car racing another car. I figured if I liked those things, then maybe he did, too. I signed my name and asked Mom to help me find his address. Then, at the last minute, I cut out one of my school pictures and dropped it in the envelope so he’d recognize me at church. Mom mailed it for me the next day.

I got so busy at school that week I forgot I’d even sent the letter—until Sunday! After we arrived at church, I hurried to the Primary room and waited for him to come in. That’s when my stomach started doing flip-flops. The longer I waited, the more I wondered. Had he gotten my letter? What if sending it had been a really bad idea? What if he didn’t like it? What if he didn’t want a Primary buddy? What if he didn’t want to come back to Primary at all?

Then I saw him! He trudged in behind Sister Evans and slid onto the little chair right in front of me.

“Hi, Petey!” I said, but he must not have heard me because he didn’t turn around or say “hi.”

I could tell he still didn’t want to be a Sunbeam because he sat really close to his teacher and stared down at his lap. “At least he’s not crying,” I thought hopefully.

Then disaster struck!

“Peter, would you please come up front so we can sing you a welcome song?” Sister Peterson asked. She hadn’t been at church last week, so she didn’t know that Petey was shy.

I held my breath.

“Come on up, Peter,” she said with a smile. “Don’t you want to hear our welcome song?”

Petey shook his head, clutching his teacher’s arm even tighter.

All the other children were waiting for Petey to burst out crying. And maybe he would have. His chin was already trembling, and his eyes were wide like a frightened rabbit’s.

That’s when I surprised myself. “I’ll go up with you, Petey,” I heard myself say.

Petey switched from looking at all the children to looking at just me. Did he recognize me from my picture? I guess he did, because a tiny smile crept across his face.

“OK,” he said quietly.

He held my hand really tight as we stood in front of the whole Primary. They sang the welcome song nice and loud like they did every time they welcomed someone new.

“Way to go!” I whispered when I took him back to his seat.

He grinned and waved at me.

And that’s when I knew—Petey was going to like being a Sunbeam after all.

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A Dress for Primary

By Patricia Reece Roper
Friend, Jan 2004, 43
(Based on a true story)

For [God] knoweth all things (2 Ne. 9:20).

Desiree’s lower lip quivered as she watched her mother carry her dresses into the dry cleaner. She knew they wouldn’t be clean in time for church on Sunday. Mom had explained that to her, and Desiree had said that she understood, but now she wasn’t sure. When Mom came back, Desiree bit her lip to make it stop quivering. She didn’t want Mom to know she was upset.

“I want a new dress,” Desiree said when Mom got into the car. “It will be my first day in Sunbeams.”

“Sweetheart,” Mom answered, “you don’t need a new dress. Your dresses will be just fine when the smoky smell is gone.”

“But what will I wear on Sunday?” Desiree frowned.

“I don’t know yet,” Mom replied. “We’ll find something.” When Desiree sighed unhappily, Mom added, “Just be glad that no one was hurt in the fire.”

Desiree tried to be glad as she remembered Mom waking her up in the middle of the night and carrying her outside while Dad had called the fire department. They had quickly crossed the street to safety.

Later, Desiree learned how they had been awakened when the fire started—Dad had heard someone calling him. He woke up to see the house filling with smoke. Because they woke up and quickly got help, their home hadn’t burned down, but there was still a lot of smoke damage and a big mess to clean up.

“What if I pray for a new dress?” Desiree asked.

Mom sighed. “I think it would be better to pray that some other little girl could get a new dress.”

“Why?”

“Well, it might be a good idea to focus on being thankful that we didn’t lose very much in the fire instead of worrying so much about things we want,” Mom explained. “We should pray for others to have the things they need.”

“We don’t have everything we need,” Desiree said.

“Yes, we do,” Mom said. “We might just have to wait a little while to get it all back.”

Desiree drew pictures in the frost-covered car window with her finger the rest of the way home. As she thought about what Mom had said about praying for others, she decided it would be a good idea. She knew of children her age who needed shoes, clothes, and even enough food to eat. The more she thought about them, the more sorry she felt for acting selfish. Her mother was right; she did have everything she needed.

“Hey, there are your cousins,” Mom said as they pulled into the driveway. Desiree’s cousins were standing on the front doorstep with a big plastic bag on the ground beside them.

After Mom parked the car, she let Desiree’s two cousins inside. They were both older than Desiree.

“Look what we have!” the girls exclaimed.

“What is it?” Desiree asked.

“When we heard about the fire, our mom helped us go through some of our things,” Angela, the oldest cousin, explained. “Here, you can have these.”

Desiree took the big plastic bag and eagerly opened it. Inside she found some toys, stuffed animals, and clothes. At the very bottom was a pretty Sunday dress. Desiree squealed with delight as she pulled the dress from the bag. “Look!”

Mom clapped her hands in surprise. “Oh my goodness! How did you girls know she needed a dress for her first Sunbeam class?”

Angela shook her head. “We didn’t.”

“Thank you!” Desiree cried happily.

“Remember to thank Heavenly Father, too,” Mom said. “He’s the one who inspired your aunt to send us the dress.”

“But how did He know? I didn’t pray for one—honest!” Desiree said.

Mom hugged Desiree and smiled through happy tears. “He knows what we need even before we ask Him, just like He knew we needed to get out of the house before we started smelling smoke. Remember?”

“Wow!” Desiree smiled. “He really does know everything.”

Carrying her new dress up the stairs, Desiree went into her room to pray in thanks.

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(February)

Grandma’s Notebook

By Stacey A. Rasmussen
Friend, Feb 2004, 4
(Based on a true story)

Whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven (Matt. 16:19).

“Families can be together forever through Heavenly Father’s plan,” Jessica and her cousins sang at their grandmother’s funeral. It was a sad day for Jessica because she would miss Grandma Tolley. She enjoyed the time they had spent together working in the garden, going for walks, and having weekend sleepovers. But it was also a joyous day because Jessica knew that Grandma had longed to be reunited with Grandpa, who had passed away 17 years before.

Later that day, Jessica and her mother drove to the cemetery to visit the grave site. “The roses and carnations look so beautiful,” Mom said.

“They smell terrific.” Jessica sniffed a pink rose.

“I’m sure Grandma was pleased with all the family and friends who came today. She enjoyed helping others and loved all people. The beautiful flowers show they loved her, too,” Mom said.

Jessica thought for a moment. Then she said, “At the funeral, Aunt Diane said that ‘Families Can Be Together Forever’ was Grandma’s favorite song. Why was a Primary song her favorite?”

Mom smiled. “I’m going to let Grandma answer that question for you.”

“How can Grandma answer my question when she isn’t here anymore?” Jessica asked.

“We’ll stop by her house on the way home, and I’ll show you,” Mom answered.

As Jessica walked into Grandma’s house, it was dark and quiet. Quickly she turned on a light. Everything was still in its usual place. There were pictures of Jessica and her cousins hanging on the walls. A cherished afghan was folded neatly over the back of the couch.

Mom opened a small closet door. After a bit of searching, she pulled out a pile of worn notebooks.

“What are those?” Jessica asked.

“Grandma wrote in these notebooks throughout her life. They were her journals. There is one here that will answer your question.” Mom glanced through a few of the notebooks before she located the one she wanted. She handed it to Jessica. “As you read what Grandma wrote, you’ll find out why ‘Families Can Be Together Forever’ was her favorite song.”

The next day was Saturday, and Jessica got right to work doing her chores and practicing her piano lessons. She even skipped watching cartoons so she could have more time for Grandma’s journal. Opening to the first page, she began to read.

March 14, 1941

It was a beautiful spring day as James and I drove to the county courthouse to be married. Many of our family and friends were there to witness this joyous occasion. James looked so handsome in his new suit. I am lucky to have married him. He is a hard worker and will be a good husband and father. The judge gave us many useful words of wisdom and counsel.

I always thought my wedding day would be the happiest day of my life—but I was wrong. As the judge finished the ceremony, he said, “I now pronounce you husband and wife until death do you part.” That statement will be etched in my heart until I am sealed to James in the holy temple of the Lord. I pray for the day when we will know we can be together forever.

Jessica was surprised. She had always thought her grandma and grandpa had been married in the temple. For as long as Jessica could remember, Grandma Tolley had done temple work each week with her friends. Temple work had been very important to her, and she had talked about it often.

All afternoon, Jessica continued to read. She was amazed at how hard Grandma had worked each day. She hung the laundry out on the line to dry. She carried buckets of coal down to the basement to burn in the furnace. She sewed clothes, planted and cared for a large garden, made her own bread, spent time with her daughters, and still did things to help other people. Jessica also enjoyed learning about what her mother was like as a little girl.

June 7, 1955

This afternoon I watched the girls play outside. They were having so much fun making necklaces out of dandelions. They laughed and giggled at the silly things each would say and do. As I quietly watched, Elizabeth noticed me and ran over to give me a big, yellow dandelion. “I love you, Mom,” she said.

In my heart I thanked Heavenly Father for such precious children. They are like the sunshine that lights my day. I continue to pray and work toward the blessing of being sealed as a family in the temple. Until that day arrives, I will put my trust and faith in the Lord.

Jessica was so absorbed in the journal that she didn’t hear her mother come into the room. “Looks like you’ve been doing some reading.”

“Yes, I have,” Jessica said. “I didn’t know that Grandma wasn’t married in the temple. I think it would be hard to know that after this life you would no longer be together as a family.”

“It was hard for Grandma,” Mom said.

“But that doesn’t explain why ‘Families Can Be Together Forever’ was her favorite song,” Jessica said.

“Keep reading.” Mom smiled as she left the room.

Jessica read until late in the afternoon. As she neared the end of the notebook, she was a little discouraged at not finding the answer she had been looking for. When she was about to stop for the day, Jessica decided to read one more entry.

April 29, 1957

Today I knelt across from James in the Lord’s holy temple. I have prayed for this moment for many years. I am thankful to know that we can be eternal companions. Words cannot express even the smallest portion of the joy and love I felt from Heavenly Father.

When they brought in our daughters all dressed in white, tears fell freely from my eyes. Kneeling together and being sealed as a family was the most important moment of my life. I am grateful for the knowledge that if I live the teachings of the gospel, I can have these precious daughters throughout eternity.

“Have you discovered the answer?” Mom asked that evening at dinner.

“I think so,” Jessica replied. “Grandma loved her family very much. But because she was not married in the temple, her family wouldn’t always be together. Grandma prayed and worked toward the day they could go to the temple. The song must have reminded her of the day she was sealed to her family.”

“That’s right.”

“Did you sing that song when you were in Primary?” Jessica asked.

“No, ‘Families Can Be Together Forever’ hadn’t been written yet when I was in Primary. Several years after Grandpa passed away, Grandma heard the Primary children sing it in sacrament meeting. She felt the Spirit so strongly that she was sure Heavenly Father was speaking right to her. Grandma loved the words because they gave her comfort in knowing that her family could be together forever.”

That night as Jessica knelt in prayer, she thanked Heavenly Father for a wonderful grandma. She also promised to live worthily to go to the temple. She wanted the blessing of an eternal family and the opportunity to be with Grandma Tolley again someday.

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Make a Joyful Noise

By Sheila Kindred
Friend, Feb 2004, 12–13
(Based on a true story)

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

“Let’s not sit by the Wilsons today,” Paul said to his mom as they drove to church.

“Why not?” Mom seemed surprised.

“Because their little boy embarrasses me.”

“You mean cute little Joseph? How does he embarrass you?”

“Haven’t you heard him? He’s so loud, especially during the hymns. He thinks he’s singing, but he’s just making noise.”

Mom smiled. “Ah, yes, I have heard him. I’ll tell you what, you listen very carefully to him today and think about what you hear. And next week, if his singing still bothers you, we’ll sit somewhere else.”

Paul frowned. “That means we’ll have to sit by the Wilsons today.”

“That’s right. But after today the problem should be solved. OK?”

“OK,” Paul sighed.

When they entered the chapel, Paul looked around until he spotted the Wilsons. They were just settling onto a bench. Joseph already had his nose in a hymnbook.

“There’s a seat just in front of them,” Mom pointed out. “Let’s go.”

As Paul sat down, Joseph put down his book and grinned at him. Paul couldn’t help smiling back. Joseph did have a special sparkle in his eyes. If only he weren’t so noisy.

After the bishop’s greeting, it was time for the opening hymn. Paul was still looking for the correct page in the hymnbook when the music began. Joseph began to wail so loudly that Paul could hardly hear the organ playing.

Paul looked at Mom and silently mouthed, “See?”

Mom smiled and mouthed back, “Listen.”

Paul listened. Joseph sang very loudly, but he wasn’t singing what everyone else was singing. When the rest of the congregation paused between verses, Joseph’s voice could still be heard. It just sounded like noise to Paul. Why couldn’t Joseph sing the right words or at least sing at the right times? Paul glanced back at the Wilsons. Joseph held open the hymnbook for his parents. They didn’t seem to notice the awful racket he was making.

After the opening prayer, Mom opened her scriptures and pointed out a verse to Paul. It was in Psalms 66:1–2 and it read, “Make a joyful noise unto God, all ye lands: Sing forth the honour of his name: make his praise glorious.”

“ ‘Joyful noise’? Was that what Joseph was doing?” Paul wondered.

When it came time to sing the sacrament hymn, Paul was halfway through the song when he realized he couldn’t hear Joseph. Had he fallen asleep? Paul glanced back and saw Joseph sitting between his parents with his arms folded. Joseph’s father held the book for them. Paul tilted his head and listened carefully. Was Joseph making any noise at all? Yes, now he could hear him. He was humming. He wasn’t humming the same song everyone else was singing, but it was a reverent tune. Joseph somehow knew that this was the time for a quiet song. Paul tried to sing with more reverence.

Paul was glad there was another hymn during the meeting. This would give him another opportunity to hear Joseph sing. And sing he did! This was more like a “wake-up” hymn to Joseph. He held the hymnbook high again and sang with gusto. Paul suddenly realized that Joseph probably didn’t sing the words because he wasn’t old enough to read, but he didn’t let that stop him. Paul wondered if he would be so brave if he couldn’t read the words in the hymnbook. Would he be able to sing with as much enthusiasm as Joseph?

After that hymn, Paul’s mother showed him another scripture: “For my soul delighteth in the song of the heart; yea, the song of the righteous is a prayer unto me, and it shall be answered with a blessing upon their heads” (D&C 25:12). Paul nodded. Joseph’s singing certainly was from his heart.

Paul made one more discovery during the closing hymn. Joseph wasn’t just making noise or making up words, he was actually singing the words to a song. Paul listened carefully and heard “I Am a Child of God.” Of course, everyone else was singing something else. When the congregation began singing the last verse, Joseph launched into “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam.” Paul smiled to himself. This was Joseph’s time to sing, too. And he was singing every song he could think of, with all his might.

When the last notes on the organ faded away, Joseph’s voice could be clearly heard as he ended his song with “I’ll be a sunbeam for Him.” Many people chuckled. Paul heard Joseph’s mom whisper to Joseph, “Prayer time.” There was a rustle as Joseph shifted in his seat and folded his arms.

When the prayer was over, Paul’s mom looked at Paul and raised her eyebrows. “Well?” she asked. “Is there still a problem?”

Paul shook his head. He turned to the Wilsons. “Hey, Joseph,” Paul said, “can I walk you to Primary? I bet they love you in singing time.”

Joseph grinned and nodded as he took Paul’s hand. As they walked down the aisle, Paul started quietly humming a Primary song that had just come to his mind, “A song is a wonderful kind of thing, so lift up your voice and sing. …”

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Keep Praying

By Patricia Reece Roper
Friend, Feb 2004, 32 (Based on a true story)

If ye will enter in by the way, and receive the Holy Ghost, it will show unto you all things what ye should do
(2 Ne. 32:5).

“We should be home tomorrow night at seven.” Mom’s voice on the phone sounded comforting, but Desiree was still worried.

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, yes,” Mom replied. “We shouldn’t have any trouble.”

Desiree shuddered at the word trouble. Ever since Mom and Dad had gone to Illinois, Desiree had been afraid that something bad might happen to them. Now they were coming home, but she still felt afraid.

After hanging up the phone, she tried to concentrate on helping Grandma give her younger brothers and sister a bath. When you’re the oldest child, you have to be a good helper, even if you’re only 11. Sometimes Desiree wished she could be the youngest child in her family and have everyone take care of her, but she knew that Mom and Dad were depending on her to help.

The next day was Sunday. Even though Desiree was tired, she got up early to help her brothers and sister get ready for church. When her brothers made a game of running away from her instead of getting dressed, she missed her mom. When her baby sister threw her breakfast cereal on the floor, Desiree missed Mom even more.

After church, Desiree tried to read her scriptures, but she was too worried to pay attention. She stopped reading to pray that Mom and Dad would come home safely. As she said “amen,” she had a strong feeling that she should keep praying. She wondered why she felt this. Wasn’t one prayer enough? She kept praying, knowing that she was doing the right thing. For some reason, Mom and Dad needed the extra prayers.

At seven o’clock, Mom and Dad still hadn’t come home. Desiree waited anxiously as an hour went by, then two.

Then the phone rang. Desiree ran to answer it, but Grandma got it first. Desiree could tell it was Mom and Dad. Finally Grandma said, “OK, she’s right here,” and handed the phone to Desiree.

“Hello,” she said nervously.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

Hearing Mom’s voice made Desiree miss her even more. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Oh boy, did we ever have a scary trip!” Mom exclaimed. “We were caught in a terrible snowstorm in Colorado. The winding mountain roads were packed with ice and snow. Cars were slipping and sliding all over the road. There were many accidents. Dad and I worried that we wouldn’t make it home safely.” “Oh no!” Desiree gasped.

“But while I was praying for our safety, the Holy Ghost whispered to me that you were praying for us, too,” Mom said.

Desiree’s eyes grew wide. “That’s right, Mom! I was worried about you, and I prayed. And then I had a feeling that I should keep praying.”

“I’m so thankful you did,” Mom told her. “I know we made it out safely because of those prayers.”

“When will you be home?”

Mom sighed. “I’m sorry, but we traveled so slowly through that snowy mess that we won’t be home until tomorrow morning. We don’t want to rush. We just want to get home safely.”

“Yes,” Desiree agreed. “Take your time.” As she hung up the phone, a warm feeling of peace came over her. She knew that Mom and Dad would come home safely. As she hurried to her room to say a prayer of thanks, she was glad she had obeyed and kept praying.

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A Great Sister

By Melanie Marks
Friend, Feb 2004, 40–41
(Based on a true story)

Behold thou hast a gift, and blessed art thou because of thy gift. Remember it is sacred and cometh from above (D&C 6:10).

“Leave him alone!” I yelled to Laurie Hilton, the school bully. “Pick on someone your own size.”

I was tired of her picking on my little brother, Tony. If she treated him nicely—or simply let him alone—he would be fine. It was her fault that he cried. And I hated it.

“Pick on someone my own size?” Laurie sneered. “Like you?”

I wasn’t Laurie’s size. She was two grades older and a head taller. “Sure. Like me.” I tried to sound confident, but inside I was shaking. I didn’t want to fight. I just wanted her to leave Tony alone.

The bell rang and Laurie gave me a shove. “You’re going to get it after school.”

Still shaking inside, I watched her stomp away. I doubted I would really “get it” after school—Laurie would probably cool off by then. But just in case, I was going to avoid her.

My stomach was in knots even before I got to music class and found out I didn’t make the school play. I had really, really wanted a part. Any part. I didn’t have to be the star. But I didn’t even get to be an alternate.

And I sure didn’t feel any better in math class when I got my test back. I made a poor grade on it—even though I had studied hard.

“How did you do?” my best friend Audrey asked. She had helped me study the night before, and she had assured me I would make a good grade.

“Don’t ask,” I advised. I wadded up the test and threw it in the wastebasket.

I was careful not to look at Audrey. I knew what I would see if I looked into her eyes—sympathy. I could not take that. It would make me cry.

I wished I could be like Audrey. She was good at everything. She got the lead in the school play. She got straight As in math. She was beautiful.

It wasn’t fair. I wasn’t good at anything. Lately I felt like Heavenly Father had forgotten about me.

“I’m hopeless,” I told myself. “I wish I could forget about me, too.”

When I got home, I still felt like crying. I probably would have, too, if Tony hadn’t come in. “Why do you look so sad?” he asked.

I thought about telling him to get out of my room. After all, he had come in without knocking. Sometimes Tony can be a pest. But he actually looked concerned for me.

“I didn’t get the part in the play,” I told him.

“Oh.” He sat on my bed. “Well, you like to paint. Maybe you could help with the scenery.”

“It’s not just the play,” I said. “I did really badly on my math test, too.”

Then I went on to tell him how pathetic I felt—like I wasn’t good at anything.

“I’ll be right back,” he said. When he returned he had a drawing.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“It’s a picture of you.” He handed it to me. “I drew it in Primary.” He explained that his teacher had asked him to draw something he was thankful for. “So I drew you. Maybe you’re not a good actress. And maybe you’re not very good at math, either. I don’t know. But I do know one thing—you’re a good sister. In fact, you’re a great sister.” He put his arms around me.

And you know what? I felt a little better. “Thanks, Tony.”

“Something else,” he said, sitting back on my bed. “You’re really brave. You knew Laurie could hurt you, but you still stuck up for me today. You’re good at sticking up for people.”

When Tony left, I felt a lot better. He made sense. I’m not so good at some things, but that doesn’t mean I’m not good at other things. Maybe the things I’m good at are really important—maybe even more important than being a good actress or a math whiz.

Heavenly Father hadn’t forgotten about me after all. I knelt at the foot of my bed, figuring I should let Him know I hadn’t forgotten about Him either. And while I was on my knees, I thanked Him for all of my many blessings.

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The Valentine

By Linda Stotts
Friend, Feb 2004, 47
Based on an experience of Leroy A. Watson, the author’s father

Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself (Matt. 22:39).

Valentine’s Day was always a wonderful time for me. Back in the early 1920s when I was a child, we delivered valentines by sneaking up to a person’s house, placing the valentine in front of the door, and then kicking the door hard and running away. The person in the house would then run out and try to catch the messenger. Even though we were supposed to escape, we liked getting caught because the recipient of the valentine would always invite us back to the house for refreshments.

I was getting ready to deliver my valentines one year when Mother suggested, “Roy, don’t you think it would be nice to leave one for George?”

“But, Mother …” I protested, my voice trailing off. I didn’t want to tell her the truth—that I was afraid of George. He was a boy who appeared to be about my age. He did not attend school with us because he was mentally disabled. No one ever talked to or played with him because he seemed strange. He looked unusual—his face appeared to be flat, and he had a hard time walking. He acted differently, too. As my two brothers and I passed his house on our way to school, he would come out and try to communicate with us in grunts. Frightened, we would avoid him by hurriedly crossing the street to stay as far away as we could. As we passed by, we often noticed his mother taking him back into the house. He seemed sad whenever this happened.

Mother seemed to read my mind. “Son, I know you’re afraid, but that boy needs a friend. Will you do it?”

I reluctantly agreed. As my brothers and I walked down the street to George’s house, we decided that I would be the one to deliver the valentine. Nervously I lifted the latch on George’s front gate and approached the house, not knowing what to expect. Gathering all my courage, I stepped onto the porch, laid the valentine down, banged my foot against the front door, and then fled with all the speed I could muster.

As I ran through the gate and up the road, I glanced back and saw George’s mother opening the door. She looked down to see the valentine on the porch.

“Please, come back!” she called.

My brothers, who were waiting on the sidewalk, returned with me to the house. We entered the front room to find George dancing around clutching the valentine to his heart, tears streaming down his happy face. George’s mother grabbed all three of us, hugged and kissed us, and invited us into the cellar to pick out the biggest red apples we had ever seen.

From that time on, my brothers and I found it easy to be a friend to George. My mother had taken advantage of a great opportunity to teach us how to love our neighbor.

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(March)

Missing Jarom

By Frank C. Wilson
Friend, Mar 2004, 5
(Based on a true story)

Behold, I give unto you power, that whatsoever ye shall seal on earth shall be sealed in heaven (Hel. 10:7).

The ambulance crew had gone, leaving the house quiet and still. Kierra’s mom and dad sat next to each other on the couch, crying. Six-year-old Kierra didn’t feel like playing, so she sat down next to her parents and cried with them. “Where’s Baby?” Kierra’s two-year-old sister, Kaleah, asked.“Where’s Baby?”

“Jarom went back to live with Heavenly Father,” Mom replied.

“Where’s Baby?” Kaleah asked again.

“Jarom died, Kaleah,” Kierra said. “He’s not coming home.”

Kaleah didn’t seem to understand. She wandered from room to room, looking for her brother.

Later that evening, Dad sat at the computer typing as tears ran down his face.

“Dad, what are you doing?” Kierra asked as she hugged him.

“I’m writing down my feelings,” he replied. “I hurt so badly it is all I can do.”

“Will you write down my feelings?” Kierra asked.

“Sure,” he said.

