Gospel Story Finder

A few months later, I made a decision that raised eyebrows all around me. I decided to serve a full-time mission too. My decision to serve came as a blow to a greater part of my family and my closest friends. Most of them, if not 100 percent of them, counselled me not to, but my desire to serve the Lord and humanity was not thwarted because I knew what foundation I was built upon and my parent’s trust and support kept me going.
Amid the impending situation, I felt so different from everyone else and I remembered the talk by President Monson in which he quotes an old Primary song: “Dare to be a Mormon; Dare to stand alone. Dare to have a purpose firm; Dare to make it known”.1
This ultimately drove me to obtain my patriarchal blessing, and in it I realized the Lord has a greater work for me and that it can be accomplished successfully only if I exercise unyielding faith in Him. That helped me press on to pursue His course.

Illustrations by Jess Golden
Matthew climbed into bed. He pulled a fluffy blanket up to his chin. “Is Adam coming home from the hospital tomorrow?” he asked. Matthew hadn’t seen his younger brother since Adam broke his leg and went to the hospital to get a special cast.
“Yes!” Mom said. She tucked the blanket around Matthew. “He’ll need our help. He won’t be able to move around too much because of his cast.”
“How big is it?” asked Matthew.
“It goes all the way around his waist. And it covers all of his broken leg and half of his other leg.”
“Whoa,” Matthew said. “That sounds bad.”
“It will be pretty hard for him.” Mom turned off the light. “But if we look for small and simple ways to serve him, we can help him be happy.”
Matthew was tired, but he couldn’t go to sleep. He kept thinking about all the things Adam couldn’t do in his cast. He won’t be able to play tag or hide-and-seek. Someone will have to carry him to his bed and the couch. He finally fell asleep thinking of ways he could try to help.
After school the next day, Matthew ran home from the bus stop. “Welcome home, little buddy!” Matthew yelled as he ran inside.
Adam was sitting on the couch in the family room. Matthew gave him a big hug. Adam’s cast was bright green, and it rubbed against Matthew’s arms. It was hard and scratchy.
Matthew felt sad for his brother. The cast was so big!
“So … do you want to play with me?” Matthew asked.
Adam frowned and looked down at his cast. “I can’t.”
“Sure you can! I’ll be right back.” Matthew gathered up Adam’s favorite games and toys and took them to the family room. He sat on the couch next to Adam. “We can play cars or a board game. Then maybe Dad can get your wheelchair and we can all go for a walk before dinner.”
“OK!” Adam smiled wide. “And we can play with this!” He pulled a brown teddy bear from underneath his blanket. “His name is Ruff. I got him at the hospital.”
“Awesome!” Matthew grabbed a bucket of cars. Together they turned the couch into a racetrack with giant pillow mountains and a bear cave for Ruff. They had lots of fun!
Matthew did lots of little things to help his brother. When the cast was making Adam uncomfortable, Matthew helped him move around. When Adam asked for a snack, he brought graham crackers and milk to share. They were playing a board game when Mom walked in the room.
“It looks like you’re having fun,” she said.
“Yeah!” Adam smiled. “This is the best game day ever!”
Mom hugged Matthew. “Thanks,” she whispered.
“I thought about what you said last night, about the small and simple things,” Matthew said. Then he laughed. “But there’s just one problem.”
“What’s that?” asked Mom.
“My little buddy has turned into a turtle!”
They all looked at Adam’s big green cast. Adam laughed. “I am a big green turtle!” he said.
Mom hugged Adam. “You’re the cutest turtle I’ve ever seen.”

A miracle is taking place in the southern part of the United States. It pertains to family history and temple work. Between 1860 and 1865, hundreds of thousands of soldiers died. Many had never married.
William D. Taylor, a Canadian, found himself, together with his wife and family, living in that area of the United States and wondering about those soldiers. The Taylors have been working at getting the records of the soldiers for over four years and have sent over 101,000 of their names to the temple to have their work done for them there. Brother Taylor writes, “I am thankful for being allowed to do this work. It brings me joy unparalleled to anything I have ever known.”

