Gospel Story Finder

For my sixth birthday, I got some money from my friends and family. I put some of it in my mission-fund bank account, and my mummy gave me some of it to spend. My sister and I went to the toy shop, and she saw a toy that she wanted but did not have any money. So I spent my birthday money and bought the toy for my sister. I love my sister, and I know that Heavenly Father is happy when we sacrifice for one another.

Many years ago a couple of fellow airline captains and I decided to fulfill a boyhood dream of restoring an antique airplane. Together we purchased a worn-down 1938 Piper Cub and started the work of returning it to its original form. The project was a labor of love. It had special meaning for me because I had learned to fly in a similar airplane when I was a young man.
This airplane was first built only 35 years after the Wright brothers made their famous first flight. Just thinking of that makes me feel very old.
The engine did not have an electric starter; as you were priming the engine from the cockpit, someone else on the ground would grab hold of the propeller and hurl it with might until the engine would run on its own. Each engine start was a moment of excitement and bravery.
Once the plane was airborne, it became clear the Piper Cub was not built for speed. As a matter of fact, when there was a strong headwind, it seemed as though we were not moving at all. I remember flying together with my teenage son, Guido, above the autobahn in Germany, and sure enough, the cars below passed us comfortably!
But, oh, how I loved this little plane! It was the perfect way to experience the wonder and beauty of flight. You could hear, feel, smell, taste, and see what flying was all about. The Wright brothers expressed it this way: “There is [nothing] equal to that which aviators enjoy while being carried through the air on great white wings.”

When I first accepted employment, I came to a decision that accounts in great measure for any success I may have had as a single parent: giving prime time to the children. Prime time meant every evening, with few exceptions. Since I was away all day, I decided that I should be home at night. This was a marked change from former days when my husband’s position as a television network executive involved us both in a busy business and social schedule in and out of town. Time and again as I had appeared to be all attention during a conversation, I had been worrying about the children’s homework or how dinner was progressing at home.
As we had traveled, I had thought about where the children were. At length, after Ralph’s death, I concluded that the next year would be different. I was needed at home more in the evenings when the children were there.
All decisions that shaped our future were not mine alone. The children had choices to make, too. They learned to cook through trial and error and became quite adept at cleaning the house. With their mother at work during the day, they went places by themselves on foot, bicycle, or bus. “Ask not what your mother can do for you, but what you can do for your mother,” became the watchword in our home. All children worked at summer jobs as soon as they were old enough. We even caught the littlest one selling his carefully scrubbed rocks from door to door in the neighborhood. Self-sufficiency, they soon learned, was the way to live.
Although I found myself widowed at a relatively young age, I was blessed with a generous measure of faith and hopefulness. I tried to convey this feeling to my children. The entire family felt a strong sense of opportunity and of the Lord’s hand in our lives.
Friends and family members also contributed their suggestions and ideas for our welfare. There was valuable advice and assistance regarding summer jobs, schools, scholarships, and many other things. Friends were there in times of illness, trouble, and teenage crises. They included us in family activities, fathers and sons’ outings, and other events. Our bishops and priesthood leaders were always available for counsel. Being on the receiving end of so much kindness is often difficult, but it has taught me and my children that blessings from the Lord are not just dropped on our heads. They are brought to pass through the hearts and hands of others.
A woman in the role of single parent, whether widowed or divorced, has a very special calling, and she will be held accountable before the Lord for what she does with her stewardship. Although her spouse is absent, she stands nonetheless commissioned by the Lord to perform the charge he issued to all parents: “And they shall also teach their children to pray, and to walk uprightly before the Lord” (D&C 68:28; see also D&C 68:25–27 and D&C 68:29–32). She may feel at times that she carries a disproportionate share of that responsibility, yet she has the Lord’s assurance that he will prepare a way for her to accomplish her task. (See 1 Ne. 3:7.)
The principal lessons a parent must teach are those of spiritual values. Elder Boyd K. Packer of the Council of the Twelve has suggested that when children are interested or teachable we should immediately take advantage of that moment and teach them. (See Boyd K. Packer, Teach Ye Diligently, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1975, page 110.) When they are spiritually hungry, feed them. Without really knowing it, I followed this precept. We discussed gospel concepts freely while preparing the salad, walking to school, or sitting around the dinner table. It was not unusual for us to talk about the Atonement or the Second Coming any more than it was for us to talk about what was happening in the government or in the school classroom.
Through the years, I have proved the following scripture many times: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.
“In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths” (Prov. 3:5–6).
We view eternity through the small window of mortal time: “For now we see through a glass, darkly” (1 Cor. 13:12). The day will come when we shall each see our lives with clear vision and an eternal perspective. We shall then have a full knowledge of what we understand by faith now: That the Lord does not leave us alone when we seek him, that he is never in debt to us, and that he always compensates. By showing us our weaknesses and providing an opportunity to turn them to strengths, he exchanges our dross for gold.

