Gospel Story Finder

One new father wrote: “Often as I watch my son watch me, I am taken back to moments with my own dad, remembering how vividly I wanted to be just like him. I remember having a plastic razor and my own can of foaming cream, and each morning I would shave when he shaved. I remember following his footsteps back and forth across the grass as he mowed the lawn in summer.

“Now I want my son to follow my lead, and yet it terrifies me to know he probably will. Holding this little boy in my arms, I feel a ‘heavenly homesickness,’ a longing to love the way God loves, to comfort the way He comforts, to protect the way He protects. The answer to all the fears of my youth was always ‘What would Dad do?’ Now that I have a child to raise I am counting on a Heavenly Father to tell me exactly that.”

After hearing Church leaders encourage youth to save money for full-time missions, we held a special family home evening with our two children, 10-year-old Allana and 7-year-old Ulric. We discussed the importance of saving for a full-time mission, then presented them with piggy banks to help them begin saving.
After that evening it was incredible how the money has accumulated. Ulric collects and saves every coin he can find; both children save any money they receive from relatives. In three months Ulric has saved enough to pay for the first month of his mission, and Allana is almost there. The children also make sure to pay tithing on the money they receive, and our family has seen great blessings as their testimonies of serving and sacrificing have taken root and grown.
Luiz and Andreia Pereira, São Paulo, Brazil

“Megan! Your shoes are on my side of the room!” Mia said with a huff.
“Well, your scriptures are on my side,” Megan said.
Mom poked her head into the room. “Girls, I don’t hear much cleaning going on in here. You can’t go to the park until your room is clean.”
“But this is all Megan’s mess!” Mia said. “It’s not fair that I have to clean it up.”
“It’s not all mine!” Megan said.
“Ugh.” Mia crossed her arms. “I wish I had my own room. Why do I have to share with Megan? Michael gets one all to himself!”
Mom sighed. “You know we don’t have another room. Michael’s older. That’s why he gets his own.”
“Well, at least make her keep her stuff off my side.” Mia drew an imaginary line with her finger down the middle of the room. “See? That’s your side, Megan. This is my side.”
“Hmm,” Mom said. “Maybe we could put up a curtain to divide the room. Would that help you two get along?”
Mia grinned. “Yeah!”
The next day, Mom sewed some fabric into a curtain. It was purple with a checkered pattern on it. She even sewed a ribbon with dangly beads across the bottom. Later Mia and Megan helped Dad hang the curtain up with a piece of wire. It stretched all the way across the room.
Mia clapped her hands in excitement. “Finally! It’s just like having my own room!”
She pulled out her crayons to color a picture. But after a few minutes, she got bored. She wondered what Megan was doing on the other side of the curtain. They usually colored together. It felt kind of lonely to do it by herself.
That night Mia knelt down to say her bedtime prayer. She thanked Heavenly Father for her home and for her family. That made her feel a little sad. She liked having her own space, but she missed playing with Megan.
Mia climbed into bed. But she couldn’t fall asleep. She turned over on her side. She could see Megan’s head through the little gap between the curtain and the wall.
“Megan?” she whispered. “Are you awake?”
“Yeah,” Megan whispered back.
“What if we made a little mailbox?” Mia asked. “To leave notes for each other.”
“Good idea,” Megan said. “Can we do it tomorrow?”
“Sure.” Mia closed her eyes with a smile. “Good night, Megan.”
“Good night, Mia.”
The next day, Mia found a little box. She put it between both of their sides of the room. Then she wrote a note and stuck it inside: Megan, do you want to play with my stuffed animals? Love, Mia.
Megan picked up the note and read it. “I’d love to!”
All week, Mia and Megan left notes for each other in their mailbox. And they played with each other every day. Sometimes they played on Mia’s side. Sometimes they played on Megan’s side. But they always had fun together.
“You know,” Mia told Megan one day, “I’m not sure we need this curtain after all.”
“Yeah,” Megan said. “It kind of gets in the way.”
Dad helped them take the curtain down.
“I’m glad you’ve learned to get along,” he said.
Mia smiled at Megan. “Me too.”

