Gospel Story Finder

When Nickie and James go for a walk, I always want to go too. But they say, “You can’t keep up. You walk too slow.”
So I get sad, and Mom says, “Take him along.”
But by the time I get to the mailbox, they’re already climbing the tree. When I get to the tree, they’re throwing rocks in the creek. And when I get to the creek, they’re halfway up the hill. I guess they’re right—I walk too slow.
When Mom asks who wants to take our dog, Boris, for a walk, I say, “Me! Me!” She looks worried but hands me the leash. Then Boris drags me down the stairs, and I slip on the grass, and I stub my toes on the rocks. I guess I walk too slow.
When Daddy says, “Who wants to walk to the post office with me?” I grab his hand. But Daddy’s legs are long, and I have to take three steps every time he takes one. Daddy goes for a walk, but I go for a run. I guess I walk too slow.
But when I walk with Grandpa, he takes small steps like mine. We have time to look for rocks, watch bugs, and touch the bark and moss on trees. And when I walk with Grandpa, we talk about things. I like to walk with Grandpa. He walks too slow—just like me!

In the book Daughters in My Kingdom, we read about Sister Hedwig Biereichel, a woman in Germany who suffered much sorrow and deprivation during World War II. Because of her love and charitable nature, and even in her own great need, she willingly shared her food with starving prisoners of war. Later, when asked how she was able to “keep a testimony during all [those] trials,” she replied in effect, “I didn’t keep a testimony through those times—the testimony kept me.”

My name is Tyler, and I am eight years old. One day at camp I was walking with my dad, and we saw a newborn fawn lying under a car in the shade. I was worried about it because it seemed tired. I started petting it.
After a while I saw a mother doe with another baby fawn. I knew that the doe was abandoning the first baby under the car. A doctor came and helped me carry the fawn across the street to where the mother was. The doe was leaving, but we put the fawn on the grass and walked away, hoping that the mother would come back.
I was so worried about the baby deer all night, and I prayed three times to Heavenly Father that He would help the fawn. In the morning we checked where we had left the fawn and saw that it was gone. Then we saw the doe lying in some grass with her two babies.
I know that Heavenly Father answered my prayer.

Suddenly, the cars arrived, and the hall of the stake house was crowded with boys in straw hats covered with cookies, and girls in neon yellow, green, and orange skirts with big bows holding giant candy bars as hats. And just as quickly, they gathered in a classroom for one more run-through of their song—“Buy Me Chocolate,” which helps explain the cookies and candy bars.
Then another group walked by, all dressed in black and white with red-checkered napkins. They were humming something that sounded vaguely operatic but had tongue-twisting lyrics. Another group had swatches of cloth with an African print. They were going over some steps in a dance.
The cultural hall of the Salt Lake Hunter Stake was filled wall to wall with families from nine wards, all waiting to see each ward’s performance in the Young Women and Young Men Choral Festival. Every ward had two songs to perform: one serious song and one fun song from another country that could include some dance steps. The wards chose from religious songs that have been printed in the New Era.
As each well-rehearsed ward came on stage, the energy began to build. Everyone was ready to sing with volume and enthusiasm. But when the Mapusaga (Samoan) Ward came on (they were the ones with the chocolate song), the Caribbean rhythm had everyone moving. After that, there was no stopping them. Each ward put everything they had into their performances before an appreciative audience.
Why have a choral festival? The youth in the Hunter stake now know it means some fun times at practices and an even better time at the performance. And the audience agreed.

Eric Coulson was the only Latter-day Saint in his high school, and everyone knew it because he was the student-body president.
In his leadership position, he found a way to introduce the whole senior class to the Church.
Every year the graduating class from his high school takes a trip to Washington, D.C. Eric checked with the principal, then arranged for the bus drivers to take the class to see the Washington Temple one night during their visit. While there, Eric explained the purposes of the temple. Everyone was impressed with the sight of the temple lit at night.
Eric is a member of the Boone Ward, Des Moines Iowa Stake, where he served as first assistant in his priests quorum.

