Gospel Story Finder

Tim Ryan listened to the wind howling through the empty city streets. Night was rapidly approaching, the night of December 24. In other years the day of the 24th itself and most especially the day to follow would have been joyful days for Tim Ryan. But not this year. No, most definitely anything but joyful. Upstairs in the back bedroom on the third floor of the house that he was just leaving, Maggie was dying.
“Only hours,” the young doctor had said. “Your wife has a very short time to live, Mr. Ryan.” He seemed to take a smug satisfaction in being able to so casually measure off the time of life remaining to another human being.
That had been this morning. The hours had dragged by slowly since then. The pale sunlight of December had brought little warmth to Timothy Edward Ryan, caught in the middle of his 67th year.
Long ago, and it seemed to be a part of that other world in which he and Maggie had been born, little Tim would have taken comfort from what the priests would have offered him. He had been faithful in his church, and when he married Maggie, the ceremony had been performed by Father Kelly. He hadn’t considered any other alternative.
Forty-eight years had gone by since that day. In those 48 years, Christmastime had been special to the Ryans. Their house had been filled with the laughter of six children and the children’s friends. Twenty years ago the first grandchild had seen Christmas at the Ryan’s.
Now December 24 or 25, and it didn’t really matter which, was about to become a day etched in pain and sorrow in the mind of Tim Ryan. There was a part of him up there, a part of him that was slowly, painfully slipping away. He wanted to cry, but no tears would come.
As he began to move away from the front steps, moving in some direction, any direction to be away from this place, he took a companion with him. The companion was Bitterness, and he had been with Tim for some time now.
Bitterness laughed at long-held beliefs. “See, Tim? It all must end this way. This is the end of the laughter. That was temporary; this is not.”
At 4:30 he pulled on his scarf and followed with his heavy parka. He told the nurse that he would be back, that he needed to get out and get some air. Really Tim wanted to go and embrace the cold and the coming darkness, for without Maggie, would there be anything left but cold and darkness in his life?
The sunlight had faded rapidly away and become the dark of night. Tim walked aimlessly through the streets of his adopted city, about to be alone for the first time. “I must make a plan,” he thought. “I must see to the future. There is hope—”
The word hope stuck in his throat. His companion, Bitterness, told him that to believe in hope at this point was a cruel joke on himself. Why, it was like believing that angels would come and lift their voices to the heavens! Both hope and angels were things of the past, Bitterness told him.
Bitterness became quiet as Tim turned his mind to thoughts of past years. When he was just a boy, he had left Ireland with his two older brothers and a younger sister to come to America. They landed in New York and then moved to Baltimore to join an uncle.
The streets of Baltimore hadn’t been paved with gold. They had had to work long hours in their uncle’s store. Slowly the hours began to pay off, and the sweat and toil became the mortgage price of prosperity. Ever so slowly, poverty released its strong icy fingers from around the immigrants.
When he was 17, Tim Ryan had let his brother Michael talk him into going to a parish dance. “Come along, Timmy. It’s time that you began to think about the ladies. And what better place to meet them than at the parish house?”
Tim went with Michael, shyly, unwillingly at first. He stood off on the sidelines, watching the others dance and hating them for their social graces and himself for his shyness. Then Maggie appeared and the climate changed.
She was short, no taller than his five foot three inches, with long black hair. She smiled often, and once, when he looked enough in her direction, she smiled at him. He could feel the color rising in his cheeks.
He summoned up the courage to go over and introduce himself. She asked him with that ever-present smile if he always blushed so brightly. “No,” he said, “it only happens when I talk with a beautiful young lady. And by the way, may I have the next dance?” She said yes.
Tim Ryan walked Maggie Rourke home that night after the dance. They saw each other often in the next year. Then, one night, on the anniversary of that dance in the parish house, he asked her another question. She answered yes to this one too, and they made arrangements with Father Kelly to perform the ceremony.
The old man that Tim Ryan had become shook himself to break the train of thought. He had walked so far as to arrive in the department store district. The big stores were closed now, their displays of Christmas merchandise garish in the neon sun.
“I will walk a little further,” Tim thought. “Just a few more minutes here in the cold and I will be ready to return and face what I know I cannot avoid.” He headed slowly up the hill into the wind, with its blasts tearing at his face and jacket.
“One more house, Brother Henderson?” That was Jan Andrews’s question.
Gregory Henderson looked at his group. He had come into the city with a dozen of the kids from his Sunday School class to visit some of the older members of the ward and sing Christmas carols. They had seen all of the families on their list with the exception of the Billings, and it was getting late and the kids were getting cold.