Kierra thought for a moment and then spoke the words from her heart. “I love you, Jarom. I wish you were back on earth because I miss you. Sometimes I wish you were bigger—strong and healthy. You were a sweetheart. I loved to kiss and hug you. When I was at school I would always think of you. Sometimes I made Mommy happy by taking care of you. I love how you laughed. I liked your smiles. I want you to be alive again.”

Dad wiped his tears away with his sleeve as he typed Kierra’s words. After she had finished speaking, he continued to stare at the computer screen.

“Kierra,” he said, “Jarom will live again.”

“But he’s dead,” Kierra replied. “How can he live again?”

“Jesus Christ came to the earth, lived a perfect life, and then was killed by people who hated him,” Dad said. “Do you remember what happened three days after He died?”

“He was resurrected,” Kierra answered.

“That’s right,” Dad said. “And because He was resurrected, all of us will live again after we die.”

“But will Jarom be part of our family? I want him to still be my brother.”

“Kierra, because Mommy and Daddy were married for time and all eternity in the temple, our family can be together forever. If we are righteous, someday we will be reunited as a family.”

Kierra missed Jarom so much right now, but she smiled as she thought about being with her brother again.

“I can’t wait to be with him again,” she said. “Me too,” Dad said.

“Me too.”

A few days later, the family gathered at the cemetery as Jarom’s casket was placed in the ground.

“Good-bye, Jarom,” Kierra said. “I can’t wait to see you again.” The sun broke through the clouds, and Kierra smiled. “I thank Thee, Heavenly Father, that families can be forever.”

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We Have to Try!

By Patricia Reece Roper
Friend, Mar 2004, 9
(From the life of President Howard W. Hunter, 14th President of the Church, as told in Howard W. Hunter by Eleanor Knowles)

A righteous man regardeth the life of his beast (Prov. 12:10).

“Not again!” Howard gasped, sick at heart, as he peeked from behind the bushes in his neighbor’s yard. But no one heard his quiet plea, and the neighborhood boys again stuffed the soaked, terrified kitten back into the sack. One boy gave the sack a hefty toss, and again it flew into the canal.

This time, however, the kitten could barely struggle free. As the sack and kitten floated down the canal, the boys finally lost interest.

As soon as the boys turned their backs, Howard dashed from behind the bushes, jumped the neighbor’s fence, and raced to the kitten’s aid. The poor animal could barely meow, and Howard had no trouble fishing it out of the canal and wrapping it gently in his shirttail. As Howard hurried home, tears filled his eyes. He prayed that the kitten would somehow survive.

“Howard William Hunter, what have you got there?” Dorothy, Howard’s younger sister, asked him. She stood on the front porch, hands on hips, trying to look as stern as she thought her mother would.

“Howard William Hunter,” his mother echoed, coming up behind Dorothy. “What have you got there?” She placed her hands on her hips as the screen door banged shut behind her. Both mother and daughter looked at him expectantly.

Howard was still too upset to speak. Instead, he carefully unwrapped the kitten.

“Oh my goodness!” Mother exclaimed, covering her mouth in surprise. Shaking her head, she gently placed a hand on Howard’s shoulder. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she explained to her tenderhearted son, “I know how much you love animals, Howard, but I’m afraid we can’t save this poor kitten.”

“Mother, we have to try!” Howard wailed. “We have to!”

Mother thought for a moment. “Come on, Howard. I think I know what to do.” She turned and hurried into the house.

Inside the hall closet, Mother found an old quilt and a small wooden box and placed them on the kitchen table. Howard and Dorothy watched as their mother lined the box with the quilt. “Now, give me the kitten,” she told Howard. He quietly placed the animal in her gentle hands, and she wrapped it in the quilt. “We’ll put the box where it’s warm,” she said, sliding it carefully under the stove.

“Now what should we do?” Dorothy asked.

“Be very quiet,” Mother said, putting her finger to her lips. “Play outside, and don’t be noisy in the house. We’ll let the kitten rest and see if it’s better in the morning.”

“How will we know if it’s all right?” Howard wondered.

“Don’t worry.” Mother smiled and patted him on the back. “We’ll know.”

Howard didn’t sleep well that night. He dreamed that the neighborhood boys had found the kitten under the stove and were trying to steal it.

Before the sun came up the next morning, Howard heard meowing. He sat straight up in bed and rubbed his eyes. When the kitten meowed again, he raced to the kitchen.

The kitten had climbed out of the box and was meowing for its mother as it wandered around the kitchen. Howard dropped onto the floor beside the kitten, who looked up hopefully into Howard’s eyes. He gently patted the kitten’s soft, warm fur. “I’ll get you some milk,” Howard said, taking a saucer from the cupboard. He poured some milk from the tin can in his mother’s cool pantry, and set the saucer in front of the hungry kitten.

“It’s going to be just fine now,” Mother said as she came into the kitchen and saw the kitten hungrily lapping up the milk. “That was a wonderful thing you did, Howard.”

Howard smiled up at his mother. He felt warm inside as he watched the kitten drink.

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Mary Jane Listens

By Mary Ann Snowball
Friend, Mar 2004, 18
(Based on a true story)

My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me (John 10:27).

“Hurry faster!” Mary Jane’s friends cried as they ran down the street.

“I’m coming. I’m coming,” Mary Jane yelled back, bending to put one more rock into the bulging pockets of her light blue apron.

For a nine-year-old girl in Wales in 1846, Latter-day Saint missionaries coming to town meant excitement. She and her friends had heard many terrible stories about the “Mormons.” Surely such people deserved to be pelted with stones.

As the three girls rounded a corner, they heard music. A small crowd was singing a familiar hymn. Mary Jane was a good singer, so she joined in after she caught her breath. She didn’t know all the words, but she enjoyed humming the melodies.

As the singing ended, Mary Jane followed the elders’ example and knelt to pray. One by one, the rocks fell from the pockets of her apron. When the prayer ended, Mary Jane’s friend picked up the rocks. “Let’s get them!” she said.

“No,” Mary Jane said quietly. “I want to listen to what they’re saying.”

She turned her eyes toward the missionaries and listened carefully. One of the elders said that a prophet named Joseph Smith had seen Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, in a grove of trees. Another explained why we are born on this earth. As Mary Jane listened, her friends slipped through the crowd and ran off to play. When the elders finished preaching, Mary Jane walked slowly home, thinking about all she had heard.

As the days passed, Mary Jane kept listening to the elders. She loved what she was learning about Heavenly Father. Her mother did not. She was so opposed to what the missionaries taught that she sometimes hid Mary Jane’s clothes or denied her food so she would stop going to church.

But Mary Jane loved the gospel more than ever. She had learned to pray, and her prayers for a testimony were answered. She wanted to be baptized. Finally on a cold December night, she was baptized in a frozen river. The elders had to use an ax to cut a hole in the ice. Even though Mary Jane’s body was very cold that night, her heart was warm. She knew that she had made the right decision.

But she was sad because her mother could not understand the true gospel. Every day, Mary Jane knelt to pray. “Heavenly Father, I am so glad to be a member of the Church, but I want my mother to be baptized, too,” she said. “Please help her to understand the message. Please let something happen to help her accept the gospel.” For three years Mary Jane prayed for her mother. She never gave up hope.

When Mary Jane was 13 years old, her mother became seriously ill with a disease that settled in her foot. It was very painful.

One day Mary Jane said to her mother, “Why don’t I ask the elders to come and give you a priesthood blessing?” Because her foot was hurting so much, Mary Jane’s mother finally agreed. The elders gave Mary Jane’s mother a blessing, and to her amazement, her foot immediately stopped hurting. Mary Jane knew her prayers had been answered.

Soon afterward her mother started going to Church meetings. It wasn’t long before she also joined the Church. Mary Jane was happier than she had ever been.

When Mary Jane was 17 years old, she and her mother sailed to America on the ship Jersey and then traveled on to Utah. For the rest of her life, Mary Jane followed the Savior as she had been taught on a street corner in Wales. She was always grateful that she had listened to the elders that day. She was especially glad that when she was nine years old she had decided not to throw the rocks that had fallen from the pockets of her light blue apron.

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Sleepover at Grandma’s House

By Jane McBride Choate
Friend, Mar. 2004, 28–29
(Based on a true story)

Fear thou not; for I am with thee (Isa. 41:10).

Four-year-old Tammy had never spent a night away from home. Her parents were going to a wedding and wouldn’t be home until very late, so she was going to spend the night at Grandma’s house. Tammy loved her grandma very much, but she liked being close to her mommy and daddy.

Mommy helped Tammy pack her pajamas and stuffed rhinoceros and clean clothes for the next day in the special suitcase Grandma had given her.

After they arrived at Grandma’s house, Tammy hugged Mommy and Daddy good-bye. Grandma showed Tammy where to put her suitcase.

Tammy saw that Grandma had the same picture of Jesus hanging in her bedroom that Tammy had in her own bedroom at home. It made her feel better.

Grandma fixed spaghetti for dinner. Tammy ate all of her spaghetti. They had vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce for dessert.

After dinner, Grandma pulled out a thick book. “This is my photo album,” she said. She opened it and pointed to a picture. “This is your mommy when she was a little girl.”

Tammy liked looking at pictures of her mommy when she was little. Together, she and Grandma looked at the pictures until Tammy started to feel sleepy.

Grandma helped Tammy brush her teeth and put on her pajamas. Then Grandma listened as Tammy said her prayers.

“I have a special sleeping bag for you to use when you’re here,” Grandma said. She unrolled a sleeping bag with pink flowers on it.

“Pink is my favorite color,” Tammy said.

Grandma smiled. “I know.”

Tammy gave Grandma a big kiss before sliding into the sleeping bag. Grandma put Tammy’s rhinoceros next to her and zipped up the sleeping bag.

“Good night, Tammy. Sweet dreams.” “Good night, Grandma.” Tammy felt very cozy in the pink sleeping bag.

The next morning, Grandma made French toast for breakfast. Tammy ate two pieces and drank all her milk. Then she helped Grandma do the dishes.

“I was a little scared when I came,” Tammy said to Grandma as she dried a plate. “Then I saw the picture of Jesus and I wasn’t scared anymore.”

Grandma hugged Tammy. “I keep a picture of Jesus in my bedroom to remind me that He loves me. I’m glad you aren’t scared anymore.” Tammy hugged Grandma back. “I am too.” She could hardly wait until Mommy and Daddy came to pick her up. She had a lot to tell them.

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Silent Warning

By Alma J. Yates
Friend, Mar 2004, 33
(Based on a true story)

Whosoever shall put their trust in God shall be supported in their trials, and their troubles (Alma 36:3).

“Halver,” Mother called as I sat on our adobe steps pulling cockleburs from my pants. “Run to the corral and open the gate for your father. He’s coming with the horses.”

Glancing toward the field, I saw our two workhorses, Button and Clipper, coming through the tall grass, their harnesses jangling as they walked. Father trudged behind them, holding the reins. He had left the plow in the field. I raced to the corral, jerked back on the wooden latch, and yanked the gate open.

Button and Clipper looked ragged and tired as they clomped slowly into the corral, their heads drooping, their sweating sides heaving, and their hooves knocking up puffs of dust as they walked. I felt sorry for them. They had been working hard all week, pulling the metal plow through the dark, damp dirt.

“It sure looks like they’re tired,” I said as I closed the gate.

“They’re worn out,” Father agreed. He pulled the harness off Clipper and slapped her on the rump, sending her toward the manger where some hay remained from the morning feeding. “At one time these two could have plowed that section of the field before noon. Now it takes all day. They’re getting too old for this kind of work.”

“Does this mean we’ll get a new team of horses?” I asked excitedly.

Father pulled Button’s harness off and hung it on the fence next to Clipper’s. “We can hardly put food on the table to feed ourselves,” he mumbled. “We can’t afford to buy another team. We’ll just have to make do with Clipper and Button.”

My shoulders sagged. Ever since we had moved back to Pacheco, Mexico, life had been tough. Pacheco was in the Sierra Madre Mountains and had been settled by members of the Church 30 years earlier. When the Mexican Revolution started in 1912, we Latter-day Saints had abandoned our ranches, farms, and homes to escape bandits and fighting armies. After the Revolution ended, some were able to return to their old houses, but most of us had to start all over again.

Father sighed as he studied Button and Clipper standing in the corral. “They need a good rest, Halver. How would you like to ride up to Strawberry Canyon with me tomorrow? There’s some good grazing there. Button and Clipper need to take it easy for a week or so, fatten up on that mountain grass, and catch their breath before we do the planting.”

Even though I was only seven, I was the oldest boy in the family and mighty proud that Father had invited me to help. We got up early the next day, put halters and lead ropes on Button and Clipper, and started through the trees.

A trail wound up to the mouth of the canyon, but Father didn’t want to take it. “I’m afraid if we take the horses up the trail, they’ll just wander back to the barn before nightfall,” he explained. “We’ll have to trick them.”

“How do you figure you’ll trick old Button and Clipper?” I asked.

“Strawberry is a long canyon, and the walls are pretty high and rugged. We’ll take Button and Clipper up along the top of the canyon to the far end; then we’ll climb down into the canyon from above. If we take them down that way, they won’t want to climb back out, and they won’t realize that they can just follow the canyon down to our place.”

Father’s plan sounded good, so we turned off the regular trail and rode along the mountain ridge running parallel to Strawberry Canyon. At first it wasn’t too hard, but then it got rocky and steep. The brush was thicker, and there wasn’t a regular trail to follow. Father walked ahead leading Clipper, while I followed riding Button bareback.

I started feeling nervous as Clipper and Button struggled to keep climbing. They were breathing hard, and sometimes Button stumbled over a rock or a root.

“We’re coming to some Johnny-jump-up,” Father called over his shoulder, “so keep your legs as high as you can.” Johnny-jump-up was a thorny bush that grew all along the mountain. It was mean and prickly.

Suddenly I got a dark, frightened feeling inside. I knew I should climb off Button and walk, even if I had to tromp through the prickly bushes. “Father, can I just walk behind Clipper and lead Button?” I asked hesitantly.

Not hearing me, Father kept walking. “Am I just scared?” I asked myself. I pressed my lips together. I wanted to be brave. I looked away from the canyon below and kept my eyes on Button’s long, pointed ears. But the feeling came again, this time even stronger. I didn’t hear a voice, but something told me to get off my horse and walk.

“Father, I want to get off Button and walk,” I called out. My voice sounded strange.

He stopped and looked back at me. “I was just thinking the same thing, Son.” He looked puzzled. “Slide off, but be careful.”

Slowly I slid off Button’s back, keeping him between me and the edge of the canyon. Once my feet reached the ground, I crept in front of the horse, took hold of the lead rope, and followed Clipper and Father. The thick Johnny-jump-up scratched my skin, but the bad feeling inside me went away.

We hadn’t walked more than a few feet when we came to another really steep spot. Just as we were starting to cross it, Button stumbled to the side. He scrambled to keep his balance, but the soft ground gave way. I tugged on the lead rope, trying to help him, but he was already sliding down the steep slope.

“Halver, let go of the rope!” Father called out.

I held on for a moment longer before letting go. As I did, Button’s back legs slipped out from under him and he fell on his hindquarters; then he tumbled and slid toward the canyon’s rocky ledge.

My eyes widened as I stared at poor Button slipping away from me. I hoped he would get his feet under him and steady himself so he could lunge to where Father, Clipper, and I waited. But it didn’t happen. He slid down further and rolled over the ledge, disappearing from sight.

I looked at Father, who still clutched Clipper’s lead rope. His face was white as he stared at the dreadful spot where we had last seen Button.

“I couldn’t hold him,” I rasped, trying desperately to explain.

“I didn’t expect you to hold him,” Father said gently. “That’s why I told you to let go of the rope.”

“Do you think he’s dead?” I croaked.

Father nodded slowly. He came back to where I stood and put his arm around my shoulders. “How will we do the planting?” I worried out loud. “We’ll figure that out later. But right now you’re safe—that’s what’s important. If you had stayed on him, you would have gone over the ledge, too.” “I just knew I had to get off.” I pressed my hand to my chest. “I didn’t hear anything, but I knew in here that I had to get off.”

Father nodded. “I felt it, too. Someone was watching over us today, Halver. The Spirit whispered a warning, and I am thankful we listened.”

Father and I were sad about Button, but as we returned home, I felt warm inside. I knew that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ watched over me and that the Spirit would protect and guide me if I listened to His whispered warnings.

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The Decision

By Nycole S. Larsen
Friend, Mar 2004, 41
(Based on a true story)

The Lord God prepareth the way that … men may have faith in Christ, that the Holy Ghost may have place in their hearts (Moro. 7:32).

John, David, and Keir wandered along the Fox River hiking trail one beautiful spring day. John and David were brothers, and their friend Keir lived around the corner from them.

“What do you guys want to do?” asked nine-year-old John.

“Let’s go home and get some ice cream bars. Mom just bought some,” seven-year-old David said.

“OK,” Keir said, “race you!” They took off up a dirt path that led back to the main road. Two blocks from John and David’s house, Keir stopped.

“Hey, look,” he said, pointing to something lying along the side of the path. “What’s that?”

It looked like a stack of paper. As the boys got closer, they realized it was a magazine. It was colorful and shiny with lots of glossy pictures. The pages flapped in the soft breeze.

“Cool,” John said as he picked it up.

They quickly realized that it was not at all “cool.” The magazine cover had pictures of naked women. The boys suddenly became very quiet.

“I think this is what’s called ‘porn,’ ” Keir said.

“What’s that?” David asked.

“Pornography,” John stated. He slammed the magazine closed and folded it in half so they couldn’t see the cover. “We shouldn’t look at it.”

“I think we should tell our moms,” Keir said.

“Or we could just leave it here,” David said.

“No, I don’t want someone else to find it. We’ll take it to Mom. She’ll know what to do,” John said.

David and Keir nodded. The three boys continued up the path. They didn’t want to laugh and shout anymore. They all felt a dull, heavy feeling inside. They were curious about the magazine, but no one wanted to look at it again.

When they got home, John showed his mom what they had found.

“You were right not to keep looking at it. This is not good for us to see,” she said. “I’m proud of you boys for bringing it to me. I’ll get rid of it.”

Later, when Keir got home, he told his mom and dad what had happened. They had a talk about pornography.

“Heavenly Father gave us our bodies to house our spirits,” Keir’s mom said. “Our bodies are very important, and we shouldn’t misuse them.”

“That magazine was showing how some people treat their bodies badly,” his dad added. “Pornography is evil, and the prophet has told us to stay away from it. You boys made a good decision today, Keir. You’ll be blessed for it.”

Keir had a good feeling in his heart that lasted for a long time. He knew John and David felt the same way. All three boys understood that the Holy Ghost had guided them to choose the right.

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(April)

No Candy for Easter

By Kimberly Webb
Friend, Apr 2004, 5
(Based on a true story)

The gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord (Rom. 6:23).

On the day before Easter, Kurt’s grandparents invited his family to a barbecue.

Kurt was especially excited to go because his favorite uncle, Darren, had just come home from his mission. He had missed Uncle Darren a lot. Kurt bounded into his grandparents’ backyard, ran past Grandpa, who was standing over the sizzling grill, and found Uncle Darren sitting in a patio chair.

“Hey, Kurt,” Uncle Darren greeted him. “Are you excited for Easter, little buddy?”

“Yes!” Kurt scrambled into his uncle’s lap.

“What do you want in your Easter basket*?” Uncle Darren asked.

“Candy, I guess.” Kurt grinned. He imagined finding chocolate bunnies, marshmallows shaped like baby birds, and jelly beans spilling out of his Easter basket. His heart skipped excitedly just thinking about it.

“What do you want in your Easter basket?” Kurt asked, poking his finger into Uncle Darren’s chest.

“I don’t think I’ll get one this year,” Uncle Darren said. “I guess I’m too old for that. But it’s OK because last year I got the best Easter basket ever.”

“What was in it?” Kurt asked.

“Don’t you remember?” Uncle Darren looked surprised. “You helped send it to me.”

Kurt tried to think about last spring, but it was a long time ago. He remembered the family gathering at Grandma’s house to make a package for Uncle Darren. Plastic colored eggs and stringy Easter grass had been strewn all over the kitchen table. Strips of paper, markers, and pens had been piled on the countertop.

“Why was it your favorite Easter basket?” Kurt asked. He couldn’t remember sending anything special.

Uncle Darren squeezed Kurt tightly. “It was my favorite Easter basket because there was no candy inside.” Kurt giggled, expecting to see a teasing twinkle in Uncle Darren’s eyes, but he looked serious.

“No candy?” Kurt cried. “Why not?”

Uncle Darren laughed. “Come in the house. I want to show you something.”

Kurt watched Uncle Darren rummage through a shoe box full of letters. He reached into the box, pulled out an envelope, and handed a strip of paper to Kurt.

The Church is true, Kurt read. I love Jesus and my family. Last year he had written these words, folded the paper up, and placed it inside a plastic egg. Everyone else—his parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins—had done the same. Now Kurt remembered! Uncle Darren’s missionary Easter basket had been filled with testimonies.

“You liked these papers better than jelly beans?” Kurt asked. He couldn’t imagine why.

Uncle Darren nodded. “Easter is the time to celebrate Jesus Christ’s Resurrection,” he said quietly. “Do you know what that means?”

“Jesus came back to life so that we can all be resurrected someday,” Kurt answered.

“And do you know what that means?” Uncle Darren asked. He rested his hand on Kurt’s shoulder. “It means that I will always be your uncle!”

Kurt was confused. “The Resurrection makes it so that you can be my uncle?”

“We couldn’t be an eternal family without eternal life,” Uncle Darren said. “Jesus Christ died for us so that we could live forever with Him.”

When Kurt and his parents had visited the temple grounds, Mom had pointed to the temple and said that she and Dad had been married there. Because of the sealing ordinances, they could be a family forever. Mom hadn’t said anything about Jesus’ Resurrection.

“What about temples?” Kurt asked. “I thought we could be with our families forever because of temples.”

“The temple is the Lord’s house,” Uncle Darren explained. “Without Jesus Christ and His Resurrection, there wouldn’t be any temples, either. The power that seals us together is His priesthood.”

Kurt hadn’t thought about that before.

Uncle Darren continued. “I taught people on my mission who didn’t believe in eternal families. They believed in Jesus, but they didn’t understand everything He did for us.”

“That’s sad,” Kurt said with a frown.

“Reading everyone’s testimonies reminded me that our family can be eternal,” Uncle Darren said. “It was the best Easter gift I could have received.”

Kurt looked up into his favorite uncle’s beaming face and suddenly felt very grateful. He had missed Uncle Darren terribly during the past two years. He couldn’t imagine being separated from him forever.

Uncle Darren suddenly swooped Kurt up on his shoulders. “I bet the hamburgers are almost done. Should we go find out?” Kurt was giggling too hard to answer. “Then we can be partners for the Easter egg hunt,” Uncle Darren promised.

Kurt was excited, but colored eggs, candy, and Easter baskets didn’t matter so much compared to spending time with Uncle Darren. Kurt smiled, knowing that he could call Darren his uncle forever.

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Aren’t You a Mormon?

By Lisa Passey Boynton
Friend, Apr 2004, 12
(Based on a true story)

Be thou an example of the believers, in word, in conversation, in charity, in spirit, in faith, in purity (1 Tim. 4:12).

Lillie couldn’t wait for the lunch bell to ring. She watched the clock as the hands slowly moved to 12:00. She was supposed to be reading quietly, but she was too excited to concentrate. Lunch was her favorite part of the day—a time to be with her new friends, talking, laughing, and making plans for after school.

Lillie had moved a few months ago, and at first she had felt alone and afraid. The first week in Primary, she met one other girl in her class, but she lived far across town and went to another school. Luckily, on Lillie’s first day of school, she was placed in the same sixth-grade class as Teresa. Teresa was very friendly, and now Lillie was part of a fun group. It was hard being the new girl in school, but Teresa and her friends made Lillie feel welcome.

Finally the bell clanged, and Lillie grabbed her sack lunch from inside her desk. Teresa called, “Wait for me by the door. I have to grab my backpack.”

Lillie saw Jackie coming from a classroom down the hall and waved. “Hey, Lillie,” Jackie called over the noisy chatter. “Are you ready for lunch?”

“I am now,” she said as Teresa came up beside her and linked arms with her. Together they followed Jackie to the lunchroom and found a table where everyone could sit. Lillie sat between Jackie and a boy named Brad and quickly unwrapped her lunch. Brad asked if she had seen the game on TV the night before. Jackie discussed her birthday party coming up the next month. Lillie ate her lunch happily.

After lunch most of the others scattered, but Lillie and her friends pushed back their chairs and continued talking. Brad told funny jokes that made everyone laugh. Jackie described something funny her little sister had done. Lillie wished she had something witty and wonderful to say, too, but nothing came to her mind.

Lunch was almost over. The cafeteria workers began cleaning the tables. Teresa imitated a popular movie star, and everyone laughed. Lillie took a deep breath and decided to do something she had never done before. She took the Lord’s name in vain, giggled, then said, “That was so funny, Teresa!”