Sometimes people won’t understand your actions, but if you follow the Holy Ghost, you will always know that you are doing the right thing. When I received my mission call, I had finished two years of schooling at Stanford University. I announced that I was dropping out of school for two years to serve a mission, and soon afterward, my advisor asked to meet with me. When I walked into his office, the first thing he said to me was, “Robert, are you crazy?” He told me that I was making a mistake and that the university might never let me back in. He encouraged me to finish my schooling and then serve a mission.
Many years later, I received a call from the prophet asking me to retire and serve as a General Authority. At the time, I had a responsible position in the United States government. I accepted the call, just as I had accepted the mission call when I was nineteen years old, and I announced my retirement. Soon afterward, a senior official walked into my office. The first thing he said to me was, “Robert, are you crazy?” I said, “I think I’ve heard this before.”
I wasn’t crazy when I served a mission, and I wasn’t crazy when I retired to serve as a General Authority. No matter what else is going on in your life, when the call to serve comes, that is the moment to do it.

I once had a friend who was a mountain lion hunter. He loved to saddle up his favorite horse, tie on the saddle bags, and make sure his gun was cleaned and ready for instant firing.
One day while I was visiting him, I noticed he had a full-grown hunting dog tied to one of the sheds. “Isn’t he a beauty!” I commented.
“He’s got to go,” my friend replied. “I can’t be bothered with him.”
“Why? What’s the problem?” I asked in surprise.
My lion-tracking friend explained that ever since the dog was a pup it had been trained to track lions. “He knows what I expect,” the man continued, “but the last time we were on a three-day hunt he took off after a deer and then a coyote and finally some rabbits, and was gone the best part of a full day. He knows he must stay on the trail of the lion to be one of my helpers. Our business is mountain lions, and this dog is bad for business. Now he’s for sale pretty cheap.”
I felt sorry for that beautiful, healthy, yet disobedient dog. He couldn’t stay on the path that would keep a place with his master for him.

To my brethren, the fathers in this Church, I say, I know you wish you were a more perfect father. I know I wish I were. Even so, despite our limitations, let us press on. Let us lay aside the exaggerated notions of individualism and autonomy in today’s culture and think first of the happiness and well-being of others. Surely, despite our inadequacies, our Heavenly Father will magnify us and cause our simple efforts to bear fruit. I am encouraged by a story that appeared in the New Era some years ago. The author recounted the following:
“When I was young, our little family lived in a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor. I slept on the couch in the living room. …
“My dad, a steelworker, left home very early for work each day. Every morning he would … tuck the covers around me and stop for a minute. I would be half-dreaming when I could sense my dad standing beside the couch, looking at me. As I slowly awoke, I became embarrassed to have him there. I tried to pretend I was still asleep. … I became aware that as he stood beside my bed he was praying with all his attention, energy, and focus—for me.
“Each morning my dad prayed for me. He prayed that I would have a good day, that I would be safe, that I would learn and prepare for the future. And since he could not be with me until evening, he prayed for the teachers and my friends that I would be with that day. …
“At first, I didn’t really understand what my dad was doing those mornings when he prayed for me. But as I got older, I came to sense his love and interest in me and everything I was doing. It is one of my favorite memories. It wasn’t until years later, after I was married, had children of my own, and would go into their rooms while they were asleep and pray for them that I understood completely how my father felt about me.”