“Face it, Henderson,” he thought, “you’d like to go home too. You have a family to be with on Christmas Eve and a wife who would like some help in decorating the Christmas tree.” Another part of him spoke up quickly, though, and put things into perspective.
“Yes, we’re going to see the Billings. They live on Clayton Avenue. It shouldn’t take too long to get there. I think we’ll sing three songs, like we’ve been doing, and then head for home.”
As the kids piled into his car and Dave Maxfield’s van, he could see on their faces that one last visit would be about enough. He hoped that the project had touched some of them. They needed to start learning a little about service.
His car moved on through the dark Baltimore streets in silence. Inside were the most active kids in the ward, the doers and movers. Jan Andrews, Tony Morgan, Bob Smith, Carol Miller—his wife called them the angels. They had been the biggest helps to him so far.
After several minutes’ ride, Greg saw the turn-off for Clayton Avenue. He swung the big Dodge into the narrow street and continued down the two blocks to the Billings’ house. The young people piled out again, ready to conclude the project, thinking thoughts of home and the next morning.
Jan called the group together outside the house: “Let’s start off with ‘I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day,’ then go to ‘Joy to the World,’ and close with ‘Silent Night.’ The Billings are both pretty sick and haven’t been able to get out to church for a long time. They’ll appreciate this a lot.”
Tim Ryan turned the corner onto Clayton Avenue. He was only a few blocks from home, but he might as well have been a thousand miles away. His thoughts had led him downward into a valley of despair. His normal energetic step had become the shuffle of a man worn down by age.
Then he heard the voices. Like the clear, pure sound of a tinkling chandelier, the voices cut through the cold night air, reaching his ear with cheerfulness. They brought his mind back to what day would fall tomorrow.
Tim stopped to listen more closely, despite the still-insistent voice of Bitterness inside. He wanted to hear what they were singing and find out who they were. How could they be happy on a night like this when he was about to lose the most important thing in his life? Didn’t they have any feelings?
The words, carried to him on the back of the wind, began to enter his mind. Subtly at first, and then more quickly, a light that had been burning low within Tim Ryan began to flare up once again. The flame began to thaw the ice that had been forming inside and outside.
Once upon a time, when Michael had asked him what about Maggie had first attracted him, he had said that she had the laughter of an angel. Laughter fell clear and pure from her lips. Hearing her laugh made him feel that he had been able to set a foot into heaven.
Now, this group of young people, singing to an unseen audience in the house across the street, were touching him in that same way. They were like angels with their clear voices, simple and pure in the message which they presented.
“Oh, Lord,” he thought, “I cannot turn the tide of what must come. But I can learn to hear the bells again and look past tragedies. I must go home quickly, quickly.” Tim had intended to stay and talk with them when they finished. Instead, the urgency of the moment directed him homeward.
In the back of his mind, Greg Henderson wondered if the old man standing across the street was enjoying the singing. The thought faded just as rapidly as it had come, and Greg turned his mind back to the music.
It was late, almost midnight. Tim sat by the bed, holding Maggie’s hand. It was an act that he had performed often in 48 years. Tonight it took on special meaning.
“My dear, you would have loved it. They were like angels with their clear voices. I doubt that I have ever heard the songs of Christmas sung so beautifully or received such enjoyment out of the sacred music.”
She said nothing for a long time. Then she looked up at him with a smile, one like the smile that he had first seen so many years ago.
“Tim, you’re happier tonight than I’ve seen you at any time since I … since I’ve been ill. That makes me happy.”
Maggie lapsed into silence again.
The clock stretched forth both its hands to 12. Christmas would have already dawned over the desert where it had first been celebrated so many years ago.
“Tim.”
“Yes, dear. What is it?”
“Tim, I think I’ll sleep now. I feel so in need of rest. Will you hold my hand while I sleep?” She closed her eyes. Some of the worry and pain that had written itself across her face in the last year began to fade.
The little man with the shock of wind-blown white hair looked down at his Maggie. Great soft tears, tears like the drops of a gentle spring rain awakening the earth, began to well up in his eyes. The tears were sweet, though. He had heard the angels sing, and he was beginning to understand.
Somewhere out in the suburbs, Greg Henderson rolled over in bed. He had just finished assembling the last toys, and he was tired and wanted to rest before the children would patter in asking mommy and daddy if they knew that it was Christmas Day.
Just before the last trace of consciousness fled, Greg thought about the old man who had listened to them sing on Clayton Avenue. Greg wondered if the man had liked the kids’ singing. Then sleep came and chased the thought from his mind.

