Gospel Story Finder

The other day my mom and brother and I went to the aquarium. We were looking at the sea horses when my brother saw a little boy crying. My mom asked him if he was lost. He said he couldn’t find his mom. My mom comforted him. Then we started looking for his mom, but couldn’t find her. Finally we took him to a worker. After a while we saw the boy again. He was with his mom. The worker helped him find her. I felt a good warm feeling because we had helped the little boy. I knew it was the right thing to do.

Shannon Welty of Centerville, Utah, is saving the lives of African children—with puppets.
“When little children get sick with diarrhea and vomiting, the parents don’t know it’s dangerous to restrict water,” Shannon explains. “Because their children are discharging liquid they think they have had too much moisture, so they stop giving them food and water. The children end up dying from dehydration.”
Instead of waiting for some international committee to help, Shannon organized a service project to teach African villagers how to treat sick children. She persuaded people in her hometown to donate materials, enlisted elementary school students as volunteers, and spent many hours preparing 13 puppet kits.
The puppets will be used to tell a story about a little boy who is sick with dehydration and how to treat him. Contacts in Mali, Botswana, Zimbabwe, and Burkina Faso will receive and translate the kits.
“I couldn’t have imagined I’d be saving lives by making puppets,” Shannon says. “People were asking how I felt saving someone’s life and that’s when it hit me. Service is really Christlike because he saved everyone.”