It was Sunday, and the brethren of the Constitución Ward, Guadalajara Unión México Stake, were convened in priesthood meeting. The elders were listening to a lesson by the quorum president, a gifted teacher. Among those present were a newly ordained elder and his father, who was returning to church after a long period of inactivity.
The lesson that day was on the elders quorum itself. “What is a priesthood quorum?” the president asked, and the brethren in the class gave several responses. It is like a family, they said, and the brethren in the quorum should be genuinely concerned about each other’s welfare and help one another.
As bishop of the ward, I joined the group in time to hear the end of the lesson. Raising my hand, I asked for permission to speak. “I’ve just learned this morning that Brother Noriega, one of our quorum members, has not been able to get the machinery he needs to plant his crops,” I said. “Since the rains have already begun, it is urgent that the seeds be planted right away. Brother Noriega could run the risk of not getting his crops planted, because he is elderly and doesn’t have anyone to help him.”
I suggested that on the following day, we all go help Brother Noriega get his seeds planted. Certainly all of us together could do the job, even without the needed farm machinery. Everybody became excited about this opportunity to put the day’s lesson into practice, and the quorum president made the necessary arrangements.
The next day, Brother Noriega was waiting for us with tools and seeds. He hadn’t been able to sleep, he said, knowing that the elders quorum was coming to help him. While some of the brethren cleared the ground, others broke the soil or dropped in seeds and covered them. Two of the most enthusiastic participants were the recently reactivated member and his son.
It was dark when we finished our task. Dirty and weary, we had blisters on our hands and thorns in our clothes. But we all felt great satisfaction in having served one of our brethren—and we felt that we had really learned the meaning of our lesson in priesthood meeting. Brother Noriega expressed his gratitude, saying that he felt young and strong again as he worked side by side with his brothers in the quorum. The newly reactivated man also said that taking part had given him new strength and courage.
Just as we were leaving, rain began to fall, and we all got wet. But we felt that the shower was a blessing. Heaven’s rain was just what we needed to truly complete our day of sowing.

As a single woman, I am used to being careful about safety. But in the weeks before my trip to the Atlanta Georgia Temple, my usual concern escalated into a recurring nightmare in which a man mugged me, getting away with my credit cards, checks, and driver’s license. My concern became so great that the day before leaving for the temple, I checked my wallet three times to make sure everything—including my temple recommend—was still there.
That same evening I went to a party with my wallet in my purse, along with a small mirror and the tube of lipstick I am never without. After parking my car and adding my keys to my purse, I started toward the church where the party was underway. I was alone in a big city, but I wasn’t afraid. Having asked for the Lord’s protection earlier that evening, I felt safe.
As I walked up a path, I sensed someone behind me and turned to see a man running at me with lightning speed. There was a sharp tug on my purse, a strong hand on my arm, and I heard, “Give me your purse!” As I struggled to free myself, my purse flew across the broad lawn, landing in the nearby bushes. I cried out, but the man ran, retrieving my purse as he left.
After calling the police, I found an empty room in the church where I could send a silent prayer up to Heavenly Father. “I don’t understand,” I thought, fighting tears. “I was going to the temple tomorrow! Now he has my temple recommend! Father, why wasn’t I protected?” Feeling helpless and hopeless, I went out to face the police officers.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Thomas. The officers didn’t find anything—not the thief, not your purse,” I was told. But as the police officers and I walked to my car, an impression came to me.
“I’m going to look in the grass to see if anything fell out of my purse, OK?” I tried not to get my hopes up, but when I saw something metallic reflecting light from the streetlamps, I scooped it up triumphantly and shouted, “My keys! My keys are here!” I said a silent prayer of thanks as we started toward my car once again.
“Wait! I want to look in the bushes too.”
Shaking his head, the officer escorting me answered with a half-grin, “Go ahead, but no one has that kind of luck.”
He was wrong. Unable to contain my tears, I shouted from the bushes, “My wallet!” Inside it, everything—including my temple recommend—was intact. The police officers were dumbfounded.
“I’ve never seen anyone so lucky,” one commented.
“It’s not luck,” I answered without thinking. “It’s protection from God.” I doubted the police officers would understand the importance of my trip to the temple, so to break the skeptical silence, I jokingly added, “The guy did get one thing of value though—my lipstick!” No one laughed.
Feeling awkward, I glanced back at the bush where I had made my last amazing find. What I saw astonished me: there, upright on the little mirror I carry in my purse, was my tube of lipstick.
Before the police arrived, I had wondered why God hadn’t protected and blessed me. But standing on that lawn next to the flabbergasted police officers, I realized He had done both. Now, whenever I have the slightest doubt that Heavenly Father is aware of my struggles, I remember the night He saved my keys, my wallet, my temple recommend, and even my tube of lipstick.