In school, if the children had been well-behaved, the teacher might reward them by having a railroad spelling bee after the afternoon recess. All the children lined up next to the wall. One day little Mary was at the front of the line, so she could spell any word that she wanted to. She correctly spelled cat. Then Charles, who was next in line, had to spell a word beginning with t, the last letter in Mary’s word. He spelled tail. Laura was next, and she had to spell a word beginning with l. She slowly spelled, “l-i-v-e-l-e-e.” Then, because she had misspelled lively, she had to sit down. The game continued as Henry correctly spelled a word beginning with y. All too soon the railroad spelling bee ended—it was time for the children to go home. But the next day they would return to the one-room schoolhouse to study and play again.

Now, you may be thinking: “It’s not that easy for me. I have so many people to watch over. And I have so little time.” But where the Lord calls, He prepares a way—His way. There are shepherds who believe that. I’ll tell you about one.
Two years ago, a man was called as the president of his elders quorum. He had been a member of the Church for less than 10 years. He had just become worthy to be sealed to his wife and family in the temple. His wife was an invalid. He had three daughters. The oldest was 13, and she cooked the meals and, with the others, cared for the house. His scant earnings from manual labor supported not only those five people but a grandfather who lived with them in their small house.
When he was called to be president of his elders quorum, it had 13 members. That tiny quorum was responsible for another 101 men who either had no priesthood at all or who were deacons, teachers, or priests. He was responsible to watch over the souls of 114 families, with little hope that he could devote more than his Sundays and perhaps one night a week to his service, with all he did to serve his own family.
The difficulty of what he faced drove him to his knees in prayer. Then he stood up and went to work. In his efforts to meet and know his sheep, his prayers were answered in a way he had not expected. He came to see beyond individuals. He came to know that the Lord’s purpose was for him to build families. And even with his limited experience, he knew that the way to build families would be to help them qualify to make and keep temple covenants.
He began to do what a good shepherd always does, but he did it differently when he saw the temple as their destination. First, he prayed to know who were to be his counselors to go with him. And then he prayed to know which families needed him and had been prepared.
He called on as many as he could. Some were cold and did not accept his friendship. But with those who did, he followed a pattern. As soon as he saw interest and trust, he invited them to meet the bishop. He had asked the bishop beforehand: “Please tell them what it takes to be worthy to go to the temple to claim its blessings for them and their families. And then please testify to them, as I have, that it will be worth it.”
A few then accepted the quorum president’s invitation to a temple preparation class taught by stake leaders. Not all completed the course, and not all qualified for the temple. But each family and each father was prayed for. Most were invited at least once to a feast of the good word of God. With every invitation came the president’s testimony of the blessings of being a family sealed forever and the sadness of being separated. Every invitation was issued with the love of the Savior.
During the president’s service, he has seen 12 of the men he taught ordained elders. He has seen four of his elders ordained high priests. Those numbers don’t come close to measuring the miracle. The families of those men will be blessed over generations. Fathers and mothers are now sealed to each other and to their children. They are praying over their children, receiving the help of heaven, and teaching the gospel with the love and inspiration the Lord gives to faithful parents.
That president and his counselors have become true shepherds. They have watched over the flock with the Master and have come to love Him.

To the many missionaries who may be listening this evening, I share the observation that the seeds of testimony frequently do not immediately take root and flower. Bread cast upon the water returns, at times, only after many days. But it does return.
I answered the ring of my telephone one evening to hear a voice ask, “Are you related to an Elder Monson who years ago served in the New England Mission?”
I answered that such was not the case. The caller introduced himself as a Brother Leonardo Gambardella and then mentioned that an Elder Monson and an Elder Bonner called at his home long ago and bore their testimonies to him and his wife. They had listened but had done nothing further to apply their teachings. Subsequently they moved to California, where, some 13 years later, they again found the truth and were converted and baptized. Brother Gambardella then asked if there were any way he could reach the elders who first had visited with them, that he might express his profound gratitude for their testimonies, which had remained with him and his wife.
I checked the records. I located the elders. Can you imagine their surprise when, now married with families of their own, I telephoned them and told them the good news—even the culmination of their early efforts. They instantly remembered the Gambardellas. I arranged a conference telephone call so they could personally extend their congratulations and welcome them into the Church. They did. There were tears, but they were tears of joy.