The Lord taught another great priesthood duty during this period of Church history. In section 104 the Lord set forth the order of the Church concerning the poor: “Therefore, if any man shall take of the abundance which I have made, and impart not his portion, according to the law of my gospel, unto the poor and the needy, he shall, with the wicked, lift up his eyes in hell, being in torment.” With this precedent, in January 1839, during the exodus from Missouri, many of the brethren covenanted to “stand by and assist one another … till there shall not be one left who desires to remove from the state.”
In the bitter cold of February 1839, Daniel Stillwell Thomas reflected, “Before we crossed [the Mississippi River,] we unloaded our wagon and sent it back to assist in removing the poor and thus to save their lives, the mob still threatening them.” Daniel Thomas had five children and only one pair of shoes between them, yet he still sent the wagon back to save the destitute Saints.

In my first year of high school, I made a commitment to read the New Testament from beginning to end. After school and on weekends, I retreated to the upper story of our house and read the Savior’s words and of His miracles and life.
Though my young mind often did not understand the language of the Bible, I came to know Jesus Christ. I learned that He is the Son of God and that He was sent to atone for our sins. I learned that He walked with, spoke to, and blessed ordinary, weak people—people like me.
I was sometimes confused while reading complex passages in Paul’s epistles and John’s writings in the book of Revelation, but I could always feel the truth of their teachings. I found that reading the scriptures helped me through hard days at school and gave me guidance in making important decisions.

It all started with a simple invitation. When Milly (now 19) and her brothers were younger, they used to play with some Latter-day Saint children in their neighborhood. Those children invited Milly’s brothers, Henry and Jason, to play basketball at the meetinghouse and to attend church. When they were teens, Henry and Jason joined the Church and eventually went on missions. Milly started going to church with her brothers when she was 8, and when she was 14, her parents allowed her to be baptized.

Our neighbor’s husband died several months ago, and my family and I have been helping her with yard work and just being friends with her. She is a very nice lady who believes in Jesus but doesn’t go to any church.
A few months ago the missionaries came to our Primary class and talked to us about missionary work. They encouraged us to share the gospel with someone. On the way home I told my parents I wanted to share the gospel with our neighbor.
As soon as we got home, I took a plate of cookies and my scriptures to her house. We read the Articles of Faith together, and then I visited with her and helped her do things in her house. I felt good inside when I shared the gospel of Jesus Christ. I know that we should all share the gospel when we can.

I recall an occasion when we went as a family to downtown Mexico City to buy clothing for our two children. They were very young. Our older son was just barely two years old, and the younger son was a year old. The street was crowded with people. While we were shopping, leading our children by the hand, we stopped for a moment to look at something, and without realizing it, we lost our older son! We did not know how, but he was not with us. Without a moment’s delay, we took off running to look for him. We searched and called out for him, feeling great anguish, thinking that we might lose him forever. In our minds we were pleading for Heavenly Father to help us find him.

After a little while we found him. There he was, innocently looking at toys through a store window. We hugged and kissed him, and we made the commitment to watch over our children diligently so that we would never lose one again. We learned that in order to go to our son’s rescue, we did not need planning meetings. We simply acted, going out in search of the one who had been lost. We also learned that our son never even realized that he was lost.

President Darryl Harris, Seoul Mission President, and I had just concluded a fireside for investigators in the Seoul Stake Center. Following the meeting, two sister missionaries came up to introduce themselves, one, a Korean sister, and the other, Sister Kristi K. Fielding. They were delightful, full of sparkle, as most lady missionaries tend to be. Following our conversation, they exited, hurrying back to their apartment before the "witching hour" of 9:30 p.m. You returned missionaries know what I mean.
A few minutes later, an Elder came running into the chapel to tell us that something had happened to Sister Fielding. We hurried outside only to find her screaming, her body jerking in strange gyrations. When she saw us, she screamed at us. She wanted nothing to do with us. This was not the same Sister we had just been speaking with.
President Harris and I decided to try to get her into the mission van. She resisted. Finally, we were able to force her into the van, but she crawled down into the space between the back seats with her back toward us. We determined that we would attempt to give her a blessing. For what followed, I read from a letter Sister Fielding wrote to me on March 21, 1998.
I would like to write a letter of thanks for the blessing you gave me on Friday, March 20. It's hard to describe the feeling that was inside me, but it was almost identical to the feeling of Joseph Smith when he went to the grove to pray.
Then she quoted from Joseph Smith's account in Joseph Smith-History 1:15, one with which you are all familiar:
"I was seized upon by some power which entirely overcame me, and had such an astonishing influence over me as to bind my tongue so that I could not speak. Thick darkness gathered around me, and it seemed to me for a time as if I were doomed to sudden destruction."[7]
She, then, writes:
I don't remember much of your blessing, but I remember you saying, "In the name of Jesus Christ." The minute I heard that name, everything went calm. I felt at peace- I felt the light come back . . . I love my Savior, Jesus Christ. I'm grateful for his atonement . . .This gospel is so true. I love it! Love Always, Sister Kristi K. Fielding