As I came out of school, the sunlight reflected on the knee-deep snow. The air was icy cold, but all four of us guys jammed into the cab of Reed’s truck so the chill and the snow did not much matter to us. All we had to bother with was keeping the steam off the inside of the windows.
As we pulled out of the school parking lot, Wayne started cutting up, as usual, and Sid started cutting Wayne down, as usual, while Reed and I mainly listened. We passed the Chicken Inn, where even the snow couldn’t freeze out that frying smell, and turned up the hill to my house. Up ahead we could see a girl struggling over the ice. I mean really struggling. The hill wasn’t all that steep, but like I said, it was one icy day, and she sure looked funny. Her arms juggled a load of books, and her feet were slipping and sliding as if she were walking on a moving sidewalk. Her coat was pulled up around her ears. She looked like a turtle trying to decide whether to go in or come out of its shell.
“A definite specimen of a 1,” Sid laughed, and so did we.
“Who is she anyway?” Reed asked.
“Rachel Roberts,” I answered. “They moved into the ward a while back.”
“Trust Matt to know about the new girls,” Sid teased, and Wayne slugged me in the arm.
“Yeah. Lady’s man Bingham.” Wayne exaggerated each word and made his voice about two octaves higher.
“Cut it out,” I growled. “She’s my sister’s friend.”
“Sure!” Reed laughed.
“Look, she’s a 1,” I said. “A definite 1!” I grumbled a little to let them know I’d had enough.
“Think she’ll make it to the top of the hill?” Wayne asked.
“Bet you a chocolate shake she won’t,” Reed offered, but no one took up the bet.
As the old Ford pulled up alongside Rachel, Wayne called out, “Give her a scare. Fire it!”
“Yeah!” the others shouted. Without hesitation Reed turned the ignition off then on, and the muffler let out a bang that sounded like a Civil War cannon. Inside the cab, the roar of laughter was almost as loud as a cannon as we watched Rachel go into a balancing act. We jerked around and wiped at the back window while Reed shouted, “Tell me what’s happening, will ya? Did we scare her?”
“I’ll say!” Wayne shouted. “You should see the look on her face. Her eyes are as big as billiard balls!”
“Hey, she’s down,” Sid said. “Feet up, arms everywhere!”
“Books sliding all over the place!” Wayne was laughing so hard he could barely talk.
“What a klutz,” I added. But as I said it a sick sort of heaviness bit into my stomach. I tried to get it out of there by laughing harder, but it didn’t work. About then I realized my conscience was working.
It’s not like I really knew Rachel. She was only a sophomore and kind of a quiet nobody. What I mean is that she was not exactly the kind of girl you would look at twice. Now here I was laughing at her and at the same time feeling awful about laughing. But what was I supposed to do? Reed, Wayne, and Sid were almost hysterical.
The laughter died down, and I sensed an uneasiness in the small cab. Slowly I turned back around, all the while wondering if their stomachs felt like mine. “Maybe we ought to go back and see if she’s all right,” I said.
No one answered. Finally we pulled into my driveway. “Ah, she’ll be fine,” Wayne said. “It just scared her a little. See ya at basketball practice.”
I went into the house, and while I fixed a sandwich and poured a glass of milk, I figured it out. I hadn’t been the one to suggest it and I wasn’t the one who turned the key, so why should I be the one to worry about it? By the time I finished my fourth sandwich I’d forgotten the whole thing. Then with homework and basketball practice, even my conscience didn’t have much time to remember it. But about ten o’clock I was in the kitchen getting some cookies when I realized that my sister Jennifer and my mom were talking about Rachel.
“How’s she doing?” Mom asked.
“They’re not sure yet. She’s got a cast on it now, but they want to wait two weeks and see how it’s healing. Her mom says they may have to put a pin in to help it heal right.”
I swallowed one homemade chocolate chip—cookie—whole and felt it scratch all the way down.
“What happened?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t us, but somehow knowing it was.
“Some guys made a truck backfire next to her when she was coming up the hill after school. She slipped on the ice and broke her ankle.”
Suddenly I wasn’t hungry. It had been a joke. We hadn’t meant to hurt her. My stomach churned. I wished I hadn’t eaten any cookies at all.
You all right?” Jennifer asked.
“Sure,” I said, trying to get hold of myself. “I just swallowed wrong.”
“Those guys are probably still laughing about their joke,” she said, her face growing red and her eyes mad, “while Rachel’s over there hurting.”
I’m not laughing, I thought. But that didn’t help much.
All night long I tossed and turned and tossed some more. It was a joke. That’s all. We’re really not bad guys. Wayne was always pulling something, and we always joined in. But we’d never hurt anyone.
The next morning when Reed picked me up I guess I looked bad.
“Hey, what’s with you?” Wayne asked. “Terrie turn you down for the dance?”
“No!” I snapped.
I was the last one in and as we shoved together, everything got kind of quiet, a heavy kind of quiet. We got almost to school without breaking the silence. Then Sid spoke up, “Come on, Bingham. What’s wrong?”
I hesitated a minute and then told them the whole story. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but as I looked around I could see they felt about like I did.
“I didn’t mean to hurt her,” Reed said. “Just a little scare.”
“It wasn’t just you,” Wayne added, and Sid nodded.
We pulled into the school parking lot, and for the first time ever I was glad to be at school. Maybe concentrating on classes would keep my mind off Rachel and her ankle. But it didn’t work. All day long I kept seeing her face, crying, hurting, sitting alone at the bottom of that hill. Why hadn’t I made them go back?
Back at the truck after school I saw the others for the first time since that morning. I could tell just by looking that instead of leaving, the feeling had settled harder, colder. We climbed into the cab and started for home. We got all the way to my driveway before anyone spoke.
“Look, I don’t know about you guys, but I think we ought to do something,” I said.
“Like what?” Reed asked.
“I don’t know. Take her some flowers and candy or something. Apologize.”
“Flowers and candy? Those are for the girls you’re trying to impress. The 10s! Rachel is more of the ‘sweet spirit’ kind.” I knew Wayne was trying to make a joke, trying to lighten the heavy mood, but no one laughed.
“You think we ought to do that?” Reed asked. “I mean go to her house and everything?”
I wanted to say, “Nah, I’m just joking!” But I knew that wouldn’t work. I could see now that much as I didn’t want to face Rachel, let alone risk seeing her mom and dad, my conscience wasn’t going to take a time out unless I went.
“Well, I’m going tonight. If you guys want to come with me, be here at seven.” Then I got out and went into the house.
The next part was the hardest. I found Jennifer and before I had time to chicken out I told her the whole story.
“Matt Bingham!” she started to yell.
“Look, Jen,” I interrupted, holding her hands so she couldn’t hit me. “We didn’t mean to hurt her. We’re sorry, and now I need your help.”
She looked at me a minute as if trying to decide what to do, then wiggled her hands loose.
“Please, Jen?” I asked real nice.
“What is it you want me to do?”
“Just help me get the flowers and candy. I don’t know what kind she likes or anything, and I don’t want to go in there apologizing and find out she hates flowers and is allergic to chocolate.”
Jennifer laughed, and that made me mad. Then I realized I must be sounding a little weird. I smiled back. “Will you do it?”
“You know,” she said, “as far as brothers go, you’re not so bad.”
“Will you help?”
“I’d better,” she said. “In the first place Rachel doesn’t like candy.”
“See what I mean? What am I …”
“Hold on,” Jen interrupted. “If you’ll drive me, I’ll pick it all out for you. I know exactly what her favorite things are.”
Now that that was all set I felt a whole lot better. But I still worried that none of the other guys would show. I really didn’t want to go all alone, but I shouldn’t have worried. At seven o’clock all three showed up at the front door looking as nervous as I felt.
“Well, you ready?” Sid stammered.
“Yeah, just a minute.” I was afraid that if I waited even one second more I wouldn’t have the nerve to go through with it.
“Do we really need to do this?” Wayne asked.
“Yes!” I tried to sound real positive and found that just by saying it I somehow felt better. I grabbed the flowers and pepperoni pizza that Jennifer had picked out, and we left.
It was the third silent ride that day. Slowly we pulled up in front of the brown brick home and stopped the engine. No one moved.
“Well?” I finally asked.
“I think Matt ought to be the spokesman,” Sid said, “seeing as this is his idea and all.”
The others agreed, and I knew I was stuck.
“Come on then,” I said. “Let’s get it over with.”
From the truck to the front door was the longest walk I’d ever taken. Snow crunched under my feet. My breath formed heavy puffs of steam that hung in front of me. And my heart beat—I mean BEAT. Once on the porch I hesitated, then punched the icy doorbell, hoping that no one would answer it. Before I could turn and run, a woman opened the door, a startled look crossing her face as she saw the four of us standing there with a pizza box and flowers.
“Yes?” she finally said.
“Hello. I’m Matt Bingham, and we came to see Rachel.” The words spilled out like water over a dam.
I’m sure she recognized us from church, but she seemed puzzled.
“She’s probably never had a boy come over before,” Wayne whispered from behind me, and I could feel Sid and Reed giggling. I hoped Mrs. Roberts hadn’t heard.
“Come on in,” Mrs. Roberts said and opened the storm door. “Rachel is in the family room. Right this way.”
She started down the hall, and we followed.
“Rachel,” she said, as she turned into the room. “You have company.”
Rachel was lying on the couch reading a book, her left foot in a cast and propped up on two pillows. It hurt just to look at it.
“Hi,” she said shyly, not as surprised as I thought she’d be.
We stood awkwardly for a moment, no one saying anything. Finally Reed spoke up, “How’s it feeling?”
“It hurts, but it’s getting better,” she answered.
Her mother slipped out of the room and that made it easier.
“I guess you know we’re the ones who were in the truck,” I said, hoping to get it over with so we could leave.
“Yeah,” she said with no trace of anger or anything.
“Well, we want you to know we didn’t mean to hurt you. We feel bad, and we really hope you don’t have to have surgery or anything like that.”
“It was supposed to just be a joke,” Wayne added.
“Anyway, we feel bad about how it turned out, and we wanted to tell you we’re sorry. But I guess that doesn’t help your ankle much. But we are real sorry about it.” I knew I was repeating myself, but I couldn’t figure anything else to say and I felt stupid standing there not saying anything.
“It’s nice of you to admit it,” she said. “Most guys wouldn’t have bothered.”
There was another awkward pause. Then Sid gave me an elbow in the ribs and whispered, “The flowers!”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, embarrassed. “We brought you these.” I handed her the flowers and pizza.
“Daisies,” she smiled. “I love daisies. These are beautiful.”
She opened the box. “You’re kidding! Pepperoni pizza. That’s almost worth a broken ankle. Thanks!”
“It’s the kind you buy at a restaurant, then take home and cook,” I explained.
She breathed in a big whiff. “Smells fantastic.”
I’d never really seen her up close. As she smiled and laughed she didn’t really look as plain as I’d always thought she was. It’s not that she’d ever win a beauty contest or anything. But there was something about her that I’d never noticed before, a kind of extra something that I couldn’t explain.
“Pull those chairs over and sit down,” she invited.
“We’d really better be going,” Wayne said uneasily.
“But you haven’t even had a piece of pizza yet,” she said.
“Well, maybe we could stay for a minute,” Reed said and pulled over a chair.
Rachel called her mom back in and asked her to cook the pizza for us. We all got a chair and sat down around the couch. Before we knew it, we were laughing and talking as if we’d been friends for years. She talked easily, not like she was trying to impress us or anything, and she never once talked about movie stars or clothes. I’d never known it was so easy to talk to a girl before. She was reading A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court by Mark Twain, and she told us about the eclipse and all. Even Wayne thought it was one of the best jokes he’d ever heard of. Then Mrs. Roberts brought in the pizza and some hot chocolate and donuts, and we talked some more. Before I realized it, we had been there for two hours.
“Oh wow!” Sid suddenly noticed. “I told my dad I’d be home by nine-thirty. I’ve got to go.”
“Me too,” we all agreed as we pushed back the chairs and apologized one last time.
“Don’t worry. I know you didn’t mean for it to turn out like this,” Rachel said, then laughed. “Just don’t let it happen again!”
“We’ll check back and see how you’re doing,” I said.
“Thanks for the flowers and the pizza,” she called as her mother showed us to the door.
The ride home wasn’t silent. Wayne was his old self again, and we all laughed and joked.
“She’s not so bad after all,” Reed said.
“Not a 10 though,” Wayne said. “It’s got to be a 10 for me.”
I knew what Wayne meant. But maybe he was wrong. Rachel wasn’t a Miss America, but all the same there was something about her I couldn’t describe, a warmth or something, that made it so that when I was around her I didn’t seem to notice if she was a 1 or a 10. I’d never been around a girl like that before, unless maybe it was Jennifer. But I doubt sisters count.
I thought about it as I listened to the others joke around.
“What you really want, Wayne, is a 12. But they don’t make 12s anymore,” Reed said, and we laughed again.
Maybe what we need, I thought, though I didn’t say it aloud, is a new measuring system.
“Here we are,” Reed said, as he pulled into my driveway. “See you tomorrow.”
“Thanks for going with me,” I said. The others only nodded, but then they really didn’t need to say anything. I could feel it.
I hurried into the warm house and found Jennifer waiting.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“Fine,” I answered.
“She’s nice, isn’t she?” Jennifer asked.
“I guess so,” I said, and for the first time I didn’t think of nice as an adjective you used for a girl because you couldn’t think of any other word. “She’s okay,” I added, then hurried to my room before Jennifer could ask any more questions.