Suddenly, the lunchroom fell silent. Lillie felt her face grow red with embarrassment as everyone looked at her. Brad shook his head slowly. “Lillie,” he asked softly, “aren’t you a Mormon?”

“Yeah,” Jackie said, “I thought Mormons didn’t swear.”

Lillie felt sick. She couldn’t say anything. The bell rang, and everyone shuffled back to class. Teresa walked beside Lillie, but she didn’t say a word.

All afternoon Lillie wondered why she had said such a thing. She knew it was wrong. She had never said it before. Her teacher asked her several questions about the day’s lesson, but she shook her head and said she didn’t know. She couldn’t wait for school to end so she could go home and hide under her bed.

After school Lillie told Teresa she had to hurry home. She ran from the building, tears in her eyes and a big lump in her throat. When her mother asked about her day, she was too ashamed to answer and hurried to her room.

How had it happened? She had been eager to impress the others, but she had hurt her spirit instead. She knew she had to ask for forgiveness. If her actions had disappointed her new friends, how much more must they have disappointed Heavenly Father?

That night Lillie couldn’t eat her dinner, and it was hard to look at her parents. Finally her father gently asked what was troubling her. The story spilled out, mixed with bitter tears. “Dad, I am so sorry. I feel terrible,” Lillie cried.

Her father put his arm around her shoulders. “That’s an important part of repentance, Lillie. You truly have to be sorry for what you do—or say.”

Lillie wiped her eyes. “Oh, I am, Dad. I’ll never swear again. Never!”

Her father nodded. “Good. Now go tell Heavenly Father what you just told me, and I’m sure you’ll feel better soon.”

As Lillie knelt beside her bed and prayed, she felt her heart would break. She thought of other mistakes she had made and wondered how Heavenly Father and Jesus could continue to love and forgive her. But as she whispered, “I am so sorry,” she felt the peaceful warmth of the Holy Ghost. Finishing her prayer, she was filled with the strength to do one more thing she needed to do.

Lillie shakily dialed Teresa’s phone number. She could barely speak, but she managed to say she was sorry for what she had said at lunch. Then she called Jackie and Brad.

“Do I have to go to school today?” she asked her mother the next morning. She didn’t want to face her friends. What must they think of her?

Her mother hugged her. “Yes. If you don’t, it will be harder tomorrow.”

Teresa found Lillie before school and gave her a quick hug. “I can’t believe you called everyone and said you were sorry. I never could have done that!”

Jackie called from the doorway of her classroom. “Lillie! I have to talk to you about my birthday party, OK? See you at lunch.”

Lillie gave a small sigh of relief and slid into her chair. She never wanted to feel the hurt of a wrong choice again. Even if her friends hadn’t known she was a member of the Church, she would have felt the sting all the same. She was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and from now on she intended to act like it.

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A Gift to Remember

By Leslie Ethington
Friend, Apr 2004, 20–22
(Based on a true story)

Build a house unto me in the name of the Lord (D&C 97:15).

Frances couldn’t sleep. She felt like jumping up and down with excitement, but she forced herself to lie still so she wouldn’t wake her three younger brothers on the floor beside her.

She pinched herself to be sure she wasn’t dreaming. “Tomorrow I’m really going with Father to Salt Lake City for the temple dedication. This will be my happiest birthday ever!” she thought.

It seemed only minutes had passed when Father nudged her and whispered, “Wake up, Frances. It’s nearly sunup.”

She quickly slid into her dress and smoothed her hair. Clutching the small bundle containing her other dress, she hurried to the wagon.

Frances had never been away from home. She wanted to see everything. But by mid-morning, she realized that red soil, gray sagebrush, and dark cedar trees were the only sights for miles around. “I wish we could go faster,” she said. “I can’t wait to see the temple. Perhaps we’ll even see the prophet!”

“Singing will make the journey go faster,” Father suggested. He began singing his favorite hymn, “The Spirit of God.”* After he finished singing, Father said, “That song was sung at the Kirtland Temple dedication. I expect it will be sung in many more temples of the Lord.”

Frances and her father began to sing in harmony. The hymns “Now Let Us Rejoice” and “Redeemer of Israel”** echoed through the nearby hills. Frances smiled. “I’ve never been so happy,” she thought.

After Father stopped the team for the night and the two of them had eaten, Father said, “It’s time for scripture study. Will you read from Isaiah, Frances?”

She opened Father’s well-worn Bible to the page they had read the night before and began reading.

After scripture study, Frances lay on the corn-husk tick (mattress) in the wagon and quickly fell asleep.

April 6, 1893, dawned cold and windy. Frances awoke early. She could hardly contain her excitement! “Today we will finally see the temple!” she thought. “I couldn’t receive a better birthday present.”

The scenery changed as they traveled north. The mountains were higher and more rugged. The air was cooler with cloudy skies, threatening to rain.

When they arrived in Salt Lake City, many wagons and buggies bumped along the busy, dusty road toward the temple. “It looks like everyone in the Church is going to the dedication with us,” Frances exclaimed.

Rounding a curve, she gasped. In the distance a huge granite building with six majestic spires rose in splendor. Standing high on one spire was a golden statue of the angel Moroni.

Father stopped the wagon. Tears filled Frances’s eyes as she hugged Father’s arm. “The temple is even more beautiful than I had imagined,” she whispered.

Father’s eyes were moist, too. “It’s taken forty years of sacrifice and hard labor to build this temple, but it is a small price to pay to finally receive the blessings the Lord has in store for us in His house.”

To Frances’s surprise, Father drew a tiny box from his pocket and placed it in her hand. “I want you to always remember this day,” he said. Opening the box, he removed a gold locket and fastened its delicate chain around her neck.

Tears of joy flowed down her cheeks. “Father, I love you so! I’ll always treasure this locket. It will help me remember the things you’ve taught me.”

“Always remember the importance of the Lord’s house,” Father said. “The desire of my heart is for all of my children to be sealed in the temple. I’m depending on you to set the example and teach your brothers and baby sister.”

“I will, Father,” Frances promised.

Father jerked the reins, and the horses moved forward. Outside the temple a large crowd was assembling. Father parked the wagon a short distance from the temple, secured the horses, then helped Frances climb out of the wagon. As

Frances studied each detail of the great temple, she remembered the words she had read in Isaiah the night before:

“Even them will I bring to my holy mountain, and make them joyful in my house of prayer: their … sacrifices shall be accepted upon mine altar; for mine house shall be called an house of prayer for all people” (Isa. 56:7).

She looked at the golden angel, high against the ash-gray sky. Walking reverently beside her father, she whispered, “I’ve never felt this close to the Lord. I know that this is His house.” She reached for her father’s hand. A feeling of joy and peace filled her heart as they walked toward the temple doors.

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An Experiment in Forgiving

By Jane McBride Choate
Friend, Apr 2004, 38
(Based on a true story)

Forgive one another your trespasses (Mosiah 26:31).

Jared carefully recorded the last bit of information for his sixth-grade science project—comparing the differences between plants watered with tap water and those watered with distilled water.

“There,” he said in satisfaction. “All done.”

He ran into the laundry room.

“Mom, I finished the experiment. Do you want to see it?” Mom finished folding a towel and smiled. “Of course.”

Jared led her into the kitchen, where the two sets of plants occupied a shelf by the big glass door. When he saw the plants, he stopped in his tracks. “Oh, no!” he cried.

Kaitlyn, Jared’s three-year-old sister, looked up and smiled, her hands covered with dirt. Potting soil and crushed plants were strewn across the floor.

“You ruined my project!” Jared wiped angry tears from his eyes. “You wreck everything I have.”

“Jared, your sister didn’t mean to do anything wrong,” Mom said quietly.

“Sure,” Jared said bitterly. “Just like she didn’t mean to write all over my geography homework last week. Just like she didn’t mean to spill milk on my book report. Just like she—”

“That’s enough,” Mom said.

Jared recognized the tone in his mother’s voice and knew he’d said too much.

“Tell Jared you’re sorry,” Mom said to Kaitlyn.

Kaitlyn’s bottom lip trembled. “I’m sorry.”

Normally, Jared couldn’t stay angry at his little sister for very long, but this was different. He had spent a whole month caring for the plants and recording the differences between the two sets for the sixth-grade science fair. Now they were destroyed. He wouldn’t have anything to show in the fair next week.

He cleaned up the mess as well as he could, but he couldn’t save the plants. He dumped them into the big trash can in the garage. In his room, he slammed his fist into his baseball mitt. All his work had been for nothing.

A few minutes later, he heard a knock at his door.

“Jared, can I come in?” Mom called.

Reluctantly, he got up and opened the door.

Mom wrapped her arm around his shoulders. “I know you’re disappointed. Is there anything I can do?”

He shook his head.

“I’m sorry about the experiment.” she said.

“Me, too,” he said, still slamming the ball into his mitt.

“Kaitlyn made a mistake. Can you forgive her?” When Jared didn’t answer, his mother turned and quietly left the room.

When another knock sounded at his door, Jared ignored it. The door inched open, and Kaitlyn stood there. “I’m sorry.”

Jared looked at his sister’s red eyes. For a moment, his heart softened. Then he remembered how hard he’d worked on the experiment. He had hoped to win a prize with it. “Go away.”

Kaitlyn sniffled and rubbed her eyes before closing the door behind her.

Jared asked to be excused from dinner. He knew his parents were disappointed in him, but he didn’t care. He tried to do his homework but couldn’t concentrate. After staring at the same page of his history book for five minutes, he gave up. He got ready for bed, then knelt down, intending to say his prayers as he did every night. The words refused to come.

He didn’t sleep very well. He kept tossing and turning, remembering the hurt in Kaitlyn’s eyes when he’d refused to speak to her. He tried to push away the image. Kaitlyn had wrecked his experiment. He didn’t know if he could ever forgive her.

He thought about the word forgive and recalled part of the blessing his father had given him after his baptism and confirmation. “There will be times in your life when you need to seek forgiveness. I bless you with the meekness of heart to do so. There will also be times when you must forgive others. Remember the example of the Savior when you are faced with such times. Forgiveness is a gift. Use it and you will be blessed.”

The following morning, Jared trudged to school, his heart heavy. But it wasn’t the ruined experiment that filled his thoughts—it was Kaitlyn. He told himself he had nothing to feel guilty about, but he couldn’t erase the picture of Kaitlyn’s unhappy face from his mind.

At school, he explained to his science teacher what had happened. Mr. MacKade laid a hand on Jared’s shoulder. “I know you’re disappointed. You put a lot of work into your experiment.” His teacher tapped a finger against the notebook he always carried. “Did you take photos of it?”

Jared nodded. He’d asked his father if he could use his camera to take photos of the plants at different stages.

“We’ll show the photos instead,” Mr. MacKade said. “It won’t be the same as displaying the plants themselves, but it’ll be the next best thing.”

“Thanks, Mr. MacKade. I’ll do that.”

Jared slipped into his seat. He should have felt better, but the ache in his heart remained. He couldn’t concentrate on his math problems or his spelling test. He could not even choke down the sandwich and cupcake his mother had packed in his lunch. All he could see was Kaitlyn’s face, her quivering lips and tear-reddened eyes. No science experiment was worth the pain he’d caused his little sister.

By the end of school, Jared knew what he had to do. Kaitlyn had been wrong to ruin his plants, but that did not excuse how he had treated her. He hurried home from school.

“Mom, I’m home. Where’s Kaitlyn?” he called, slamming the door behind him.

Mom looked up from the Primary manual she was studying. “She’s in her room.” His mother looked like she wanted to say something else.

“Don’t worry, Mom,” Jared said. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

Jared raced up the stairs and knocked on Kaitlyn’s door. “Kaitlyn, it’s me.” He heard a muffled “Come in.” He pushed open the door.

Kaitlyn was sitting on her bed, her arms looped around her knees. “Are you still mad at me?” she asked in a small voice.

Jared crossed the room to sit beside her. “No, Kaitlyn. I’m not angry anymore. I’m sorry I yelled at you. I know you only wanted to help.” He hugged her and asked, “How would you like to go to the park with me?”

Kaitlyn nodded and gave him a big smile.

That evening Jared labeled the pictures he had taken of the plants. Kaitlyn played with her dolls beside him. A quiet feeling of peace enveloped him. And when he knelt by his bed that night to say his prayers, he didn’t have any trouble finding the words.

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Birthday Cookies

By Elizabeth Westra
Friend, Apr 2004, 46–47
(Based on a true story that took place in the 1960s)

Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them (Matt. 7:12).

Cammie’s mouth watered as she watched Leanne pass out her birthday treat—cupcakes trimmed with candies. She watched Leanne place one with purple candies on Josh’s desk, a huge one with pink candies on Shelly’s desk, and another one with chocolate candies on Nick’s desk. Cammie could hardly wait to see which one Leanne would give her. As she approached Cammie, Leanne frowned at her. “I know we’re not good friends, but she’ll still give me a good cupcake,” Cammie thought.

Leanne looked over the few cupcakes left in the box and selected a tiny squashed cupcake with only one candy on it. Looking down at the floor, she plopped that one onto Cammie’s desk. All the kids in Cammie’s row looked at her and whispered to each other. Cammie’s eyes burned with unshed tears. “I won’t cry,” she told herself. “Leanne’s just a snob. She won’t play with anyone but her own group of friends.” Cammie bit her lip and stared straight ahead.

After class, on the playground, Cammie talked to her best friend, Becky, about what had happened. “Just wait until my birthday next week,” Cammie said. “I’ll have something really special for my treat and I won’t give her any, or I’ll give her a really ugly one. Then she can see how it feels.”

That evening Cammie and her mom planned the treat Cammie would take to school the following week. Since Cammie loved chocolate, they decided on chocolate chip cookies.

“Mom, can we decorate them with lots of chocolate candies?” Cammie asked.

“Sure, that would look nice,” her mom answered. “You can put them on yourself, if you’d like.”

“Oh, I’ll put them on all right,” Cammie thought. “I’ll make Leanne’s really special.”

The following week, Cammie nibbled on chocolate candies as she helped her mom bake the cookies. “Don’t eat them all before you decorate the cookies.” Mom laughed.

Cammie grinned and pushed the bowl of candies away. She spent the next hour carefully placing candies on each cookie as it came out hot and gooey from the oven. She put a variety of colors on some cookies and only blue and red or yellow and brown on some. She made a special one for Becky. Soon there were only a few cookies left to decorate.

“Now, for the one to give Leanne,” Cammie thought. She found a small, lopsided cookie and squished it in the middle, leaving a dent. Then she picked a misshapen chocolate candy and plunked it down on top of the small, crooked cookie. “That will serve her right,” Cammie thought.

After she said her prayers that night, Cammie lay awake thinking about how awful Leanne would feel the next morning. Thinking about it made Cammie feel bad all over again. “Should I do it? Am I doing the right thing?” she wondered. Finally she fell asleep, undecided.

At school the next day, Cammie’s class looked excitedly at the giant cookies with their bright trimmings. Cammie made a special effort to show them to Leanne. Leanne just sniffed and said, “They’re OK.” Then she sneaked another peek at the cookies. Cammie smiled to herself.

“All right, children, we have another birthday treat today,” the teacher announced. “Cammie, would you pass out your treat? My, it looks delicious.”

Cammie started passing out the cookies, not paying much attention to who got each one. “That way no one feels bad,” she thought. “No one but Leanne.” Leanne slid down in her seat with an uneasy look on her face.

Soon Cammie had passed out all but the last three cookies. Only two students remained: Leanne and Jody. Cammie gave a huge one to Jody, then turned to look right into Leanne’s eyes. When she saw how unhappy Leanne looked, she remembered what she had been thinking about the night before. Cammie knew how Leanne felt. She took a step forward and moved her hand toward the ugly little cookie. She froze as she saw a pleading look and tears in Leanne’s eyes.

“She did the same thing to me first,” a little voice inside her said. “But you know how it feels. Do you want to make someone else feel that way, too?” she thought. Suddenly the words, “ ‘Love your enemies’ ” and “ ‘do good to them that hate you,’ ”* came into her mind. Would she really feel better by making Leanne feel bad?

“Are you almost finished, Cammie?” her teacher asked as Cammie hesitated.

Cammie slowly picked up the bigger cookie, one with many colored candies on it, and placed it carefully on Leanne’s desk. “I made this one especially for you,” she said. Leanne’s mouth dropped open as she stared up at Cammie. Then Cammie returned to her desk and ate the squished little cookie herself. She had never tasted a better cookie.

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(May)

Where’s Arthur?

By William G. Hartley
Friend, May 2004, 5
(Based on the experiences of Arthur Parker; taken from historical sources)

Without faith there cannot be any hope (Moro. 7:42).

Arthur Parker walked and walked and walked. Even though he was only six years old, he sometimes helped his mother and father pull their loaded handcart. When everybody stopped to rest, he liked to explore. He wandered around to see other people, the prairie grass, a stream, or a grove of trees.

Arthur had one brother and two sisters: Max, 12; Martha Ann, 10; and Ada, 1. The Parkers had sailed from England to America that spring. Now they were traveling west with the McArthur Handcart Company. As Max helped his parents pull the handcart, Martha Ann walked behind, taking care of Arthur and Ada.

But one day Arthur’s father became ill. Martha Ann took his place helping to pull the handcart and sent Arthur to walk with a group of other children in the company. When Arthur sat down to rest beside the trail and fell asleep, the other children didn’t notice. The company moved on without him.

By the time Arthur’s family discovered that he was missing, it was too late and too dark to go looking for him. That night, the cloudy sky burst open. Thunder and lightning raged, and many tents blew over. Water ran across the ground in streams as people huddled in wet clothes. All night long, the Parkers worried about Arthur, lost out in the stormy darkness. They hoped somebody would bring him to their tent, but no one did.

The next morning, search parties went back along the trail to look for Arthur. The handcarts stayed camped all day so the searchers could continue looking. Where was the little boy? Was he hurt in the thunderstorm?

After searching for two days, the company could not wait any longer. They had more than a thousand miles left to go.

Arthur’s parents didn’t give up hope. They decided that Brother Parker would go farther back along the trail to look for Arthur, while Sister Parker and the other children would stay with the company and pull the handcart.

Before Brother Parker left, his wife pinned a bright red shawl around his shoulders. If he found Arthur dead, he would wrap him in the shawl. But if he found Arthur alive, he would wear the shawl on his shoulders or hold it in his hand to signal that Arthur was all right.

The worried father retraced the trail—calling Arthur’s name, searching everywhere he could, and praying. He walked and searched for 10 miles, determined not to leave without finding his son.

Meanwhile, the handcart company moved ahead. Two days went by. Sister Parker kept looking back anxiously, hoping to see her husband and son catching up with them.

At last, Brother Parker came to a mail-and-trading station. He asked if anyone had seen a lost six-year-old boy. Someone said that a boy had been found! He was being cared for by a farmer and his wife. Arthur’s father went to the farmhouse and found his son. How glad they were to see each other!

Arthur told his father that he had spent the first night under some trees, which protected him from the rainstorm. Then he had wandered until he came to the farmhouse. Brother Parker figured out that Arthur had walked about nine miles!

The handcart company was now 60 miles past where Arthur had disappeared. Arthur had been missing for four days, and his mother had hardly slept at all since then. She kept watching the trail behind her, looking for her husband, hoping he would be waving the red shawl.

A few days later, as the sun was setting, she suddenly spotted the red shawl waving in the distance. Arthur was alive! Captain McArthur sent a wagon back to meet the father and son. Everyone in the company rejoiced to see Arthur, but no one felt as happy as his mother. Completely exhausted, she slept soundly for the first time in days.

The Parkers continued on their journey. Arthur kept walking, singing, and exploring—but he stayed a little closer to his parents. Each night, they hugged him a little tighter.

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Making a New Friend

By Angie Bergstrom Miller
Friend, May 2004, 10
(Based on a true story)

A friend loveth at all times (Prov. 17:17).

Mom brushed my hair gently and tied a ribbon in it before she caught my gaze in the mirror. “You look awfully grumpy this morning,” she said cheerily to my reflection.

“That’s because I am grumpy,” I replied, scrunching up my face so my lower lip stuck out in a frown.

Mom turned me around and knelt in front of me, looking me in the eye. “You will make friends in this ward. Don’t worry!”

“But, Mom, I liked our old ward! I liked my old friends! Why did we have to move, anyway?” I felt tears sting my eyes.

“Because of Daddy’s job!” a voice piped in helpfully.

My younger sister Alison peeked into the bathroom from the hallway. She smiled her biggest smile—a smile so big that it showed the gaps where her two front teeth were missing and made her eyes disappear into little half-moons. I scowled at her.

“That’s right,” Mom said to her. Alison beamed.

“But I don’t have any friends here,” I said to Mom, ignoring my sister.

“You’ve still got me!” Alison grinned at me from the doorway.

“Great.” I rolled my eyes.

Alison frowned for a few seconds and then said, “We’re best friends!” She ran off laughing before I could shout back at her that we were not best friends.

Later that day I looked glumly at all the people in sacrament meeting. I didn’t know one person in this new ward! My family had been here for only a few days. “Please, Heavenly Father,” I silently prayed, “help me make one new friend today.”

I was nervous when sacrament meeting ended and my parents took Alison and me to our Primary classes. During class, I sat alone and didn’t say anything.

When my class walked down the hall to the Primary room for sharing time, I clutched my scriptures tightly. I still felt nervous. I stopped at the drinking fountain to get a drink of water, then went into the Primary room. It was bright and cheery and full of children. As the pianist played a song I had learned in my old ward, I felt a little better.

But as I looked around, I realized that I couldn’t find the other children in my class. I didn’t know where they had gone, and I didn’t have anyone to sit by. I glanced around the room again, biting my lower lip nervously.

Then, from the corner of the room, a little girl started grinning and waving her hands at me. She pointed to a seat next to her. I smiled back at her as I walked to the empty seat. She smiled her biggest smile—a smile so big that it showed the gaps where her two front teeth were missing and made her eyes disappear into little half-moons.

That little girl rescued me. She was the friend Heavenly Father had sent for me.

I decided that sisters were best friends.

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Mother’s Day for Mrs. Martin

By Peggy Epstein
Friend, May 2004, 20
(Based on a true story)

Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself (Matt. 19:19).

“All seven of my cousins are going to be at my grandmother’s house for Mother’s Day,” Sarah said as she watered Mrs. Martin’s seedlings. “We always have a picnic lunch in the backyard.”

“That sounds like a lot of fun,” Mrs. Martin replied, pulling a tiny weed from a pot.

Every spring Sarah and Mrs. Martin, who lived next door, planted pumpkin, watermelon, and squash seeds in clay pots on Mrs. Martin’s sun porch. Later they would move the little sprouts to the garden in the backyard.

“What are you doing for Mother’s Day?” Sarah asked.

“I’m not sure. When is it, anyway?”

Sarah couldn’t believe that a grown-up didn’t know the date of Mother’s Day. At lunch she told Mom what Mrs. Martin had said.

“Well, Sarah, Mrs. Martin no longer has a mother or grandmother who’s alive,” Mom explained. “And since she has no children or grandchildren, it’s not surprising that she wouldn’t think about Mother’s Day.”

Sarah chewed her tomato sandwich thoughtfully. She understood what her mother had said, but something still seemed wrong.

She looked out the window and saw Mrs. Martin feeding dog biscuits to Mr. Anderson’s cocker spaniels. Mrs. Martin didn’t even have a dog, but she always kept a jar of dog treats for any neighborhood dogs who might stop by. And for the dog owners, Mrs. Martin always had a big basket filled with apples or pears.

“It just isn’t right,” Sarah said. “Somebody that nice should celebrate Mother’s Day.”

“I think you’re right,” Mom agreed.

Sarah went up to her room. Her desk was covered with art supplies for the cards she was making for her mom and grandma. She had already sprinkled green and pink glitter on the edges of two cards. She picked up a fresh sheet of paper and started writing.

Mothers and grandmothers are nice. They give us help when we need help. They talk to us about important things. They find fun things for us to do. They make good things for us to eat. They give us hugs. You do all these things, so I am saying Happy Mother’s Day to you! Love, Sarah

Sarah worked on the card most of the afternoon, drawing vegetables all around its edges. Mrs. Martin always said that she would rather grow vegetables than flowers. She thought pumpkins and watermelons were “gorgeous.”

Then Sarah decorated an envelope to match and carefully printed “To Mrs. Martin” on the outside.

“It’s almost ready,” she said to Scooter, the tabby cat who had been watching from his perch on the windowsill.

“Mom,” Sarah called downstairs. “I need to call Grandma.”

“OK.”

After Sarah made her call, she turned over the card for Mrs. Martin and wrote on the back. Then she put it in the envelope and bounced down the stairs and out the back door.

Mrs. Martin was putting seeds into the bird feeder. “Hello, Sarah,” she called.

“Hi,” Sarah said. “This is for you.” She handed the card to Mrs. Martin.

“Should I open it now?”

“Yes. It’s a Mother’s Day card.”

“For me?” Mrs. Martin asked with surprise. “But today isn’t Mother’s Day!”