One Sunday after sacrament meeting, the children and we teachers were to go directly to our classrooms instead of meeting first in the Primary room. When I got to my classroom, I realized that I had left my teaching materials in the Primary room. I told my class to sit down, that I would be right back. Before I hurried away, I said, “Be quiet now!”
When I returned, the classroom seemed unusually quiet. I slowly opened the door and peeked inside. My students were all kneeling, their arms folded and heads bowed, quietly waiting for me to return to have class prayer.
I want to say thank you to my class! You are all really trying to do what Jesus Christ would want you to do.

Romans 8:16 says, “The Spirit itself beareth witness with our spirit, that we are the children of God.” The first time I remember feeling with all certainty that Heavenly Father knew me, loved me, and cared for me was when I entered the waters of baptism at age 15. Before then, I knew God existed and Jesus Christ was the Savior of the world. I believed in Them and loved Them, but I had never felt Their love and care for me, individually, until that day as I rejoiced in my opportunity to make baptismal covenants.
I realized what a great miracle it had been to have been found and taught by the missionaries, especially with only a handful of missionaries amongst two million people! I knew then that Heavenly Father knew me and loved me in such a special way that He guided the missionaries to my home.

Sam carried an armful of planks to the construction site and set them down. At the moment, there were only wooden beams standing. But soon the planks and beams would become a building. Sam couldn’t think of a better way to spend his Saturday than to help build a brand-new chapel!
Sam liked building things. Sometimes it was hard for him, though. When he was a boy, his hands were badly hurt in an accident. Even now, when Sam was grown up, his fingers were still stiff. Sometimes it was hard to pick things up or hold tools.
Carefully Sam picked up his hammer. He had to try harder than some of the other workers, but he didn’t mind. He just wanted to help. He knew he was doing God’s work. And if he was doing God’s work, surely God would help him!
Sam was busy working when he heard someone come up behind him. “That is good work you are doing,” the person said.
Sam turned. It was Elder Biesinger! He was a Church leader who was helping to organise building projects in New Zealand.
“Thank you,” Sam said.
Elder Biesinger smiled. “How would you like to be a labour missionary? Right now missionaries are working to help build a Church school for teenagers. We need more helpers, and I think you’d do a great job.”
“I would love to,” said Sam. He couldn’t wait to serve the Lord as a missionary!
By Monday morning, Sam was an official labour missionary. He helped pour cement at a factory to make heavy blocks. The blocks were used to help build the school. Some of them were even used to build the Hamilton New Zealand Temple!
Day after day, year after year, Sam worked hard. He always did his best. Eventually, Sam was asked to be in charge of the brick factory. He led the other labour missionaries in their duties and made sure their work was done well.
Sam had fun too! He and the other missionaries sang songs together. Sometimes they performed their music to encourage others to come and help. Whether Sam was building, singing, or getting to know someone new, God helped him do good work.
Years later, Sam was called on another mission. But this one was different. He would not be using his hands to build things. Instead, he would be using them to help people inside the temple—the same temple he had helped build!
As Sam stood inside the temple in his white clothes, he felt peace. He was grateful for all the good things God had helped his hands to do.