by Barbara Balli
On January 11, 1975, at 1:35 P.M., I was on my way to the store near my home. I was walking on the sidewalk when a car traveling about 40 miles per hour went out of control and pinned me against a telephone pole. There just happened to be a policeman at the scene, and he immediately radioed for help. He then tried to help me, but my leg was so badly damaged that where he needed to apply the tourniquet there wasn’t any leg.
By the time I arrived at the hospital, I was listed as dead on arrival, but the doctors, working feverishly, managed to revive me. After a beautiful blessing by my bishop, I went into surgery. The doctor said my leg would probably have to be amputated, but an investigating officer at the scene of the accident found a four-inch piece of femur bone and rushed it to the hospital. When it was taken into the operating room, the decision to try to save my leg was made. Although I later lost my leg, I have a six-to-seven-inch stump that I wouldn’t have had if they had taken my leg right away.
After my accident many friends and relatives did many things for me and my family. People in the ward were so nice that they made it possible for my parents to be with me during the many months I was in the hospital. They brought meals and tended and cared and showed great love and concern for us.
The first thing I remember about Mutual was when the young people invited to the closing social the girls and boys who would be old enough to attend Mutual the next year. When they asked me, I was so surprised because I was still spending most of my time in the hospital, with only a few days at home between surgeries, and I was in a wheelchair. They said this wouldn’t matter, so all the kids helped me, and I went. It was really neat!
When it was time for me to start Mutual, I was called to be the second counselor of our first-year Beehive class, even though I was going to be in the hospital much of the time. That year my class really did a lot for me. I especially remember the time they taped a meeting they held at our bishop’s cabin because I was unable to attend. They also recorded the New Beginnings program and brought it up to the hospital where we all listened together.
I was out of the hospital and on crutches when the stake Beehive adviser asked me to take a part in the play “Apple Seeds.” That really made me feel like I was wanted and loved.
After nine months of pain and suffering and 34 surgeries trying to save my leg, the doctor recommended that my leg be amputated. With the help of my parents and my Heavenly Father, I decided to have it done. The date was September 24, 1975, and I was 12. When my class found out, they were wonderful. They said, “Oh, it won’t make any difference!”
While I was in the hospital for my 35th and final operation, my class would often bring lessons and cheery faces to make me happier. They would call me and include me in all their planning when I was unable to attend meetings. This way I knew all the fun things I was missing and really felt as if I wanted to hurry and get back in the swing of things.
About five months later our ward held a Bicentennial Spring Sing, and our class was asked to participate. I was included, of course! I had my prosthesis by then. The class really helped so I would look good on stage, and when we went off stage, down the front stairs, they all took them one at a time so I wouldn’t lag behind and be noticed. It looked like that was the way it should have been. They let me know I didn’t have to hesitate when asked to do things, and I learned that if I will try, I can do anything anyone else can do.
During the summer I asked one of my girl friends in the class if she would teach me how to ride a bike again, and she did. After falling down about six times and laughing each time, I finally got the hang of it. We still go on bike rides together, and it is really fun.
The closing social last year was a swimming party. I really didn’t want to go, but my mom and friends persuaded me to at least attend. When I got there, everyone was having so much fun, I couldn’t resist their coaxing; so I called my mom to bring my suit. After I removed my leg and got into my suit, the girls carried me to the pool. I had a great time, and everyone was so understanding and made me feel that I had nothing to be ashamed about.
This year I was called to be president of the second-year Beehive class. I only hope I can do a good job and help other people the way I have been helped.

When I was in kindergarten, my parents and I went to the school book fair. They bought me some stickers. When we went home, we found we had accidentally taken two sheets of stickers, instead of just the one we had paid for.
The next day, my teacher gave me permission to return one sheet. The book fair was gone, but the library assistant thanked me for being honest.Emma M. Wilde, age 8Calgary, Alberta, Canada

Family home evening used to be the hardest day of the week for my family. We would argue who would do what and how long the stories would be. It wasn’t organized. So we made a chart showing who makes the snacks, picks the song, says the opening prayer, gives the lesson, and says the closing prayer. This helped everyone feel like a part of our family home evening. Now my family looks forward to that day of the week.
Kari T., 15, Florida, USA

Mary Elizabeth Rollins was also prepared for the truth the Prophet Joseph brought forth. She recalled that when she saw a copy of the Book of Mormon at the home of Isaac Morley, “I felt such a desire to read it, that I could not refrain from asking him to let me take it home and read it, while he attended meeting.” She asked so earnestly that Isaac gave her the book on the condition that she bring it back before breakfast the next morning.
Mary Elizabeth and her aunt and uncle stayed up very late reading the Book of Mormon, and Mary rose at daybreak so she could continue reading. True to her promise, she returned the book before Isaac Morley had had breakfast. When he told her, “I guess you did not read much in it,” she showed him how much she had read, recited the first verse, and outlined the story of Nephi. Surprised, he said, “Child, take this book home and finish it, I can wait.”12 Mary was one of the first to receive the witness of the Spirit promised in Moroni 10:4 [Moro. 10:4]. Joseph had still another fellow witness!