“No, but this card has to be opened early.”

Mrs. Martin opened the card and read it slowly. Then she turned it over to read what Sarah had carefully written on the back:

You are invited to be an Honorary Mother at a picnic at Grandma’s house on Mother’s Day— which is next Sunday. Please come.

Mrs. Martin smiled. “Thank you, Sarah. Now we both know what I’ll be doing for Mother’s Day!”

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Teacher, Can You Help?

By Patricia Reece Roper
Friend, May 2004, 36
(Based on a true story)

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

“I don’t want to give the prayer.” Austin stubbornly folded his arms across his chest and pushed both of his feet against the floor, as if he wanted them to grow roots and hold him there.

“It’s your turn,” Stacey told him.

“Everyone else has already done it,” Steven added.

Austin shook his head and looked down. No one could make him give the prayer, even if it was his turn.

“I’ll help you,” his Primary teacher, Sister Lee, offered. Austin looked up hopefully and almost smiled, but Steven’s next comment made him drop his gaze again.

“We’re too old to get help from the teacher.”

The other children nodded. But Sister Lee raised her hand to quiet them.

“Now, wait just a minute,” she said. “We’re never too old to ask for help.”

“Even to give the prayer?” Stacey asked.

Austin looked at her. Was it really that bad to ask for help with the prayer? He wondered what Sister Lee would say.

“We’re never too old to ask for help with anything,” Sister Lee replied. “How many of you need help taking the sacrament?”

Steven covered a snicker with his hand. Austin grinned at their teacher’s question.

“None of us do,” Stacey said.

“Let me tell you a story,” Sister Lee said with a twinkle in her eye. “When I was about your age, we used to have junior Sunday School on Sunday mornings, then we went home for lunch and returned to church later in the evening for sacrament meeting.”

“How weird!” Steven exclaimed, making a funny face.

“It does seem odd now, but then it was just the way we did things. During junior Sunday School, we took the sacrament. We sat in our classes instead of with our families.

“One day, I was sitting on the end of our row. When the deacon passed the sacrament to me, I looked up and realized how terribly big he was. I had never taken the sacrament tray from the deacon before. Usually I sat in the middle of my class, and one of the other children would pass it to me. I started to cry. I was very shy and afraid to take the sacrament from the deacon. Some of the children in the other classes noticed me crying and turned around to find out what was wrong. That just made everything worse. I was so embarrassed that I hid my face behind my teacher’s arm.”

“You were embarrassed to take the sacrament?” Austin asked.

“I was afraid of the big deacon,” Sister Lee explained. “My teacher thought I must not like the deacon, so she asked another one to come over and give me the sacrament. When I peeked out from behind her arm and saw another deacon, I cried harder.”

“Did you ever take the sacrament?” Steven asked.

“My teacher took it for me and held it in her hand until no one was watching. Then she quietly handed it to me. Each Sunday after that, she would always ask if I wanted her help.”

“You could have just asked her in the first place,” Stacey said.

“That’s right. Many times all we need to do is say, ‘Teacher, can you help me?’ And he or she will be right there to help you.”

“But we’re still too old to have help with prayers,” Steven insisted.

“Not really,” Sister Lee told him. “You would have thought I was old enough to take the sacrament without help, but you never know. That’s why we can never judge. Someone might seem able, but we don’t know what he or she is thinking.”

“Teachers like to help us,” Stacey observed.

“Even when we’re older,” Sister Lee agreed. “I’ve had teachers who worried about me, fussed over me, and prayed for me all my life. Even now, I have visiting teachers who do that. That’s just part of being a teacher; we’re here to help and we want to.”

Austin smiled at Sister Lee. “I want to say the prayer,” he told her. “I just can’t think of what to say. Teacher, can you help me?”

Sister Lee smiled and said, “Of course, Austin. I’d love to help.”

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The Flower Girls

By Marianne Dahl Johnson
Friend, May 2004, 39
(Based on a true story)

Behold, I give unto you power, that whatsoever ye shall seal on earth shall be sealed in heaven (Hel. 10:7).

Clarissa’s eyes shone as she twirled in front of her reflection in the mirror and watched the green folds of her new dress rise above her ankles and spin around her knees. She felt like a princess.

“Is it finished?” she asked her mom.

“Almost,” Mom replied. “I just need to hem it. Now go stand by the door so I can see how much shorter it should be.”

Clarissa turned slowly as her mother directed. She loved the new dress she would be wearing when she and her younger sister Deseret served as flower girls at Aunt Olivia’s wedding.

Clarissa smiled when she thought of Aunt Olivia. She was Mom’s youngest sister, and she always made time to play games and dress-up with Deseret and Clarissa when all the other adults were talking at family gatherings. Clarissa loved Aunt Olivia!

Clarissa remembered the first time she met Edgar, the man Aunt Olivia was going to marry. Mom had invited Aunt Olivia and Edgar to dinner. He was tall and quiet. At first, Clarissa was scared of him because he didn’t talk much. But then he had smiled at Clarissa and talked to her quietly. They soon discovered that they shared the same birthday! That made Clarissa feel special. She really liked Edgar.

Clarissa was happy several months later when Mom told her that Edgar and Aunt Olivia were going to be married. She and Deseret were even happier when Aunt Olivia asked them to be flower girls. Mom explained that they would get new matching dresses and that they would carry flowers at the reception. They were going to have so much fun!

Clarissa stopped daydreaming as Deseret ran into the room. “Mom, are you ready to hem my dress?” she asked.

“I’m not quite finished with Clarissa’s dress, dear,” Mom said.

Deseret looked at Clarissa. “You look so pretty!” she said. The girls grasped hands and twirled around the room together. “We’re going to be beautiful at the wedding!” Clarissa exclaimed.

“Actually, girls,” Mom said, “you’re going to be beautiful at the reception. You’re not going to the wedding, you know.”

The dancing stopped abruptly. “What?” Clarissa asked. “Why can’t we go to the wedding?”

“We have to!” Deseret cried. “We’re the flower girls! Aunt Olivia asked us.”

“I know you’re the flower girls,” Mom said. “But do you girls remember where Aunt Olivia is getting married?”

“In the temple,” Deseret said.

“That’s right.” Mom smiled. “Aunt Olivia and Edgar are getting married in the same temple that Dad and I were married in. But only adults who have a temple recommend can go to weddings in the temple.”

“Why?” Clarissa asked.

“Well,” Mom said, “getting married in the temple is very sacred and holy. Only people who have made important covenants, or promises, to Heavenly Father in the temple can go. Adults are old enough to understand how important and special those covenants are.”

“Why does Aunt Olivia want to get married in a place where we can’t go?” Deseret frowned.

“I know why,” Clarissa said. “If you get married in the temple, you can be married forever, right?”

“Right, Clarissa.” Mom nodded. “Did you know that a temple wedding is called a sealing?” Mom laughed as Deseret looked up at the ceiling. “Not that kind of ceiling, Deseret. A temple sealing is a bit like sealing an envelope. When you lick an envelope and shut it tightly, it’s sealed, though not forever. When Olivia and Edgar are sealed in the temple, their marriage can last forever—even after they die. Temples are the only places on earth where that kind of marriage can take place.”

“Where will we be during the sealing?” Deseret asked.

“On the temple grounds with Uncle Ammon,” Mom replied. “He’s not old enough to go to Olivia’s sealing, either.”

“Hurray!” the girls cried. Uncle Ammon was a lot of fun, too.

“And then the next day, we’ll go to the reception at the church,” Mom continued. “You girls will wear your new dresses and carry flowers, and lots of people we know will be there. It will be fun. Now why don’t you take this dress off so I can finish it?”

As Clarissa walked to her room to change, she thought about what Mom had said. She knew Edgar and Aunt Olivia really loved each other. She was happy they could be married forever.

Weeks later, the girls walked around the temple grounds with Uncle Ammon. They admired the beautiful temple and the flowers and trees around it. They went into the visitors’ center and saw some pretty pictures and a movie about Jesus. Then they went outside to meet Mom and Dad after the sealing. Together they waited for Aunt Olivia and Edgar to come outside.

Clarissa spotted them as they came through the door. Aunt Olivia looked so beautiful! Edgar—now Uncle Edgar—looked handsome. They smiled as they held hands and hugged everyone.

As Clarissa wrapped her arms around Aunt Olivia, she whispered, “I’m glad I couldn’t go to your wedding.”

Aunt Olivia drew back and looked into Clarissa’s eyes. “What did you say?” she asked.

Clarissa looked down shyly. “I’m glad I couldn’t go to your wedding because I’m glad you got married forever,” she said.

“Me too!” Aunt Olivia smiled as she hugged Clarissa one more time.

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Fasting for Grandma

By Wendy Ellison
Friend, May 2004, 44
(Based on experiences of the author’s family)

Continue in fasting and praying (Omni 1:26).

I didn’t know as much about fasting when I was seven as I do now that I’m eight. Oh, I knew what fasting was, but I didn’t really understand what it meant until one day when my parents called a family meeting.

“Grandma will be having surgery, and she needs our help,” Mom explained. “Your aunts and uncles and all of your cousins who are old enough will join us in a special fast.”

“A fast!” I gasped.

I love Grandma and really wanted to help her, but I’m a growing boy. Eating is one of my favorite things to do. It’s hard for me to go without food for two minutes, so I didn’t know if I could go without two whole meals! Couldn’t I send Grandma a get-well card or visit her at the hospital? I would even weed her garden. That would be as good as fasting, wouldn’t it?

“Who would like to join our fast?” Mom asked.

Both of my sisters raised their hands. “Sure,” I thought, “it’s easier for them. They have more practice.” Of course Mom and Dad would fast, too. They’ve been fasting for so long they’re practically experts. My brother wouldn’t have to fast because he’s only two.

“When would we start?” I asked.

“Tomorrow night,” Dad replied. “Grandma’s surgery is scheduled for the next morning. We’ll close our fast at dinner that night.”

I thought carefully. Watching all my classmates go to lunch without me would be tough.

Then I remembered some of the great things Grandma does for me. She always gives me treats from her cookie jar. She gives the best hugs, and she prays for me. Swallowing hard, I raised my hand.

“Good,” Mom said with a smile. “I’m glad you’re all willing.”

Before we started our fast the next evening, my family gathered for prayer and asked Heavenly Father to bless Grandma.

For a while after dinner I was fine, especially if I didn’t look at the food in our pantry. But after a couple of hours, my stomach started to grumble. I grumbled, too.

“Dad, I don’t think I can wait until tomorrow to eat,” I moaned.

Dad is pretty smart. He says things in a way I can understand.

“Son, I know it’s difficult for a boy like you to fast,” Dad said. “But Heavenly Father has told us that fasting is a good way to receive extra help. We hope that if we show faith in Him by fasting and praying, He’ll bless Grandma to have a successful surgery and get well. Do you think you can try something for me?”

“If I have the strength,” I mumbled.

“Whenever you feel hungry, think of the reasons you’re fasting. Remember Grandma. If you do, I believe you’ll be able to make it to the end of the fast.”

The next day I tried what Dad said. Every time my stomach growled, I thought about Grandma and how much I wanted Heavenly Father to bless her. It wasn’t easy, but I made it all the way to the end, just like my dad said. Even though I was hungry, I felt good inside.

Everything worked out OK. Grandma is better, and she still has treats for me in her cookie jar. After her surgery, people did lots of things to help her get better, like bringing her dinner and stopping by to visit. I even made her a get-well card. But in my heart I know that nothing helped as much as fasting for Grandma.

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(June)

An Answered Prayer

By Jennifer White
Friend, Jun 2004, 4–7
(Based on a true story)

Pray in your families unto the Father (3 Ne. 18:21).

“Gracie,” Mom whispered. “Wake up. It’s time for family prayer.”

Grace groaned and pulled the covers over her head. She was so warm and cozy in her bed. She heard her sister Charlotte get up and go into the living room. Grace stayed in bed, hoping her family would forget about her and just say the prayer. Dad had to leave for work early every morning, so everyone got up then to say good-bye and have a prayer.

“Grace, time to get up,” Mom called. Grace sighed and dragged herself out of bed. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she mumbled to herself, “What’s the point? We pray for the same things every day.”

“Hello, sleepyhead,” Dad said with a smile. Grace scowled at him. She knelt on the floor next to Charlotte and bowed her head.

“Help us to be like Jesus and to love one another. Please help us have a good day and bless us with health and safety. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen,” Charlotte said. “Amen,” chorused the family.

“Good-bye, everyone,” Dad said, “I love you.” Dad spied Grace, who was still scowling, and asked, “Where’s my good-bye smile?” Grace couldn’t help but smile as Dad reached out to tickle her, but she still felt grumpy.

Grace felt tired all morning at school. She was sure it was because she had to get up so early for family prayer. “If only I could sleep half an hour longer, I’m sure I wouldn’t feel so sleepy,” she thought.

Later that afternoon at home, Grace was eating a snack while Charlotte watched cartoons. Suddenly they heard pounding on the front door. Grace stood up and walked toward the door, but before she could open it, a man burst through it, yelling, “Fire! Fire! Hurry and get out! Your house is on fire!” Hearing the noise, Mom came rushing from the kitchen, a frightened look on her face. She grabbed the girls and rushed them out the front door. The man pointed to the flames coming from their roof. Smoke billowed into the sky as the flames climbed higher and higher. Mom led the girls to the neighbors’ porch across the street. “Stay here while I go call 911,” she said before running into the neighbors’ house. After Mom disappeared, Charlotte began to cry. “I want my mommy.” Grace hugged her, saying, “It’s OK, Mommy just went inside to call the fire department.”

By the time Mom came back, they could already hear sirens blaring. A big red fire truck roared up the street, screeching to a halt in front of their house. The firefighters leaped from the fire engine and began spraying Grace’s house with a big hose. Once the blaze died down, they went inside to check the house for any lingering flames. Mom hugged the girls as they watched the firefighters work.

Dad’s car pulled into the neighbors’ driveway. He jumped out.

“What happened?” Dad cried.

Shaking her head, Mom said, “I was starting dinner in the kitchen when a man came in and shouted that our house was on fire. He was working on the electrical lines and saw the smoke. I had no idea what was going on. …” She paused. “He saved our lives.”

Grace said in a trembling voice, “It was lucky that he was working up on the power poles and saw the smoke, or we might have been inside when the fire got worse.” Grace didn’t want to think of what might have happened. Dad hugged everyone and said with tears in his eyes, “Let’s kneel right now and thank Heavenly Father for His protection.” “What about the house, Dad?” Grace cried. Dad said quietly, “I don’t care about the house. I’m just grateful you are all safe.”

Grace had never felt so much love and happiness as she knelt with her family. Then she remembered their family prayer that morning for health and safety. Shame washed over her as she recalled how she had acted.

“I’m sorry, Heavenly Father,” she prayed silently. The warm feeling returned to her heart. She knew that Heavenly Father had protected her and her family, and she was grateful that He had heard and answered her family’s prayer.

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Foxtails

By Ray Goldrup
Friend, Jun 2004, 21
(Based on a true story)

Deal justly, judge righteously, and do good continually (Alma 41:14).

Aaron traipsed along the hot, dusty road, pulling his wagon. The only sounds were the rattle of wheels over the lumpy ground and the clinking of coins in his pocket.

“Two dollars and 75 cents,” he thought. “Mrs. Murphy gave me much more than it costs to buy her a bag of flour and a sack of potatoes.”

Needing a rest, he sat in the shade of a wild olive tree on a stack of old fence posts in an empty field. He reached for his small canteen, emptied the last few drops of water into his mouth, and tossed the empty container back into the wagon.

A lizard crawled onto the end of one of the fence posts and stared at him. “It’s hot enough to turn even you belly up in the sun, you know that?” he told the reptile. “I guess that’s why you’re under this tree, like me.”

He pulled the coins from his pocket and eyed them. “Mrs. Murphy said this would be enough to buy what she needs,” he said, “which probably means she doesn’t expect anything back. Of course, she can hardly see enough to know a penny from a dime.”

Aaron squinted at the huge field of tall, dead weeds and twisted olive trees, their leaves almost glowing in the heat. “I’m sure Mrs. Murphy wouldn’t mind if I bought a tall glass of lemonade at the soda fountain. There will be enough money left over. Besides,” he reasoned, “I’ve earned it. It’s a half-mile between her place and town. She’s our neighbor, and I’m helping see to her needs, like Mom and Dad asked. But I have needs, too, like lemonade on a hot summer day. Since my canteen is empty, what choice do I have?”

He stood, and the lizard stiffened. “Even you lizards get thirsty. But all you have to do is find a fat, juicy spider. It doesn’t cost you a penny. But we humans have to pay for a drink when our canteens are empty. It’s just the way of things.”

Aaron stepped back onto the road but stopped short. Through the waves of heat, he saw something that looked like a bad dream—a large dog in the road, barking at him! He hurried off through the field. The dog didn’t chase him, but Aaron soon found himself up against another problem: his socks and pants were covered with foxtails.

When he reached the store, he sat on the curb and pulled the spiky weeds from his clothes. His father had once told him how foxtails are similar to bad habits: “Foxtails dig in and stick to whatever touches them, just as bad choices do. Once they become embedded, they are twice as hard to remove. It’s best to avoid them in the first place by staying on the better path.”

After Aaron cleaned off his clothes, he bought Mrs. Murphy’s food, loaded the flour and potatoes in his wagon, and headed down the street toward the soda fountain for a tall glass of cold lemonade. But his father’s words about wrong choices kept whispering to him. Aaron stopped in front of the soda fountain and looked at the change in his hand. Then he looked again at the soda fountain. Then back at the leftover money. Then at the dirt road baked by the summer sun.

A half-hour later, Aaron pulled his wagon to a stop in front of Mrs. Murphy’s place. He was even more thirsty than before, having decided not to spend any of Mrs. Murphy’s change. He knew she would never have known the difference, nor perhaps even cared. But he would have known, and Heavenly Father would have known, too. Foxtails were enough of a problem in his socks. He didn’t like the idea of having to remove bad habits as well. That would be much more difficult. If he stayed away from making bad choices, he wouldn’t have to worry about creating bad habits.

He climbed Mrs. Murphy’s steps, carrying the sacks of flour and potatoes. Not only did he feel good as he handed her the change, but Mrs. Murphy gave him something else as well: the biggest and best glass of cold lemonade he had ever tasted.

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Scriptures in a Suitcase

By Jennifer Jensen
Friend, Jun 2004, 28
(Based on a true story)

The Book of Mormon and the holy scriptures are given of me for your instruction (D&C 33:16).

Keryn stuffed an extra pair of jeans into her suitcase, then squeezed it shut.

“There!” she said to herself.

She had been looking forward to the school trip for months. Her class would be at camp for two days, living like pioneers—making candles, cooking over fires, even helping to build a log cabin.

Keryn glanced around the room, trying to spot anything she had missed. Her toothbrush was packed. She had clean clothes and an extra pair of shoes—oh, she’d better grab her old sweatshirt.

As she picked up her sweatshirt off the floor, her eyes fell on her scriptures on the table by the bed, and she froze.

Each member of her family had agreed to read the Book of Mormon daily, and so far Keryn hadn’t missed a night. But how was she supposed to read it in a cabin full of girls from school? With a sigh, she unlatched her suitcase, stuffed her scriptures between T-shirts and jeans, and sat on the suitcase to close it. Maybe she could find some quiet time to go off by herself and read.

“C’mon, Keryn. Race you to the campfire!” Sarah took off, and Keryn ran to catch up.

The day had been fun and very busy. Keryn had chopped at a log to help build the cabin, dunked candlewicks into wax over and over, carved a whale out of soap, and swum in the lake.

The fun carried on through the campfire time of singing songs and listening to a storyteller. Finally, Keryn, Sarah, and two of their cabinmates marched through the darkness to the cabin arm in arm, singing loudly.

The girls flopped onto their bunk beds, told stories, and laughed about the day. Then one by one they began to get ready for bed.

Keryn brushed her teeth, then climbed onto her top bunk and listened to the others. She had decided to leave her scriptures in the suitcase, but she just didn’t feel right. Then these words came into her mind: “Read them. You know you need to read them.”

Reluctantly, Keryn climbed out of bed and pulled her scriptures out of her suitcase. Then she climbed back up and tried to open the Book of Mormon without being noticed.

No such luck. She had just found her place in Mosiah when Sarah poked her head over the edge of the bunk. “What are you reading?” she asked.

“OK,” Keryn told herself, “it’s time to be a missionary.”

“It’s a book like the Bible, and it’s called the Book of Mormon,” she said aloud.

Sarah climbed up on the bunk with her. “What’s it about?”

Carol and Tasha gathered around, too.

Keryn sat up. “Well, right now I’m in a part called Mosiah, and a prophet named Abinadi is preaching the gospel to the wicked king and his priests. He’s telling them about the Ten Commandments and all the things they should already know. But they’re doing evil things instead.” She scooted over so Tasha could climb up.

“What happens to them?” Tasha asked.

“Well, later Abinadi won’t deny God, so the king has him killed.”

“What?” exclaimed Sarah. “That’s awful.”

“Yeah, it’s really sad,” Keryn agreed. “But Alma, one of the king’s priests, really listens to Abinadi. He ends up teaching the gospel to lots of people.”

“That’s awesome,” Tasha said. “I read my Bible most days, but I didn’t bring it here.” Then she flipped onto her stomach and reached down to the bottom bunk. “Hey, Carol, did you see me jump in the lake?”

Keryn smiled as the conversation turned back to the day’s events. She was glad she hadn’t left her scriptures in her suitcase, glad her friends didn’t make fun of her, and glad she had a chance to tell them about the Book of Mormon.

She looked at Sarah, Carol, and Tasha, now talking about their craft projects, then turned back to her book and continued reading about Abinadi and King Noah.

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100% Correct, A+!

By Hazel Lamoreaux
Friend, Jun 2004, 40
(Based on an experience of the author’s grandson)

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

The school bell rang as I finished copying the last spelling word from the board. I stuffed my books into my backpack. Kim, who sits between Eddie and me, left as Eddie rummaged around in his desk. Crumpled papers and books flew all over the floor.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

“My spelling list for tomorrow’s test. My mom gets mad if I don’t bring it home. She says it’s the only way to keep making As, but it isn’t!”

I wish I always made As. I’m not very good at spelling. Dad helps me study every night, and I’d sure like to give him a 100 percent correct, A+ spelling test for Father’s Day, along with the shaving lotion I got him. He’d like that.

I laid my paper by my backpack and picked up a dirty, torn paper Eddie had stomped on. “Is this what you’re looking for?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” He shoved it into his pocket.

Erasing the board, Miss Clark said, “You boys had better get going.”

I helped Eddie stuff books and papers back into his desk, and we left. He lives next door to me, so we usually walk home together.

“Want to play a video game?” he asked. “Mom bought me a new one.”

“I’d like to,” I said, “but I have to study for the spelling test tomorrow. I don’t make As like you do, no matter how hard I study.”

Eddie looked at me funny. “You sit next to Kim. She always gets 100 percent.”

I wondered what that had to do with anything. “You sit next to her, too.”

He smirked. “Yeah, that’s the point.” He marched in the house and slammed the door.

When I got home I headed into the kitchen and tossed my backpack on the table. “I have some heavy studying to do to get that 100 percent on my spelling test tomorrow,” I said.

“Have a snack first,” Mom said. She placed a peanut butter sandwich and a glass of milk on the table.

“Thanks, Mom.” I gobbled up the sandwich and washed it down with milk, then dug around in my backpack for the spelling list. I couldn’t find it.

I dumped everything in my backpack out on the table. “Mom!” I said. “I can’t find my spelling list.”

Mom searched through the books and leafed through my notebooks. The list wasn’t there. She knew how much I wanted to give Dad a 100 percent correct spelling paper for Father’s Day, so she looked again. No list.

“Where do you remember seeing it last?” she asked.

“I laid it on my desk by my backpack while I helped Eddie find his list. Then Miss Clark said we’d better hurry.”

“Then it’s probably still on your desk. But you can call Eddie and ask him to give you the words.”

On the phone, Eddie started telling me the words, but he said the paper had gotten so dirty and torn that he couldn’t read most of it. “I told you, don’t worry about it,” he said. “You sit next to Kim.”

I hung up the phone. I had something to worry about, all right. I had trouble spelling. What difference did it make to me if Kim was a genius?

I told Mom all the words I could remember, and she wrote them down for me. I tried my best, but I couldn’t think of all of them.

“Don’t worry about it,” Mom said. “Remember, in our family we love each other no matter what. We care about making good choices and doing the best we can.”

When Dad got home, he helped me study. When I could spell all the words I had, he said, “Try to sound out the others. The important thing is to do your best.”

The next day, when time came for the spelling test, I sharpened my pencil and put my pink eraser by my paper. I wanted that 100 percent so much my hand shook.

I knew the first five words. The next one I had to sound out. I glanced past Kim to Eddie, wondering if he was having trouble, too. He was craning his neck, staring at Kim’s paper—cheating! So that’s what Eddie meant about sitting next to Kim! I kept my eyes glued to my own paper, afraid the teacher would think I was cheating, too.