Have you ever had to ask yourself, “What’s more important, my friend or our friendship?” I faced that problem when a note fell out of my friend Kate’s* pencil pouch. I read it and realized that my friend was using drugs. I was devastated. I tried desperately to talk to her, but she ignored me.
Kate was my friend, and I realized that no matter what she said or did, her safety was most important to me. Every time I thought of it, I wanted to cry. I knew that Kate might never forgive me if I told on her, and she might tell my other friends that I wasn’t trustworthy. I asked my mom to help me, and we prayed, talked, and read the scriptures. I was looking for something to help me help my friend. We found a scripture that gave me courage to do whatever I had to do and to live with the consequences: “For I do know that whosoever shall put their trust in God shall be supported in their trials, and their troubles, and their afflictions” (Alma 36:3). I knew that if I did what was right, God would support me.
I decided to tell the resource officer about Kate’s drug problem. Later that afternoon Kate was called to the office. When we changed classes, she was with her guidance counselor and a police officer. Kate caught my eye, and I could tell she knew I had told on her.
Several weeks went by before Kate would talk to me. I dreaded what she would say, but I was surprised that she wasn’t angry anymore. Our friendship had changed, but in some ways, it was better than before. She seemed to understand that I had done it for her sake. I never wanted to lose her friendship, but it was more important to love her enough to try to stop her from hurting herself and the people who love and care for her.
Yes, this experience was painful, but I learned that if we “trust in the Lord with all [our] heart; and lean not unto [our] own understanding” (Proverbs 3:5), anything is possible.

Three years ago, Edward Pentreath was attending a large youth activity in England, where he lives, when he remembers feeling the Spirit in an overwhelming way.
“After the evening fireside, I went back to my room. I was praying, and suddenly I realized that this gospel is all true. I was so happy. All I could say was, ‘It’s true. I know it’s true.’ I remember calling a good friend of mine. When he picked up the phone, all he could hear was me saying, ‘It’s true! It’s so fantastic!’”
Now when Edward, a member of Ipswich England Stake, describes the feeling he had that night when the Holy Ghost testified of the truthfulness of the gospel, he describes it as a “warm shiver and a tingle which went through my body.” He has learned to recognize that feeling. He says he feels the Spirit often now that his friends are going on missions and as they have opportunities to bear their testimonies at camp, at youth conferences, or in church.

I move from these three doctrinal ideas to a personal story that illustrates a time in my life when I learned of the inadequacy of my spiritual mindedness.

I was a freshman at Brigham Young University. My friend Ken and I had built a simple two-man kayak out of plywood ribs and covered it with canvas that we then waterproofed. It was a crude affair, but it worked, and it matched our level of knowledge concerning river running. We didn't know much.

We decided that spring to run the Provo River from the mouth of the canyon to Utah Lake. As we put in, there seemed to be plenty of water, maybe too much, I thought , but, of course, didn't want to say so. A ways down the river, we hit a shallow spot. Our kayak hung up on the bottom. We turned sideways and started to roll. We did manage to get out, but in the process I dropped my paddle. It floated away, and we never found it.

We were stuck. I held the boat against the powerful cold current about knee deep while Ken, using his paddle to steady himself explored all around us to see if we could get to shore.

As he explored down stream, I though it would be great fun and a way to relive tension to pick a rock from the bottom on the river with the hand that wasn't holding the kayak, throw it at Ken and splash him. After the first splash he tried to swing and hit the water back at me with the paddle. I pick up another rock and since he was in a baseball like swinging stance, I threw him a strike. He swung and hit it. The rock didn't go anywhere, but half the paddle did. We had broken the other paddle. We were, literally, up the creek without a paddle.

To our credit perhaps, we bowed in prayer and offered a petition for help. We were stuck, and we knew it.

I pause in this narrative to tell you a little about my mental state. I had been in some tight places rock climbing, but not what I would call real trouble. It seemed that every year people drowned in Provo River. The spring run off was very cold and the pressure of its flow against us very strong. We couldn't stand against it long and we were in an out-of-the-way part of the river. Not many people came there. One or both of us could easily fall prey to the power of the river.

I consciously remember saying in my mind, "I know that I should have faith in Jesus Christ. He could help me. Help us get out of here, help us to transform our fear into action. And I don't have that kind of relationship with him. I lack faith. I have never needed him like I need him now, and I am afraid." It was clear that we were in trouble with the river, but I realized as I never had before that I was in trouble with my spiritual preparedness. I was weighed in the balance of the swift current, and I was found wanting. And I sensed keenly my spiritual inadequacy. I wanted to be able to call upon the powers of heaven and receive comfort and deliverance.

It seemed that we were left alone long enough to get really scared and sense our dependence on Heavenly Father.

A young man came along the road skirting the river, fishing pole in hand. He was puzzled to see us standing in the middle of the river with a kayak but with no paddles. On each end of the kayak we had a rope for tying up; we took the one off and tied it to the other rope. The fisherman cast us his line; we hooked the line to the end of the rope. By moving the craft as close as we could toward the shore into the deep, fast water, he could grab the end of the rope. Hanging precariously close to the river, he held on. We held on to the side of the boat, and the current swung us against the shore where we scrambled up and drew the kayak after us.