Joseph, Sr., endured ridicule and persecution because of his prophet son’s experiences and claims. Yet he was unwavering in his loving support and defended his son.
He saw and handled the plates of gold from which the Book of Mormon was translated and testified throughout his life to the truthfulness of that sacred book. His name remained firmly affixed, with those of the other witnesses to the Book of Mormon, in the front pages of that second witness of Jesus Christ. On one occasion he was imprisoned and told he would be released if he would deny the Book of Mormon. Not only did he not deny it, but he converted two persons during his 30-day confinement.
At the time of his death, Joseph Smith, Sr., was described as “a man faithful to his God and to the Church in every situation and under all circumstances through which he was called to pass” (History of the Church, 4:192).

I was in the hospital, waiting to have surgery the following day, and my husband stopped to check on me on his way home from work. He told me that Jackie, our favorite baby-sitter, had taken our three little girls to the ward picnic with her own family. Five minutes later, Jackie’s father was in the room to tell us that our youngest girl had fallen off the see-saw at the picnic and was downstairs in the emergency room having a badly cut chin sewn back together .
Meanwhile at the picnic, our six-year-old daughter looked around her and suddenly realized that most of the members of her family weren’t there. The only sister who remained at the picnic with her was playing with the children who attended her Sunday School class. The park was unfamiliar to her, and with every passing moment it grew darker. Many feelings filled her mind, and suddenly her cries were heard over all the festivities. She knew exactly what she needed: “I want my home teacher!” Within minutes, she was on Brother Braden’s kindly lap, and the crisis was over.

A man I worked for gave me a copy of the Book of Mormon. But I didn’t read it for almost two years. One Sunday, I picked up the Book of Mormon and went to a railroad line outside the town where I lived in Zimbabwe. I sat down and began reading.
At first, it was hard to understand. But I reread Joseph Smith’s testimony over and over again. His words touched my heart.
Later, someone invited me to come to church. At first, I was uncomfortable, so I sat in the back row. But when people started sharing their testimonies about the Savior Jesus Christ and the Book of Mormon, I felt something wonderful inside.
Not long after this, missionaries came to my neighborhood. Soon I was baptized. Years later, I had the honor of serving a mission and sharing the gospel with many others.

President Funk was called to her position by President Harold B. Lee in November of 1972. Her husband had received a phone call in his dentist office from President Lee’s secretary, and he immediately called Ruth, who was teaching music at East High School (Salt Lake City) at the time.

“Are you sitting down?” he asked. She did sit down, and her husband told her that President Lee had requested that he bring his wife to 47 East South Temple—the office of the president of the Church. Later she remembered feeling weak and then just crying.

Sitting across the huge wooden desk from the president of the Church was a thrilling experience for Brother and Sister Marcus Funk. She sat there as once again the priesthood bearers in her life discussed the Lord’s will concerning her. President Lee and Brother Funk conversed back and forth about her abilities, her love for and persuasiveness with youth, her tenacity for work, her limitless energy, and her deep devotion to the gospel and the Lord. Again she very trustingly and openly accepted their decision: She accepted the call to be the president of the then 103-year-old organization.