Suddenly Miss Clark swooped behind Eddie. Without a word, she picked up his paper, crumpled it up, and threw it in the wastebasket.

Dad wouldn’t want a paper I had cheated on. He’d be disappointed in me, and I’d feel rotten about myself.

My back hurt from sitting stiffly while I sounded out words, erased them, and sounded them out again until they looked right.

I closed my eyes. “Please, Heavenly Father, help me keep my eyes off Kim’s paper and do the best I can,” I prayed silently.

Miss Clark called out another word. I felt more relaxed and could think more clearly. I finished my test and handed it in.

We got our papers back before the end of class. I covered mine for a minute, afraid to look at my score. Then I saw “100% correct, A+!” written in red ink. I couldn’t wait to get home to show it to Mom.

On the test I wrote, “To the best dad in the world, who helps me with spelling, and teaches me to choose the right and to do the best I can.” Then I put it with the shaving lotion.

I could hardly wait for Father’s Day.

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In His Hands

By Kimberly Webb
Friend, Jun 2004, 47
(Based on a true story)

Call on the name of … God for protection (3 Ne. 4:30).

Jenny was excited to visit her friend Anne, who had moved to New York, but she was also afraid. What if she missed her airplane? What if Anne wasn’t there to meet her?

Dad helped Jenny find the right place at the airport and hugged her good-bye. “Have a good time,” he said. Jenny felt nervous, but she remembered that in family prayer Mom had prayed for her safety.

On the flight, Jenny read a book and drank juice. After landing, she found Anne’s family waiting with big smiles on their faces. “Welcome to New York!” Anne cried.

During the week they played, hiked, picnicked, and shopped. They even saw the Palmyra Temple and the Sacred Grove. When it was time to fly home, Jenny felt brave. She found her seat—right next to the window!—and put on her seatbelt.

Just as the plane began speeding up, it slowed again. The engines quieted, then stopped. “Is something wrong?” Jenny worried to herself.

“We can’t take off yet because of thunderstorms,” the pilot announced.

Three hours later, the airplane was still sitting on the runway. “I should have been home by now,” Jenny moaned. The grouchy man next to her muttered some bad words, and she felt even worse.

At last, the plane took off. Everyone cheered, except the grouchy man, who scowled. Jenny watched the city lights disappear beneath the clouds, then fell asleep.

A sudden flash awoke her. She blinked out into the darkness. There it was again!—sizzling, crackling lightning. Her stomach turned cold. She had never seen lightning so near. Her hair stood on end, charged with static electricity. She wanted to ask someone what would happen if lightning struck the airplane, but everyone else was asleep. Even the flight attendants were out of sight.

Bam! Another blinding ray of light exploded outside.

“Heavenly Father,” Jenny silently prayed, “I’m scared. Please help me to feel better and get home safely.”

As thunder rumbled and the airplane shook, Jenny remembered her vacation. She had flown to New York without any trouble. She had played, hiked, and ridden in a car. She hadn’t scraped her knees, caught a cold, or gotten lost. She hadn’t even forgotten her toothbrush. Nothing had gone wrong. Suddenly she realized that all of those things were blessings from Heavenly Father.

“If He protected me on the ground,” she thought, “why can’t He protect me in the air?” Peace entered her heart. She knew that no matter where she went, as long as she was faithful, she would be in God’s hands.

She settled back into her chair and fell asleep. When she awoke, the lights of her hometown twinkled up at her. “Prepare for landing,” the pilot said. Jenny offered a prayer of thanks, grateful to be safely home again.

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(July)

Preserving Jam (and Families)

By Brad Wilcox
Friend, Jul 2004, 5
(Based on a true story)

The great work to be done in the temples of the Lord … for … the sealing of the children to their parents
(D&C 138:48).

The raspberries were red, ripe, and juicy. Whitney had never seen quite so many. Mom had bought several large containers when they were on sale, and now she wanted Whitney to help her make jam. Whitney loved jam on toast in the mornings or on hot rolls when they came out of the oven. Her mouth watered at the thought of the treat.

Mom lifted a sack of sugar out of the storage bucket. “Start putting the raspberries in the strainer,” she instructed. “Then run them under the water in the sink until they’re clean. Be sure to pick out any bits of leaves you find.”

Whitney filled the strainer, cleaned the berries, and dumped them into a big bowl. She refilled the strainer and went through the process again and again. It hardly felt like work to her.

After Mom finished measuring the sugar, she took lots of clean jars out of the dishwasher and stacked them on the countertop. Once the dishwasher was empty, she pulled several more jars out of a cardboard box and placed them in the dishwasher.

“Why are you doing that?” Whitney asked. “They don’t look dirty to me.”

“Some of the jars have been sitting on the shelf downstairs for a while. I just want to make sure that they are all clean before we fill them with jam.”

Mom and Whitney worked together for several hours before Dad and Wendee, Whitney’s sister, came home. “Put on some aprons and come give us a hand,” Mom called to them. Dad started mashing up the last of the berries while Wendee began labeling the finished jars.

“Honey, before you put away those jars, make sure all the lids are sealed,” Mom said to Wendee.

Whitney stopped stirring and laughed. “Sealed?” she asked. “Are they getting married or something?”

Now Dad, Mom, and Wendee laughed.

“Well,” Whitney said defensively, “Mom told you to make sure the lids are sealed. So what are you going to do? Take them to the temple?”

Wendee picked up a jar and showed her younger sister the lid. “See, the lid has to seal to the jar so the jam won’t spoil. If the lid doesn’t seal, the jam won’t last. We’re not talking about the temple.”

“Well,” Dad said, “maybe we are. Think about it—isn’t it the same with families? The ones sealed in the temple by priesthood authority can last forever. Those that aren’t sealed aren’t going to last.”

“Keep mashing the rest of those berries while you preach your sermon,” Mom said as she started spooning finished jam into the jars. Whitney reached out to steady the jars while Mom worked.

“I thought getting sealed just meant getting married,” Whitney said.

“Not exactly,” Mom explained. “A man and a woman can get married anywhere, but when they marry outside of the temple, it’s only for this life. Couples married, or sealed, in the temple can be married forever.”

“Now who’s preaching?” Dad asked with a smile.

“Sealed means linked together or hard to break apart,” Mom explained. “When you get married in the temple, you are linked eternally to your spouse and your children. We seal the lids to preserve the jam. Being sealed in the temple preserves families.”

“These berries are all mashed. What’s next?” Dad asked.

“Just take those last few jars out of the dishwasher.”

“I feel another lesson coming on,” Dad said. “See, Mom cleaned the jars before she filled them with jam. Sealing jam in a dirty jar would not work. It’s the same way with the temple. We have to be clean and worthy to enter the temple. That’s the only way the sealing counts.”

“I’m impressed,” Wendee said. “Dad, you’re pretty good.”

“So is this jam,” Mom said. “Now, who wants some before we put it all away?”

Over the next few weeks, everyone in the family enjoyed the jam. Whitney liked it best of all.

One Sunday Sister Garcia assigned Whitney to give a talk in Primary the following week. Whitney didn’t usually like giving talks because she never knew what to say. But this time was different. Whitney could hardly wait to get home and begin writing.

“What are you supposed to talk about?” Wendee asked on the way home from church.

“Well,” Whitney said, “Sister Garcia said the theme should be ‘families are forever.’ The way I look at it, forever families are a lot like making raspberry jam!”

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The Baptism Difference

By Jane McBride Choate
Friend, Jul 2004, 21
(Based on a true story)

He changed their hearts (Alma 5:7).

“Time to get up, Kristina,” Mother called. Kristina rubbed her eyes and started to grumble about the early hour until she remembered. Today was Sunday.

Ever since they were baptized and confirmed members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, things had been different in her family. Kristina liked the difference.

Mother’s face had a new softness to it, as though happiness came from inside and she couldn’t keep it to herself. She had started humming around the house. Kristina found herself humming, too. Father spent more time at home, and sometimes he took long walks with Kristina and her mother. Often they sat on the front porch and talked. Kristina liked those times best.

Now her parents paid tithing and encouraged Kristina to pay it, too. She enjoyed slipping the tithing from her allowance into an envelope and handing it to one of the members of the bishopric. It was one way to show Heavenly Father and Jesus how much she loved Them.

But the biggest difference Kristina noticed was inside herself. Knowing that Heavenly Father and Jesus loved her filled her with such happiness that she sometimes felt as if she would burst.

Kristina still remembered the look on her father’s face when he answered the door three months ago and found two missionaries on the porch. He had invited the young men inside. After introducing themselves, the elders had talked about families. “Would you like to know how your family can be together forever?” Elder Stark asked.

Kristina’s parents exchanged glances, their eyes filled with longing.

“More than anything,” Kristina’s mother said.

Father had asked the missionaries to come back. On each visit, they presented a lesson. When they challenged the family to be baptized, Kristina’s parents immediately said yes.

“You’re nine years old, Kristina,” Elder Sanderson said. “You’re old enough to be baptized, too.”

The day of her family’s baptisms was the most important day of her life. Kristina remembered every detail, especially the clean, warm feeling she had after the baptism.

Since that day, Kristina and her parents hadn’t missed a single church meeting.

Glancing at the clock, Kristina hurried to get dressed. She didn’t want to be late. She liked everything about church, especially her Primary class.

Kristina’s family arrived a few minutes early. They listened to the soft organ music. Today was fast and testimony meeting. Kristina liked listening to the testimonies. Someday, she promised herself, she would share her testimony.

At family home evening the following night, Kristina’s family took turns reading from the Book of Mormon. Kristina stumbled over some of the words, but she enjoyed reading about Nephi and his family building a boat to take them across the ocean.

When Kristina came home after school on Tuesday, she found her mother in the backyard digging neat rows of shallow ditches. “What are you doing, Mom?”

Mother looked up and smiled. “Getting ready to plant a garden.”

“A garden?” Kristina echoed. “We’ve never had a garden.”

Mother put down the spade and wiped her forehead. “We want to become as self-sufficient as we can, like the prophet told us to.”

Kristina understood now. It was part of the difference. She smiled as a warm feeling grew inside her.

Kristina’s mother handed her a packet of seeds. “You can drop these in, and I’ll cover them with dirt.”

An hour later, Kristina rocked back on her heels. Corn, beans, peas, radishes, onions—they’d planted them all. Her arms and back hurt, but it was a good kind of ache, the kind that comes from working hard to accomplish a goal.

That evening during dinner, she watched her parents smile at each other. They smiled a lot lately, another difference. It made Kristina smile, too.

“How long will we have to wait before we can go to the temple?” she asked her father later as they sat on the porch. Her last Primary lesson had been about temples.

“We have to wait a year after our baptism,” he said. “Then we can be sealed together as a family for time and all eternity.”

Tears pricked Kristina’s eyes that night as she said her prayers. A peaceful feeling settled over her like a warm blanket. The baptism difference was the best thing that had ever happened to her family.

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Zucchini Bandit

By Mary L. Glassco
Friend, Jul 2004, 44
(Based on a true story)

Think of your brethren like unto yourselves, and be familiar with all and free with your substance (Jacob 2:17).

“Look, Dad,” Clay called. “Aunt Pat gave me seeds.”

Clay held up a small envelope that rattled when he shook it. The word Zucchini was printed on it above a picture of a long green vegetable that looked a lot like a cucumber. “Aunt Pat says I should have a garden.”

Dad smiled. “But it will be good old Dad who does the digging.”

True to his word, Dad helped Clay dig out a patch of grass next to the fence. Then they loosened up the soil, planted the zucchini seeds, and watered them well.

For several weeks they watched and waited and wondered if anything was happening. It was. After a rainy day followed by three sunny days, tiny plants peeked out of the soil. From then on, the growing didn’t stop. A jungle of vines soon fought for the small space. Big spiky leaves tangled through the fence in one direction and sprawled across the grass in the other. Clay worried that the giant plants would take over the whole backyard.

Soon golden blossoms opened up and jiggled in the summer breeze as if they were laughing at a secret joke. The blossoms turned into little green pickles that seemed to explode overnight into long, pudgy zucchini. The zucchini hid shyly beneath the prickly leaves. Clay learned to scout them out.

Zucchini poured from the garden in a tidal wave. Awash in the big green vegetable, Clay’s mother learned many zucchini recipes. She cooked zucchini with onions, tomatoes, and sour cream. She filled zucchini with cheese and stuffed it with ground beef. She baked zucchini bread with raisins and mixed grated zucchini with chocolate to make cookies and brownies.

“I’d better watch out,” Clay said the night Mom served bowls of zucchini soup. “Next I’ll be eating zucchini cereal for breakfast.”

“Actually, I thought we might try zucchini-oatmeal muffins tomorrow morning,” Mom said.

“I’ve created a monster,” Clay thought. “I’ve got to find a way to get rid of some zucchini.”

“Tell Aunt Pat to come get some of this stuff,” Dad joked.

That gave Clay an idea. He could give other people a chance to enjoy his zucchini!

Early the next morning, he fought his way through the zucchini jungle, hunting for the elusive vegetables. He filled four brown paper bags and carried them quietly out of the yard.

The Wagners next door surely needed some zucchini. Clay looked around. The front door was closed. The curtains were drawn. He didn’t want to be thanked for his gift, so he tiptoed onto the porch, set one of the sacks beside the door, and hurried down the sidewalk.

At the next house, a newspaper still lay on the step. Expecting someone to come out for it at any moment, Clay dropped a sack beside the paper and scurried away.

Scarcely pausing, he made two more deliveries. Soon he was strolling home zucchini-free.

A few days later, Clay picked his crop again, packed four more brown bags, and made quick stops at the same four houses. All went well.

The third time Clay made his secret deliveries, a surprise waited for him. At the third house, right where he always set the bag, lay a white envelope. Large letters printed on it read, “To the Zucchini Bandit.”

Clay set down a bag of zucchini, picked up the note, and ran home, the fourth bag still clutched in his hand.

He dashed into the house. Mom was sitting at the table sipping orange juice and yawning. “Good morning,” she said. “You were out in the yard early again. What do you have in the bag?”

“Um, zucchini.” Clay plunked the bag down on the table.

“Oh good,” Mom said. “We haven’t had any for several days now.”

“Be back in a minute.” Clay hurried into his room, closed the door, and leaned against it. “Oh no,” he thought, staring at the envelope crumpled in his sweaty hand. “They’ve probably seen me and are warning me to stay away or they’ll call the police.” He straightened out the envelope, unstuck the flap, and pulled out a sheet of paper.

Dear Robin Hood of Vegetables,

Thank you for sharing your wealth with me. I haven’t had such fresh zucchini in a long time. It still has morning dew on it when I bring it in.

Sincerely, Your Grateful Friend “Robin Hood of Vegetables,” Clay read aloud. He smiled. For the first time since they had started growing, he hoped he wouldn’t run out of zucchini.

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(August)

David’s Prayer

By Patricia Reece Roper
Friend, Aug 2004, 4
(A story from the life of President David O. McKay [1873–1970], Ninth President of the Church); adapted from Conference Report, Oct. 1951, 182.

Whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive (Matt. 21:22).

David’s heart thumped loudly in his chest, and he sat straight up in bed. Faint moonlight streamed through the bedroom window, leaving gray shadows on the walls. The only sound came from his brother Thomas’s heavy breathing as he lay asleep.

It had been only a dream. Two Indians had come into the yard. When David saw them, he ran to the house for protection. One of them drew an arrow from his quiver and shot at David, hitting him in the back. Then they entered his home, sneering at his mother and frightening her.

Although it had been a dream, it seemed real. David rubbed his back where the arrow had hit him in the dream. He had felt the blow.

After that David became very afraid at night. Thoughts of people trying to hurt his mother and younger brothers and sisters seemed real to him.

One day David found his father packing a satchel. “Why are you packing, Papa?” David asked.

“I’ll be gone with the cattle for a few days,” his father answered. “Don’t worry. It won’t be long. I’ll just be moving them to some fresh pasture.”

“I don’t want you to go,” David said.

“Everything will be all right,” his father replied. “I’ll be back in a few days.”

David watched sadly as his father took his satchel to the front gate where his horse was tied. After waving good-bye to the family, he rode off after the cattle. David felt sick inside. He tried not to worry, hoping everything would be all right like his father had said. But as evening drew near and the sun went down, his worries grew.

After supper the family prepared for bed. When they had all knelt down at their bedsides and said their prayers, they snuggled under the covers to go to sleep. But David couldn’t sleep. His heart pounded, and his mind raced. Through the open doorway of his bedroom, he could see his mother going to her bedroom.

At last his mother blew out the candle and went to sleep. But David still couldn’t close his eyes. He thought he heard noises around the house. His brother Thomas slept soundly, but the fear in David’s heart grew. What could he do? Tears trickled onto his pillow. The palms of his hands were sweaty, and he could still hear the noises around the house.

David decided to pray as his parents had taught him. He was sure the Lord would help him, but he had one problem: kneeling by the side of his bed. How could he leave the safety of his bed to kneel and pray? What if someone was hiding beneath his bed?

David knew that the only way he would be able to sleep was if he prayed to the Lord for help. At last he slowly climbed out of bed onto his knees. He asked the Lord to protect his mother and his family. All the noises died away, and a calm feeling entered David’s heart. A voice spoke clearly to him, saying, “Don’t be afraid. Nothing will hurt you.” David felt the sweet assurance that he would be safe in bed at night.

Snuggling under his covers, David fell asleep. He didn’t worry at night anymore. Even though it had been a difficult test for him to get out of bed and kneel to pray, he had prayed the way he knew he should. And the Lord answered his prayer.

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Poison

By Emily Cannon Orgill
Friend, Aug 2004, 10
(Based on experiences of the author’s family)

Forgive one another (Mosiah 26:31).

“Mom!” Jeni wailed as she searched through the house for her mother. She finally found her in the living room, changing the baby’s diaper. “Mom, Shanna found my diary and she wrote in it!”

Shanna, Jeni’s younger sister, sheepishly looked up from where she was coloring in a coloring book.

“Shanna,” Mother said calmly as she closed the lid to the diaper wipes, “did you write in Jeni’s book?”

“Yes, but just a little bit.” Shanna didn’t look at Jeni. Instead she carefully put each crayon back into the box.

Mother’s eyebrows pulled together and her mouth was stern. “Shanna, you know you shouldn’t use Jeni’s things without asking first.”

“Besides, it wasn’t just a little bit,” Jeni told Mom. “She wrote on practically every page!”

“Let me look at it.” Mother flipped through the pages one by one. “It’s not too bad. I think Shanna just wants to try to be like you and do the same things you’re doing.”

“It’s totally wrecked!” Jeni cried.

“OK. Let’s try to think of something that we can do to fix the problem,” Mother suggested. “Shanna didn’t mean to ruin your diary.”

“Nothing can fix it. I’ll never forgive her!”

Shanna picked up her crayon box and coloring book and walked quietly out of the room, not looking at Jeni.

“I don’t think you really meant that, Jeni,” Mother said quietly. Jeni was so angry that she wouldn’t listen to her mother. She threw her diary onto the floor and ran outside.

Mother put the baby down on his blanket with a toy and was beginning to prepare dinner when she heard Jeni crying again. This time it was not an angry wail, but a hurt cry.

Mother sighed and opened the back door. Jeni was crying and rubbing her face.

“What happened?” Mother asked.

Sobbing, Jeni pointed at a soccer ball on the lawn. “I was so mad at Shanna, I threw my ball down really hard and it bounced up and hit me in the face.”

“Oh, dear.” Mother sat down on the steps and pulled Jeni onto her lap. “I think there’s a good lesson in this. I once heard a story about a man who was bitten by a rattlesnake. What would you do if you were bitten by a rattlesnake?”

“I don’t know,” Jeni replied.

“You’re supposed to stay still until help comes,” said Jeni’s older brother, who had just ridden up on his bike.

“Well, in this case, the man was so angry at the snake that he ran after it and chased it until he killed it. The problem,” Mother continued, “was that running caused the poison from the snake to spread faster through his body, and so he died quickly. If he had remained calm, the poison would not have done as much damage, and he could have received help and lived.”

Jeni rubbed her red cheek. “So are you saying that when we get mad, we only hurt ourselves?”

Mother nodded. “Why do you think Heavenly Father wants us to forgive others when they do something to hurt us or make us mad?”

“So we can show love to them?” Jeni asked.

“That’s part of it. Heavenly Father wants us to do everything we can to help others grow and improve. But He also wants us to forgive others because He knows that if we don’t, it hurts us the most. It hurts us deep inside, like poison, and the wound just keeps getting bigger if we don’t stop it. Sometimes people get so hurt and angry inside that it makes them do bad things they wouldn’t normally do.”

“Like me banging the ball really hard,” Jeni said.

“That’s right. And sometimes the hurt inside keeps people from doing good things they would normally do. It keeps them from being close to Heavenly Father,” Mother said.

Jeni was thinking hard now. “Maybe I’m ready to think about a solution for the diary,” she said.

“I’m glad,” Mother replied. “I know Heavenly Father loves you very much. He wants you to be happy!”

Jeni’s face brightened. With a big smile, she hurried off to look for her sister.

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Blessing the Brick Kiln

By Susan Arrington Madsen
Friend, Aug 2004, 29
(Based on experiences of the Nielsen family, from Voices from the Past: Diaries, Journals, and Autobiographies)

Ask me in faith, believing that ye shall receive (1 Ne. 15:11).

Making adobe bricks was hard work for young James Nielsen and his family. They lived on a large farm in Fairview, Utah, and some of their ground had perfect clay for making bricks. During the summer of 1912, James, his father, brothers, and other relatives worked long hours mixing mud, molding bricks, and hauling them to the large kiln where they would later be baked.

Now, at summer’s end, 75,000 bricks were placed carefully inside the kiln. James’s eyes gleamed at the sight of so many! They represented the Nielsens’ hard work all summer long. Happily, James’s father started the fire in the kiln, which needed to burn for three weeks straight in order to properly bake the bricks. The temperature had to be kept just right. Cedar wood had been hauled and stacked nearby to fuel the large oven, and James’s brother-in-law, “Uncle George,” watched the fire night and day. James and his brothers took turns cutting wood to keep the fire burning. Everything was going just fine.

But then it started to rain. It poured nonstop for more than a week. The Nielsens soon ran out of the wood they had gathered, and they couldn’t take their horses and wagons into the hills to find more because the ground was too muddy. They burned everything they could spare on the farm—fence posts, corral rails, even the outhouse.

James would never forget how discouraged Uncle George looked as he put the last stick of wood in the oven. “The bricks will be nothing but a pile of smoked mud.” He frowned.

James’s father folded his arms. “I don’t know much about making bricks. I’ve never done it before. But I know Heavenly Father can help us.” He told Uncle George to seal up the kiln as if the process were finished, and suggested that everyone go home and get some rest.

The next morning, James and Uncle George sat together moping. Surely the bricks were ruined. “We all worked so hard,” James said. George nodded. “And for so long.”

James noticed that his father was missing, so he went to look for him. As he rounded the kiln, he found his father kneeling on the soggy ground. James stopped in his tracks. His father was praying aloud, asking the Lord to bless the brick kiln. James heard his father tell the Lord how hard they had all worked and how they had done everything possible to make sure the bricks turned out all right. With great faith and humility, James’s father asked the Lord to help, then ended his prayer. James quickly backed away without his father seeing him.

When it was finally time to open the kiln, most of the family didn’t dare even look at the bricks. But James’s father was calm and confident as he opened up the top of the kiln. James held his breath as his father lifted out two bricks. They were beautiful! They rang like a bell when clicked together, and their color was just right. People came from all over Sanpete County to buy them. People even bought the broken pieces. Not one brick was left.

Remembering this miracle, James later wrote, “We children know that it was done by the priesthood Father held and the power of prayer.”

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A Place to Sing and Pray: A Story of Faith

By Shauna Gibby
Friend, Aug 2004, 42
(Based on a true story; taken from historical sources)

In 1862, six-year-old Clara Leonard lived in the town of Farmington, Utah, where more than 150 pioneer families had settled. There were log homes, rock homes, and adobe homes. They had a schoolhouse, a courthouse, and a mill for grinding wheat. But they did not have a church house. They needed a place to sing and pray.

Sometimes they held church meetings in one of the homes, but there wasn’t enough room for everyone.

Sometimes they held church meetings in the schoolhouse, but it wasn’t big enough, either.

Sometimes they held church meetings in the upper room of the adobe courthouse, but the county officials decided it could no longer be used for religious meetings.

They needed a place to sing and pray.

A lovely place, right on Main Street, was chosen as the site to build their chapel. It was next to Brother Haight’s house and hotel and across the street from Brother Penrose’s house. It would be a wonderful place for a chapel. But the church members had no money to buy building materials.

Everyone in town donated all they could to the building fund. Clara and her family worked hard to earn some extra money to give to Bishop Hess. But after all the money was counted, the building fund had only twelve dollars. They needed much more to build a beautiful place to sing and pray.