When it came time to bless my daughter, Amelia, there was so much I wanted to include in her blessing. As I pondered beforehand about what to say, I felt that I should bless her to grow up healthy and strong. I also felt inspired to bless her that her life would be centered on the gospel of Jesus Christ.
As I stood in the circle in sacrament meeting and began to bless my little daughter, I shared all these things and other spiritual impressions. Then suddenly, I felt prompted to add something. I was surprised by how strongly this prompting came to me.
With Amelia in my arms, I said, “At times, people will be unkind to you, but I bless you that you will follow the Savior’s example and always be kind.”
I have thought a lot about this part of Amelia’s blessing since then. I’ve realized that kindness isn’t something I wish only for my daughter. Kindness is something the whole world needs. It often seems that harshness and thoughtlessness are everywhere, but here are a few ways we can make the world around us a little kinder.

While serving as a full-time missionary in the Chile Santiago West Mission, I gained valuable insight into scripture study and how to make it more effective for investigators and myself. One day while teaching a beautiful young family, I felt the clear impression to not only encourage them to read 3 Nephi 11 but to give them a purpose in reading. Rather than simply testifying that they would learn about the Savior’s visit to the Americas, my companion and I challenged them to look for what the Savior taught, specifically the first thing He taught. In addition, we involved the children by describing the reading as a treasure hunt; as we did so, we had their undivided attention. With the children excited to help their parents find hidden treasures of truth in the Book of Mormon, we felt much more confident that the family would follow through with their commitment.
When we returned the following day, not only had the family read and not only had they discovered Christ’s first teaching to the ancient American inhabitants, but they had outlined almost all of His teachings in the entire chapter. Even the children were excited.
Ryan Gassin, Minnesota, USA

Thomas Giles, a Welsh convert who joined the Church in 1844, also suffered much in his lifetime. He was a miner, and while he was digging coal in the mine, a large piece of coal hit him on the head and inflicted a wound nine inches long. The doctor who examined him said the injured man would not live longer than 24 hours. But then the elders came and administered to him. He was promised that he would get well, and that “even if he would never see again, he would live to do much good in the Church.” Brother Giles did indeed live but was blind the rest of his life. Within a month of his injury “he was out traveling through the country attending to his ecclesiastical duties.”

In 1856 Brother Giles and his family immigrated to Utah, but before he left his homeland, the Welsh Saints presented him with a harp, which he learned to play skillfully. At Council Bluffs he joined a handcart company and headed west. “Though blind he pulled a handcart from Council Bluffs to Salt Lake City.” While crossing the plains his wife and two children died. “His sorrow was great and his heart almost broken, but his faith did not fail him. In the midst of his grief he said as did one of old, ‘The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord.’” When Brother Giles arrived in Salt Lake City, President Brigham Young, who had heard his story, loaned Brother Giles a valuable harp until his own arrived from Wales. Brother Giles “traveled from settlement to settlement in Utah, … gladdening the hearts of the people with his sweet music.”

But the members of the choir are not the only people who think of Mary Jack as their Mary. Her love for children flowed through the pages of The Children’s Friend for nearly sixty years too. When she was still a girl in her teens, she left her home in Oakley, Idaho, to go to Salt Lake to find work. Since her father was president of the Cassia Stake there and had centered his family’s life in the Church, it was natural that Mary would seek work in one of the offices at Church headquarters.
The Primary Association needed secretarial help, and Mary was hired. It soon became apparent to Sister Louie B. Felt, General Primary President, that her quiet and modest little secretary could do far more than type. And so in 1920 Mary was called to be general secretary and a member of the Primary General Board where she served for twenty years.
Of even more importance to boys and girls, Sister May Anderson, who was then editor of The Children’s Friend and a counselor in the General Primary Presidency, discovered that Mary could write in a way that touched the hearts of children. Because there was a need for someone just like her to help prepare stories, poems, and articles for The Children’s Friend, the after-midnight organ player became associated with that magazine. She was a managing editor of the magazine late in 1970 when the First Presidency decided to ask all the auxiliaries to discontinue their magazines and transfer the publishing responsibility to the First Presidency of the Church.
Mary, who for so many years had been the “heart” of The Children’s Friend, was persuaded to stay with the new Friend staff, retiring in 1971. During those fifty-eight years that she blessed the boys and girls of the Church with her contributions to their magazine, she wrote under nine different names, her favorite being Mary Rose. One of her poems found in a 1930 issue is entitled “Clouds,” and shows Mary’s playful and imaginative nature:
The clouds are like a flock of sheep
Upon a summer day;
I see the big white woolly ones,
And little lambs at play.
I wonder what they graze upon,
And just how far they roam;
I wonder where the shepherd is
And how he’ll get them home.
Gradually Sister Anderson turned more and more of The Children’s Friend work over to Mary. “Finally,” Mary said, “I was doing it all myself—every speck—the layout, the pasteup. All of it. I did it!” And while she was doing all the mechanics of preparing material for a magazine, she was also writing to the contributors, sending them copies of the Book of Mormon, and giving money from her own small salary when anyone said they needed help.
Over the years “Our Mary” worked with and for every General Primary president since Sister Felt, with the exception of Sister Naomi Shumway.
“They’ve all been wonderful,” Mary declares. “People have to be different, but they’re all wonderful.”

