“After All,” Ensign, Nov. 1972, 87
Little Cindy was quite disturbed when our cat, Francis, caught and ate a bird. “Aunt Ruthie,” she finally asked, “when the cat eats a bird, does the bird go right to heaven, or does it have to wait until the cat dies?”
Ruth W. Andrews
Valley Center, California
One night in family home evening, I asked my teenage son to read a verse of scripture. He read it so fast none of us understood it, so I asked him to read it again. This time he read it too slowly. Again I told him to read it, and he finally did it right.
I turned to my other teenage boy and asked, “What does this prove?”
“It proves,” he replied, “that Herby can read in three speeds.”
In the ‘NO’
When I suggest she go to bed
My two-year-old just shakes her head.
When it’s a bath I want to give,
Again the answer’s negative.
Since each suggestion, come what may,
Is met with a resounding nay,
I find, whenever we oppose,
I end up losing by the no’s.
Recently I hesitantly placed a sparse meal of disguised leftovers on the table, hoping not to hear too many protests from the family. Our youngest was asked to say the blessing. Since he was just learning to pray, he was quite proud of himself and wanted no help in asking the blessing as he said, “Heavenly Father, bless this food that is repaired for our use. …” Amid the family’s laughter, the “repaired” leftovers were cheerfully eaten.
Marilyn J. Rochon
Following a heartfelt sacrament meeting discourse by a new father, drawing a detailed analogy between the beauties of childbirth and those of spiritual birth, the bishop of the ward rose to the pulpit and closed the meeting: “I would like to thank our wonderful speaker for his fine delivery.”
Steve and Kathy Anderson
One Monday afternoon as my friend and I were walking home from school, we saw two four-year-olds from our ward go by. Each child had a long stick with a cloth on the end containing his belongings. When we asked them if they were running away, they replied, “Oh, yes.”
Worriedly we asked, “When will you be back?”
“At seven o’clock tonight for family home evening,” was the unhesitating reply.
Our five-year-old son answered the telephone and politely but firmly informed the caller, “My daddy isn’t Mr. Owens anymore, he’s the bishop.”
Gladys B. Owens
Moses Lake, Washington