When I was nine years old, my white-haired, four-foot-eleven-inch (1.5 m) maternal grandmother came to spend a few weeks with us at our home. One afternoon while she was there, my two older brothers and I decided to dig a hole in a field across the street from our house. I don’t know why we did it; sometimes boys dig holes. We got a little dirty but nothing that would get us into too much trouble. Other boys in the neighborhood saw just how exciting it was to dig a hole and started to help. Then we all got dirtier together. The ground was hard, so we dragged a garden hose over and put a little water in the bottom of the hole to soften up the ground. We got some mud on us as we dug, but the hole did get deeper.
Someone in our group decided we should turn our hole into a swimming pool, so we filled it up with water. Being the youngest and wanting to fit in, I was persuaded to jump in and try it out. Now I was really dirty. I didn’t start out planning to be covered in mud, but that’s where I ended up.
When it started to get cold, I crossed the street, intending to walk into my house. My grandmother met me at the front door and refused to let me in. She told me that if she let me in, I would track mud into the house that she had just cleaned. So I did what any nine-year-old would do under the circumstances and ran to the back door, but she was quicker than I thought. I got mad, stomped my feet, and demanded to come into the house, but the door remained closed.
I was wet, muddy, cold, and, in my childhood imagination, thought I might die in my own backyard. Finally, I asked her what I had to do to come into the house. Before I knew it, I found myself standing in the backyard while my grandmother sprayed me off with a hose. After what seemed like an eternity, my grandmother pronounced me clean and let me come into the house. It was warm in the house, and I was able to put on dry, clean clothes.
Standing outside of my house being sprayed off by my grandmother was unpleasant and uncomfortable. Being denied the opportunity to return and be with our Father in Heaven because we chose to remain in or dirtied by a mud hole of sin would be eternally tragic. We should not deceive ourselves about what it takes to return and remain in the presence of our Father in Heaven. We have to be clean.

One young married couple applied for PEF loans. During the application process, they took the short training course designed to help them choose a career and budget their money. Upon reflection and upon working out their budget, they decided what unessential expenditures they could reduce or eliminate, such as eating in fast-food establishments. They were startled to discover that by exercising frugality they would not need the loans. They could pay for their own schooling.

3 Several weeks after his baptism, Lorenzo still had some unanswered questions about the gospel. He believed that it was true, but he wanted to know it. One night while he was studying, he felt depressed.
4 Deep in thought, Lorenzo left his books and went walking through the fields around his house, whereupon a feeling of darkness and confusion overcame him. He had made a habit of praying every night in a nearby grove, but that night he did not feel like praying.
5 However, Lorenzo knew that he should pray, so he went to the grove and knelt down. As soon as he began praying, he felt the Spirit stronger than he had ever felt it before. He knew that the gospel was true and that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ lived and loved him.
6 Lorenzo later became the fifth President of the Church, and he often told the story of the night that he gained his testimony. The memory of that night stayed with him and strengthened him throughout his life.

Heavenly Father wants us to serve others. My Primary teacher was a great example of service. When we came to Primary, Sister Antonietti always brought a chocolate cake. I hated chocolate cake! Everyone else liked it. But I never ate it.
One day she asked me, “Why don’t you try a little piece? This cake is made with a special ingredient.”
I agreed to try it. And guess what? I liked it!
Many years later my mom told me what Sister Antonietti’s secret ingredient was. “Sister Antonietti didn’t have much money,” my mom said. “Each week she had to choose between paying for a bus ride to Primary or buying the ingredients to make the chocolate cake for your class. She always chose the chocolate cake. So instead of riding the bus, she walked more than two miles [3 km], each way, regardless of the weather.”
Sister Antonietti’s secret ingredient was the love she had for others!

Daniela Moreira, a Primary president from Mendoza, Argentina, said that children in her ward worked toward understanding the purpose of the temple. To meet this goal, they visited the construction of the Mendoza Argentina Temple. They also learned how families can be sealed in the temple and later made temple models.

“The activities of the spiritual aspect are those that leave the greatest mark on the little ones,” Daniela said. “They learn to recognize and feel the constant companionship of the Holy Spirit and become familiar with the feeling.”