It always seemed to take a long time for my senior companion and me to do our home teaching. After we had made our visits, he would park his car on one of the shady, peaceful streets that are common in Carrasco, Uruguay. Then he would talk to me about his childhood and about the challenges of growing up as the son of a widow. And—just by coincidence—he would always talk about the mission he had served when he was young. He spoke of that experience with great emotion.
The year was 1968, and my companion was William N. Jones, then president of the Uruguay-Paraguay Mission.
Did President Jones realize that I, like thousands of other young people in Uruguay, was struggling to find direction in a sea of doubt? Political tensions were strong in the country, and I was confused about the role I should play in the political changes going on around me.
Nevertheless, there, in the shade of eucalyptus trees, my companion would speak to me so calmly and so convincingly that, for the moment at least, my mind would clear. In a most natural way, he invited me to plan my life. And whenever he saw me at church, he would give me a big hug and ask, “How is my future missionary?”
Often I would respond, mentally, Me? A missionary? I couldn’t project my life that far into the future. And as for the Book of Mormon, I accepted that the book was true—but only for historical reasons. I did not have a real testimony of it. President Jones had encouraged me to read the book. He had even written an inscription in my copy—“May the light within you shine even brighter.” But as the months passed, the shiny leather covers stayed closed.
Somehow, in spite of conflicting feelings, I decided to go on a mission. Once I had made the decision, I was elated, almost euphoric. But when I told my nonmember mother, she found the idea disagreeable. “I have lost you as a son,” she said, with great pain on her face.
In spite of my mother’s reaction, I had many peaceful Sundays and many quiet, confidential talks with Bishop Calvar. “Look,” he said one day. “Here are the keys to the church. Find a little room somewhere and get close to the Lord.”
Day after day after that, I would stop at his house and pick up the keys. I would stay at church for four or five hours, reading the Book of Mormon and other scriptures. I also fasted for the purpose of gaining a testimony of the book.
The bishop knew about the fasting, and he did not miss an opportunity to instruct me about the close relationship between the body and the spirit. He explained the importance of the Word of Wisdom and taught me how to seek personal revelation. I will never forget his teachings.
The hours I spent in that classroom at the church will always be part of my life. I cannot specify any particular hour or day when my testimony came; it was a gradual process. But slowly, each story in the Book of Mormon became my own personal spiritual feast.
Often, I felt as though transported from the cold metal chair on which I sat, or from the floor on which I knelt, to the ancient days of the Nephites and the Lamanites. I did not read King Benjamin’s sermon—I lived it. I imagined that I lay on the grass, surrounded by Nephite tents, watching people who had come to hear their aging leader. His speech answered many of my longstanding questions about the role of government, good leadership, personal worthiness, and the nature of true service.
From the beginning I had believed that the promise of Moroni would be fulfilled. But I had expected it to happen suddenly, as it had for others I knew. But though it came gradually, it came powerfully. I knew! I knew!
I left for the mission field surrounded by the love of Church members, as well as that of some of my family. My family didn’t quite understand what I was doing, but most believed it was something good.
How grateful I am to the Lord for that time of challenge! How grateful I am for the opportunity I had to represent the Lord Jesus Christ! During my mission, I bore my testimony of him and of the Book of Mormon often—a testimony which I had gained slowly, but undeniably, one conversation, one prayer, one page at a time.