My family and I learned that the Lord is willing to help us in money matters years ago, while I was in my medical training in Salt Lake City. Sister Davis and I would have our small children say their prayers out loud with us. Our oldest boy, Taylor, gave a rather brief prayer one evening that consisted only of asking the Lord for $10 so he could buy a toy workbench. We both wondered whether a prayer like that was really okay or not, but decided to leave it alone.

The next day, our 90-year-old neighbor from across the street, named Jim Downward, knocked on our front door. When Sonja opened the door, he handed her $10 and told her that it was for our little boy. She, of course, was surprised and amazed, and asked Jim why he had done this. He just answered that he didn't know, and then turned around and returned home. Through that experience, we were reminded that the Lord hears and answers his children's prayers, usually through the actions of others.

When you seek after the light by surrounding yourself with positive and great individuals, you provide yourself with more opportunities to learn and grow. I have been blessed to work with so many inspiring student athletes. They continue to teach me so much, but one player truly stands out.

Many years ago we recruited a young lady who had a special talent and gift for the game. She was raised a long way from Provo, Utah, and had never really been around many Latter-day Saint players. She was also someone who was so good that she had never really been held accountable to some of our athletic standards, such as fitness tests, work rate, and being on time—or even things such as what to wear to soccer clinics and service projects. She was her own person, had her own ideas, and marched to her own drum—which was fine, but at the same time, it was holding her back from reaching her highest potential.

We did not see eye to eye on many things early on. It actually came to a point at which I had to make the decision to ask her to leave the team. She was good enough to play at other universities, and I told her I would help her find a place. However, I also mentioned that if this was where she really wanted to be and if she was willing to embrace her opportunity here and make some changes, then she would have the opportunity to join us again the following semester. After a short time she told me that she really wanted to come back and learn from all those around her.

It was not an easy journey for her, and there were many times when she knew it would be easier somewhere else. But through the struggles, the fight, the dedication, and the choices, she was able to develop, mature, and grow. She made the decision to stay and surround herself with great friends, teammates, professors, ward members, and the environment at BYU, and it ultimately led to an opportunity to change her life and her future.

One of the most rewarding and proud moments of my coaching career was to give Jenavieve Phillips a big hug on the field after her last game as a Cougar and congratulate her on an amazing journey. During her senior year she helped lead our team to a number fourteen ranking before we were knocked out of the tournament by the University of Portland, the defending national champion at that time.

What a blessing and unbelievable inspiration Jenavieve was to me, my staff, her teammates, and all those who knew her. She went on to graduate from BYU, serve a mission, and bless the lives of all those she came in contact with. She lived her life to the fullest, fulfilled her mission on this earth, and was taken home to her Heavenly Father after a car accident in 2012.

For most of my childhood years my grandmother Elsie Elkington lived with my family. What a grand blessing and privilege this was for us. She was a virtuous woman, highly favored of the Lord and her name is one I am striving to be worthy of. As a child I remember always being fascinated with her. She was a perfect lady, and although she was old and practically blind, using a cane to guide her, she always walked and talked like a perfect lady. Her mannerisms were extremely proper and when she ate it was like an art she spoke with a soft New Zealand accent. Always to me she was beautiful. We lived in New Zealand at the time and in our house, her room was at the end of the hallway. Stepping in her room, for a young girl, was like stepping into another world, stepping back in time. She had things a perfect lady should have. It all was so ancient and antique, jewelry box with beautiful necklaces and broaches, old books and shoes and coats. My imagination would run away with me, as I would dream whom my grandmother really was. I was told not to go in her room unless she was there but I was drawn to it. Couldn't help myself. One day alone in her room, I started to look through her old books, hoping to find a clue maybe to confirm my childhood imaginations of her identity. I came across a large book that looked hand made but with particular skill. The pages were thick and black and on those pages were the most beautiful old black and white photos of beautiful people. (Photo) One of them I recognized to be my grandmother (Photo) although much much younger I could identify her immediately. (Photo) As I continued to turn the pages I came across one particular photo that melted my heart. It was of a beautiful woman sitting alone on a stage with a crown on her head surrounded by people who were all looking at her. This woman I recognized to be my grandmother and can you imagine what began to go through my mind? Remember I was very young. My thoughts were, my grandmother is a queen! and then, if she is a queen than that makes me a princess. I was on top of the world that day but it was short-lived, later being told that it was only a beauty pageant. My grandmother passed away in 2000 and as I shared this story at her funeral I had a strong confirmation that she is indeed a queen and I also have the potential to become that also, and each of you Kings and Queens, the first presidency proclaims to the world that each of us "has a divine nature, a destiny."