Around the world needles have been slipping through satins, calicos, muslins, and velvets, stitches taken tiny and neat. No ordinary sewing projects, these—they’re works sewn from the strong threads of testimony, thankfulness, love of family, and all the lovely feelings a young woman holds sweet in her life.
What’s the occasion?
The young women of the Church have made banners to celebrate the Church’s 150th anniversary!
“A banner lets you express what’s important to you,” explained Shauna Stebers of the Northwest First Ward, Chicago Illinois Stake. “It’s not just a sewing project—it’s a part of your personality, of what’s important to you and how you feel about the gospel. And it’s a special reminder of the Church’s sesquicentennial that you’ll be able to pass down to your children and to their children.”
If you could float your thoughts or goals high above the crowd for the world to see, what would you show them? Some young women quilted or sewed slogans on their banners like “Plant happiness and love will grow,” or “I love and sustain our prophet,” or “Prayer is so simple it’s like quietly opening a door.” Other young women filled their banners with symbols of their heritage and goals. And all of them spent long hours designing, planning, and sewing the banners (often with the help of mom, dad, brothers, or sisters).
And the stories the banners tell! Marylynne Aposhina of the Hunter Ninth Ward, Hunter Utah West Stake, designed her banner after an oriental rug her great grandfather, Zadik Moses Aposhina, had made. A wealthy rug designer, her grandfather was forced to flee Armenia because of persecution against Christians. He lost his wealth, and some of his family members were sold as slaves in Mexico, but after overwhelming struggles, they finally reached the Salt Lake Valley.
“Making the banner helped me appreciate my heritage even more,” said Marylynne. “My mother and grandmother and I had fun together doing it, too. I don’t get to do things with both of them very often.”
Teuila Matua, a Mia Maid from the West Jordan 24th Ward, West Jordan Utah South Stake, whose first name means “Ginger Flower,” is Samoan, and her banner reflected her heritage. Her banner was symbolic of a taupaou (handmaiden) of Samoa, who must be of royal family, must be pure, and have dignity.
Teuila explained, “My heritage and the work of the Lord go hand in hand. First, I am born of the royal birthright of Christ. Second, I have purity in keeping clean thoughts and maintaining moral standards. Third, I have dignity in studying the scriptures, attending Church meetings, and keeping the commandments of the Lord.”
Mary Lou Beilfuss, a Laurel from the Holladay 17th Ward, Salt Lake Olympus Stake, earned the money for her banner by working at a grocery store. The theme of her banner was eternal life.
“It helped me understand more about the recent death of my father, because I studied more about eternal life. The subject was on my mind a lot, and the banner gave me the opportunity to express it on material.
“My mother and sister helped me make it. We are very close already, but working together helped us share our love. I feel close to them because they’re always willing to help. We also shared tears together because the banner had a very special meaning. It made my sister and I think of our father and my mom of her husband.
“I learned from making this banner that I am a daughter of God and that he is there when I call. It has helped my self-image and helped me grow closer to my Heavenly Father. Also, it comforted me about my father’s death,” said Mary Lou.
Many of the young women earned the money needed for the banner by themselves. Others made their banners from materials they already had. LeeAnn Cox of the West Jordan 36th Ward, West Jordan Utah Stake, raised the money by babysitting, giving rides on her horse, and selling bread.
And the excitement of making the banners was often contagious. Annett Pemberton, a Laurel from the Bluffdale Second Ward, Riverton Utah Stake, spread her enthusiasm for the banner to her friends and family. “I included everyone as I prepared my banner—mother, father, all 11 brothers and sisters, 5 friends, my basketball coach, and my sewing teacher at school. I learned that friends can make a big difference in a person’s life if you give them the chance to help.” Annett’s brothers and sisters each made a quilted patch with their name on it for the bottom of her banner. The patchwork symbolizes love, purity, and loyalty to the gospel, Annett explained, and her theme is “A Quilt for My Lord.”
And there are many, many other stories that the banners tell. LeeAnn Cox’s banner was in honor of her pioneer ancestors whose son was lost while they traveled across Nebraska. The mother pinned a red shawl on the shoulders of her husband who was to search along the trail for the lost son. The bright shawl waving in the evening sun let a mother, sick with worry, know that all was well.
Kjersti Harward’s banner honors her grandparents in Sweden who dearly wanted to come to America after they joined the Church. Even though they saved enough money, they decided they couldn’t leave their parents, who were unable to make the strenuous journey. Her grandparents sacrificed by remaining in Sweden until their parents no longer needed them.
Displaying the banners has been just as exciting as making them, many of the young women have found. For the Pioneer Day Parade in the Salt Lake Valley, 1,500 young women dressed in white marched up Salt Lake streets, heads erect, banners pointed towards the sky. Thirty-six young women dressed in costumes from around the world marched alongside. And a band of 76 young women playing flute, drum, and clarinet accompanied them all by playing hymns.
In Pasadena, California, at the Rose Bowl, 400 young women dressed in white displayed their banners to the audience gathered for a regional dance festival. And throughout the Church, programs are being held in special meetings where the young women have the opportunity of displaying their banners and bearing their testimonies.
“Making the banners can bring you special opportunities and blessings, even if you can’t march in the 24th of July parade like we did,” said Alyson Barlow of the Monument Park 16th Ward, Salt Lake Monument Park Stake. “It lets you say how you feel about the gospel and brings you closer to whoever helps you.”
Lanette Madsen of the Butler 16th Ward, Salt Lake Wasatch Stake, agreed. “It’s helped me grow so much and can be a great missionary tool. We were able to display our banners and explain them to the people who attended the World Conference on Records. Thousands of people were there, many of them non-Mormons, and I think we were able to touch the hearts of the people who saw us. Many of them were from other countries, and even if they didn’t know our language, they could still feel our spirit.”
“It gives you a good opportunity to spread the gospel, because people ask you what your banner is about. It’s an easy way to talk to them about yourself and the gospel and what you believe,” said Becca Briggs of the Oak Hills 5th Ward, Provo Utah Oak Hills Stake.
For many of these nimble-fingered seamstresses, their banners have pulled a shower of blessings down from the sky. It’s given them the chance to learn more about their heritage, to get closer to their families, and to pass their testimonies down to future generations. And to top it off, they’ll have a lasting reminder of the Church’s 150th birthday.
As Jeannie Winters of the Taylorsville Utah North Stake, 14th Ward, put it, “I think all the young women should make banners, because if they don’t, they’re passing up a great experience they’ll remember all their life.”