I sat on the airplane Saturday morning enroute to Louisville, Kentucky, with a young friend, a medical person, who said that for years he has been singing in the Tabernacle Choir and has not been able to attend priesthood quorum meeting. Under the new meeting schedule he has been earnestly looking forward to a more consistent attendance. The week before the first consolidated meetings began, he was invited by the bishop to teach Primary. You will discover that that means he cannot go to priesthood meeting again for a while. The incident reemphasizes what I am saying—that sooner or later most of us end up doing some formal teaching, and if we do not we are yet teachers in other ways along the route.

In these days, visiting teachers do much good. Twelve years ago, Suzy was called to be Dora’s visiting teacher. A widow with no children, Dora had a difficult personality and was almost a recluse. When Suzy first began visiting Dora, she was met at the doorstep but never invited in. Several months later, Suzy took a treat to Dora, but Dora said she could not accept it. When Suzy asked why not, she answered, “Because you’ll want something in return.” Suzy assured her, “All I want is your friendship.” After that, visiting became easier. Gradually, Suzy found ways to do things for Dora and to listen when listening was needed. She would also tell her about the wonderful people in the ward, the lessons, and the conferences, thus making her feel a part of the ward. As Dora’s health began to deteriorate, Suzy’s visits were daily, and they became close friends. When Dora died, Suzy was able to eulogize the woman others called “unapproachable” as a “remarkable woman” and “a cherished friend.” She knew her as few others could because of her service as a visiting teacher.

I’m a missionary serving in the Costa Rica San Jose Mission. I’ve enjoyed the New Era since I was 13 years old. Each issue has had articles that have helped me. The article by Vicki Leavitt Driggs in the November 1986 issue, entitled “The Grudge” seemed to be meant especially for me. It helped me tremendously with my own particular problem.
Normally, I get along well with the people I meet, and as a missionary, of course, I meet and work with a lot of different people. But I’ve had to work with a certain individual with whom it has been very difficult for me to get along. I was really feeling awful inside. I didn’t want to have bad feelings about anyone, especially one with whom I had to be very closely associated.
A couple of days ago this person did something that really hurt me. I felt quite angry and was even more “unkindly disposed” toward her than I had previously been.
When I returned to my apartment, I opened the November issue of the New Era I had just received from my parents. I started to read “The Grudge.” After reading it I realized that I felt exactly like the girl in the story. I knew I had to talk to this person whom I was allowing to make me have these negative feelings. I had to clear the air.
That’s exactly what I did. Now things are better between us than ever before. Thank you so much for this story.
Sister Cami OscarsonCosta Rica San Jose Mission

Coleson pedaled his bicycle and stared at the hill in front of him. He saw his parents, his older brother and sister, and his cousin ahead of him. Coleson’s family was on a cross-country bicycle trip. Grandma drove the van in front of them in case they needed help. Halle, Coleson’s five-year-old sister, rode in the van with Grandma.
Halle had been born with a rare bone disorder. When Halle was a baby, their family moved from Idaho to Chicago so Halle could get the treatment she needed at a special hospital.
Even though they were now living in Idaho again, they wanted to do something special for the hospital in Chicago. They decided to gather donations for the hospital by biking from Idaho to Chicago. The trip would take five weeks. They were now 10 days into the trip, biking through Wyoming.
Coleson took a drink from his water bottle. He looked at the road that rose in front of him. “I will make it up this hill,” he told himself.
Coleson pedaled hard. The muscles in his legs ached. He knew he could ride in the van if he needed to, but he wanted to bike the whole way. He managed to make it up and down the next three hills. After that, it was time for lunch.
“We’ve already ridden more than 50 miles today,” Dad said.
Coleson sighed with relief. They usually rode about 60 miles a day.
“But I think we should keep riding,” Dad said. “If we get ahead, we can take a day off for sightseeing.”
Everyone nodded in agreement. Coleson nodded too, even though he didn’t know if he could ride much more today.
After lunch, Coleson and his family got back on their bikes. Coleson’s legs were stiff and sore, but he rode anyway. As he topped the first hill, he relaxed a little and started coasting. But when he looked up ahead, he groaned.
There were miles and miles of big, rolling hills. He would have to pedal up every single one. Every part of his body wanted to quit. Biking to Chicago didn’t feel like fun anymore. Maybe he should just get in the van.
Then he remembered other goals he had—to go to the temple and to go on a mission. Did he want to stop short of these goals? Coleson knew he wanted to go the whole way.
He kept pumping his legs and thought about all the things his family had been through together. The pedaling didn’t get any easier, but Coleson stopped thinking about quitting. Instead, he thought about how much he wanted to keep biking.
When they finally stopped for the day, Grandma picked them up to drive them to the hotel. Dad put his arm around Coleson and gave him a big hug.
“I’m proud of you,” Dad said. “Today was a rough day, and you made it.”
“Yep,” Coleson said. “And I’m going to make it all the way to Chicago.”
Coleson did bike all the way to Chicago with his family. When they approached the hospital on their bikes, Coleson saw children lined up outside. He realized they were patients who had been waiting for his family to arrive. The children cheered and waved, welcoming the bike-riding family from Idaho.
Coleson was glad he had endured to the end of the trip. It was a fantastic journey.