In high school, quarters became merely small change. Our attention was drawn to larger sums of money with bigger wagers, usually around big-ticket sporting events. Every week there seemed to be a big game, and betting circles were frequently established. Obviously, the more people there were contributing to a pot, the greater a winner’s takings would be. I remember one student who kept a notebook with the particular bets, the odds, and the individuals involved. Between and sometimes during classes he would approach you, asking if you would like to bet.
Unfortunately, the gambling scene pervaded other high school activities and went beyond school boundaries. While traveling with my baseball team, both on the bus and in the hotel rooms, card games took over much of our spare time. I recall watching a card game where two teammates had $120 on the line, with the luck of a particular card deciding the fate of the game. Someone won that day, but I don’t remember who. What I do remember is the chaos, the screaming and vulgar language, the laughing at someone else’s expense. Most importantly, I remember feeling void of the Spirit. It’s a dirty, ugly feeling.
Near my home was a hotel we often went to that had an arcade, a bowling alley, and a good restaurant. I spent many fun times bowling with my brothers and our friends. To get to the bowling alley, we had to go through the hotel’s casino. There is a distinct image in my mind to this day of the smell of cigarette and cigar smoke and the dropping of coins into the metal basins from the slot machines. The image of countless people sitting in the same place for hours playing cards or pulling levers on slot machines seems to be a constant reminder to me of the shallow habit of gambling.
One day a friend of mine, while leaving the bowling alley, tried his luck at a game of chance they called “Megabucks.” The winnings were well over a million dollars. You had to play several dollars at a time to have a chance at winning. Of course, he lost, and he kept on losing. Within five minutes he lost $60, and the only thing he had to show for it was his contribution to the grand total that would eventually go to someone else. My friend lost $60, yet I gained a greater distaste for the gambling habit and a greater resolve to keep the Lord’s commandments. Like other occasions in my life, this became a defining moment that strengthened my resolve to put my occasional past blemishes behind me and turn to the Lord with full purpose of heart.
Through a loving Heavenly Father and the guidance of exemplary parents who avoided the practice of gambling, I was able to put my lapses with games of chance behind me. Far too many friends and acquaintances didn’t stop at pitching quarters or playing cards. Gambling and the other bad habits it leads to are overtaking far too many of Heavenly Father’s children. With an unresolved determination to avoid it, you can become a victim very quickly. Gratefully, two years before I became “legal” in the eyes of the state of Nevada, I was “about my Father’s business” preaching the gospel in the Washington D.C. South Mission.
You may need courageous fortitude as the world thrusts the acquisition of riches and the madness of materialism upon you before you’ve even graduated from school. Understanding true doctrine and living by the principles taught in the scriptures and by living prophets will strengthen you. With this strength, you can refuse and conquer any behavior offensive to the Spirit.

Mother and I were the best of friends. On my first day of school, Mother said good-bye and I started to walk to school, which was a half mile away. I remember turning back and seeing Mother standing on the porch, watching me go. I was the youngest, and, knowing that she wouldn’t be around very long, she must have had deep feelings about seeing me leave. I ran back and gave her a hug and a kiss four separate times before I finally went to school.
I remember lying on the bed with Mother in the early evenings, particularly the summer evenings. She loved to go to bed early and listen to the birds sing and watch the sun fading outside the window of our home.
Mother taught me the gospel. One time we had a cloudburst, and the ditch out back overflowed its banks. Our house was on a little rise, but there were at least three feet of water around it. Father was farming at a place called Dry Lake. I remember kneeling with Mother and praying that we would not be flooded and that Father would get home. About four or five hours later, the downpour stopped and Father came home. It had flooded where he was too. Water had been up to his waist, but he’d been preserved. I was very impressed with the power of prayer.
Mother was very great on service. Many times I took fresh cinnamon rolls or other baked goodies that she’d made to the school bus driver as he came by our home. His wife had died. That’s just one example of what Mother did even when she was suffering.
She prepared me for her death, too, lavishing love on me. She used to look at her legs that were so swollen that they had cracked open and make jokes about them. She assured me that she would have no pain where she was going. She said, “I’ll see you baptized. I promise.” That brought a great deal of comfort to me.
My father baptized me on my eighth birthday in the dammed up ditch in back of our home. It was the first of November, and I still remember how cold the water was. Mother went into a coma the day after my baptism and died four days later.
I remember crying when I was told that Mother had died. Everyone was crying. My older sister, Mae, who was about nineteen or twenty and was a registered nurse, said, “Malcolm, I’ll be your mother.” She kept that promise.

