Gospel Story Finder

A student wrote:
“In my own family I can remember times when my father spent long days at the office and helped very little with the children at home. He was under a lot of stress, and I don’t think he took his problems to the Lord like he should have. Rather, he spent more and more time trying to make money. It seemed as though he worshiped money, spending all his time and resources to get more.
“I don’t know exactly when things changed. But all of a sudden our family started to be together more. We prayed more as a family, and we were happier all around. It didn’t take long to realize that my father had turned to the Lord, and our family has been blessed ever since.”

Zina Diantha Huntington Young first encountered the Book of Mormon when she was fourteen years old and living in Watertown, New York. She later wrote, “One day on my return from school I saw the Book of Mormon, that strange, new book, lying on the window sill of our sitting-room. I went up to the window, picked it up, and the sweet influence of the Holy Spirit accompanied it to such an extent that I pressed it to my bosom in a rapture of delight, murmuring as I did so, ‘This is the truth, truth, truth.’” (See Ensign, March 1984, page 37.)

I realize that before me are hundreds of young men, many of whom are deacons. I remember when I was a deacon. (It has been a long time ago, however.) I thought it was a great honor to be a deacon. My father was always considerate of my responsibilities and always permitted me to take the buggy and horse to gather fast offerings. My responsibility included that part of the town in which I lived, but it was quite a long walk to the homes, and a sack of flour or a bottle of fruit or vegetables or bread became quite heavy as it accumulated. So the buggy was very comfortable and functional. We have changed to cash in later days, but it was commodities in my day. It was a very great honor to do this service for my Heavenly Father; and though times have changed, when money is given generally instead of commodities, it is still a great honor to perform this service.

Teenage siblings, Latoya and Cruzze Sanderson, recently found comfort and answers to their questions as they met with missionaries and attended sacrament meetings and youth classes and activities.
Cruzze says, “Who I am now compared to where I was is a huge blessing from Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. [At my baptism], after I came out of the water, I felt refreshed, like a weight was lifted off my shoulders.”

When a commercial came on the radio that started saying the Lord’s name in vain, my mom turned the station as quickly as she could. It bothered us a lot that they would use the Lord’s name in that way. We wrote a letter to the advertiser telling them we were offended about how they used the Lord’s name. They wrote back and apologized. Within a few days, the commercial was changed.
Gavin Z., age 7, California

Everyone looks forward to turning 16, and Evan Wilson was no different. He especially looked forward to the honor and duties that go with being a priest in the Medicine Lake Ward of the Minneapolis Minnesota Stake.
Evan, however, is not your average quorum member. Yes, he plays football, wrestles, and runs track for the junior varsity teams at the local high school. He sings in choir, is an Eagle Scout, and goes to the stake dances. Evan also has Down syndrome. He served faithfully as a deacon in the Aaronic Priesthood, always taking the same position when passing the sacrament because a routine brought comfort and success. He was solemn and respectful while passing the sacrament. Evan was equally successful in the responsibilities of a teacher.
For months before his 16th birthday, Evan practiced reading the sacrament prayers aloud with his family. Evan is not a strong reader or a particularly articulate speaker, and he needed the practice. He turned 16 and became a member of the priests quorum, attended quorum meetings, hung out with the priests, and assisted with the sacrament by distributing and collecting the sacrament trays. But offering the sacrament prayers seemed beyond his grasp. He had the prayers memorized, but he rushed, resulting in slurred pronunciation. He was not yet ready to pray before the congregation.
One day Jeff Clark, the priests quorum first assistant, shared an inspired idea with the bishop: help Evan say the prayers more slowly and clearly by using a simple flip-chart. He suggested breaking down the sacrament prayers to one word per page. Evan’s basic skills allowed him to read one word at a time, and through practice and pacing (which the flip-chart controlled), the words became more distinguishable. With practice, more reading aloud, more patience, and more prayer, Evan was ready.
Finally, the eagerly awaited Sunday arrived when Evan would bless the water for the first time. A loving, patient bishop came down from the stand and knelt next to him. While the bishop flipped the cards, Evan painstakingly pronounced the prayer word-by-word, page-by-page, with the bishop’s support and approval.
Many were moved while this special young priest uttered his first sacrament prayer. A quorum presidency had demonstrated the reality of modern revelation and what can happen when they acted upon that inspiration. They were given what President Thomas S. Monson called the “privilege to lift” those whom they were called to serve (see “Our Sacred Priesthood Trust,” Ensign, May 2006, 57).