I began investigating the Church as a teenager, but I stopped attending the Sunday meetings because I felt excluded by many of the youth. Some time later, one of those youth invited me to a Church activity. I accepted and liked the activities because they were things I enjoy doing: acting, playing basketball, and running.
As I continued to attend activities, I got to know the youth and realized that many of them went to my school. With time I was able to develop friendships with young men and young women who had the same standards that I live by. I am grateful that someone invited me to a Church activity, and I am grateful that I accepted.

For example, drinking, especially at weekend parties, was a big problem for their peers, so some of the LDS students started throwing their own parties and inviting everyone, as long as they followed the house rules.

“Dad announces the rules at our house,” says Priscilla Packard. “No tobacco; no alcohol; you have to be 14 to attend the party; no pairing off in the corners; and absolutely nobody outside in the cars. Then we dance, and talk, play games, and have contests to see who can do the most back flips in a row. One guy from school who had never been to one of our parties before said, ‘Wow, there’s no alcohol here, and I’m still having fun.’” The parties given by the LDS students are popular with everyone because it isn’t just the same old thing.

Nathan Skene of Salt Lake City didn’t always know how happy service could make him. The summer after graduation from high school, Nathan really didn’t want to go to youth conference. He would be the oldest there. All his friends were gone, and it didn’t look like it was going to be that much fun. But he went anyway.
The theme for the youth conference was MASH—Modern Army Serving Heaven. His “platoon” was chosen to spend time with a group of mentally handicapped students. The students chose a partner; then each pair took a walk together.
“Terry chose me,” Nathan explains. “Being close to him and seeing what kind of spirit he had opened my eyes to how much I love people and how much I enjoy serving others.”
Nathan’s bad attitude dissolved. And now he sees things a little differently. “My most important goal is to gain a Christlike love for everyone,” he says.

While in college, I was blessed with a challenging internship in a city far away from home. An old friend of mine was living nearby, and though we didn’t share the same faith, our differences had not stopped us from being casual friends.
When I first met Madeline (name has been changed), we were both working with another young woman who was a great example of a Latter-day Saint. I remember the Spirit pointing out subtle differences between each young woman, explaining how even small choices can set a course for later in life. I have actually remembered these spiritual impressions for years.
Now back in contact after a few years, Madeline and I planned a time to get together. When the evening arrived, I became surprisingly nervous. I took a train to her city, and as I got closer, a voice inside my mind and heart said, “You’re supposed to date only people who have high standards.”
“This isn’t a date,” I thought. “I’m just getting together with an old friend.” The Spirit repeated the warning, pushing until I realized it was indeed a date and I began to wonder about my friend’s current standards and lifestyle. “She knows I’m LDS,” I rationalized. “She’s familiar with my standards, and there won’t be a problem.”
I did, however, begin to wonder if the “subtle differences” I had noted before had caused our paths to diverge more than I expected. So I followed the prompting of the Spirit, and I called my friend to cancel. I was so afraid of offending her. How could I explain spiritual impressions to a friend who doesn’t appreciate the mission of the Holy Ghost?
I explained that I wasn’t comfortable with one of the activities we had planned and hoped this would give me an acceptable reason for getting out of the evening. She was disappointed and offered to change our plans. I was relieved and agreed to the change because I thought, “Maybe the activity was why the Spirit was warning me.” But the anxiety I was feeling would not go away.
We were having a fun time that night, but from time to time, the Spirit told me the earlier warning was important. At first nothing seemed concerning, but as the evening progressed, it became clearer that while we may have come from similar backgrounds, we were headed in completely different directions. Our standards were not the same—even in small things. When she ordered wine, I explained that I would rather not pay for alcohol. She respected my wishes and paid for it herself.
My spiritual anxiety continued to grow as the evening wore on. As dinner wrapped up, I was on the edge of my chair, ready to go, because I knew the evening’s last train was leaving soon and I lived too far away to take a taxi. Aware of my worry, my friend said I could sleep at her place. Now the Spirit would not leave me alone, confirming what I already knew: staying was not an option.
As I walked her home, I worked hard to look calm. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay?” she asked. I was sure. She wasn’t forward or offensive, but the Spirit quietly spoke more clearly than the sound of thunder. I could not miss my train!
I waited until I knew she was inside, then ran as fast as I could to reach the train station in time. I couldn’t help thinking of Joseph in Egypt when he ran from temptation (see Genesis 39:7–12).
As I think back over the happenings of that night, I feel both fear and gratitude: fear for what might have been and gratitude for the companionship of the Holy Ghost. The Spirit spoke, and even though I should have done so sooner, I’m glad I finally listened.