During our daughter’s first few months of treatment, our time and energy were filled with the daily grind of our children’s health-care needs. Normally, I like to give people thank-you notes but didn’t make the time for that. Instead, I kept a list on my computer of some of the gifts and acts of service we received, both to remember to thank later and to remind us of the wonderful people watching out for us. This is a list I hold dear to my heart, and it serves as a reminder on how I can help those around me.

Brothers and sisters, I believe in angels. On a day at BYU-Idaho when I was worried and feeling discouraged, Kathy Webb, my wonderful executive assistant, told me that Elder Richard G. Scott was on the phone. He was the chair of the Executive Committee of the Board of Education and I had gotten to know him well.
I picked up the phone and Elder Scott said, “Kim, I am calling to tell you I love you and that you are doing a great job. Goodbye.” Click! That was it. But as soon as he hung up, I heard in my mind the words of a familiar hymn:
“Fear not, I am with thee; oh, be not dismayed, / For I am thy God and will still give thee aid. / I’ll strengthen thee, help thee, and cause thee to stand … / Upheld by my righteous, omnipotent hand.” [26]
I knew that was the Lord’s message for me. That day, Elder Scott was the angel the Lord sent to deliver it.

Recently, my nephew Bryant spoke in church prior to beginning his missionary service. With his permission, I share a part of his talk because I feel that some of you may relate to his experience.

As a freshman here at BYU last fall, Bryant approached his first round of midterms with trepidation. He studied and studied for his first couple of tests, which went, in his words, “surprisingly well.” Relieved, he relaxed a little and decided he didn’t need to study as hard going forward. He got good grades on all of his tests except for one. When he found out his exam score, he was devastated and ashamed. For days he mentally beat himself up, telling himself what a failure he was and how his parents would be so disappointed in him for doing so poorly.

Then one day in his religion class, his professor talked about the power of prayer. Bryant said:
A thought entered my head: Had I asked God to help me with my worries? That thought stuck with me through the rest of that day until at night I knelt down beside my bed and said a prayer. I poured out all of my worries about college and how my parents would react to seeing that score on that test. The moment I ended that prayer, four words entered my head that I will never forget: “Everything will be fine.”
Those words basically became my motto for that year. Whenever I felt terrible or ashamed or worried, those words would come back to my mind. That day changed me. I began to listen more earnestly, paying more attention in my religion class. I began reading my scriptures with the intent to learn rather than as a daily thing to check off. . . . I would focus more on trying to feel the Spirit throughout my day. I was able to really focus on strengthening my relationship with my Heavenly Father.4
Bryant expressed gratitude for that test because through it he learned that what is important to him personally—something as small as one exam—was also important to our Heavenly Father because it mattered to Bryant.

At the conclusion of the sacrament meeting, the bishop rose to speak to the congregation. Turning around slightly, he addressed Bryant. “You’re right,” the bishop nodded. “Everything will be fine—when you include the Lord in your plans.”