At the top of a hill, the highway traffic on I-65 rushes right by a grove of trees. Few people even notice the cluster of 30 to 40 headstones nestled in the triangle between the main road and an off-ramp leading toward Vinemont and some other small towns. But the young men of the Cullman Ward, Huntsville Alabama Stake, pay attention to the spot whenever they go by. It’s the site of the Wilhite Cemetery, and without their efforts, including four Eagle Scout projects over the years, the graves of these settlers from the 1820s, and of others in additional cemeteries nearby, could quietly disappear.
Back in Cullman, the young men talk about the value of building a tradition. “We’ve cleaned a lot of the cemeteries up in the hills here,” says Amel Drake, 13. “It started with one Eagle project, and that led to another and another and another.” For example, five miles away in Falkville, members of this same Troop/Team 335 earlier cleaned up a cemetery of about 150 graves, including the resting places of both slaves and prominent citizens. These Scouts have learned to safely operate weed whackers, to properly glue broken headstones together, and to keep a journal of names and locations for people who wish to visit graves or do family history research.
“We don’t just do cemeteries; we do other Eagle projects too,” says Enoch Jones, 15. “And we do lots of community service, to benefit others and ourselves.” He pauses, then adds, “Traditions are a part of our heritage. Building a tradition of service helps us to remember who we are and where we come from. Keeping up the cemeteries is just a part of that.”