Clancy O’Clagen was stacking wood in Mrs. O’Reilley’s woodshed. As he neatly piled the sticks, he was thinking of what his wife had said that morning. “It’s a fine thing to be helping Widow O’Reilley, Clancy,” she had said, “but while you’re setting her woodshed to rights your own is a sorry sight, what with kindling laying every which way. But if she pays you well for the work, I’ll be doing no more complaining.”
Clancy straightened up to rest his back and glanced around the gloomy shed. Suddenly he spied a shimmering of metal up high in a cobwebby corner. He moved nearer to see what the glimmer of light might be.
“Sure, and that’s an old Irish griddle, if ever I saw one!” he exclaimed. “But it’s rusted and grimy and in need of a good scrubbing. Now I wonder if I could lift it from the peg.”
Clancy stood on the tips of his toes and grunted and stretched and lifted. Then with a pull that nearly set him back on his heels, the griddle came off. Just as Clancy was slapping some of the webs from the griddle, Mrs. O’Reilley came in.
“So you’re interested in that old thing, I see now,” she said. “That’s been hanging there for many a year, and not much good it is to anyone. ’Tis one that came from the old sod country, it is. But only burned cakes is all it ever would bake, and who’d be wanting burned cakes now?”
Clancy’s eyes sparkled. “Sure, and I’d be glad to take the thing as pay for my work. Somehow I’ve got a fancy for it, seeing as how it came from Ireland.”
Mrs. O’Reilley threw up her hands. “Then pay it is!” she said. “But with that kind of pay, I can’t help feeling I’ll be cheating you for sure.”
Clancy finished his work in the woodshed and then, with a gay whistle on his lips and the griddle tucked under his arm, he went home.
But there was no gay whistling when Clancy’s wife saw the griddle and no money.
“Clancy O’Clagen!” she cried, “have you taken leave of your wits now? A grubby old griddle you bring home instead of money! And you with no good hat to wear on a Sunday and needing the same!”
“But no money could buy a griddle like this, and from Ireland too!” said Clancy. “Old hats shade heads as well as new.”
While his wife grumbled, Clancy went to work on the griddle. He scraped it, he scoured it, he brushed it. He rubbed and he scrubbed and he polished, and after a time part of the dullness was gone from the surface and bits of shining metal winked through.
“Potato pancakes!” said Clancy. “Good old Irish potatoes made into pancakes on an Irish griddle! Doesn’t that sound good? Would you be making some fine Irish potato pancakes, now, my good wife?”
Clancy watched his wife stir the pancakes. He watched while she ladled them out onto the hot griddle. He watched while their edges turned brown. And then, with his lips twitching in anticipation of a delightful mouthful, he saw the pancakes all at once turn black, burned to a crisp.
Time after time Clancy’s wife tried the griddle. But every time she did, it only burned whatever was on it. “A waster of good food and good time it is!” she cried. “I’ll be having no more to do with it!”
Then Clancy tried the griddle. He mixed pancake batter, spread it in little rounds on the hot surface, and watched the dough bubble. But just when he thought the cakes were baking well, they suddenly began to rise and went up and up. Like little round towers, the bubbling dough rose above the griddle—a foot or two high. Then, while Clancy watched open-mouthed, the cakes turned to cinders and crumbled away.
After that, Clancy’s wife turned the griddle upside down and used it to cover her churn of sour cream. But even as a cover it didn’t work well, for often in the mornings the griddle would be off on the floor and the cream would be sloshed about.
“Now you see what kind of a bargain you made, Clancy O’Clagen!” his wife said stomping her foot. “’Tis no good for baking. ’Tis no good for covering. A dirt-catcher and an eyesore is all it is. I’ll not be having it around any longer. If you’re bound and determined to keep the old thing, you’ll be keeping it outside and that’s a fact!”