I didn’t want to go.
It was that simple. I was 16, and everyone was talking about this “mini mission weekend” our stake was running. I didn’t see the point. I wasn’t planning on serving a mission—not then, not ever.
My mum really wanted me to go. My leaders were encouraging me. They said, “It’s just a weekend, Tyra!” The night before, I cried. I was like, “Why am I doing this to myself?”
I only said yes because I didn’t want to disappoint people. But in my heart, I was already counting down the hours until it was over.
At first, it wasn’t so bad. We did workshops, practiced teaching, got paired up with missionaries for study sessions. I remember thinking, “OK, I can survive this.” But I was still not emotionally invested. I told myself, “I’m just here so people will get off my back.”
Then came the second day.
My companion was Sister Fale. We went to the city, right around Town Hall Station, for some street contacting. I followed her lead as she stopped and talked to this guy about the plan of salvation. I stood next to her, awkward and quiet, thinking, “This is her thing, not mine.”
But something shifted.
She looked at me mid-conversation and nodded, like it was my turn. I opened my mouth . . . and my testimony just came out! I didn’t even think about what I was saying. I just spoke.
And the Spirit was so strong.
It hit me in that moment. I was 16, standing in the middle of a busy street, talking to a stranger about Jesus Christ, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was exactly where I needed to be.
That feeling didn’t go away. It stayed with me all weekend. Every teaching moment, every group prayer, every gospel conversation with strangers—I felt like something inside me was waking up.
I came home from that weekend changed.
The moment it really sank in—what the mini mission meant for me—was when I was back home, alone, writing in my journal. I just started crying. I felt the Spirit so deeply. That’s when I realised the revelations I had received were real. He had spoken to me. And I had listened.
I didn’t tell everyone straight away, but in my heart, I knew. I started going out with the full-time sisters every week. I wanted to feel that Spirit again—that sense of purpose. Eventually, I began working on my mission papers.
Now I’m 19, turning 20 this year. I’m studying Construction Project Management at University of Technology Sydney and serving as a YSA rep in my ward. I also took part in the Australian Association of Pacific Studies Conference 2025, and I’m learning how to integrate my faith with my career and culture and hopefully help share His gospel even more.
I haven’t left on my mission yet—but I will. That decision is still a little scary, but it’s also sacred. And every day my testimony grows stronger.
I know that all I’ve been able to do—every achievement, every step forward—is because of His mercy and His love. I hope that I can be a pillar of hope to others, because He has touched my life. And that, more than anything, is why I want to serve.

In 1965 I headed to Vietnam for my third tour of duty with the U.S. Air Force. We were flying combat missions just about every day, with our squadron’s F-100 Super Sabers taking small arms hits regularly. In this environment, I easily developed faithful habits of prayer, and I found strength in knowing that my family back home was praying regularly for my safe and speedy return.
Looking back, I can see clearly that these prayers helped build a protective shield around me. I felt this protection especially on the morning of March 30, 1966. About halfway through a mission, I noticed that my fire warning light had lit up. I had been hit! I was in trouble, so I headed east toward the nearest friendly airfield.
I was feeling pretty good about things until my wingman told me that I was burning badly, with flames trailing several feet behind the aircraft. A moment later, the aircraft quit responding to the control stick. It was time to bail out. I squeezed the trigger, firing the ejection seat charge. It fired much more violently than I had expected, but at least I was separated from the burning F-100.
As soon as I ejected, things quickly went from bad to worse. The jolt of the ejection put me into a rapid, head-over-heels tumble. The tumble was so violent that I couldn’t think through the remainder of my memorized emergency procedures. My only clear thought at the time was that the human body was not built to withstand such violence. I expected an arm or a leg to be torn off at any minute!
I finally calmed down enough to recall a parachute free-fall training film I had seen just before my deployment to Vietnam. An image soon became crystal clear in my mind: Spread eagle to slow down and stabilize. As I responded to the image, which I knew was an answer to the many prayers that had been offered in my behalf, I immediately stopped spinning and tumbling. I was then able to concentrate on other pressing matters—like opening my parachute! If it had opened automatically, I wouldn’t have found myself tumbling with such violence.
My mind then cleared further, as if a small TV screen had appeared before me, outlining the rest of the critical emergency procedures I needed to remember. Check chute. I didn’t have one. If no chute, pull D-ring. The D-ring is the rip cord, which I quickly pulled. Immediately the parachute popped out and filled with air to break my fall. Deploy seat kit. I pulled the lanyard to release the heavy, hard-shelled survival kit that was strapped to my seat. No luck. The kit stayed attached, hanging dangerously behind my thighs.
Later, in my debrief of the ejection, a flight surgeon told me that in every case he knew of, an undeployed seat kit had resulted in a crushed pelvis. I was thankful I was not aware of this grim statistic as I floated toward the earth.
I hadn’t realized that Vietnam was in its dry season, and the soft rice field I expected when I landed was concrete hard. I hit my head on the ground and was briefly knocked unconscious. Fortunately, I had kept my helmet on throughout the ejection.
When I recovered, I unstrapped myself from my parachute and took a quick inventory. I had no broken bones and saw no enemy troops, but I knew I had landed in hostile territory controlled by the Vietcong. Within 30 minutes an Army helicopter arrived, picked me up, and flew me to my intended destination.
When I finally came down from my adrenalin high and could focus on all that had happened, I became immediately aware of the divine intervention that had occurred in my life. I had experienced major equipment problems: neither the automatic feature on my parachute nor the survival kit release system had worked. My spinning had prevented me from thinking clearly until mind-clearing images came to me. And I had landed safely and been rescued from hostile, Vietcong-held territory. In short, it was clear that my prayers and those of my family had been answered in a remarkable fashion.