Illustration by Mark Robison
Bobby bounded down the stairs to his toy chest full of building blocks. It was Friday. That meant there was only one day left of freedom before Saturday.
Bobby didn’t like Saturday mornings. Every Saturday his family had to do their chores. There was mopping and dusting, vacuuming and scrubbing. They even had to clean their bedrooms!
Bobby sat down beside his block chest and started building The Tallest Block Tower in the Universe. He knew it was important to get the house ready for Sunday, but what was the point of a weekend if you spent so much time working?
As Bobby continued building, he heard someone talking in the kitchen.
“But, Mom,” his older sister Charlotte said, “my birthday is on Saturday. Working tomorrow morning will ruin the whole day! Can I do my chores today instead?”
“That sounds like a great idea,” Mom said.
Charlotte left the kitchen and walked upstairs. Bobby stopped building to watch her go. Tomorrow was Charlotte’s birthday. Good thing she could get her chores over with now.
He turned back to his tower, then stopped. He set his blocks down. Maybe she doesn’t have to do her chores at all, he thought.
Bobby raced up the stairs to see Charlotte wheeling the vacuum cleaner down the hall. Before she could plug it in, he ran over to her.
“Stop! Don’t do your chores!” Bobby cried out.
Charlotte shook her head. “I can’t stop,” she said. “If I don’t do them today, then I’ll have to do them on my birthday, and that’s no fun.”
She started to plug in the vacuum cleaner, but Bobby stepped in front of her. “But I want to do them for you!” he said. “I’ll do both of our chores. You don’t have to do any of them.”
Charlotte looked up, surprised. “You would do that for me?”
Bobby winced a little inside. He knew it was going to be a lot of work. There would be two bathrooms to scrub and two rooms to clean. He looked over at The Tallest Block Tower in the Universe. There might not be time this weekend to finish it after all.
But he looked back at his sister and smiled. “Yes. Happy birthday!”
A huge smile spread across Charlotte’s face. She gave Bobby a big hug. “Thank you!” she said as she ran happily down the hall.
Bobby looked over at the vacuum. Plugging it in, he started working on the first of Charlotte’s Saturday chores. His sister was worth it. The tower would have to wait.