But soon after I began using it, I became Anderson’s close friend.
It happened in gym through a bizarre accident. We were on the field playing soccer, when suddenly a ball came sailing from nowhere.
“Save it, Jack, save it,” I heard, and the next thing I felt was a terrible blow to my head. Some primitive instinct told me to fight back, so I kicked with all my strength and heard a crunch before I fell into blackness.
When I awoke, I saw the white curtains of the infirmary and knew I was going to be sick.
“Want me to call Ol’ Collins?”
I rolled over and in my misery saw Anderson’s grin with a slightly fat lip and missing one tooth.
“Anything you want,” I groaned.
Collins came bustling in, murmured about “concussion” and “our mother” and bustled out.
“I didn’t know you could kick so hard.” Again I saw the snaggly grin.
“It must have been the blow to my head. It gave me strength.”
“Your head is only half your problem. We also have two months in the clink together for fighting.”
“Fighting? Who was fighting? And what’s the clink? Where am I, Africa?”
“You and I, sir, have two months in detention hall.”
And that’s how I met Scott Anderson.
For a first friend there could have been no better. He showed me how to play soccer, and I showed him geometry and sentence diagraming. He explained to me the caste system of Eaton from the lowliest freshman to the headmaster. His parents had been assigned to a post overseas, so he was at Eaton finishing up his junior year. His comprehension of human systems astonished me just as my understanding of split participles fascinated him. I felt as though that day of our soccer crash had been for me a grand awakening to a world that had always been but I had never seen. I was a blind man granted sight.
It was four weeks into our detention that I mentioned to Anderson his famous quote from World Problems.
“That was some line,” I said.
“Yeah, but it’s no joke, you know. I really am going on a mission.”
“A mission, a mission, what is a mission, Dr. Livingstone?”
“I’m going out into the world to teach people about the gospel of Jesus Christ.”
“Why?”
“Because the Church is true.”
“Are you really Mormon?”
“Sure thing, died in the wool, true blue.”
“No kidding. I never thought they got out of Utah.”
“Yeah, they did. Got out all over the world.”
So not only did I meet Scott Anderson, but also the Mormon church.
Too soon the term came to an end. When I came back from vacation, Scott Anderson was gone. “Moved,” somebody told me, “back to Utah.” I clung even more to his famous one line in memory of our friendship.
It was a fresh April day at the Apothecary Outdoor Restaurant when I had a final chance to use Anderson’s line. We had just finished our salad and were beginning our soup when an acquaintance of my mother stopped to greet us. He added the usual, “And what are you going to be doing next year, Jack?”
“I will be going on a mission for the Mormon church, sir,” I replied.
“You will?” He seemed more than astonished. “Why I didn’t know you were Mormons!”
“We’re not,” my mother smiled her let’s-get-on-to-other-things smile.
“But I am,” the man went on. “As a matter of fact, I’m bishop of the Manhattan Third Ward.”
“A bishop? I’ve heard of bishops,” I said. “You see, I had this friend at school …”
And so I met Bishop Beesely. And now I am going on a mission for the Mormon church. My father thinks that I am tomorrow’s Dr. Livingstone because I am going to South Africa.
My mother, though, is her same plural self. Just yesterday she said, “We’ll be needing some white shirts and dark suits now, won’t we, Jack?”