A few days later, we fasted along with our extended family members. For the first time in a while, I felt like fasting in faith made sense. I had faith in the Savior and knew that whatever His will, we could get through it with His help.
We went forward with the treatment, and, amazingly, we soon found out we were pregnant. We were so excited. I felt with my whole heart that God truly is a God of miracles!
A few days later, we learned we were going to lose the baby. All our joy was suddenly replaced with sadness. But because of the experiences I’d had learning about miracles, I felt a sense of peace. I knew that through the Savior’s Atonement we would get through this—I had felt that strongly just a few days before. And the fact that we could get pregnant gave us guidance in the coming months.

My father worked long and hard practically every day of his life. I’m certain that on the Sabbath he would have enjoyed just being at home. Rather, he visited elderly family members and brought cheer into their lives.
One was his uncle, who was crippled by arthritis so severe that he could not walk or care for himself. On a Sunday afternoon Dad would say to me, “Come along, Tommy; let’s take Uncle Elias for a short drive.”
Boarding the old 1928 Oldsmobile, we would proceed to Eighth West, where, at the home of Uncle Elias, I would wait in the car while Dad went inside. Soon he would emerge from the house, carrying his crippled uncle in his arms like a china doll. I then would open the door and watch how tenderly and with what affection my father would place Uncle Elias in the front seat so that he would have a fine view, while I occupied the rear seat.
The drive was brief and the conversation limited, but oh, what a legacy of love! Father never read to me from the Bible about the good Samaritan. Rather, he took me with him and Uncle Elias in that old 1928 Oldsmobile along the road to Jericho.

I ran and ran, trying to get away from it. I ran up the hill by our house and sat down at the base of a giant tree.

The mountains were sucking down the purple and pink clouds and orange sun like pancake batter sucks down an egg. I stopped crying, finally. What was I going to do? Maybe I’d never see my mother again. For the first time I felt alone in the universe—like in the movies when they try to add something in the picture that doesn’t really belong. You can tell it’s fake because its edges are too black. I had black edges; I could feel them.

At the bottom of the hill was a little girl. I was close enough to see the dirt streaked on her face. Even the dirt couldn’t hide her big grin. She had an old car tire and was pushing it up the hill. It broke loose from her and rolled away, then fell over. She went back and picked it up, then started rolling it up the hill again. She couldn’t have been more than four or five. It made me sad to see her tire keep getting away. I was even sadder that she kept patiently picking it up again and rolling it up the hill. I wanted to shout to her: “Little girl, don’t do it, don’t try. It will just keep rolling down the hill. No matter how hard you try, that tire will roll and roll until you’re finally too tired to pick it up again. That’s the way life is.” I was so sad I almost bawled again. I buried my head in my arms. I couldn’t watch anymore.

When I finally looked up, there was a little boy, older than the girl, running down the hill. He reached her and picked up the tire. Both of them began to push. Maybe, I thought … maybe. Both kids just kept pushing that old tire up the hill. If it got away from one of them, the other would catch it before it rolled down the hill. Boy, I wanted those kids to get that tire up the hill! It was such a dumb thing, but right then it was the most important thing in the world. C’mon, kids, roll that tire! C’mon! They kept getting farther and farther up the hill. By the time they reached the top, I was crying again. It was stupid, but I was so glad.

I hadn’t seen the rest of them, but there were nine kids at the top of that hill, including the girl and boy. They all began running down the hill, rolling the tires with them.

“Roller-O! Roller-O! Roller-O!” They shouted again and again as they raced the tires down the hill. “Roller-OOOOOO!”

I closed my eyes and laughed. Maybe there was someone there to help when you needed it after all. I watched those kids for a long time as the gold streaked across the sky to meet the sun. I watched while the purple clouds turned blacker and blacker until it was dark.

“Roller-O!”

When it got dark, the kids’ mom called them in for the night. I got up and walked down the hill. There was a sliver of a yellow moon just rising in the sky. Millions of stars were beginning to shine. I walked into our garden and right there decided to kneel down. The ground was damp. I thought about those kids for a while, then about dad, then about Dan. I started bawling again. Boy, I was sorry I’d yelled at him.

“Dear Father, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I went to the show. I’m sorry I yelled at Dan and called him names. I’m sorry I do bad stuff. I wish I didn’t. Father, I’m sorry I said all that stuff. I don’t really hate you the most. I love you—the very most! I really do, and even if you don’t answer my prayer, I’ll wait, forever if I have to.” I started sobbing.