The people held a prayer meeting. They knelt and asked the Lord what to do. They had done all they could, and now they needed His help. They had faith that the Lord would know what was best.

A few days later there was a huge storm. It rained and rained. There was mud everywhere. The wind blew very hard, and some trees fell down. Clara had to stay inside all day long.

The next morning, when the storm was over, the men from the town found a rockslide about three blocks from the church lot. Tons of large rocks had slid down from the mountain. Not far from the rockslide was a place where lots of sand and gravel had washed down from the mountain, too.

There was enough rock to build a chapel! The sand and gravel could be used to make the mortar to hold the rocks together. They knew the Lord had heard their prayers and blessed them. They soon would have a place to sing and pray!

Everyone in town helped build the chapel. Some of the men hauled the rocks with ox teams. Some of the men laid the rocks to make the walls. Others worked as carpenters on the inside of the chapel, while still others made benches and tables. Even the children helped by carrying drinking water or serving food prepared by the Relief Society sisters. The chapel was 40 feet wide and 60 feet long. The stone walls were three feet thick.

As they worked, they were able to raise the rest of the money needed to complete their chapel. After two years of construction, the building was finally finished. On 9 January 1864, President Brigham Young and Elder Wilford Woodruff of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles came to Farmington to dedicate the building. Even though there was a thick blanket of snow on the ground, it was a day of jubilee and rejoicing. After the dedication, the town’s brass band played, and everyone celebrated.

At last they had a place to meet. Clara loved to go to church. She felt a sweet spirit of reverence there and found joy in hearing her leaders teach the gospel of Jesus Christ. The sacrament was passed—the bread on silver trays and the water in a tall silver cup with handles on both sides. A piano was donated, and later they got an organ. It was a wonderful place to sing and pray!

Twelve years later, after Clara was grown, this beautiful rock chapel was the place where Sister Aurelia Rogers began the very first Primary. Clara was there to play the organ and was also appointed the treasurer of this new organization.

Now, more than 130 years later, the building is still a beautiful place to sing and pray.

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Watching Over Wasel

By Julia Oldroyd
Friend, Aug 2004, 46
(Based on a true story)

Call on the name of … God for protection (3 Ne. 4:30).

The sun hung low after a warm summer day in Pacheco, in the Latter-day Saint colonies in Mexico. As five-year-old Mae and two-year-old Wasel played outside, they could smell smoke wafting from adobe chimneys and open fires. Supper would be ready soon. Sure enough, Mama called, “Mae! Wasel! Go wash up.” The girls quickly obeyed and went inside to eat.

After supper, Mama said, “Come, little Wasel.” Every night Wasel went with Mama and Papa to herd the cows. Mae and baby David stayed home with Aunt Hattie. Wasel loved this time alone with her parents. She was so excited that she ran outside still clutching her dinner spoon.

“I don’t think Wasel should come with us tonight. We have to care for some horses, and it may be too far for her to walk,” Papa said.

Mama nodded. “Wasel, Mama and Papa are going on a long walk tonight. Take that spoon back to the house and give it to Aunt Hattie. Then you can play with the other children, and tomorrow you can come with us to get the cows.”

Wasel just stood there, holding her spoon. She didn’t want to go back to the house.

“Run along now,” Mama said. Wasel turned and ran toward the house, but when her parents were out of sight, she put her spoon near the door and decided to go get the cows after all. She knew the way to the pasture. But she didn’t know that her parents hadn’t gone straight there.

The shadows grew long as the sun sank lower. Wasel walked and walked, through fields and corn patches. Wolves howled in the distance. Wasel came to a marshy area and walked there for a long time. She liked to feel the mud squishing between her bare toes.

When Mama and Papa returned from the cow pasture, Mama went inside to put the children to bed, and Papa went to the barn to take care of the animals.

“Hattie, where is Wasel?” Mama asked.

Aunt Hattie froze. “Wasn’t she with you?”

“Yes, but we sent her back here.”

“Well, I haven’t seen her!” Aunt Hattie exclaimed.

Mama and Aunt Hattie called for Wasel and searched in all the rooms and in the yard. Then Mama ran to the barn.

“Wasel isn’t here. I’m going to look for her,” she told Papa.

“She’s probably asleep somewhere,” Papa said. “I’ll look in the house.”

Mama knew that Wasel wasn’t in the house. She ran to the river and the cornfield calling, “Wasel! Wasel! Can you hear me, Wasel?” There was no answer, so she returned to the house.

“I think we need help,” Papa said.

Just then, Aunt Hattie pointed out the window. “Look! It’s Brother Carroll.”

Papa ran outside and stopped him. “Wasel is lost,” he explained.

“I’m on my way to the church for a meeting,” Brother Carroll said. “I’ll tell everyone that you need help looking for her.”

When Brother Carroll told Bishop Hardy that Wasel was lost, Bishop Hardy dismissed the meeting and asked the brethren to go search for her.

As everyone searched under the beds, in the outbuildings, and through the house, Mama began to fear for Wasel’s life. “We are wasting time looking for her here. We have already done that, and I know she’s not here!” she cried.

Wasel’s grandpa gathered the men together. “Let’s divide into small groups and circle the area,” he said. “Whoever finds her will return here and fire a gun five times to signal the rest of us.”

One group went with the bishop. They followed the road toward the cow pasture.

“Look, Bishop!” someone shouted. “Little footprints.”

The men held their lanterns high and carefully followed the footprints until they reached the marsh. The ground was too moist there to hold any tracks.

Bishop Hardy instructed the men to kneel on the soggy ground. Then he prayed for Wasel’s safety and for guidance to find her.

With teary eyes, Bishop Hardy rose. He thought he heard something and paused to listen. There, very faintly—yes! He could hear her! The others strained but heard nothing. “She’s calling for her mama!” he exclaimed.

Bishop Hardy ran toward the sound he heard so clearly. He stopped occasionally to listen—“Mama!”—and hurried on. He ran through fields and over hills for nearly two miles (3 km). He found himself in a rugged canyon, the moonlight falling softly around him. Then, suddenly, he saw Wasel walking wearily along the mountainside. Bishop Hardy ran to her and gathered her into his arms. “Mama,” Wasel whispered as she fell asleep.

The bishop carried Wasel back to the house as quickly as he could go. Mama took Wasel in her arms, and tears of joy flowed freely from her eyes. She offered a silent prayer of thanks to Heavenly Father for bringing little Wasel home safely.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bishop Hardy fired the gun with joy. When Papa arrived, he hugged his wife and daughter, weeping with gratitude. Then everyone knelt in a circle, and Bishop Hardy thanked the Lord for protecting Wasel. He knew that he couldn’t have heard her soft cries on his own. But the Lord was watching over Wasel and had helped him to find her.

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(September)

Emily Shares the Gospel

By Kersten Campbell
Friend, Sep 2004, 4
(Based on an experience of the author’s daughter)

Be thou an example of the believers (1 Tim. 4:12).

Eight-year-old Emily bit her lip as a smiling missionary handed her a small card with a picture of the scriptures on it. The missionaries were visiting Primary this week and handing out pass-along cards to all of the children.

“We want to give you a challenge,” the missionary said. “We want you to share the gospel with a friend. Think of someone you want to share your happiness with, then give the person one of these cards and talk about it.”

“Tell a friend about the gospel?” Emily thought. The idea made her nervous. Did she know anyone who would really listen? She wasn’t sure about that, but she did know someone who would make a wonderful Latter-day Saint—her best friend, Alyssa. She looked down at the card. What would Alyssa say if she gave it to her? Would she think it was strange? Would she laugh? Emily tucked the card inside her scriptures. She loved her friend and she loved the gospel, but she didn’t know if she was brave enough to accept the missionaries’ challenge. It seemed too hard and scary.

The next weekend Emily got all her jobs done early so that she could invite Alyssa over. She couldn’t wait to play their favorite game—Cannonball—which they had invented themselves. They piled up all the blankets and pillows they could find, then leaped into the pile, yelling “Cannonball!”

When they began to pile up the blankets again, Emily’s little brother and sister joined in, helping to make the pile bigger.

“Can we play, too?” her brother asked.

At first, Emily was annoyed. She wanted to play the game with just Alyssa. But then she realized that everyone would be happier if they all played together.

“Sure,” Emily said.

When they were tired out from Cannonball, they all pretended to be deep-sea explorers in a submarine.

“This is so fun!” Alyssa said.

Soon Emily’s brother and sister went outside. Emily took Alyssa to her room and played a new CD of really pretty Church music. Alyssa loved it. She even began to sing along with the chorus of one song. Hearing Alyssa sing about the gospel made Emily happy.

“Time for lunch,” Emily’s mom called. All the children ran to the table, and Emily’s brother reached for a slice of bread.

“Not yet,” Emily’s mom said. “Time for prayer.”

“I’ll say it,” Emily volunteered. Alyssa watched Emily and folded her arms like she did.

After lunch Emily and Alyssa went outside to play on the swings. Emily couldn’t believe it when she saw Alyssa’s mom coming to pick up her daughter. Time went by too quickly when she was having fun with her friend. She said good-bye and went back inside to help her mom.

That night as she opened her scriptures, Emily saw the card. Oh no! She had forgotten the missionaries’ challenge. She had spent the entire day with her friend and hadn’t said one thing about the gospel.

Her mother poked her head through Emily’s doorway, smiling. “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.”

Emily looked up, surprised. “What for?”

Her mother came in and sat down on the bed. “For sharing the gospel with your friend today.”

Emily shook her head. “But Mom, I didn’t say anything about the gospel.”

“Yes, you did,” her mother said. “When you played with your brother and sister, you taught her that including others makes games fun and that we’re happy when we’re kind to our family.”

Emily thought about it.

“And,” her mother added, “you taught her gospel principles when you shared your Church music with her. You showed her how to pray when you blessed the food at lunchtime.”

Slowly, Emily smiled. It was true. She had shared the gospel with her friend—not with words, but with actions. She thought of how glad she felt when she heard Alyssa singing about being a child of God. Maybe someday Alyssa would remember those words and want to know more. Suddenly Emily felt very happy. She couldn’t wait to go to Primary on Sunday and tell her teacher that it wasn’t hard to share the gospel at all.

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The Well Boxes

By Jens Kristoffersen
Friend, Sep 2004, 14
(A true story)

The Holy Ghost … shall … bring all things to your remembrance (John 14:26).

When I was a boy growing up in Denmark, my friends and I liked to play tag. But one day we grew tired of playing the same old game, so we sat down and tried to think of something new and exciting to do.

“Let’s go to the harbor,” one friend suggested. “We can look at the boats and watch the fishermen.”

We all liked that idea, so we hopped on our bikes. Sure enough, there was a lot more action there! Sailors washed their boats while other fishermen cleaned and sold fish. Until the fish were sold, they were kept alive in well boxes—floating crates with small holes to allow water to flow in and out. The boxes bobbed between the boats and bumped into each other as the waves rushed in.

It wasn’t long before we were bored of just watching.

“Let’s play tag,” a friend suggested.

“Again?” another boy groaned.

My friend pointed to the well boxes with a sly grin. “Out there.”

Soon we were all leaping from box to box, which was much more exciting than playing tag at home. The slippery boxes jostled with each incoming wave. One time I fell off and landed with a splash. Sputtering seawater, I pulled myself back onto a crate and leaped onto another one. My foot broke right through it! Fish nibbled at my toes. It tickled, and I shrieked in laughter.

“Hey, you boys!” a gruff voice called. I looked up to see an angry fisherman coming toward us. “Get away from those well boxes before you break them. If you don’t get out of here, I’ll tell your parents!”

We scrambled back to shore, took off our wet socks and tied them to our bicycle handlebars, and took off. Our clothes dried in the wind as we pedaled home.

My clothes may have dried, but the smell of fish gave me away. When I walked in the door, Mother took one sniff and asked what had happened.

“I went to the harbor with my friends. I was playing on a well box, and I slipped and fell in the water,” I admitted.

To my surprise, Mother’s eyes filled with tears. “Jens, you must never play there again. Think of what could have happened! You could have been hurt or even drowned.” She hugged me tight. “I would be so sad, Jens. What would I do without you? You must promise never to play there again.” I gave Mother my word.

But a few weeks later, my friends came over and invited me to go with them to the harbor. Remembering the fun we’d had last time, I got on my bike and followed them. I forgot all about the promise I had made to my mother.

“You’re it!” A friend tagged me and jumped onto a bobbing well box.

I was about to chase him when suddenly I saw my mother’s face, just as if she were right in front of me, her eyes filled with tears. My heart stopped. I had broken my promise!

“I have to go home now,” I called to my friends. “What?” one of them whined. “Why? We just got here.” “I have to go home,” I repeated, climbing onto my bike.

My friends complained and tried to coax me into staying, but I wouldn’t listen. One by one, they all headed for home, too.

I put my bike away as quietly as possible and went to my room. I felt sick with shame that I had gone where I had promised Mother I would not go.

After a while Mother came into my room. “I can tell something is bothering you, Jens. What’s wrong?”

Lowering my head, I said quietly, “I went to the harbor with my friends today. I forgot that I had promised you I wouldn’t. But as soon as I got there, I remembered. I came right home. So did my friends. Mother, I’m sorry I forgot!”

When I looked up, Mother was beaming. “Jens! I’m so happy you remembered. Because you did, you set an example for your friends and none of you were hurt.”

A while later she brought me a glass of milk and a piece of freshly baked cake. Mother made the best cake in the whole world. I was grateful for the warm treat—but more grateful for the warmth of remembering to do right.

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I Love Him, He’s My Dad

By Ray Goldrup
Friend, Sep 2004, 29
(Based on a true story)

Charity suffereth long, and is kind (1 Cor. 13:4).

The tall yellow weeds in the big field behind Grandpa and Grandma’s place look pretty. When the wind blows they’re like a yellow sea that rolls and whispers. I like to lie in them, especially when it’s windy. Especially with my dad. He said that when the weeds are all rustling, it’s like they’re telling a story. He listened to those stories and passed them on to me. He called them his tall-as-a-yellow-weed tales.

Sometimes we played hide-and-seek in the field. I liked that, too. Dad closed his eyes while I hid. Then he had 10 minutes to find me and tag me. If I won, he took me to the soda fountain in Hadley and bought me a milk shake. I usually won. I think he let me sometimes. He knew how much I like chocolate shakes.

I miss those times. I still like Grandma and Grandpa’s place, but the yellow field isn’t the same. It looks the same, but without Dad, it’s just … different. It’s just a field.

Mom and I live with Grandma and Grandpa now. At least for a while. Until Mom can make enough money at her new job, or until Dad gets better. Dad has a drinking problem. It got pretty bad, and he wouldn’t get help. We prayed and prayed for him, but Mom said Heavenly Father can’t help us if we don’t try to help ourselves. I know she’s right, because once I asked Him to help me on a school test that I hadn’t studied for. I failed it anyway. Mom said that if we do all we can do for ourselves, then ask Heavenly Father for help, He will then assist us.

One day my friend Barry said that if his dad were like mine, he wouldn’t love him anymore. Because if my dad cared about us, he wouldn’t keep drinking.

I couldn’t sleep too well that night. My mom came into my room and asked what was wrong. When I told her, she explained some things that helped me to feel better.

The next day when Barry and I were looking for arrowheads in Baker’s Canyon up behind the yellow field, I told him I still loved my dad. When he asked me why, I said, “Remember when your brother didn’t tie up the chain that was hanging way down from the siren on his bike?”

“Yes,” Barry said, “and I told him it could cause an accident if it got caught in the spokes, but did he listen to me? No!”

Last month Barry borrowed that bike. He was flying down a hill when, sure enough, the chain got caught in the spokes of his front wheel. All of a sudden the bike stopped, but Barry kept going, right over the handlebars. He banged himself up pretty badly. In fact, his arm was still in a cast.

“Do you still love your brother?” I asked.

“Of course I do.”

“Why?”

“Well, because … because he’s my brother. He didn’t want me to get hurt. He was just being careless.”

“I’m sure your brother feels bad about it,” I said. “My dad feels awful, too, after he sobers up.”

Barry and I sat down on a rock to drink from our canteens. Grandma’s cold lemonade tastes so good that it makes getting thirsty fun. Dad always said, “On a hot day your grandma’s lemonade takes all the discomfort out of being alive!” And he was right.

I looked at Barry seriously, trying to get the deep down inside of him to listen. I had written down some of what Mom said the night before so I wouldn’t forget. Now I read it to Barry: “ ‘God loves all of us, even when He doesn’t love all of our actions. It’s called charity—the pure love of Christ, and we need to try to love like Jesus does.’ ”

Barry nodded his head and smiled. I could tell that he knew my mom was right. Her words made me feel good inside, too. About my dad. About a lot of things. It was as good a feeling as Grandma’s lemonade going down on a hot summer day.

Mom and I kept praying for Dad. He stopped drinking, and he’s in a special program that’s helping him. He’ll be coming home in a few weeks. He says he wants to play hide-and-seek with me in the tall yellow weeds. And he wants me to win, because he misses those chocolate milk shakes as much as I do!

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First-Grade Gracie

By Patricia Nikolina Clar
Friend, Sep 2004, 37
(Based on an experience from the life of the author’s granddaughter)

I’m happy as can be when I am helping others, for then I’m helping me (Children’s Songbook, 197).

Gracie twisted a strand of curly hair around her finger. “Is anyone else going to repeat first grade?”

“I don’t know, honey.” Mom put her arm around Gracie.

“Then why do I have to?” Gracie asked.

“Mrs. Carter says that sometimes you don’t understand the work,” Mom said. “She thinks that is why you talk to your neighbors instead of finishing your own papers.”

“But Mom, if I don’t go on to second grade, all my friends will think I did something wrong.” Gracie’s eyes filled with tears. “They’ll laugh at me if I’m in first grade again.”

Mom said gently, “You know how hard reading is for you? And how upset you get when you can’t do your math pages?”

Gracie nodded.

“Honey, you’re not quite ready for second-grade work.”

Gracie put her hands over her face and burst into tears. “I know! I’m not smart.”

“Gracie, that’s not true.”

“Yes, it is,” Gracie sobbed. “I’m the only one who still sounds out every word when I read. And yesterday, when the teacher wasn’t listening, Dalton called me stupid.”

Mom cuddled Gracie and let her cry. “You’re not stupid, Gracie. But you are younger than most of the children in your class. That makes a big difference.”

Mom tipped Gracie’s chin up and smiled into her eyes. “You know what? We have three whole summer months ahead of us, and we’re going to practice reading every day. When school starts again, first grade will be much easier. You’ll see.”

But on the first day of school, Gracie did not feel smarter. She just felt taller—like a giant standing in line with the new first graders.

Gracie saw her old friends lining up in front of the second-grade classroom. Her shoulders sagged. She slouched and stared straight ahead, trying to make herself invisible.

She noticed a new girl in front of her. A shiny black braid hung down the girl’s back, and she stood very still, as if she was scared.

Gracie remembered how afraid she had been last year when she was new. She tapped the girl on the shoulder.

“You’re going to love our teacher,” she said. “Mrs. Carter is really nice.”

The girl turned and stared at Gracie with round, dark eyes.

“Hey, Gracie!” Dalton yelled from down the hall. “You’re in the wrong line, dummy! This is the line for second graders.”

Gracie’s cheeks felt hot. She ignored him.

“I have to repeat the first grade,” Gracie said to the girl.

The girl looked at Dalton. “He … no es amable,” she said softly, then shook her head. “I mean … he is not kind.”

Gracie grinned. “My name is Gracie.”

“I am Juanita,” said the dark-eyed girl. “We just moved here.”

The classroom door opened, and Mrs. Carter smiled at the waiting children. “Welcome!” she said as they filed in. Gracie took Juanita’s hand and helped her find her name at one of the tables.

Later that morning Gracie showed Juanita where the girls’ bathroom was. She helped her get a hot lunch in the noisy cafeteria and explained about the bells for recess.

In the afternoon Gracie helped the shy boy next to her with his math page. Then she showed a girl with curly red hair how to sharpen her pencil so that the lead didn’t break.

All week Gracie was so busy helping the new first graders that she forgot she didn’t want to be there.

On Friday, Mrs. Carter called a class meeting. Gracie and Juanita sat next to each other in California, on the carpet that was a huge map of the United States.

Mrs. Carter pointed to the bulletin board. “Would anybody like to try to read the class rules to us?”

No hands went up.

“Nobody?” Mrs. Carter asked. She looked right at Gracie and raised her eyebrows.

Juanita poked Gracie. “You can read the words?”

Gracie shook her head. Just thinking about it made her heart stutter. She stared at the big red letters on the board. Then, to her surprise, as she stared at the letters they began to clump together and become words—words that she knew! Her heart beat faster. Maybe she could read the first rule. Very slowly, she raised her hand.

“Gracie.”

Gracie stood up. Her legs wobbled like cooked noodles. Everyone was staring at her.

“Class rules,” she said in a tiny voice. She cleared her throat. “Number one: Come … to … class … with … a smile!”

“Very good, Gracie!” Mrs. Carter said. “Would you like to try the second rule?”

Gracie took a deep breath. Her voice became stronger. “Ree … sp … ect … Respect others. Be kind.” She only had to sound out one word!

“Wonderful!” Mrs. Carter clapped as Gracie sat down on the floor.

Juanita whispered, “You are so smart!”

Gracie sighed happily. Maybe repeating first grade wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“Reading just takes practice,” Gracie said, squeezing the hand of her new best friend. “I’ll help you.”

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Grandma and Grandpa’s Mission

By Lois Kullberg
Friend, Sep 2004, 44
(Based on experiences of the author’s family)

Your families are well; they are in mine hands (D&C 100:1).

“Well, it’s here,” Grandma said, holding up a white envelope. “It is?” Mom asked excitedly. “Where are you going on your mission?”

Ten-year-old Scott and eight-year-old Taylor watched their grandparents intently. Even young Spencer and T. J. were silent.

Grandpa grinned. “Toronto, Canada!”

“Nice place. Cold winters,” Dad remarked, giving Grandma a squeeze. “When do you leave?”

“We report to the MTC on August 29,” Grandma said.

The boys hugged their grandparents before going outside to play.

They didn’t think much about the mission call for the rest of the summer. But before Scott knew it, August 27 arrived—the day his grandparents would be set apart for their mission.

The whole family gathered in a room at the stake center. Everyone felt both excited and reverent. The stake president explained that “setting apart” missionaries blesses them with the strength and the Spirit to do missionary work. Then, one at a time, he blessed Grandma and Grandpa, setting them apart as missionaries.

That night, Scott’s family visited his grandparents and said good-bye. He tried to be casual. “Bye, Grandma. Bye, Grandpa. I’ll miss you.” It felt like an ordinary good-bye. He couldn’t believe his grandparents would really be gone so long.

That week, Scott’s family drove past Grandma and Grandpa’s house several times. It seemed strange to not see their car in the driveway.

On Monday afternoon, Scott and Taylor walked home together from the soccer field. Scott sighed. School was starting in a week. “Taylor, do you remember how we used to stop at Grandma’s house on the way home from school?” Scott asked.

“Yeah.”

“Too bad we can’t do that anymore.”

“No more milk and cookies,” Taylor murmured.

“No more going out to the garage to see Grandpa working on his wood projects or to look at his rock collection,” Scott added.

“We can’t even go there to watch general conference,” Taylor said.

“And we can’t go there on Christmas either. It won’t be the same!” Scott cried.

Taylor frowned. “When we get home, I’m going to make a card for Grandma and Grandpa. I miss them!”

When the boys got home, Taylor told Mom about his plan. “That’s a good idea,” Mom said. “For family home evening tonight, let’s talk about some other things we can do to help us not miss them so much.”

After the opening song and prayer, Dad asked if there was any family business. Taylor raised his hand. “Mom said we could talk about things we can do to help us not miss Grandma and Grandpa as much. I think that next week for family home evening we should make some cookies to send them.”

“Yes, cookies!” cried out five-year-old Spencer.

“Cookies,” repeated two-year-old T. J.

Dad nodded. “What else can we do?”

“Let’s tape-record our music recital and send it to them,” Scott suggested. “

Another great idea!” Dad said. “In December we can record our Christmas concert for them.”

“We could send them messages to warm their hearts, and gloves and socks to warm their hands and feet,” Mom suggested.

“When I grow up, I’m going to go on a mission, too,” Spencer piped up. “Then you can send me lots of cool things!”

“Right on!” Dad said, giving Spencer a high-five.

As the year wore on, Scott’s family sent e-mail messages to Grandma and Grandpa. On Mother’s Day they got to speak to Grandma and Grandpa on the phone. Scott told them about school, soccer, Cub Scouts, and camping with Dad. Grandma and Grandpa talked about the children they had met in Toronto, some from all over the world. They had been invited to many dinners and tried lots of interesting foods. But most importantly, they taught, saw baptisms, and watched people’s lives changing. Scott felt the Spirit whenever he heard about Grandma and Grandpa’s missionary experiences.