In a long-ago time, near the village of Kincoolee O’Doon, lived a boy named Rory. He lived with his mother in a tiny white cottage at the bottom of a green hill in the Irish countryside. They didn’t have much money. Sometimes they didn’t have as much as one potato between them. Rory knew this worried his mother.
One morning he said, “Mother, I am strong, and I’m tall for my age. Let me go to the city to seek my fortune.”
“And what is it that you’ll be doing to earn your way?” asked his mother. “We have not even a lamb or a chick to sell in the marketplace.”
“I will find work to do. I will make it known that I am hardworking and honest.”
“Very well,” said she. “But as you go, always watch for ways to serve others. And if ’tis gold you seek, Lad, faith and ’tis sure, none will you find more precious than the teaching to love your brother as yourself.”
“I will remember,” promised the boy.
Rory packed a knapsack with bread and cheese, kissed his mother farewell, and started his long walk to the city.
Along the road Rory saw a bird trying to fly. It flapped only one wing. The other hung limply at its side.
Rory said, “Poor bird, you have broken your wing.” He made a nest by cupping his hands and gently lifted the bird. “My good mother taught me, ‘Whatever you wish that men would do to you, so do to them.’” He grinned. “What can a wee bird do for me? No matter. I will carry you with me. Perhaps in some way I will help you.”
Rory walked along until he came to a cottage where he saw an old woman trying to split logs. “Perhaps she will make you well, little bird,” he said.
“Is it not hard for you to chop wood?” he called to the old woman. “I will do it for you if you will care for this bird with a broken wing.”
The woman held out her hands for the bird. “Aye, the poor, wee bird. Sure, and I can make it better. And a fine lad you are to help an old woman who has kinks in her knees and a crick in her back.”
Rory chopped until he had wood stacked almost as high as the cottage.
“So kind you are,” she said. “How can I repay you? So little I have to offer.”
Rory shook his head. “I want no pay. Glad I am that you will nurse the wee bird.”
“You must come inside for some hot soup,” she urged, and led him into her cottage. The old woman brought him a bowl of steaming nettle soup and some soda bread. The walking and wood chopping had made Rory hungry. The food tasted good, just like his mother’s.
While Rory ate, the old woman took a green woolen stocking cap from a cupboard and said, “Wear this cap, lad. You’ll be needing a covering for your head when you are on the open road.” She put the cap on Rory’s head. “I wove it meself. Wondrous powers it has. You will walk twice as fast, and never will you tire.”
Suddenly Rory’s tiredness left him. He believed he could travel the many miles to the city in no time at all. He thanked the old woman and went on his way.
He skipped along and he trotted along, and as the sun climbed high at noonday, Rory came upon an old, old man sitting on a rock. The old man’s face was very red. “Why do you not sit yonder in the shade?” Rory asked. “The sun is too hot on your head.”
“Aye, too hot for me head, but warm for me old bones. And too tired I am to move from here to there.”
Rory put the cap on the old man’s head. “You need a covering for your head. This cap has wondrous powers. You will walk twice as fast, and never will you tire.”
The old man sat up, a look of great surprise on his face. He laughed and clapped his hands. “Sure, and ’tis young again I feel!” He jumped up and danced a jig.
Rory saw a handsome shillelagh (stick cut from an oak or a blackthorn sapling) leaning against the rock. The piece of wood had been polished to such a luster that it shone like gold in the sunlight.
“ ’Tis a fine shillelagh you have,” said Rory.
“Take it,” said the old man. “’Tis a new life you’ve given me. And a lad should carry a strong club to ward off beasties and things that lurk in the forest at night.”
“I cannot take your fine shillelagh.”
“The shillelagh is yours. I’ll hear no more of it,” insisted the old man.
Rory sat beside the old man on the rock and shared his bread and cheese with him. As they ate, the man told Rory how he had made the shillelagh. “I cut the branch from a strong, gnarled oak tree meself. And many’s the hour I sat polishing it. Once I slew a bear with this same shillelagh.”
The sun and the long journey made Rory drowsy. He fell into a deep sleep. Hours later he woke to find the shillelagh beside him, but the old man was not to be seen.
Rory picked up the shillelagh and started up the road. The shillelagh was heavy. As he went, it got heavier and heavier. He thought of the long walk to the city. The heavy club would slow his pace. But he must not throw away such a fine oaken shillelagh. He must try to find the old man and give it back to him.
Rory called, “Old man who gave me this fine shillelagh! Where are you?” He called and called. But he heard only the echo of his voice and the moan of the wind that seemed to cry, “Go-o-ne! Go-o-ne!”
Finally Rory decided to return home with the shillelagh and go another day to seek his fortune. Up hill and down glen he struggled. He carried the club in his arms. He put it across his shoulders. He dragged it behind him. When he came to a hilltop, he rolled it to the bottom.
At last Rory climbed to the top of the hill where he could see the thatched roof of his own cottage. He gave the shillelagh a strong push down the hill. The crooked stick leaped over rocks and patches of heather like a nimble rabbit. Faster and faster it went until it reached the bottom and struck the door of the cottage, thrusting it open wide. With a crash and a clatter the shillelagh burst apart!
Rory could see the glint of gold flying up in the light of the moon. He tore down the hill. Hundreds of gold pieces lay scattered about. They had spilled out of the shillelagh and into the cottage. His frightened mother stood in the midst of the golden coins.
Rory hugged his mother and cried, “Sure, and I did find two fortunes this day—these coins that are soon spent, and gold in the words whatever you wish that men would do to you, so do to them. Such golden words are priceless, and forever will they last.”