I doubt that when that young man, who I think I recall said he was a BYU student, set out fishing that day, he thought about being spiritually minded, but I am glad he came along that road at that time. I believe he was led.

Perhaps I can illustrate to a degree what I mean by sharing with you something that happened a year or so ago. Sister Larsen and I attended church meetings in the little Idaho town where Sister Larsen was born and where she lived during her girlhood years. During priesthood meeting I was participating in a discussion with the high priest group of the ward. The subject of the lesson being reviewed that morning had to do with honesty and integrity. The discussion had led us into a consideration of how honest, in strictly legalistic sense, may not always be adequate in our dealings with others. There were comments about the need for being fair and equitable also. The men in the group came mostly from farming backgrounds. Their sense of values was basic and unencumbered by some of the subtleties we are so often afflicted with.

To illustrate a point he was attempting to make, one of the men in the group said, “Let me tell you a story about Uncle Otto.” I was immediately alert with interest. I knew the Uncle Otto referred to was my father-in-law. He had passed away more than ten years before. He was actually of no blood relationship to the man who was speaking. He had simply been known as Uncle Otto to some of those whose parents had associated closely with him and who had shared his way of life.

I must explain that my father-in-law had spent his life working a small farm. He had homesteaded part of the ground as a young man just at the turn of the century. In those early years horses were an essential ingredient in the success of the farmer. Living conditions were very stringent by our present standards. Having a good team had much to do with whether a year’s work showed profit or a loss.

My father-in-law was a quiet man. He was not apt to say much about his inner feelings. He worked hard, and he loved the land he farmed. He was never called upon to carry responsibilities of notoriety in the Church or in the community. But everyone knew the principles upon which he stood. The only sermons he ever preached were those that came unspoken from the way he lived.

Returning to the discussion in the priesthood group, the man continued with the story about Uncle Otto. He spoke of a long-term negotiation that had gone on between his father and my father-in-law over the possible trade of some horses. Such a transaction was entered into with greatest care because so much was at stake. This was especially the case in matching pairs of horses as teams. An agreement had finally been reached that appeared to be totally acceptable to both the farmers. The trade was made.

The man relating the story concluded in this way.

It was on the evening of the day the horse trading had taken place. We were sitting around our kitchen table, eating our evening meal. Father had been telling us how pleased he was with the trade he had made with Uncle Otto. Apparently he was totally satisfied with the outcome of the transaction. Suddenly there was a knock at our door, and father went to see who was calling us. It was Uncle Otto. He stood in the doorway to speak to my father, but we at the table could easily overhear the conversation.

“I’ve been thinking about the trade we made today,” Uncle Otto said. “I haven’t felt exactly right because I think I got a little the best of the deal.”

His hand went into the pocket of his overalls and came out with a beautiful pocketknife that he obviously treasured.

“I’ve thought it over,” Uncle Otto said, “and I’d feel a lot better if you’d take this knife.”

The man who shared this story with us told how deeply he had been impressed, even as a boy, by this act of personal integrity that seemed to go beyond basic honesty.

Developing qualities of this kind helps us to move forward toward greater perfection.

I stared at the folded bill in my hand as I realized I still needed to pay tithing on money I had earned during the last week of my summer job. I owed 90 rands in tithing, and I had one R100 bill.
I had just started my final year of medical school and had many school expenses. I sat there fiddling with the R100 bill, thinking about paying tithing. My summer job had ended, and it was unlikely I’d find a job that would fit into my busy schedule. However, my parents had taught me to pay a full tithe. This money belonged to the Lord, and I knew it. With that thought, I placed the money in the envelope and paid my tithing.
In the days following, as I searched for a job, I prayed that the windows of heaven would open for me. I needed a job that would fit my schedule, pay well for low hours, and still allow me time to study. In short, I needed a miracle.
Two weeks later a friend suggested that I apply for a job at the hospital where our medical school had just opened a new education floor. I walked to the office and knocked on the door. The woman inside, who had taught our class two years before, remembered me.
“I was wondering if you were looking to hire any tutors for your new program,” I said. “If you are, I would like to be hired.”
“We are indeed,” she replied. “We are looking for someone to tutor a group of second-year medical students for an hour in the afternoons. It’s a flexible start time and will require you to study a different patient each day and then to teach the students. Can you do that?” she asked.
The Lord had helped me find a job that was exactly what I needed! It was the answer to my prayer.
After working a month, I found out just how much I had been blessed. My paycheck showed that I was being paid a monthly salary three times higher than I had thought. In addition, I received vacation pay.
The Lord had opened the windows of heaven and showered me with blessings far greater than I had ever expected. As a result, my faith was strengthened in the principle of tithing.