“Heavenly Father, I’m so, so sorry, but it’s hard. Please, God, it’s hard, so hard.” I cried, and the stars came out one by one to watch me.

Something changed. It was like a light that’s slant is bent, just a little different. It was like rays going through a prism: when they hit the right angle, they split into every color making a rainbow. Somehow, I couldn’t explain it. He knew it was hard, and he loved me. I breathed deep and sighed. The stars twinkled in the sky.

After a while I got up, brushed the dirt off my pants, and ran into the house, right past dad and into Dan’s room.

Dan was still sitting on the bed holding that basketball. I didn’t even know if he’d had supper.

I stood there in the doorway until he looked up. I probably looked awful to him, all swollen around the eyes and dirty besides.

Danny jumped up and ran toward me. Before I knew what was happening, we were hugging the breath out of each other. My lungs were bursting, and I was afraid I was cracking his ribs. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t have any tears left. I guess they were just all gone.

Dan sat me down on the bed. He really was good-looking. I loved his big brown eyes.

“Danny, are you glad, now, that we took that record back that one time?”

I knew it was dumb to ask him, but it was important to me.

He shook his head. “Am I glad? Yeah … I don’t know … I guess we’ll see.” He grinned. “Mauri, you know what? You are so weird sometimes.”

I was so glad, just so happy. I picked up Dan’s pillow off the bed and clobbered him; then I ran out the door with Dan right behind me. Boy, oh boy, was I in for trouble.

Illustrated by Mike Eagle
When Heber J. Grant was a new Apostle, he traveled with a group of brethren to Arizona to visit the Native Americans there.
Heber: Look, the path splits in two. Is the other one safe?
Companion: A rider can travel it, but it’s too muddy for wagons.
Heber: Why don’t the rest of you drive on while I take this path? I’ll meet up with you soon.
Heber wanted to be alone. He felt discouraged and unworthy.
Heber: I shouldn’t testify of the Savior. I’m not fit to be an Apostle.
As he pondered, a vision of heaven appeared in his mind. The Savior, the Prophet Joseph Smith, his own father, and other men he knew were deciding who the new Apostles should be. Heber was one of those decided on.
After that, he could bear testimony with confidence.
Heber: I know that Jesus lives.
President Grant spoke of this experience years later.
Heber: I have never doubted my testimony since. I have had only joy in bearing it. I know that God lives, that Jesus is the Christ, and that Joseph Smith is a prophet of the living God.

When Henry V was the King of England, France was one of his subject nations, and Henry had a little trouble with some of these Frenchmen. He therefore took an army and sailed across the Channel to put these Frenchmen in their place. But the job was a little bigger than he had expected. An early winter cut off their retreat and they were forced to spend the winter near the little French village of Agincourt. It was a heavy winter; many of them died, and they did not have supplies, and they were in hostile territory. The next spring, when they might have expected to get on their way, they found themselves surrounded by a great army of 60,000 well-fed, well-trained, well-horsed, well-armored Frenchmen, intent on wiping out the British and getting their freedom.

Now what would you do if you were met with a circumstance like that? What do you do when things get a little tough, the lessons get harder, the finances get low? What do you do? One thing you can do is to quit. You can just give it all up. But that is not what Henry did. He was not that kind of a person. He got his people together to talk it over with them, and we might say that he gave them a pep talk.

After his speech, one of Henry’s backwardlooking soldiers came up to him and said, “Look, King, we’ve got a million Englishmen over across the channel that are asleep in bed right now. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we had them over here to help us with these sixty thousand Frenchmen?”

Henry got after him and said, “That would dilute our honor. What honor would there be in a million Englishmen whipping sixty thousand Frenchmen? If twelve thousand weak, sick footsoldiers can whip sixty thousand well-horsed, well-trained, well-armored cavalrymen, that is honor!” He indicated that if a million men should come across the channel to help them, he would send them back. He gave his soldiers the spirit of wanting to win the victory on their own power.

Then said this negative-thinking soldier, “God’s will! my liege, would you and I alone,/Without more help, could fight this royal battle: (act 4, scene 3). That is, he said the two of them alone could whip those sixty thousand Frenchmen. That may not be very good judgement, but that is courage, and that is what most of us need more than about any other thing.

It just happened that the battle of Agincourt was fought on Saint Crispian’s Day. Crispian was a Christian martyr. He was a shoemaker who had given his life for the church a few hundred years before, and they celebrated the feast of Saint Crispian on his birthday. Henry said to his soldiers:
This day is call’d the feast of Crispian: He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this day is name’d, . . . And gentlemen in England now a-bed Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here . . . [To fight] with us upon Saint Crispin’s [sic] day. [act 4, scene 3]
I imagine that those British soldiers who fought the battle of Agincourt would feel very grateful that they were not among those poor, unfortunate people over in England who were asleep in bed and who were deprived of the privilege of giving their lives for their country in this famous battle. When any soldier or anyone else can learn to think like that, then he will not have very much difficulty in winning the victory.

Incidentally, the British won the battle of Agincourt. You may have seen in the movies how they drove stakes into the ground to stop the horses, and then the footsoldiers stood behind and from their English longbows shot arrows over among the French and knocked their horses down. They got the heavily-armored Frenchmen down in the mud where they could not get up, and then they went around with their spears and gave them some individual attention while they were lying there on the ground. But anyway, the English won the battle of Agincourt.