Just before it was time for Grandma and Grandpa to come back home, Dad took Scott, Taylor, and Spencer to their house to help weed the yard. Then Dad did some painting and helped move the furniture that had been in storage back into the house. It almost looked like the same place.

“Won’t they be surprised to see how nice it looks?” Taylor said. “I can’t wait to stop here on the way home from school for milk and cookies.”

Scott was starting middle school and would be riding the bus this year. “I guess I’ll have to ride my bike over here after I get off the school bus,” he said. “I’m not giving up the milk and cookies!”

“Me neither,” Spencer said. “I’m going to first grade this year. I get to walk home with Taylor—so I get to have milk and cookies, too.”

Dad grinned. “I’d better warn Grandma to stock up.”

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(October)

Mysterious Visitors

By Valerie Ipson
Friend, Oct 2004, 5
(Based on an experience from the author’s family)

Let … thine alms [service] … be in secret: and thy Father which seeth in secret himself shall reward thee openly (Matt. 6:3–4).

As I came into the kitchen, my big brother Matt was saying to Mom, “I think just you, Dad, me, and Abby should be in on it. I don’t think he can keep a secret.” He was talking about me! “I can too keep a secret!” I said.

Mom smiled. “On Monday nights, the Family Night Phantom secretly leaves treats on people’s doorsteps. How would you like us to become the Phantom?”

“What a great idea!” I wanted to go right then, but Mom said that we had to wait until Monday.

Week One

Tonight we decided to deliver cookies and notes from the “Phantom” to two new families in our ward, the Kennedys and the Jensens. With Mom at the wheel to make a quick getaway, Dad and Abby did the ringing and running at the Kennedys’. Then it was my turn. Matt and I walked quietly up to the Jensens’ porch, laid the cookies down, rang the doorbell, and ran. The Phantom was a success!

Week Two

For this week’s adventure, Mom said, “Why don’t you each choose a family?” I wanted to phantom my best friend, Kyle Stephens.

During the family home evening lesson, Abby talked about how Jesus helps lonely people. That made me think.

“Mom, do you think Sister Hart would like chocolate cupcakes?” She was an older lady in the ward who lived alone.

“I’m sure that she would, Jeremy. Why?”

“I changed my mind. Let’s leave the treat at her house instead.”

We had a great time phantoming. Sister Hart almost caught me! I was at the edge of her driveway when I heard the door open, so I dove behind the hedge. I heard her say, “How nice! What a wonderful treat.”

Later that week, Matt said that his friends thought that the Phantom was the Bennetts.

“Well,” Dad said, “I think that puts the Bennetts on the top of our list to phantom next week!”

Week Three

I came home from school on Monday to the wonderful smell of homemade bread, our Phantom treat for the week. “Who should we phantom tonight, besides the Bennetts?” Mom asked me.

I had been thinking about it all day. “The Barneses are moving and are probably busy packing. And Sister Bradley has been sick, so her family could use a treat.”

Mom gave me a kiss and said, “You’re really something. Tonight it’ll be bread for the three Bs!”

A few days later, Dad came home from a meeting at church. He had seen a note on the ward bulletin board marked FAMILY NIGHT PHANTOM. It read: “Thanks for the bread. We didn’t have a family home evening dessert planned, so it came in handy. Keep up the good work. From the Barneses.” Mom said that we had to secretly remove the note and put it in our family scrapbook.

Week Four

During dinner on Sunday, Mom told us that after church Sister Simpson and Sister Bennett had discussed the Phantom. They wanted to get “revenge,” but on whom?

On Monday, I had news of my own. “Tyler Bennett asked me who I thought the Phantom was. It was hard not to smile! Then he said his family is going out tonight armed with 10 loaves of banana bread.”

“We can’t match that, but I do think it’s time to phantom ourselves,” Mom said.

“Great idea,” Matt agreed. “If the Phantom visits us, no one will suspect us!”

That night I delivered popcorn balls to my own door. We were sitting in the kitchen munching away when the doorbell rang. Matt opened the door to find a plate of cookies on the porch and not a person in sight! “Are you sure Tyler said that his family was delivering banana bread?” Mom asked.

We decided to hurry and finish phantoming before we ran into other Phantoms. We chose Bishop Stephens’s family (including Kyle!) and the Garcias.

Back at home, we began our family home evening lesson. Mom asked us to name activities that draw a family closer. Dad said, “Family prayer.” Abby thought of scripture reading. Matt mentioned camping together during the summer. “Don’t forget the Family Night Phantom,” I said. “That has brought us closer.”

“I think you’re right, Jeremy,” Dad agreed.

“So serving together brings a family closer,” Mom concluded.

Our night wasn’t over. When we were almost settled into bed, the doorbell rang—for the third time! We all ran for the door. On the porch was a loaf of banana bread. What a night!

Week Five

No one has accused us of being the Phantom, so I think our secret is still safe. Tonight we have brownies, ready for delivery to three more unsuspecting ward families. The Family Night Phantom rides again!

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Friend to Friend: Righteous Desires

From an interview with Elder Clate W. Mask Jr. of the Seventy, currently serving in the Mexico South Area Presidency; by Kimberly Webb
Friend, Oct 2004, 8

Follow me, and do the things which ye have seen me do (2 Ne. 31:12).

I grew up in El Paso, Texas. My father fought in World War II, so while he was away, my grandpa did his best to be like a father to me.

One day while sitting on the sidewalk, I saw a car coming slowly up the street. Smoke billowed out from under the hood. When the car was right in front of me, it stopped working. A man jumped out while his wife and five children waited inside, crying. I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but I knew they were from Mexico because of their license plate.

Just then my grandpa drove by. He stopped and spoke in Spanish, asking them what the problem was. I kept hearing the word templo, and I thought, “That sounds like ‘temple.’ ” I soon found out that this family was driving to the Mesa Arizona Temple to be sealed. At that time, there were no temples in Mexico or Central America.

My grandpa took them to his house where he fed them and let them stay for the night. Then he took their car to the mechanic and had a new engine put in. When they left, he gave them extra money to help them on their way.

I have always remembered the kindness he showed them. I have also always remembered his mission stories. Even though he was married and had a child, Grandpa was called to serve as a missionary in Mexico City—just as the Mexican Revolution broke out. One time, federal soldiers accused him and his companion of being spies and threatened to shoot them on the spot. Remembering the story of Abinadi, Grandpa said, “You can’t kill us because we haven’t delivered our message yet. Take us to the president.” He and his companion were taken to the presidential palace, where they gave the president a Book of Mormon and taught him for two hours. The president discovered that my grandpa was from his hometown and asked, “Do you know Francisco González?” Grandpa replied, “Yes, he’s my father.” The president said, “He was my teacher when I was a little boy! Now that I know who you are, is there anything I can do to help you in your work?” The missionaries asked for a letter with the presidential seal and signature, stating that they had permission to preach.

Hearing stories got me excited to serve a mission. I couldn’t wait! I wanted to serve in Mexico, just like my grandpa. But the Lord called me to Guatemala. Years later I had the opportunity to serve as a mission president. I thought, “This time I’ll go to Mexico.” But the Lord wanted me to serve in Spain. When we serve where the Lord wants us, we’re blessed. I love the people of Guatemala and Spain.

Now I have been called as a General Authority to serve in Mexico City, the same area where my grandfather served. In those days, teaching the gospel there was extremely difficult. Today there are 12 temples and 199 stakes in Mexico.

My grandpa helped me to always want to serve a mission, and I did. All six of my children wanted to serve missions, and they did. In life we usually end up doing what we want—the key is to want the right things! Strive to have righteous desires. Come closer to Jesus Christ, and desire to become like Him. Studying the Book of Mormon and applying its teachings is a good way to do that. When you want to be like Jesus Christ, it becomes easier to serve Him and to be prepared to enter His house.

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The Primary Quilt

By Chelsey Ellison, as told to Wendy Ellison
Friend, Oct 2004, 11

Give, and it shall be given unto you (Luke 6:38).

I always looked forward to Primary activity day because it meant exciting activities, great games, and tasty treats. Sometimes the activities were serious and spiritual, and I liked those, too, because I learned so much. But of all the great activities I went to, I remember one more than any other.

At 10:00 on the dot that Saturday, I showed up at church, along with the rest of the Primary-age children in my ward. After an opening prayer, a song, and a few instructions, we split into groups. I followed my group into a classroom and was surprised to find a large piece of green-and-white-checked fabric and a piece of solid green fabric, with a layer of fluffy stuff in between. It was all stretched out and tacked to some boards. Nearby were yarn and big needles. “A quilt,” I thought. “Who would be tying a quilt right in the middle of our Primary activity?”

“We are all going to help tie this quilt for someone in the ward who isn’t feeling well,” one of our Primary leaders explained. “After it’s finished, we’ll give it to her.”

“What a great idea!” I thought. When I’m having a hard time, I enjoy wrapping up in a nice warm blanket. But I wondered how well it would turn out since I had never tied a quilt and was pretty sure the rest of the Primary hadn’t either.

Then the Primary president announced who would receive the quilt—my own lucky mom! I was even more excited to try my hardest so the quilt would look nice.

My mom had been very ill all month. In fact, Grandma had to stay with us for a while because Mom was so sick she couldn’t take care of us. She had to be released from her Primary calling, too. Even though Mom’s illness wasn’t easy for our family, something good was going to happen. I would have a baby brother!

With the help of our leaders, we set to work. Even though I wondered if we could really do it, we tied that quilt. Everyone made a stitch or two. Then we each wrote a message, signed our name, or drew a picture in a book that went along with the quilt. I knew what we were doing would mean a lot to Mom because she told me how much she loved and missed all the children in Primary. And the person who bought the fabric must have been inspired, because green is Mom’s favorite color.

Tying the quilt wasn’t hard, but keeping quiet about it sure was. A few weeks later, the secret was finally revealed. On a sunny Sunday morning during singing time, we all walked a block from the church and around the corner to my backyard. We sat on the lawn and waited while one of our leaders knocked on the door.

You can probably guess that when Mom stepped outside and saw all the children gathered, she cried. She cried even more when we sang some of our favorite Primary songs in our best voices. Then the Primary president presented the finished quilt and the book of messages.

“Your singing was beautiful,” Mom said through her tears. “This is one of the nicest things that has ever happened to me.” I knew she meant it. She smiled and cried some more and said that she was going to go inside, wrap up in the quilt, and read every message we had written.

Mom still has that quilt, and I know she always will. It has a few extra-long loops of yarn on the back where some of the stitches weren’t pulled all the way through. Mom says that makes it even more special. To this day, when someone in the family is sick or has a bad day, nothing makes us feel better than wrapping up in the memories and warmth of what we affectionately call the “Primary quilt.”

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Watching Over the Flock

By Sara V. Olds
Friend, Oct 2004, 32
(Based on an experience from the author’s family)

Let thy bowels also be full of charity towards all men (D&C 121:45).

Peter had always heard in Primary and read in the scriptures that prophets feel a great love for Heavenly Father’s children. One hot summer day, he discovered for himself that it was true.

Peter and his family, who lived in Iowa, were spending the summer of 1999 in Salt Lake City, Utah, at the condominium of their grandparents, who were away serving a mission. On the afternoon of August 11, Peter and his sister, Robbin, stood on the balcony, looking across at the Church Office Building and the valley beyond.

As they watched, a huge windstorm engulfed the Delta Center (a downtown sports arena) in a towering gray-black cloud. They could hear angry pops as power transformers exploded and hail rattled down. Electrical wires snapped, sparking and wriggling like brilliant glowing snakes.

“Mom!” Peter called. “Come quickly! The Delta Center is coming apart!”

His mother appeared at the window, and they all watched as giant pieces of the Delta Center roof spiraled into the air. The day had turned nearly as dark as night as the swirling storm sucked up dirt and debris, growing ever larger. Something felt familiar about the spinning, funnel-shaped cloud that came churning straight toward them.

“That’s a tornado!” Peter’s mother exclaimed. “Quick, come inside away from those windows!”

Peter grabbed his sister’s hand, and they rushed inside. The condominium was on the corner of the building’s top floor, and the room where they stood had two walls of glass. Peter knew from tornado drills at school that flying glass could be deadly. They had to get out of there, but where could they go?

A deep rumbling shook the building, growing louder every second. The wind howled. Dirt, rocks, bits of cement and wood, and who-knew-what-else pelted the windows like fierce rain.

Could they make it to the hallway? What if the glass shattered first? “The bathroom!” Mother and Peter shouted at the same moment.

Grabbing each other’s hands, the three rushed into the bathroom and slammed the door. They clung together near the bathtub, waiting and listening. The wind’s shrieking grew so loud that it hurt their ears. There was a loud bang, and the electricity went out. The walls and floors trembled. It sounded as if a jet plane was trying to land on their heads. Peter wondered if the roof might be sucked off. He closed his eyes and prayed silently. In the darkness, noise filled the room, their ears, and their minds.

Suddenly it was gone. The winds died. The banging stopped. Peter breathed a huge sigh of relief and tried to stop trembling. They were safe.

Together they walked back out onto the balcony. Miraculously, none of their windows were broken. But across the street, huge trees lay on the ground as if toppled by a massive hand. Cars had been smashed. A gigantic yellow crane had fallen against the unfinished Conference Center. Some windows of the Church Office Building had been broken.

Robbin glanced at a nearby apartment building. “Look! Look!” she cried, pointing. “There’s President Hinckley!”

Peter turned and looked. There stood President Hinckley on his own balcony, gazing out over the damage. Peter forgot the chaos below and stood watching the prophet for a long moment. At last, rather slowly, President Hinckley turned away and went back inside.

Peter smiled and leaned against his mother. “Wow,” he said softly.

Mother nodded. “That was some storm. I mean, how often does Salt Lake City have a tornado?”

“No.” Peter quickly shook his head. “Not that. I mean President Hinckley. He came to see what had happened. And you know what?”

“What?”

“I could feel his love and concern from here.”

Mother slipped her arm around his shoulder. “Makes you feel good, doesn’t it?”

Peter gave her a quick hug. “I think he loves us just as much as we love him.”

Mother smiled. “I’m sure he does.”

Fire engines, police sirens, and helicopters drew Peter’s attention back to the destruction. But he felt only peace. He would never forget the day he saw a prophet watching over his flock.

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The New Boy

By John Allen
Friend, Oct 2004, 36
(Based on an experience of the author’s friend)

When I am kind to others, my heart sings (Children’s Songbook, 145).

It was a beautiful fall morning. “Too nice a day,” Chase thought, “to have to go to school.” As he pedaled his bike, he looked at the clear blue sky and the bright reds and yellows of the newly turned autumn leaves. This was a day for playing tag football, jumping in huge piles of leaves, catching frogs by the stream—not a day for learning about nouns and fractions and presidents. Chase rode past the sign that read “Ridgecrest Elementary,” then parked his bike at the bike rack.

“Hey, Chase!” Derek called.

“Hey, what’s up, Derek?” Chase called back.

“I got a new video game on Saturday,” Derek said. “Do you want to come over to my house after dinner tonight and play it?”

“I can’t. It’s Monday, family night—you know, when we all do something together. Maybe I can come over tomorrow night.”

Chase and Derek got to their seats just before the bell rang. Chase noticed a boy he had never seen sitting toward the front of the room. He had straight shiny hair the color of coal. On the chalkboard in big letters Mrs. May had written Gishi Ren.

“Good morning, class,” Mrs. May said, rising from her desk. “I want to introduce you to a new student.” She motioned for the new boy to come stand beside her. “I’ve written his name on the blackboard. It’s pronounced Yee-she Ren. Let’s all say ‘Welcome, Gishi.’ ”

Gishi hung his head bashfully as the class repeated the welcome. Chase’s eyes met Derek’s. Derek made a face and rolled his eyes. “Gishi is from China,” Mrs. May explained. “His father has been living here for a year doing research at the university. Now Gishi and his mother have come to join him.”

Later that morning at recess, Chase and Derek played foursquare with some friends. Bouncing the ball, Derek whispered, “Watch this.” He pointed to Gishi, who stood a few feet away with his back toward them. Derek threw the big red ball hard. It bounced off the back of Gishi’s head.

When Gishi turned around, Derek yelled cheerfully, “Oh, sorry,” and winked at his friends. Gishi smiled timidly.

At lunch, Chase and Derek sat together as usual. Derek was describing his new video game. “It’s really cool. It’s like you’re in a jungle, and you’re looking for a diamond mine, and … hey, look, there’s the new kid.” Gishi spotted Chase and Derek and started walking toward them.

“Oh, no,” Derek said. “He’d better not sit with us.” But Gishi did just that. He smiled, nodded, and began eating.

Derek turned to Chase. “We can’t let him think he’s allowed to eat with us every day. Come on, let’s move.”

Chase felt sorry for Gishi. For a moment, he considered staying at the table. But when Derek got up and walked to another one, Chase followed him. Derek continued talking about his new video game, but Chase was only half listening. He kept glancing over at Gishi eating all alone.

That night, Chase’s parents gathered the family together for family home evening. After the opening prayer, Chase’s father said, “Tonight we’re going to talk about two of your ancestors—your great-great-grandparents, Joshua and Elizabeth McGowan.

“I think you older children have heard about them already, but Chase and Emily probably haven’t. I just felt impressed that I should tell you their story. As a young man, Joshua joined the Church in England and soon afterward came to America and settled in Kirtland, Ohio. There he met a lovely young woman named Elizabeth Sanders, who was also a member of the Church. They married and bought a farm with money Joshua had saved in England.

“One night,” Chase’s father continued, “an angry mob came and burned all their crops. They burned the barn and their farmhouse. Everything was destroyed. Elizabeth and Joshua had to start all over. Joshua became a blacksmith, and he did that for the rest of his life. They moved to Nauvoo and then later went to Utah with the Saints.”

“But wait—I don’t understand why those people burned their farm,” Chase interrupted.

“Simply because Joshua and Elizabeth were members of the Church,” Dad explained.

“But they must have done something to make those people so mad,” Chase insisted.

“No, Son, they didn’t do anything. It’s just that back then, being a member of the Church was often dangerous. Many people didn’t like members of the Church.”

“Why not?”

“Because they were different. They belonged to a new religion. Most folks didn’t know what the Church was really about. It’s just human nature, I guess, for some people to resent anything that’s new or different.”

“Well, it doesn’t make sense, Dad.” Chase frowned.

“No, Son, it doesn’t.”

That night Chase lay awake thinking about Joshua and Elizabeth and Derek and Gishi.

Tuesday morning was cold and cloudy. It wasn’t hard for Chase to go to school on such a dreary day. As he parked his bike at the rack, Chase heard Derek’s voice coming from the playground.

As he walked over, Chase saw Derek pointing his finger and making fun of Gishi. Gishi bowed his head and looked nervously at the crowd forming around him. Some of the boys and girls snickered.

Chase ran up to Derek. “Knock it off!”

“What?”

“You heard me, Derek. Leave him alone.” Chase looked Derek right in the eye so he would know he was serious. Derek stared back at Chase. Finally, Derek shrugged.

“I was just fooling around,” Derek muttered as he walked away.

“Are you OK?” Chase asked Gishi.

“Yes. OK.”

“Believe it or not, Derek’s really not so bad. I think he just needs time to get to know you.”

Gishi said nothing, but nodded.

Then Chase asked, “Do you want to come to my house after school and play video games?”

Gishi smiled shyly. “Yes. Fine. You live where?” Chase wrote down his address and gave it to Gishi.

That afternoon, the two boys played video games for a while, then talked about some of the differences between English and Chinese. They took turns pantomiming various actions and having the other say the word for the action in his language.

Gishi wrote something on a paper and showed it to Chase. “This is you in Chinese.”

Chase looked at the pencil strokes shooting out at different angles. “You mean that’s the word for ‘Chase’ in Chinese?”

“No,” Gishi said. “Friend.”

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Just Like in Heaven

By Jane McBride Choate
Friend, Oct 2004, 47
(Based on an experience of the author’s friend)

Fam’lies can be together forever through Heav’nly Father’s plan (Children’s Songbook, 188).

As the organist played prelude music, Keeley looked around the chapel. She smiled when she saw some of her friends she had left behind when her family moved to a small town in eastern Colorado.

Her family had returned to Loveland, Colorado, for the blessing of her aunt and uncle’s baby girl. All of her dad’s family had come for the special event.

She liked her family’s new home, but she was happy to be back in Loveland, where she had lived most of her life and had so many relatives and friends.

After the opening song and prayer and announcements, the bishop announced that there would be a blessing of a baby.

Keeley watched as her dad, uncle, grandpa, and other family members gathered to bless baby Kaitlyn.

Uncle Mark gave his daughter a name and a blessing. She knew that the men who stood in the circle held the priesthood. Keeley’s dad had explained how important the priesthood was when he had baptized her and confirmed her a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints a year ago. In another year, her oldest brother, Samuel, would receive the Aaronic Priesthood and be ordained a deacon.

Keeley felt tears sting her eyes as she heard Uncle Mark’s voice quiver during the middle of the blessing. She reached up to brush them away.

When the blessing was over, Uncle Mark held up Kaitlyn so that the congregation could see her.

After sacrament meeting, Keeley and her brothers went to Primary. The chorister invited them to choose their favorite songs for the children to sing.

Keeley chose “I’m Trying to Be like Jesus.”* The Primary children had sung it for the Primary sacrament meeting program a year ago, and it had remained one of her favorite songs.

Following opening exercises and sharing time, she went to class. When class let out, Keeley said good-bye to her friends. Once again, tears gathered in her eyes. Everyone in the family went to Uncle Mark and Aunt Celeste’s home after church. Keeley took a turn holding the new baby. All too soon, it was time to leave.

“It was like going home,” Keeley said during the drive. “All of our family and friends were there and were glad to see us.”

“That’s how it is in heaven,” Dad said. “Family members and friends who are already there are happy to see those they left behind on earth.”

“Like when Grandpa Munson died?” Keeley asked. Her mother’s dad had died before Keeley was born. She had heard Mom talk about Grandpa and what a great man he was.

“Exactly like that,” Mom said. “We were sad that Grandpa had to leave us, but we knew there were lots of people in heaven waiting for him.” She took Keeley’s hand and squeezed it. “I know you were glad to see your old friends, and they were glad to see you. We’ll see them again. In the meantime, you have friends at our new home who will be happy that you’re back.”

“Just like in heaven,” Keeley said. She liked the comparison. “Just like in heaven,” Mom agreed.

After family prayer that night, Keeley kissed her parents good night. She thought of her friends back in Loveland and her friends here at home, then she imagined how many more friends and family members must be waiting to see her again in heaven. A sweet warmth settled over her like a comfortable blanket as she got ready for bed.

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(November)

The First Thanksgiving in Utah

By Patricia Reece Roper
Friend, Nov 2004, 4
(Based on “Utah’s First Thanksgiving,” Ensign, Oct. 1982, 49–51)

Thou shalt thank the Lord thy God in all things (D&C 59:7).

Thursday, 10 August 1848 dawned warm and bright all over the Salt Lake Valley. After a harsh year, the prospect of a good harvest had revived the spirits of the Latter-day Saints, and everyone wanted to set aside a day for Utah’s (then called the State of Deseret) first Thanksgiving.

The festivities didn’t begin in the afternoon or evening, as they do now, but in the morning. Many children were up early. The girls helped their mothers prepare cakes, pies, and other pastries. The boys helped pull beets and carrots and cleaned cucumbers, radishes, and beans—all soon to be part of the wonderful feast.

Large baskets filled with pastries were placed under a large bowery (an open-sided building) on tables decorated for the feast. Fathers and sons proudly pulled carts heaped high with garden vegetables. Even the youngest Saints gathered at the bowery, each bringing so much food they almost couldn’t carry it all.

At nine o’clock sharp, a hush fell over the crowd. The festivities began solemnly, as a white flag was raised on a Liberty Pole decorated with sheaves of wheat, barley, oats, and a single ear of green corn. As the flag crept up the pole, a cannon was fired and the band began playing. When the flag reached the top of the pole, the people cheered loudly and cried out in unison, “Hosanna to God and the Lamb, forever and ever, amen.”

The Saints then stood and sang “Harvest Song,” written by Parley P. Pratt especially for the occasion. The voices of the Saints were strong and unified as they sang the chorus:

“Let us join in the dance, let us join in the song. To thee, O Jehovah, the praises belong. All honor, all glory, we render to thee; Thy cause is triumphant, thy people are free.”

After the song, several prominent leaders took turns giving speeches about how the Lord had blessed them in allowing this joyful harvest. After the speeches, Elder John Taylor (who later became the third President of the Church) offered a Thanksgiving prayer of praise and blessing on the food.

At noon, a bugle sounded, and several hundred Saints sat down to a wonderful dinner of bread, beef, cheese, green corn, melons, lettuce, radishes, beets, onions, peas, carrots, cucumbers, parsnips, squash, and beans. After that, those who could find room enjoyed cakes, pies, and pastries.

At two o’clock, the bugle sounded again. The tables were cleared and the benches removed, making room for dancing. As the band played, as many as 50 couples at a time danced the Virginia reel and quadrilles (a kind of square dance).