May I just offer one or two more thoughts. One of our Latter-day Saint men during World War II was over in England. He had gone to an officer’s club where they were holding a riotous kind of celebration. He noticed off to the side a young British officer who didn’t seem to be enjoying himself at all. So he walked over to him and said, “You don’t seem to be enjoying this kind of a party.” And this young British officer straightened himself a few inches taller than he was before and replied, “No, sir, I can’t engage in this kind of a party, because, you see, I belong to the royal household of England.”

As our Latter-day Saint boy walked away he said to himself, “Neither can I, because I belong to the royal household of the kingdom of God.” Do you realize that, you young people? There are things that you cannot and must not do if you remember your heritage.

Whatever country you live in, it takes a lot of effort to earn the top award in Scouting. So imagine the effort required to earn the award three times. Rocco du Plessis is the first Springbok Scout in the 26-year history of the First Edgemead Troop in South Africa. So becoming a three-time Springbok Scout is a huge accomplishment.
However, there’s another award Rocco earned last year that is equally important to him. “Earning the Duty to God has helped me achieve even more for my personal and spiritual growth,” he says. “It’s about your relationship with your Father in Heaven.”
“The Scouting program here is very demanding,” says Rocco, who is a member of the Panorama Ward in the Cape Town South Africa Stake. It’s hard to earn the Springbok. Sure, the Scout leaders are there to help you. But it’s still tough. “If you don’t work very hard, if you don’t pull your weight, you’re not going to get it,” Rocco adds. A lot of time, planning, and effort goes into every award as you advance in the Scouting program, which in South Africa is not Church sponsored.
For the Duty to God Award, Rocco says the support of his parents and his Young Men leaders has made a big difference. “They want you to earn your Duty to God,” he says, “and so many of the requirements are things you’re doing daily already.” Then it’s just a matter of working with your parents and leaders to record your progress in those areas. “Most of the normal Mormon aspects of your life fill Duty to God requirements—if you do them.” In other words, if a young man is attending Church meetings, praying regularly, studying the scriptures, and fulfilling his priesthood responsibilities, he is on the right track.
Only about one or two percent of all Scouts nationwide receive South Africa’s top Scouting award. And then only about one or two percent of these Springbok Scouts complete more than one of the three possible Explorer challenges. Rocco completed all three challenge awards, becoming only the third Scout in South African history to accomplish the feat.
A South African Scout advances through the program from Pathfinder to Adventurer to First Class then to Explorer. The Explorer badge is split into three different sections: Land Scouts, Air Scouts, and Sea Scouts. Usually a Scout will choose one of these sections to focus on as he works toward his final advancement—Springbok. Rocco focused on all three.
Along with the other badges and requirements, there are compulsory badges specific to each type of Explorer: The Land Explorer earns his Backwoodsman and Mapping badges. The Air Explorer earns his Air Navigator and Air Traffic Controller badges. And the Sea Explorer earns his Helmsman and Boatsman badges for sailing and rowing.
Rocco explains that it usually takes about two weekends at a badge course to earn each award. There are the white badges—the theory behind a skill. And then there are the green badges—the practical application of the skill. For example, to earn your Backwoodsman badge, first you’ll learn things like wilderness survival, navigating with the stars, and making fires without matches. Then comes the practical application. You get dropped off in the bush for 48 hours, and you’re on your own.
So Rocco has been pretty busy with Scouting for several years now. From February until December last year, for example, he was away many weekends. “It seemed I was up permanently on badge courses,” he says. Plus, for the past five years, Rocco has been the troop leader. That means he’s been in charge of organizing all the troop camps. He’s had to plan meals, do the shopping, coordinate troop meetings, type up consent forms for the other Scouts and their parents to sign, and oversee each of the campouts.
One valuable trait Rocco has learned along the way is persistence. “At least half of my badges I didn’t pass the first time on the course,” he says. “Within six months you can go back and do it again or have an adult who has done the badge test you on it.” For instance, one of the requirements for First Aid is bandaging. “I failed bandaging because part of the knot on one of my bandages stuck out,” Rocco says. “So I had to redo the bandaging portion in order to earn my level-two First Aid.”
In addition to the badges, there are other projects a Scout must complete to earn his Springbok. One of these is a construction project. Rocco chose to build a bridge. He had to first design and build a scale model of the bridge. Then, with a team of six other Scouts, Rocco had to build it full size, about 20 feet tall (6 m) and 30 feet long (9 m). It took nearly nine hours to build the bridge and then disassemble it.
Then there’s community service, which is a big part of earning both the Springbok and the Duty to God Award. For his Springbok service requirement, Rocco visited more than 40 homes of seniors to help them with various chores and repairs. “The only big thing that overlapped was the 40-hour service project I was able to use for both Scouts and the Duty to God Award,” says Rocco.
Of all the requirements Rocco has fulfilled to earn his various awards, he points to one in particular as most valuable for his personal growth: “Reading the Book of Mormon,” Rocco says without hesitation. “That was the biggest and most rewarding challenge.”
“I had read the Book of Mormon once already, a year or so ago, but I was just reading to get it done,” Rocco explains. “When I started reading it again, I really wanted to learn and gain a testimony of it.” He approached reading the Book of Mormon in a completely different way his second time through. “Every time I read now, I pray before to ask Heavenly Father’s Spirit to be with me as I read.”
Rocco’s already begun on his next big project—to more actively share his testimony with others as he prepares to serve a full-time mission. His Scouting experiences and earning the Duty to God Award have helped him in his personal development and in becoming a missionary. “To spread the gospel, I needed to know what is in the Book of Mormon, and I needed to know that it is true,” he says. “After reading the Book of Mormon for the second time, I received a testimony of it.”
Even if there was not a Duty to God Award to earn, Rocco says he would have fulfilled most of the requirements simply because he wanted to prepare for missionary service. Attending church, reading the scriptures, praying daily, and giving service are just part of who Rocco is, of being what a Latter-day Saint is supposed to be.
Now that he has received his call to serve as a full-time missionary, the testimony Elder du Plessis has built is proving much more useful than the rope-and-log bridge he built for his Springbok construction project. However, some of the backwoodsman skills he learned as a Scout may come in handy as he serves in Zimbabwe, Zambia, and Malawi.