Some months later in another vineyard a mother and father were in my office accompanied by a 265-pound BYU sophomore All-WAC tackle. They had asked for an appointment to help resolve a confusing family situation. After we greeted the mother and the father and their son, Lance Reynolds, we had a few words of friendly conversation. I knew why they had come. The trying decision was Does Lance go on a mission or does he stay and play football?

I looked at the mother and said, “What do you think your son should do?” She said, “I think he can render a special service and example to the Church if he maintains his standards and continues to play football and hopefully help in bringing football fame to BYU and the Church. I think his football playing can be his mission.”

I looked at the father, and I said, “What do you think Lance should do?” He was smart enough not to disagree in that setting with his wife, so he merely said, “I’m not quite certain.” I looked at Lance and I said. “Lance, what do you want to do?” He said, “I want to go on a mission.” I responded with, “Why don’t you?” He said, “I will.” Our interview was over. Lance went on his mission, was an outstanding missionary, came back and reaped all-conference honors, and is now on BYU’s football coaching staff. He is a special friend of mine today.

The afternoon my mother died, we went to the family home from the hospital. We sat quietly in the darkened living room for a while. Dad excused himself and went to his bedroom. He was gone for a few minutes. When he walked back into the living room, there was a smile on his face. He said that he’d been concerned for Mother. During the time he had gathered her things from her hospital room and thanked the staff for being so kind to her, he thought of her going into the spirit world just minutes after her death. He was afraid she would be lonely if there was no one to meet her.
He had gone to his bedroom to ask his Heavenly Father to have someone greet Mildred, his wife and my mother. He said that he had been told in answer to his prayer that his mother had met his sweetheart. I smiled at that too. Grandma Eyring was not very tall. I had a clear picture of her rushing through the crowd, her short legs moving rapidly on her mission to meet my mother.

When Elder Ringger and I first arrived in Sofia, Bulgaria, on 30 October 1988, we had been led to believe, through our indirect “third-party” contact, that we would be met at the airport and that proper appointments had been made. (Incidentally, it had been our experience that most leaders in these totalitarian governments did not confirm any arrangements in writing.) So we went to Bulgaria in faith. We arrived late at night. No one was there to greet us. We took a taxi, which delivered us to the wrong hotel. Once we made that discovery, we trudged, luggage in hand, through a snowstorm until we finally found our correct accommodations. Our frustration continued the next day as bilingual telephone operators at the hotel were not able to help us identify either the office or the leaders with whom we needed to meet. We were at a complete dead end. All we could do was to pray for help.

Our prayers were answered. In a marvelous way, a day later, at 10:00 A.M., we met with Mr. Tsviatko Tsvetkov, head of the religious affairs department for the country. He had just returned to the city, and his interpreter was available also. Incredible!

At first, the atmosphere was pretty cold. He didn’t know we were coming. Through his interpreter, he scolded, “Nelson? Ringger? Mormons? I’ve never heard of you.”

I replied, “That makes us even. We have never heard of you, either. It’s time we got acquainted.” Everyone laughed, and we went on to have a great meeting.

Elder Ringger and I returned to Sofia in February 1990, at which time, as authorized by the First Presidency, an apostolic dedicatory prayer was given on February 13 at Park Na Svobodata, which means “Liberty Park.”

On this visit we again met with Mr. Tsvetkov and other governmental leaders and also with many representatives of the media. The director of the International Foundation in Bulgaria asked if could help provide teachers of English. We assured him that we could. Capable teachers were called and sent to fulfill that request. This director came to Salt Lake City in October 1990 to continue our friendship. With gratitude, he praised the work of our missionary sisters and couples who had begun teaching in Bulgaria. Their contacts have provided excellent referrals, and several individuals have since joined the Church.

A new mission, the 268th mission of the Church, was created on 1 July 1991. Kiril Kiriakov now serves as president of the Bulgaria Sofia Mission. President and Sister Kiriakov were both born in Bulgaria. Official recognition for the Church was granted by the Bulgarian government on 10 July 1991. Congregations of Saints and friends are growing in Bulgaria.

