When I was in the fourth grade my friend Neal and I went everywhere together. We rode bikes up Morningside Road. We climbed the cherry trees beside my house, and we picked cherries too—the ones we could reach before the birds got to them. On Saturdays we built forts and ships in the woods between our houses.

Neal had good ideas about things to do, usually. But one time he had an idea that wasn't very good. We had ridden bikes down the hill to Morton's corner store. That's where we bought everything—notebooks, ice-cream sodas, combs, and toothpaste. Mr. Morton was a friendly man; his daughter Barbara was even in our class at school.

Well, Neal and I were there looking through the comic books when he whispered to me, "I dare you to steal a candy bar."

I was really surprised to have Neal suggest something like that. And, you see, if there's one thing that was hard for me, it was to back down from any kind of a dare. I never wanted anyone to call me a wimp. But I said, "Dares go first," hoping Neal would back down.

It wasn't because I was afraid. I just knew stealing was not right. It's taking from someone else what belongs to him, and my folks came down hard on that kind of thing. I didn't even like taking gum off my mom's dresser at home.

The next thing I knew, Neal went right over to the candy counter, slipped three candy bars into his pocket, and sauntered out the door. I think I started blushing right through my freckles then, just thinking about what I felt I had to do.

It's a funny thing, how that happens—that "have to do it" feeling. It's as if a cloud moves in, and instead of your own thoughts all you can pay attention to is the murky feeling of "have to do it."

Of course you don't have to do anything that you know deep down is wrong. In my Sunday School (Christian Science) we learned how Christ Jesus got rid of "have to do it" clouds. He was dared to do dumb things. The lure of fame and power tried to trick him. ^{See Matt. 4:5-10.} People put him down because he was friends with some men and women who weren't the respected people in town. (In fact, some of the people he wanted to help and did help were even called sinners. ^{See Luke 7:36-48; 19:1-10.} )

But Jesus didn't pay attention to whether anyone made fun of him or tried to get him to stop saying or doing what he knew was right. Jesus said that what ought to come first is loving God and that He is our Father. That was the important commandment, he said, and the second most important thing was to love other people the way we love ourselves. ^{See Mark 12:29-31.} If we are loving and doing good, we are loving God, and that means we are loving Truth. And since we're really God's children, telling the truth is natural. In the end we're the happiest when we tell the truth, too.

I knew those things—but there in Mr. Morton's store it all suddenly got clouded over. I checked out the candy counter, all the while half thinking I must be dreaming and maybe someone would wake me up. Then I had a chocolate bar up my sleeve and started for the door.

Right beside the sunglasses display Mr. Morton came up and said, "Honey, I think you have something that doesn't belong to you."

Thud. My whole heart went thud. The worst thing that could happen to me was happening. Somebody I knew, and liked, was calling me a thief. I felt like a thief, and that was the most awful, terrible feeling.

Well, Mr. Morton took me back to a corner of the store, and he talked pretty quietly, but he was firm. He said, "I know you are not a thief. I'm sure you know better than this." He said we could just keep this between the two of us—he wouldn't tell my dad or anyone—if I would make him a promise that I would never take what wasn't mine again. He said to promise, not because I had got caught but because stealing was against the Commandments, and he knew that in my Sunday School we honored the Commandments.

By then I was teary, and I said, "I promise, Mr. Morton. I don't know why I did it, and I won't ever steal again." I gave him back the candy bar and went outside, and because I felt so bad I just walked my bike all the way to my backyard.

Here's what I learned from that, and later I talked about some of it with Neal, too. First, it hurt a lot to feel ashamed of myself. Second, good things can come out of a time when you make a mistake. For instance, I got a lot smarter about recognizing that "have to do it" feeling. I learned that it never really is my own feeling, and I don't need to be afraid of it or obey it.

Third, all the Commandments we talked about in Sunday School (I suppose almost everyone knows them—"Thou shalt have no other gods before me; Honour thy father and thy mother; Thou shalt not kill; Thou shalt not steal ..." ^{Ex. 20:3, 12, 13, 15.} ) really can be as close as your own thought, telling you the right thing to do. That's because God, Truth, is always with us, and we are His sons and daughters. And that means we're really like Him, truthful and good.

Once in Sunday School we learned a promise from the Bible: "And thine ears shall hear a word behind thee, saying, This is the way, walk ye in it, when ye turn to the right hand, and when ye turn to the left." ^{Isa. 30:21.} We talked about "hearing a word," so I knew there was such a thing, but I didn't know how it would sound, exactly, or how to act on it. I mean, maybe in Morton's store when I was hoping someone would wake me up, that was pretty close to a voice saying, "'This is the way....'"

Or maybe having Mr. Morton catch me was an answer to prayer. I suppose that sounds weird. But angel thoughts —good thoughts—do get to us in lots of different ways. There have been times when a good idea from one of the hymns in the Christian Science Hymnal or remembering something my mom told me kept me from getting into bad situations.

One thing I know—I didn't steal again. How could I when even being tempted would remind me of Mr. Morton's voice saying, "I know you are not a thief."

I used to think other kids in my Sunday School probably never did anything wrong. I thought I must be the only one who had ever tried to steal candy or fought with a brother. So, feeling I was the only bad one made me not like going to Sunday School sometimes.

But then a friend told me that was a silly way to feel, because almost everyone learns things little by little. For instance, everyone is supposed to know the 9 multiplication table perfectly, but not everyone gets 6 x 9 = 54 every single time. In a long problem sometimes the teacher finds where you did 6 x 9 = 53. Better is to find it yourself. Best is when you correct your own mistake once and for all, so you always get 6 x 9 = 54.

The point is that we just have to keep trying to do better, and to help each other. Maybe that's one of the things Jesus meant when he said, "Love one another." ^{John 15:12.}