A few nights ago I had a dream. I saw a piece of white paper with a name on it I did not know and a date I could only partially read. I got up and went to the records of my family. The last name on the slip of paper is from a line which came into my mother’s ancestry 300 years ago in a place called Eaton Bray. Someone is anxious for a long wait to end. I have not yet found that person. But I have found again the assurance that a loving God sends help in answer to prayer in this sacred work of redeeming our families, which is His work and His glory and to which we have pledged our hearts. I so testify, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

My mom took my little brother and me to a fun water park. While we were playing, a boy kept throwing a ball at my brother and me. We tried to ignore him, but he wouldn’t stop throwing the ball at us. We played somewhere else, but he found us. I decided that I would try to make him stop. I found the boy, said hi, and stuck out my hand. “Peace?” I asked. The boy looked a little shocked and shook my hand. He said “Peace” back to me. He did not bother us anymore. I felt good that I made the decision to be brave and to be kind to the boy, just like I imagined Jesus would have done.

The first meetinghouse built by the Church in Mérida was very significant for members who helped build it—and, as was the policy then, pay for it—recalls Saidy Castillo de Gaona of the Zacil-Ha First Ward, Mérida México Stake. “The members paid our half with our work—pure hard labor,” she says. Young Saidy learned to operate the brick-making machine while she worked on the project. And it was there that she met her future husband, Noé, a labor missionary helping to construct the building.

“When they knocked that building down, it was very emotional for me,” Saidy continues. “But the important thing was that they built something of greater value.” The Mérida México Temple now occupies that site.

As a teenager, Saidy had seen herself in a dream in a temple in Mérida. “I knew there was going to be a temple. I asked the Lord to let me live long enough to see it.”

She and her husband were married more than 35 years ago. They were sealed in the temple in Mexico City shortly after it was dedicated. Through the years they supported the Church faithfully in a wide variety of priesthood and auxiliary callings. When the Mérida temple was dedicated in 2000, the Gaonas were prepared to serve there too; they were the first two temple workers set apart.

He was serving in the temple on the day he died suddenly in late 2002. Saidy says it was only her knowledge of the eternal nature of marriage that allowed her to cope with the loss of her companion. “I think if it hadn’t been for the gospel, I would have wanted to die. The knowledge of the gospel gives me strength to go on. The gospel is everything for me. It was everything for my husband too.”

She turned once more to service in the gospel for help in healing the hurt of her loss. In addition to serving in the temple, she found solace in giving of herself to her five children and grandchildren and also in her Church callings. “I think I’m happiest when I’m working,” she explains.

A few years ago following general conference, our four-year-old grandson Andrew asked his mother, “Mommy, is Jesus counting on me?” His mother answered, “Oh, yes, Andrew, Jesus is counting on you. He wants you to obey Mom and Dad, to do what is right, and especially to be kind to your little brother, Benny.” This four-year-old thought about that for a few moments and said, “Mommy, tell Him not to count on me!”
Fortunately, by the time Andrew receives the Aaronic Priesthood, he will have come to know that Jesus is counting on him.

I know I was excited about moving, but I really miss my friends. Today before science class began, a girl two rows over called out, “Trisha, are you a Mormon?”
Suddenly the chatter stopped. All eyes turned to me. I said yes.
One of the boys asked, “What’s a Norman?”
The girl said, “Not Norman, Gregg. Mormon. It’s a church.”
“They don’t believe in Jesus Christ,” someone piped up.
“Yes, we do,” I protested, but the bell rang and drowned out my words.
I heard someone across the room say, “My dad says Mormons are really weird.”
I’m the only Mormon in this whole school. Will I ever have any friends?

Only a few weeks before the earthquake, another group of young adults was giving similar service across the Atlantic. The floods that swept through western Europe in July were the most severe in decades.
When the waters finally receded, one shopkeeper in the riverside district of Ahrweiler, Germany, surveyed the damage and was utterly overwhelmed. This humble man, a devout Catholic, whispered a prayer that God might send someone to help him. The very next morning, President Dan Hammon of the Germany Frankfurt Mission arrived on the street with a small band of missionaries wearing yellow Helping Hands vests. The water had reached up to 10 feet (3 m) on the shopkeeper’s walls, leaving behind a deep layer of mud. The volunteers shoveled out the mud, removed the carpet and drywall, and piled everything in the street for removal. The overjoyed shopkeeper worked alongside them for hours, amazed that the Lord had sent a group of His servants to answer his prayer—and within 24 hours!