“Father, where are you going?” George asked.
“To the duke’s court,” he was told.
“May I come too?”
“No,” his father said sternly.
George knew that his father had to be obeyed. But there were musicians at court, and George longed to hear them play. Father said that music was foolish child’s play, not work for men. George must become a lawyer and forget about music. His father didn’t know that George spent hours practicing in secret on a clavier (the “grandfather” of the modern piano).
But George needed to hear other musicians play, so he decided to go to the court at Weissenfels anyway. It couldn’t be very far from his home in Halle, (Saxony, Germany).
He watched as his father climbed into the carriage; then, as the horse pulled it down the street, George ran behind the carriage. By the time they reached the edge of town, George’s breath was coming in great gulps, and the carriage started to go faster. The distance between George and the carriage became greater, no matter how hard he ran.
Suddenly the carriage stopped. The driver climbed down, ran to the boy, picked him up, and carried him to the carriage.
“What are you trying to do?” his father scolded him. “A seven-year-old boy cannot run as far as Weissenfels. I told you that you could not come. Why did you disobey me? You may sit with the driver, but you’ll be punished when we get home.”
When they entered the castle, George heard music. He followed the sounds to a large room where a man was playing the organ. The boy listened happily until the last note died away. “May I play?” he asked.
“Only for a minute.”
George sat on the organ bench and began to play. He was thrilled at the beautiful tones that filled the room. Not until he had played the last note did the man speak to him. “Who are you?” the man asked.
“George Frideric Handel,” he answered.
“You play well. How old are you, and who is your teacher?”
“I’m seven, but I don’t have a teacher. My father doesn’t want me to be a musician.”
Just then George’s father entered the room. “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” he said to the man, who happened to be the duke, “if my son has disturbed you.”
“You are the boy’s father?” the duke asked. “He tells me that he has no music teacher. Don’t you realize that he is very talented? Get him a music teacher at once, and bring him to play for me again.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” George’s father said meekly.
When they returned home, George was sent to bed in disgrace. But the very next day Father arranged for the organist of the largest church in Halle to teach George, and he was allowed to prepare for a life in music. But George also respected his father’s desire for him to be a lawyer, and completed law school.

Let me give you a simple but profound example of how one teacher applied this principle in her classroom. One day while I was serving in the general Sunday School, a sister approached me with a question. She told me she was serving as a gospel doctrine teacher in her ward, and she was feeling a bit discouraged. There was a brother in her class who was always asking questions that seemed to be off-topic and were diverting and distracting. She found herself often getting frustrated with this brother, which was not helpful to her efforts to have the Spirit with her in her teaching. As we discussed the situation, I suggested to her that she re-read Elder McConkie's talk.

The next time I saw her, she was excited and smiling. "That talk you suggested touched me deeply," she said. "As I read Elder McConkie's words, I realized that I needed to see my role as a teacher from an entirely different perspective. The reason this man bothered me was because I had been looking at his interruptions as efforts to distract me and pull me away from my teaching plan. But when I saw my role as the Lord's agent, I began to see this brother with different eyes and hear him with different ears. The issue was not about getting through my lesson; it was about teaching what the Lord would have taught to His children in that classroom in that moment, including this brother. It has changed the way I teach, the way I feel, and the whole spirit of the class. And it seems to have affected this brother also. I guess the truth is that he was not the one who needed to change; it was me."

My blood was boiling. These people clearly know nothing on this topic, I thought, peering down at the virtual shouting match playing out on my smartphone’s Twitter feed. I quickly crafted a perfect response to join the throng—certain that everyone would see how uninformed their opinions were when my tweet pointed out their ignorance. I was about to press send, thought clouds of contempt churning, when a still, small voice managed to pop into my head:
Would Christ say that?
My thumb paused, hovering over the “Tweet” button. My stomach sank.
No. No, He wouldn’t.
Then why would you?
I sighed, took a few deep breaths, and deleted the tweet. I felt awful. What had just come over me?

Not only do we lose the Spirit when choosing anger, but we lose the ability to see situations clearly. We can even lose the ability to act with reason. “[Intemperate anger] destroys wisdom and sound judgment. When we become upset, reason is suppressed, and anger rushes in. To make decisions while infuriated is as unwise and foolish as it is for a captain to put out to sea in a raging storm. Only injury and wreckage result from wrathful moments.”2 Just as I was on the verge of sending a tweet I wasn’t proud of, we can lose sight of who we truly are and who we’re trying to be when angry. It can become a vicious cycle if it isn’t curbed.

I’m so thankful for the whisperings of the Holy Ghost not to send my angry tweet that day. It may seem like an inconsequential example of restraint, but it taught me a lesson that I’ll never forget.

For a class project, we had to choose a famous person and read a book about him or her. I chose Joseph Smith. I prepared and memorized a short speech telling about him and why he was famous. One day, all the parents were invited to see our presentations. Not many people at my school know about the Prophet Joseph Smith or The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. That day many people thanked me and told me they learned a lot.
Benson S., age 8, Michigan, USA

Another Relief Society President, Sister Sun, Sung Pi Hung, of Nantun Ward, Taichung South Taiwan Stake, has shared, “After holding a ministering interview with a companionship of ministering sisters, I meditated for several days about some challenges facing one of the companionship’s assigned families. I then received inspiration to recommend to our bishop that the mother of the family be called as a Relief Society teacher.” Now that the mother has begun serving as a Relief Society teacher, her family has been blessed with more reconciliation with God. The sisters of the ward have also been blessed through her service as a teacher.