Clancy picked up the griddle and marched outside. “’Tis no way at all to be treating a fine Irish griddle,” he muttered. “Using it for a cover for sour cream! It’s shame that I feel when I think of it, and this from the green land of Ireland, too, and maybe made with metal that’s been touched by the Little People’s own hands! Could be that houses are an irritation to the likes of it. Could be that a fire in a woodsy spot is what the griddle is needing!”
A sparkle leaped into Clancy’s eyes. He went back into the house, packed things for pancake batter, put two plates, two knives, two forks, a jar of butter, and a jug of syrup into a box, and then he took the griddle and went off whistling to find his young friend Denny O’Day.
“We’re going to make pancakes in the woods, Denny, my lad!” he said. “Pancakes on an Irish griddle!”
Denny loved to go into the woods with Clancy, but this time he kept looking to the right and to the left, and sometimes he even turned around and looked behind. “I’ve got a feeling that there are eyes looking at us,” said Denny. “And now and again I’m hearing the crackling of twigs. Do you think there might be something about, Clancy O’Clagen?”
“Sure, and what if there is? ’Tis nothing to do with us at all,” answered Clancy.
Beside a little spring Clancy made a fireplace. He put rocks about in a neat little ring. He scraped away the grass and built a fire that soon burned down to rosy coals. Then Clancy mixed the pancake batter until it was as smooth as liquid velvet. He whistled awhile, and every now and again he stopped to jig a little. When the griddle was sizzling hot Clancy poured the batter on it.
He stepped back and stared in amazement. For though he had meant to make round pancakes, the batter spread out by itself into dainty shamrock shapes—three rounds together and a little tail for a stem! And the pancakes didn’t burn. They browned gently on one side and, just as Clancy was about to give them a turn, over they flipped by themselves, or so it seemed.
“Hurray!” cried Clancy. “Sure, and I knew this was a griddle to be proud of!”
He heaped the pancakes on Denny’s plate. And when the boy had eaten all he could hold, Clancy said, “Run home now, Denny, my lad, and tell my good wife to come quickly! She’ll never be believing the same! Not till she sees it with her own eyes! Off with you now!”
Denny started off and Clancy made more pancakes for himself. But he was almost too delighted to eat. “I’ll just be making one more big one for myself,” he said, “and then I’ll sit back and wait for my wife.”
With an extra flourish Clancy poured batter onto the griddle. He poured until it was almost covered. Then he watched to see the shamrock take shape. But this time there wasn’t a shamrock.
The pancake spread and spread. It bubbled and bubbled, and then it turned itself over. But before the pancake was completely turned, a great zinging as of ten thousand hornets filled the air. The pancake flew high. The griddle rose and a huge puff of green smoke sent it spinning and sailing off over the woods.
In another moment the big pancake came flapping downward. It flopped on Clancy’s head and knocked him to the ground.
When Clancy sat up all was still, and he reached up his hands to push the pancake from his eyes. But instead of a pancake his hands pushed up a slightly warm, high plush hat of emerald green. From the bushes impish laughter and deep chuckles reached Clancy’s ears.
When Clancy walked into his own house his wife was busy knitting. Without looking up she said, “Clancy, how could you tell such yarns to Denny O’Day? I sent the lad off to nap after the way you’d filled his head with nonsense.”
Before Clancy could answer she looked up. Then she threw up her hands in surprise.
“CLANCY O’CLAGEN! Where did you get that elegant hat?”
Clancy pulled his ear thoughtfully for a moment and then he smiled. “Sure ’tis true,” he said. “In a manner of speaking, you might say I traded it for Mrs. O’Reilley’s Irish griddle! And that’s a fact!”