Illustration by Brian C. Hailes
The first time the missionaries stopped by my house, only my brother Charles was there. As they discussed the Restoration, my brother felt the Spirit and accepted a copy of the Book of Mormon. Before Charles began reading the book, I saw it and asked him what it was and where he got it. Charles explained everything to me, including how he felt meeting with the missionaries.
I thought it all sounded ridiculous and ordered Charles to return the book. I persuaded my family to support me, and they agreed that the Book of Mormon was unacceptable in our house.
The next time the missionaries came by, Charles was gone. I returned the book and told them to leave. They told me that I would need the book someday. This caused me to drive them away in a rude manner.
Not too long after this, a childhood friend whom I had always admired invited me to a Church activity. I refused. He and another friend kept inviting me to church, and when they offered to pick me up, I eventually agreed. Imagine my surprise when I entered the Church building and saw the same missionaries that I had driven away! I had no idea it was the same Church!
The bishop of the ward befriended me that day, and I started to attend church more often. With a lot of love and support, I eventually started to read the scriptures. Thanks to friends, loving leaders, and the scriptures, I was eventually baptized. Since then, both my brother and I have served missions in our native Africa. Even though we may face the same rejection I dealt to those missionaries that day, I know that if we are faithful and persistent, Heavenly Father will bless our efforts and we will be able to share the gospel.

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!”

The deacons in the Church have a sacred obligation to visit the home of every member to collect fast offerings for the poor. President Thomas S. Monson once related to me how he, as a young bishop, began to sense that the young deacons in his ward were complaining about having to get up so early to collect fast offerings. Instead of calling the young men to task, this wise bishop took them to Welfare Square in Salt Lake City.

There, the boys met a disabled woman operating the switchboard. They saw a blind man placing labels on cans, and an elderly brother stocking shelves. As a result of what they saw, President Monson said, a penetrating silence came over the boys as they witnessed the end result of their efforts to collect the sacred funds that aided the needy and provided employment for those who otherwise would be idle.

Among the people of Córdoba, Argentina, lives a remarkable man named Natalio Virazapia. A descendant of Bolivian and Chinese ancestors, he was born in 1922 and now lives alone in humble circumstances, earning his living by working the soil.
Brother Virazapia considers himself an instrument in the hands of the Lord to help his brothers and sisters in need. Wherever there is a small place to plant seeds, there you will find his battered bicycle. He will be in the small field sowing corn or other vegetables—food that will eventually feed needy families. Although he doesn’t have any land of his own, he always seems to find space to plant his seeds, and the Lord blesses him with abundant harvests. He often brings to church special bouquets of his carrots, cabbage, or chard to share with the other members.
“I have little,” he says. “I can give service only with this small body I have that takes me from one place to another. Through the Church and the teachings of the gospel, I have learned to work with my hands in behalf of others.” His rough, work-worn hands do indeed show the humble victories he has won. They reveal an abiding love for his Father in Heaven, for the land, and for his neighbors.
Some people are satisfied simply to know about our Heavenly Father. Brother Virazapia uses his gifts to glorify Him.

A woman was converted up in Idaho. She comes down to see me often. She calls me after nearly every conference. She is a nurse. She gave me a check for $500 for the children’s hospital because, at the death of her husband, one of our Saints visited her to tell her what she might expect in the future if she just knew the truth. I got a letter from her recently. She said she had found more love in this Church than she had ever known in her life—even from her own mother.

Joseph permitted teachers to use the large upper room to conduct their classes. However, the boisterousness of some students frequently disturbed the clerks, who were often at work writing the history of the Church. One of the Prophet’s sons, Joseph Smith III, recalled: “As schoolboys we had good reason to remember Doctor Willard Richards [one of the clerks], for often in going down the stairway from the schoolroom we were noisy, which seemed to annoy him considerably. Upon one or two occasions he met us at the foot of the stairs and refused to let us pass, the while he cautioned us to be more quiet. Doubtless we were annoying as we trampled and jostled, crowding the steps and surging through the door. He especially scolded the larger children. We learned it was better to go quietly than to cause such real distress” (Mary Audentia Smith Anderson and Bertha Audentia Anderson Hulmes, editors, Joseph Smith III and the Restoration, Independence, Missouri: Herald Publishing House, 1952, p. 28).