Several years ago a group of men, leaders of Scouts, assembled in the mountains near Sacramento for Wood Badge training. This experience, where men camp out and live as do the Scouts they teach, is a most interesting one. They cook and then eat—burned eggs! They hike the rugged trails which age invariably makes more steep. They sleep on rocky ground. They gaze again at heaven’s galaxies.
This group provided its own reward. After days of being deprived, they feasted on a delicious meal prepared by a professional chef who joined them at the end of their endurance trail. Tired, hungry, a bit bruised after their renewal experience, one asked the chef why he was always smiling and why each year he returned at his own expense to cook the traditional meal for Scouting’s leaders in that area. He placed aside the skillet, wiped his hands on the white apron which graced his rotund figure, and told the men this experience. Dimitrious began:
“I was born and grew to boyhood in a small village in Greece. My life was a happy one until World War II. Then came the invasion and occupation of my country by the Nazis. The freedom-loving men of the village resented the invaders and engaged in acts of sabotage to show their resentment.
“One night, after the men had destroyed a hydroelectric dam, the villagers celebrated the achievement and then retired to their homes.”
Dimitrious continued: “Very early in the morning, as I lay upon my bed, I was awakened by the noise of many trucks entering the village. I heard the sound of soldiers’ boots, the rap at the door, and the command for every boy and man to assemble at once on the village square. I had time only to slip into my trousers, buckle my belt, and join the others. There, under the glaring lights of a dozen trucks, and before the muzzles of a hundred guns, we stood. The Nazis vented their wrath, told of the destruction of the dam, and announced a drastic penalty: every fifth man or boy was to be summarily shot. A sergeant made the fateful count, and the first group was designated and executed.”
Dimitrious spoke more deliberately to the Scouters as he said: “Then came the row in which I was standing. To my horror, I could see that I would be the final person designated for execution. The soldier stood before me, the angry headlights dimming my vision. He gazed intently at the buckle of my belt. It carried on it the Scout insignia. I had earned the belt buckle as a Boy Scout for knowing the Oath and the Law of Scouting. The tall soldier pointed at the belt buckle, then raised his right hand in the Scout sign. I shall never forget the words he spoke to me: ‘Run, boy, run!’ I ran. I lived. Today I serve Scouting, that boys may still dream dreams and live to fulfill them.” (As told by Peter W. Hummel.)
Dimitrious reached into his pocket and produced that same belt buckle. The emblem of Scouting still shone brightly. Not a word was spoken. Every man wept. A commitment to Scouting was renewed.

Many years ago when we lived at a different location, Merlene said she wanted a rock garden. On a particular Saturday I went out into the field that was right behind our home and decided that if I dug a hole six feet deep, six feet wide, and six feet across, the dirt from that hole should be enough to provide her with a hill whereon we could place rocks and beautiful flowers in the corner of our yard.
To begin with, as I started digging the hole, I could throw the dirt, each shovelful, over my shoulder, over the fence, and into the corner where Merlene wanted the rock garden. As the hole got deeper and I became more tired, I would have to throw the dirt up on the side of the hole. Then I would climb out of the hole and throw the dirt onto the pile across the fence. As the hole became even deeper, I finally had to lower a bucket into the hole, fill the bucket, and lift it out, and pour it on the hill over the fence.
As I started the hole, Lawrence, our three-year-old, began to gather his little friends around. There must have been 15 or 20 little friends watching me dig the hole. When I got deep enough in the hole to use a bucket to lift the dirt out, I said to Lawrence and his little buddies, “If you’ll pull the bucket filled with dirt out of the hole and dump it on the shoulder of the hole each time I fill it so that I will not have to climb out, when I get finished with this hole, I’ll give it to you.” Now a hole isn’t much of a prize for an adult, but for three- or four-year-old boys, a deep hole with a little trench leading down into it is a great prize. So they began to assist me.
After doing this work for a few minutes, Lawrence said to me, “Dad, why are you lifting the dirt out of the hole, then climbing out of the hole and throwing it over the fence onto that pile of dirt?” I said, “Lawrence, your mother wants a rock garden in that corner, so I came out here to get enough dirt to build the hill for her rock garden. What your mother really wants me to do, that is what I do.” Then Lawrence turned to his little buddies and said, “Our mom is our leader.”

I had a letter only a few days ago from a man in Edinburgh, Scotland. His name is George Stewart. He’ll be surprised at my mentioning this, but he wanted to thank me because when he was 15 years old (some 40 years ago), I was presiding over the mission in Scotland. He wanted to thank me for the missionaries’ coming to their home in Thornliebank, one of the areas of Glasgow. He had joined the Church along with his mother.
He said that as he developed a testimony of the Book of Mormon, as he started reading it and as he kept reading it, he couldn’t put it down because he knew it was true. He kept reading and reading and developing a testimony of the gospel as a young man. He told how he used to come over to the mission home and how we were kind to him and we would spend time with the young people because they were getting into Mutual, which we were starting in the branches.
Then he told of the blessings that had come into his life as a young man, that he had met his sweetheart in that little branch—his wife—and that they were married and that they had four children: a son who had finished a mission in the Washington D.C. Mission; a son who served in the England Leeds Mission; a daughter who was married in the temple; and one who is waiting for the return of a missionary. He voiced gratitude for all of the blessings that had come into his life and the lives of his sons who have been on missions and his daughters.
During the past 40 years, he has served as a bishop four times in four different units, and his wife has served as a Relief Society president on three occasions. He is currently serving as a counselor in the Edinburgh stake presidency. He said, “And I’m going to be retiring very shortly from the company I’m with. I’ve done very well, and we plan to go out on a mission together.”
Then he said these words to me: “This amazing Church has woven a pattern of miracles in our lives.” Let me say that again: “This amazing Church has woven a pattern of miracles in our lives.”
And he says the gospel came into his life, to his wife, to all of his children, and to their children. The grandchildren are active in the Church, and he and his wife now have a great desire to go out into the world when they retire from their profession.