I was determined to have a bad attitude as my mom picked my brother and me up from school and drove us downtown. It was Christmastime, and I was supposed to be shopping with my friends. Instead, I was headed to a homeless shelter in our city to help fulfill an assignment that our stake had been given to clean the shelter and serve food to the people there.
When we arrived, my mood darkened as I was assigned to clean out the industrial-size refrigerator, which had recently been left open and now had all sorts of mold growing inside. I rolled my eyes and sighed in disgust at the green mess before me. With rubber gloves up to my elbows, I started scrubbing halfheartedly.
As I worked, a small boy in worn clothes stepped out of the food line to watch my progress. He stood at the door and simply smiled at me. And then without a word, he walked away. I was touched as I watched him go, and a scripture came to my mind: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matthew 25:40).
“How well would I clean if I were doing this for Christ?” I thought to myself. “How hard would I work for Him?”
A smile spread across my face, and I turned back to my task. And with new perspective, I scrubbed the fridge until it shined.

Let me tell you a story—a parable.

There once was a man who wanted something very much. It seemed more important than anything else in his life. In order for him to have his desire, he incurred a great debt.

He had been warned about going into that much debt, and particularly about his creditor. But it seemed so important for him to do what he wanted to do and to have what he wanted right now. He was sure he could pay for it later.

So he signed a contract. He would pay it off some time along the way. He didn’t worry too much about it, for the due date seemed such a long time away. He had what he wanted now, and that was what seemed important.

The creditor was always somewhere in the back of his mind, and he made token payments now and again, thinking somehow that the day of reckoning really would never come.

But as it always does, the day came, and the contract fell due. The debt had not been fully paid. His creditor appeared and demanded payment in full.

Only then did he realize that his creditor not only had the power to repossess all that he owned, but the power to cast him into prison as well.

“I cannot pay you, for I have not the power to do so,” he confessed.

“Then,” said the creditor, “we will exercise the contract, take your possessions, and you shall go to prison. You agreed to that. It was your choice. You signed the contract, and now it must be enforced.”

“Can you not extend the time or forgive the debt?” the debtor begged. “Arrange some way for me to keep what I have and not go to prison. Surely you believe in mercy? Will you not show mercy?”

The creditor replied, “Mercy is always so one-sided. It would serve only you. If I show mercy to you, it will leave me unpaid. It is justice I demand. Do you believe in justice?”

“I believed in justice when I signed the contract,” the debtor said. “It was on my side then, for I thought it would protect me. I did not need mercy then, nor think I should need it ever. Justice, I thought, would serve both of us equally as well.”

“It is justice that demands that you pay the contract or suffer the penalty,” the creditor replied. “That is the law. You have agreed to it and that is the way it must be. Mercy cannot rob justice.”

There they were: One meting out justice, the other pleading for mercy. Neither could prevail except at the expense of the other.

“If you do not forgive the debt there will be no mercy,” the debtor pleaded.

“If I do, there will be no justice,” was the reply.

Both laws, it seemed, could not be served. They are two eternal ideals that appear to contradict one another. Is there no way for justice to be fully served, and mercy also?

There is a way! The law of justice can be fully satisfied and mercy can be fully extended—but it takes someone else. And so it happened this time.

The debtor had a friend. He came to help. He knew the debtor well. He knew him to be shortsighted. He thought him foolish to have gotten himself into such a predicament. Nevertheless, he wanted to help because he loved him. He stepped between them, faced the creditor, and made this offer.

“I will pay the debt if you will free the debtor from his contract so that he may keep his possessions and not go to prison.”

As the creditor was pondering the offer, the mediator added, “You demanded justice. Though he cannot pay you, I will do so. You will have been justly dealt with and can ask no more. It would not be just.”

And so the creditor agreed.

The mediator turned then to the debtor. “If I pay your debt, will you accept me as your creditor?”

“Oh yes, yes,” cried the debtor. “You save me from prison and show mercy to me.”

“Then,” said the benefactor, “you will pay the debt to me and I will set the terms. It will not be easy, but it will be possible. I will provide a way. You need not go to prison.”

And so it was that the creditor was paid in full. He had been justly dealt with. No contract had been broken. The debtor, in turn, had been extended mercy. Both laws stood fulfilled. Because there was a mediator, justice had claimed its full share, and mercy was fully satisfied.