The train threaded its way through the mountains that walled Feather River Canyon, carrying its load of passengers eastward from San Francisco, California. Although snow lay deep in some of the higher places, a bright March sun had caused streams to cascade over the rocks and soft green to begin to color the oak brush and grass.
Some of those on the train pressed their faces against the windows to see the beauty of the canyon; others slept. A man in one of the cars did neither. His thoughts were of a talk he had been asked to give the following week at Primary General Conference. He wondered what he might say to express his love for children.
This man was Marion G. Romney. He picked up his Bible and turned to the New Testament, to the tenth chapter of Mark [Mark 10], which tells how the Savior took the children in his arms and blessed them. As Elder Romney read, he leaned forward in front of the window of the train, the New Testament in his hands, his elbows on his knees. He read and reread the words until it almost seemed as if he could see the Savior with the children in his arms. The picture was so beautiful that Elder Romney closed the book, leaned back as far as he could, and pressed his body hard against the seat as he shut his eyes in prayerful thought.
Just then a great boulder, crashing down the mountainside burst through the window of the train where he sat. It grazed his face and bruised his right side, but did not seriously hurt him.
A week later as Elder Romney stood in the Salt Lake Tabernacle, he said, “Had I been leaning forward, I am sure I would not be here today.”

Angela Vildor moved to the Bahamas from Haiti a few years ago with her family. With the move came many changes, including learning English—a real challenge since she had spent her entire life speaking Haitian Creole. One afternoon a friend of hers invited her to a free English class sponsored by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Angela readily accepted the invitation.

“I met the missionaries in English class,” she says. “They gave me a Book of Mormon, and later they talked to me about it. I told them that when I read the Book of Mormon, I felt very strong; it was a very different feeling. They explained that what I was feeling was the Spirit.”

Soon after Angela told the missionaries about her feelings, she received the missionary discussions and was baptized. A few weeks later, Angela’s younger sister, Annette, was also baptized. Together, the two of them help each other learn more about the gospel and share it with the rest of their family and friends.

Abner
I found a small unit we could rent for our barbershop. When the owner told me the cost for rent, it was more than we could afford. I asked if he could lower the cost. He called me later and said, “I want to know who I’m renting to. Bring your wife so I can meet her.”
Midalys
We prayed that he would see that we are good people. After meeting him, he said, “God is helping you. I’ve had this space for a long time. Many people have asked to rent it, but it never felt right. I feel strongly that you are good people.”
He lowered the rent for three years. I was surprised. He said the exact words my husband and I had prayed for.
Abner
We are now much more secure and peaceful. We’re making money, and we are blessed.