A few years ago, I coached a boys’ soccer team. They were an amazing group of players—fast, agile, with the instinct of anticipating where the ball would or should go on the next kick. The players really clicked as a team. They breezed through the season with a perfect record, most of the games ending in lopsided scores.
One of my favorite players on the team was Matt. Matt was an exception to most of his teammates. He wasn’t as skilled or naturally athletic as they were, but he played with a lot of heart. He developed a knack for playing defense. Matt wasn’t a fast runner, but he had courage and the uncanny ability to get himself right in front of a player ready to shoot on goal. Matt stopped dozens of shots that season with almost every part of his body—feet, legs, stomach, chest, and, on one memorable shot, his face. Matt earned the nickname “The Wall” because it seemed like no opposing player could get the ball past him.
Matt had one dream for that season: he wanted to score a goal. Since he played defense, at the opposite end of the field from the opponents’ net, he had little chance to score.
The last game of the season came and our team raced out to a quick and comfortable lead. As the match wore down, I called Matt over to the sideline and told him to play forward for the remainder of the game, a position where he’d have a better chance to score. With a confidence that surprised me, I told him, “Whenever their goalie has the ball, plant yourself in front of the box. Be in the right place at the right time and you’ll get your goal today.”
A few minutes later, one of our players kicked the ball on goal. The other team’s goalkeeper stopped the shot, put the ball on the turf, and kicked the ball low and hard.
And Matt, true to his nature, got right in front of it.
The ball thudded into his chest and ricocheted past the shocked and flailing goalkeeper into the net. Matt’s teammates and their parents exploded in cheers.
It wasn’t pretty, but Matt got his goal. He couldn’t have been more excited if he’d scored in a World Cup match.
I bumped into Matt a while ago, and it didn’t take long for us to start reminiscing about his amazing goal. We both agreed that, while his goal was thrilling and something neither of us would ever forget, it was the lessons we learned about life that warm autumn day that mattered most.

Abby had big blue eyes and a great smile, and she loved to sing. When she bought a candy bar, she always gave Derrick half. When Derrick accidentally broke Josh’s CD player, Abby defended him against their angry brother. She always seemed to be happy. That was why it was hard for Derrick to think of her as being sad.
And she was sad. Daddy had read a letter from Abby, who was far away on a mission. She was in a country that was very, very hot. And the language the people spoke was hard for her to understand and speak. She said that she wanted to come home.
Mother had wiped her eyes on her hand. Daddy had said, “She’s just homesick. Every missionary goes through hard times.”
Derrick wanted to help Abby. But how? If she were at home, he would climb onto her lap and say something to make her laugh. But he couldn’t even write her a letter. All he could write was his name in crooked letters.
Suddenly Derrick had an idea. He grabbed his box of crayons and a piece of paper. He dashed into Abby’s bedroom and opened the curtains. It was a beautiful fall day. Outside the window he could see the bright red leaves on the maple tree. Derrick took his red crayon and began to draw what he saw.
When he finished his picture, he wrote, “Derrick” at the bottom. Then he went outside and picked up two beautiful, red leaves from beneath the maple tree.
He took the leaves and the picture to his mother. “These are for Abby,” he said.
Mother smiled and said, “She’ll love them.”
The next time a letter came from Abby, Daddy stopped reading it right in the middle, came over to Derrick, and gave him a big hug. “That was from Abby,” he said.
When winter came and snow fell soft and thick from the sky, Derrick cut out white-paper snowflakes. “These are for Abby,” he told his mother.
At Christmastime, he pulled some needles from the Christmas tree. “Please send these to Abby,” he said to his dad.
In the spring, Derrick picked blossoms from the lilac bush in the front yard. Then he carefully put them between two sheets of waxed paper and placed a big fat book on top to press them. When they were dry and flat, off they went in the mail to Abby.
Soon after that, he helped his mother bake a cake and hang balloons in the living room. He helped color a big sign that they taped to the garage door that said, “Welcome home, Abby!” Abby had completed her mission!
At the airport, Derrick waited impatiently with his family. He watched all the people coming through the doorway. Where was Abby? It had been a long time. Would he still know her when he saw her?
There she was! She was his own Abby, and she hadn’t changed. Derrick ran and threw his arms around her.
Abby knelt down beside him. “My loving little brother,” she said. “How did you think of those wonderful presents you sent to me? Do you know how happy they made me?”
Derrick smiled and said, “I just wanted to send you pieces of home.”