The day had been such an enormously successful event, surely you would think that a grand tradition had been started. But, strangely, that wasn’t what happened. The quickly-growing population made it impractical to have another citywide feast. Three years after the first celebration, in the fall of 1851, President Brigham Young, then governor of the Territory of Utah, proclaimed 1 January 1852 a “Day of Praise and Thanksgiving.” President Young asked the Saints to spend the day as families, joyfully, thankfully, and prayerfully, “in response to the time-honored custom of our fathers at Plymouth Rock.” It became a day for Saints to share their hearts with one another and with God and share their substance with the poor. Today many people celebrate Thanksgiving in different ways and on different dates, but the spirit of love and gratitude celebrated by the early pioneers remains the same.

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My Prayer Was Answered

By Thad A. Carlson
Friend, Nov 2004, 11
(Based on an experience of the author)

Make haste to help me, O Lord my salvation (Ps. 38:22).

As a boy, I had a lot of chores to do. With 13 brothers and sisters, there was plenty of work to go around. One of my jobs was to ride our horse, Old Smoky, and herd the cows to pasture. The only problem was that there wasn’t much green grass for the cows to graze on. It hadn’t rained for some time, and the land was dry and dusty.

One day, I noticed a patch of green grass growing beside the train tracks, underneath the railroad water tower. “I bet the cows will like that,” I thought. I clucked to Old Smoky. “C’mon, boy.”

Old Smoky was smart, and as long as I was riding him, he did what I wanted him to with very few instructions. But if he ever escaped, it was tricky to catch him. He liked running free and avoided being put to work.

When the cows were all busy nibbling next to the tracks, I slid off Old Smoky and sat on his reins so he couldn’t get away. Soon I was busy making necklaces out of snakeweeds, and I didn’t notice the reins slip out from under me as Old Smoky wandered away.

Suddenly, I heard a heart-stopping sound—the whistle of a big, black locomotive. I looked up to see the cows scattered all over the tracks. My family was very poor, and I knew that if any of our cows were killed it would mean disaster.

I leaped toward Old Smoky, but he danced away from me. I couldn’t herd the cows to safety without a horse!

The sound of the approaching train got louder. Panicking, I remembered what I had learned from my mother and my Primary teacher. I dropped to my knees right where I was and prayed. “Heavenly Father,” I cried, “please help me clear the cows off the tracks!”

Just then, the strangest thought came to my mind: “Look at how the cows wander past Old Smoky and he doesn’t run away. Pretend you’re a cow and crawl to him.” I was already on my knees, so I put my hands on the ground, too. On all fours, I crept toward Old Smoky. He didn’t budge. I grabbed his reins, stood up, and leaped on his back. Racing like the wind, Old Smoky herded the cows away from the tracks. He seemed even faster and smarter than usual. By the time the train blasted by, the cows were safely in the pasture.

I knew that Heavenly Father had answered my prayer and spared my family from tragedy. Only He knew that I could save my herd by pretending to be a cow.

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Dishing Up Blessings

By Sheila Kindred
Friend, Nov 2004, 29
(Based on an experience of the author)

Let us cheerfully do all things (D&C 123:17).

“Do I have to wash all these dishes?” Jenny asked as she put on an apron.

“Sorry, honey,” Mother said. “Elizabeth was so fussy that I spent a lot of time taking care of her. I wasn’t able to do much cleaning today.”

Elizabeth was Jenny’s baby sister, and she had been very fussy lately. Mother said Elizabeth was “teething,” which meant she was getting new teeth. Jenny was sorry Elizabeth was uncomfortable, but still, it didn’t seem fair. It was Jenny’s turn to do the dinner dishes, not the breakfast, lunch, and dinner dishes.

Jenny sighed and turned on the water. She filled the sink with lots and lots of bubbles. She liked the way the bubbles shimmered. She pretended the bubbles were snow and piled them into mountains. Then she scooped some up in her hand and pretended it was an ice-cream cone. Finally she blew them off her hand and watched them float above the sink. It was fun to play with the bubbles, but it wasn’t getting the work done. And Jenny had homework to do. She didn’t want the dishes to take all night.

Jenny reached for the nearest pans to put them into the water. “Oh, no!” she thought. “Not the muffin tins!” The muffin tins were always hard to clean. She would have to scrub out each section one at a time and keep checking to make sure they were completely clean.

As Jenny worked, she started thinking about muffins. Her mother had made banana muffins for breakfast that morning. Banana muffins were her favorite kind, and this morning they had been hot and delicious. Jenny had never made muffins before, but she knew her mother had to get up early to make sure they were ready before school. And her mother probably hadn’t gotten much sleep last night because of Elizabeth’s crying. Jenny rinsed the muffin tins carefully and set them out to dry. Somehow, washing the muffin tins didn’t seem like such a chore anymore.

The next thing that needed washing was a large pot. “Ah, yes,” Jenny thought, “Mother cooked macaroni and cheese in this pot.” She lived close enough to her school to walk home for lunch. When she had come home today she had brought her friend Melinda. Jenny’s mother had made them macaroni and cheese with cut-up hot dogs. While they ate, the girls told Jenny’s mother all about the art project they had worked on at school that morning. After they finished lunch, they hurried back to school.

Jenny was glad that she was able to come home during the day, and she was also glad her friends felt welcome in her home. Jenny scrubbed out the macaroni-and-cheese pot carefully. She wanted to make sure it was clean and ready for future lunches with her friends.

The last big dish to wash was the rectangular casserole pan. It still had some scalloped potatoes left in it from dinner. Jenny took a clean spoon, scooped out the potatoes, and popped them into her mouth. Delicious! Jenny knew that the scalloped potato recipe came from her grandmother. Jenny started thinking about her grandmother as she washed the pan. She loved to visit Grandmother. They would often make bread together. And then, while the bread was rising, Grandmother would tell Jenny wonderful stories about her childhood.

Jenny had just finished rinsing all the dishes and was draining the sink when her mother came into the kitchen.

“Finished so soon?” Mother asked. “I hurried back as quickly as I could to help you. I’m sorry that there were so many dishes to do tonight.”

“I don’t mind,” Jenny said. “Doing the dishes gives me time to think about things.”

“Like what?” Mother asked.

“Like family, friends, and good food. You know, it’s actually kind of nice that we have so many dirty dishes to wash.”

“It is?” Mother asked in surprise.

“Sure. Having a lot of dirty dishes just goes to show we have a lot of blessings.”

Mother nodded. “That’s true,” she said. “And one of those blessings is a daughter who cheerfully washes the dishes.”

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A Jar Full of Love

By Myrna M. Hoyt
Friend, Nov 2004, 40
(Based on an experience of a family in the author’s ward)

God loveth a cheerful giver (2 Cor. 9:7).

Bart and Chad sat with their mother in sacrament meeting as the bishop made an announcement. “Brothers and sisters, we are blessed to have several missionaries serving from our ward. We have been asked to keep a certain sum of money in the ward missionary fund, and right now we are below that amount.”

He held up a donation slip. “Fortunately, the blessing of supporting the missionary program isn’t just for full-time missionaries and their families. We can donate to the ward missionary fund to help support missionaries from our ward or to the general missionary fund to help missionaries all over the world.* What a great opportunity this is for each of us to personally support the missionary program.”

The bishop then asked ward members to contribute to the ward missionary fund if they felt they could.

Bart and Chad arrived home bursting with excitement. “Mom, we need to help the missionaries!”

Mom smiled at their enthusiasm. “When you earn money and pay your tithing, maybe you could also give a little extra money to the missionary fund.”

A look of concern crossed Bart’s face. “Mom, we have to give more than that!”

“And the bishop said they need money now,” Chad added.

“What do you suggest?” Mom asked.

Bart thought for a few moments, then went to his room and returned with a box of change he had been saving.

“This is all the money I have right now,” he explained, pouring it out onto the table.

Chad followed his brother’s example and soon returned with his own savings, which he added to the mound of coins.

Bart noticed an empty quart jar next to the sink, and an idea popped into his head. “Mom, could we please use that jar for our money?”

“Sure.”

“And would it be OK if we went through the house and added any loose coins we find?”

“I think that’s a great idea.”

Bart and Chad discovered that hunting for missionary coins was more fun than any treasure hunt. With each quarter, dime, nickel, and penny they dropped into the jar, their smiles widened and their determination grew.

Together they searched every cupboard, drawer, and closet. They peered under every rug, bed, and piece of furniture. When they were sure they had not missed a square inch of the house, they presented a nearly full jar to their mother. “Would you please call the bishop and make an appointment for us?” Bart asked.

Mom dialed the phone number and soon reported that the bishop would be happy to meet with them that afternoon.

As the bishop welcomed them into his office, Mom explained why they were there. Tears filled the bishop’s eyes as Chad and Bart proudly placed the jar of coins in his hands. Together they counted the money, filled out a donation slip, and poured the coins into a large envelope.

The bishop smiled warmly. “Thank you so very much for such a wonderful contribution to the missionary fund. If you don’t mind, I would like to keep this jar as a reminder of one of the most wonderful experiences I have ever had. This may look like an empty jar, but to me it will always be filled with love and the testimonies of two special young men.”

As they left the building, Bart turned to Mom. “I feel just as full as that quart jar.”

“So do I!” Chad exclaimed.

“That makes three of us,” Mom said, giving her boys a big hug.

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A Gift for Kathryn

By Anne Petersen Creager
Friend, Nov 2004, 46
(Based on an experience from the author’s life)

To him that is afflicted pity should be shewed from his friend (Job 6:14).

I don’t know what it was about Kathryn. No one really disliked her, but no one liked her, either. She sat quietly at her desk and did her schoolwork. She always got the highest score, but no one competed with her. It was like she wasn’t even part of the class—or the world for that matter.

When the bell rang for recess, most of us bolted for the door, nearly knocking the books from our desks. Not Kathryn. She sat still until everyone was out the door, and then she walked slowly behind.

I remember one day Mr. Ekhert, our fifth-grade teacher, called to her from the pitching mound. “Come on, Kathryn. Come play!”

I heard the boys moan, and I guess she heard them, too. She shook her head and wrapped her legs around the legs of the bench.

She’d played kickball with us before. Whenever anyone pitched the ball, she held out her hands and muttered, “Slow. No bounces.” No matter how fast or bouncy the boys pitched, she’d run toward the red rubber ball, swing her leg, and kick as hard as she could. She always missed. We’d groan, and large red splotches would burn her cheeks.

One day, in the middle of the year, Mr. Ekhert called roll like he always did. “Kathryn? Oh, that’s right.” He paused and marked something in his book. Then with a serious expression he looked up from his roll and said, “Class, do you know where Kathryn is?”

No one answered.

“Does anyone know where she’s been for the past week?”

I shrugged my shoulders and glanced at the other kids, who also seemed unconcerned.

Mr. Ekhert sighed. “She’s quite sick.” He peered at us over his wire-rimmed glasses. “I wonder if there is something any of you can do for her.”

I watched everyone slouch down in their seats, like I did. I thought if I shrunk somehow, maybe I wouldn’t feel so guilty.

“Where has she been?” I wondered. “The hospital?” I felt ashamed that I hadn’t even noticed she was gone.

That day as I rode the bus home, I didn’t talk to my friends or even argue with the boy kicking the back of my seat. I stared out the window and thought about Kathryn. I didn’t know why she was so different. I didn’t even know why exactly no one talked to her. She was smart and nice. But she wasn’t pretty and she wasn’t funny; she never laughed at any jokes. She wasn’t good at any sports, but she wasn’t mean, either. I thought about Kathryn for a long time. When I tried to put her out of my mind, I kept seeing her face. “Maybe I should do something for her,” I thought.

That afternoon, my friend Kami and I rode our bikes to the store. As I gazed into the glass-covered candy counter, I saw a box of bracelets I’d never noticed before.

“Look at those.” I nudged Kami with my elbow. She shrugged, but I felt warm inside and knew I needed to buy one of those bracelets for Kathryn.

I counted the change in my pocket. I had exactly enough for the bracelet and a few pieces of candy. I plunked my money down on the counter, and the clerk put the bracelet and candy into a paper bag for me.

On the way home, I didn’t eat a single piece of candy, and when Kami asked for one, I said no. It felt strange, buying a present for someone I hardly knew. All evening I kept looking at the paper bag until finally I went to the closet and found a box to wrap it in.

The next day I felt like butterflies were flying around the back of my throat. I could hardly speak to anyone. When the three-o’clock bell rang, I threw my backpack on my shoulder and walked down the street past the buses. I followed the map my mom had drawn for me until I arrived at the right house. I swallowed and walked up the stairs to the front door.

“Hello,” an older woman said, opening the door.

“Is Kathryn here?” I held the package behind my back.

The woman stared at me in surprise. She pulled the door open and motioned for me to come in, not saying a word.

I don’t remember what her house looked like or any other details—I only remember the stunned look in Kathryn’s eyes as I walked through her bedroom door.

“Hi,” I said, pulling the package from behind my back. I handed it to her.

She took it but didn’t say anything. She opened the card I had written and then ripped a little hole in the package. I felt uncomfortable watching her open it, like I was intruding. She pulled the bracelet out and held it up to the lamp. Then she popped a piece of the candy into her mouth.

“Thank you.”

I stepped back and said, “I hope you feel better soon. See you at school.” Nervously I tripped out of her bedroom and left.

As I walked back to school, my throat felt swollen. I thought about Kathryn and about the look on her mother’s face when I came to the door. I don’t think anyone had ever gone to her house before.

I stood on the steps in front of the school and watched the late bus come around the corner. I did not know why I kept thinking about Kathryn. I didn’t even know if she would want to be my friend when she came back to school. I didn’t know what to think.

Suddenly, I imagined a smile spread across Kathryn’s face. Goose bumps popped out all over my skin, and I felt warm inside. I hoped I could become Kathryn’s friend when she came back to school. And I hoped maybe others would reach out to her, too. But no matter what happened, I knew I had done the right thing, and I knew that Heavenly Father knew it. He had helped me help Kathryn, and I would never regret it.

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(December)

A Cabbage for Christmas

By Trisa Martin
Friend, Dec 2004, 5
(A true story)

He will preserve the righteous by his power (1 Ne. 22:17).

“Annie, we need a cabbage for Christmas dinner tomorrow,” Mother said. “Please go to the Olsens and trade these potatoes for one. Hurry now. Night’s coming.”

Eleven-year-old Annie sighed, dropping her knitting and picking up the burlap bag of potatoes. It was a tradition in Norway for families to have a cabbage for Christmas dinner, and Annie knew it would be delicious. But she didn’t want to leave the warm fire. “Can Gunnild come, too?” she asked hopefully.

“No, she must feed the goats and help your father.”

Annie buttoned her sheepskin coat and hurried outside into the brisk air. The snow crunched under her feet and the sharp wind whipped her blonde braids as she scurried down the path.

A few minutes later she reached the Olsens’ cabin and rapped on the wooden door. Mrs. Olsen peeked out, her blue eyes wide with surprise.

“Why, Annie! What are you doing out in this bitter wind? Your cheeks are as bright as strawberries. Come in and warm yourself.”

Annie’s fingers and toes tingled as she stood by the crackling fire. “Mother asked me to trade these potatoes for a cabbage,” she said.

“Oh, child, I’m sorry. I have no more cabbages. We ate our last one yesterday.” Mrs. Olsen stirred the big black kettle hanging over the fire. “Would you like some porridge?”

“No, thank you,” Annie replied. “I can’t stay. Do you know where I can get a cabbage?”

“The Petersens may have one. Jens had a good crop this year. But if you go there, you must hurry. It feels like there’s a storm brewing.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Olsen,” Annie said as she hurried outside. Tucking the bag under her arm, she plunged her hands deep into her pockets and trudged forward. The icy wind slapped her face, and black clouds rumbled overhead.

After what seemed like hours, she reached the Petersens. Luckily, Mrs. Petersen had an extra cabbage to trade for Annie’s potatoes. Waving good-bye, Annie headed home. Tiny snowflakes fluttered around her, covering the path with a goose-feathery whiteness.

Annie thought of her family’s warm cabin. She could almost smell the savory lutefisk (dried codfish) and potatoes cooking. Perhaps her mother was also making riskrem (rice pudding) and hiding an almond inside. Maybe Annie would be the lucky one to find it.

The snow began to fall faster. Thick flakes coated her eyelashes and buried the path. Annie stared at the landscape ahead of her, struggling to find the trail. “Is that our cabin?” she thought, noticing a dark shape in the swirling snow. But it was only a thicket of trees. Annie was confused. “Where am I?” she wondered. “Why do the mountains look like giants?” She felt like she was in a dream.

Huge snowdrifts seemed like a warm, white feather bed, urging her to stop and sleep. At first she resisted by thinking about home. She plodded forward on what felt like wooden-post legs, clutching her cabbage. But finally her weary legs collapsed, and she lay down, wrapping herself in a soft blanket of snow.

Back at home, Annie’s father stared out into the whirling whiteness. Where was Annie? He bundled up in his heavy coat and grabbed his lantern. He hurried down the trail, shouting into the wind, “Annie, Annie!”

Next to a giant spruce tree he noticed a strange mound. He rushed forward, swinging his lantern. In the dim light, he saw a pale figure in the snow. Was it Annie? He rushed to her, gathering her in his arms and wrapping his fur coat around her.

“Please, God,” he prayed, “let her live.”

A faint breath stirred Annie’s lips as she whimpered, “Papa.”

“Annie, you’re alive! It’s a miracle!” he cried. “God has preserved your life for a special purpose.”

Nine years later Annie married Soren Hansen. They had eight children. When Soren died, Annie sold sawdust to the butcher shops to support her family. Every day she hitched her yellow pony to a little cart and carried a load of sawdust to nearby Oslo.

One day as Annie neared the open-air market, she heard a strange commotion. Two young men were speaking to a crowd gathered near the vegetable market. Annie was curious and stopped to listen. They spoke about a prophet and the Book of Mormon.

Their message stirred Annie’s heart. On 2 March 1857 she was baptized as one of the first converts in Norway.

Annie became a powerful missionary. She shared the gospel with everyone who would listen. Even Mr. Gulbrandsen, who owned the sawmill, joined the Church after Annie taught him the gospel. She continued to share her testimony until she died in Norway at age 81. Some of her children and grandchildren emigrated to America.

Today her great-great-grandchildren still love to hear about the miracle of Annie, who went to get a cabbage for Christmas.

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This Is Christmas!

By Linda G. Paulsen
Friend, Dec 2004, 10
(Based on an experience of the author)

I am the light of the world (John 8:12).

As I buttoned my coat and tied the cords of my knit cap, I shivered with excitement. The whole Christmas season lay before me, and tonight Dad was taking us out into the middle of it. I hadn’t a clue where, but it didn’t matter. Dad always had a good plan for family night.

“There’s a special event on Temple Square tonight,” Dad told us as we drove downtown. “I had you dress warmly because it’s outdoors.” Becki, my little sister, was bouncing with anticipation as we searched for a parking spot. I couldn’t help bouncing a little, too. We had only recently moved to Salt Lake City, Utah, and the granite-gray walls of the Salt Lake Temple were a source of wonder to me.

When we reached Temple Square, there was quite a crowd gathered in the garden south of the temple. Bleachers and a podium had been set up on a little slope. Dad led us to a spot slightly above and to the side of the bleachers. We stamped our feet to keep warm in the cold night air.

Dad hoisted Becki onto his shoulders. “Look,” he said softly. “There’s President McKay.” I stretched to see, and there he was! President David O. McKay! I could hardly believe it. I could see his wavy white hair and smiling face. The feeling I had was amazing. I felt tingly. I hardly had time to think about it, though, because the program was starting.

The people on the bleachers turned out to be members of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, who sang some Christmas songs. I was hearing the Mormon Tabernacle Choir in person! I kept on tingling, and somehow I knew it wasn’t from the cold. Then, after an introduction, President McKay stood up and reached into a box partly hidden by the podium.

It’s hard to describe the marvelous moment when the prophet flipped the switch. The light! The color! Thousands of tiny lightbulbs sparkled in the trees. The walkways were lined with them, and the bushes, shrubs, and flower beds were suddenly transformed. A huge gasp and a sigh rose into the night as the crowd shared the wonder of the moment. We soon found ourselves moving along the sidewalks and pathways around the Tabernacle, past monuments and fountains. It was glorious! I had to keep reminding myself to breathe.

“Well,” I thought, “this is Christmas!” It seemed absolutely right to me that I should feel the spirit of Christmas so strongly this close to the house of the Lord. After all, we were celebrating the Lord’s birth. Christmas lights ought to shine more brightly here. And it was perfect to have the prophet turn on the lights. He represented Jesus Christ, and Jesus is the Light of the World. It felt like a little bit of heaven.

That was in 1965. Almost every Christmas since then, lights have gleamed on Temple Square. Going to see the lights on Temple Square became a Christmas tradition for our family, as it has been for countless others. It is more than a tradition for me, though. It has become part of my testimony. Several things happened to me as I watched President McKay turn on the lights that December night. I felt the Holy Ghost witness to me that the old gentleman with white hair was a true prophet of God. I also came to know as I had never known before that the temple is God’s holy house. I promised myself that I would feel that joy and wonder again—by being worthy to enter it someday.

In December 1996 I found myself again on Temple Square, this time inside the temple. It was the day our daughter was married. As I watched my daughter smile with the joy of her dream come true, I remembered another December long ago and the witness I had felt. I looked around me, seeing the people I love most sharing a long-awaited day. This was happiness. This was Christmas!

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A Tree for Nana

By Callie Buys
Friend, Dec 2004, 29
(Based on an experience from the author’s family)

Behold, I am Jesus Christ. … In me shall all mankind have life (Ether 3:14).

James loved everything about Christmas—the songs and stories about baby Jesus, the twinkling lights, the bright packages under the tree, and the smell of yummy treats. He also loved the Christmas traditions with his grandparents, Nana and Papa. Every year Nana made steaming mugs of her special hot chocolate and baked dozens of sugar cookies shaped like stars and trees. All seven grandchildren would gather in Nana and Papa’s kitchen to frost and decorate the cookies. Then James and his cousins would play games with Papa. Last year, Papa taught eight-year-old James, the oldest grandson, how to operate the train that circled the Christmas tree.

Christmas would be different this year. Papa had died at the beginning of December, and Nana felt too sad to plan their special Christmas traditions. James felt very sad, too. He missed Papa.

“Christmastime feels wrong without Papa,” James told his mom one snowy afternoon.

Mom thought for a minute before she hugged James. “James, why do we celebrate Christmas?” she asked softly.

“Because that’s when Jesus was born,” he answered quickly.

“That’s right. We celebrate Christmas to remember Jesus Christ’s birth. And we know that Jesus made it possible for us to see Papa again and be together forever as a family. So don’t you think we can think about Papa and Christmas at the same time?” Mom said.

James hadn’t thought about that before. He still missed Papa, but he felt happier remembering that they could be together forever.

“I’m glad I’ll get to see Papa again,” he said.

“Me too,” Mom said. “And I’m going to go visit Nana in a few minutes. You can come with me.”

At Nana’s house, James looked around in surprise. He didn’t see any Christmas decorations—not even a tree.

“Where is your Christmas tree, Nana?” James asked. “And where is the train?”

“I’m not having a tree this year,” Nana said sadly. “It takes too much work to buy one and put the lights on it. I can’t do that all alone. And I don’t know how to run the train. Papa always did that.”

“Oh,” James said softly.

“We need to help Nana,” he told Mom as she tucked him into bed later that night. “She is so sad.”

James crinkled his forehead in concentration as he and Mom thought about what they could do. Soon they had a plan.

The next evening, the whole family met at James’s house. James and his cousins giggled as they piled into cars and drove to a Christmas tree lot. They looked at many different trees. Some were too tall. Others were too fat or too prickly. Some had drooping branches and bare spots. Finally, Uncle Max found a perfect tree. They paid for it, put it in the back of the truck, and drove to Nana’s house. Then James and his cousins huddled together on Nana’s front porch and began singing Christmas carols as Dad unloaded the tree.

Soon the door cracked open and Nana peeked out. “Surprise!” James called. Nana opened the door wide. “What’s this?”

“We got you a Christmas tree,” James bubbled. “And now we want to help you decorate it!” Dad hefted the tree into the house while Uncle Max rummaged through some bins to find a tangled strand of white lights. Uncle Ben positioned the tree in its metal stand, and Mom placed a red cloth under it. Christmas music streamed from the radio as they hung sparkly star-shaped ornaments from the tree’s branches. Then Uncle Ben carried a big brown box up from the basement. Inside, James saw the shiny red train engine and black train tracks. He carefully helped Uncle Ben connect the tracks in a circle around the tree.

When they finished, Nana looked at the tree and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. She smiled at James and his cousins.

“Thank you,” she said. “Papa would have loved this.”

“Well, you know, Christmas is the perfect time to think about him,” James said, reaching for Nana’s hand. He nudged her over to the tree, where the little train circled happily. “And one more thing. I need to teach you how to run the train.”

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