One day the sisters asked Monica’s mother to pray to know if she should be baptized, and she did. She read the scriptures every day, too, and one night she had a dream. In the dream she was looking for white clothes to wear to her baptism. She felt very happy and peaceful. When she woke up, she knew that Heavenly Father had answered her prayer.
The day before Monica’s ninth birthday, Monica and her mother were baptized. Her aunts and uncles and cousins and father and grandmother came—so did many people from the branch. It was a very happy day for everyone, but most of all for Monica and her mother.

Dillon has a terrible problem: his greatest talent is also his greatest fear. “I love to sing,” the 16-year-old Tongan says, “but not in front of people. I get too scared.”
Imagine his mixed feelings when the Church in Tonga announced auditions for vocalists to record a Tongan version of the Old Testament seminary soundtrack. He was both excited and scared to death.
Three songs on the soundtrack require a male vocalist. After Dillon had sung the song for which he was auditioning, the producer surprised him by asking him to sing another of the songs on the soundtrack. As nervous as he was, he did it, and the producer said, “We found our boy.”
Much to his excitement—and dismay—Dillon was offered the opportunity to record all three songs.
As Dillon worked with the sound crew to record the songs, he struggled with one note. “I couldn’t hit it,” he says. “We rehearsed for hours.”
Finally, exhausted and discouraged, he went home that night, knowing that the next morning he’d have to record the song.
“I went straight to my room and prayed to my Heavenly Father to help me,” he says.
All he could think about was how important the soundtrack would be to the 50,000 members of the Church in Tonga, as well as thousands of others who speak Tongan around the world.
“It was one of the longest nights of my life,” he says.
After a long night of prayer and a little bit of sleep, Dillon walked into the recording studio and hit the note.
“Hallelujah,” he remembers saying. “I was happy.”
One of Dillon’s favorite scriptures is Joshua 1:9: “Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.”
Dillon put that promise to the test, and he learned it was true. “I tried my best. I put my best effort and heart into the songs so the listeners will be able to feel the Spirit.”
As Dillon grows out of his fear and into his talents, he recognizes he has received a lot of help—not only from his family but from his Heavenly Father.
“I know,” he says, “that God answered my prayers.”

The auditorium is dark. Downstage a spotlight picks out a white telephone. Rrrrrrrrrring! Rrrrrrrrring!

Then a deep, penetrating voice asks, “Waiting for a call?” And as the voice continues, figures begin to gather onstage. “They are. They’re waiting for a call from Heavenly Father. They don’t realize he is always calling and ready to listen. All they have to do is lift the receiver.”

The orchestra begins to play ever so softly and is joined by a male voice singing.

It is the beginning of the play “Awaiting Answers,” written, produced, and directed by high school seminary students. But, of course, that isn’t really the beginning. It started one spring at the annual Davis County Seminary District “S-Day” traditionally held at the Regional Center in Bountiful, Utah.

Shirley Anderson of Kaysville, Utah, was there as a chaperone. “The professional music program was good,” she recalls, “but I had the strongest feeling an S-Day program should be something the kids can take home with them.” So Sister Anderson devoted her speech and drama talent to guiding the seminary students for the coming year in an effort to create a really good, seminary-produced play. Two co-directors were appointed, Carolyn Hawkins and Todd Williams, and a committee of representatives was formed from every seminary in the district.

Like the teenagers who did the work, those in the story came out triumphant. With love of God and a growing love for each other, the actors acted, the singers sang, the orchestra played, and the dancers danced; and when they were through and the lights were lowered on the last strains of “Oh, my child, this is Saturday. Blessings are in store, blessings are in store,” there was scarcely a dry eye in the audience or on stage.

I returned from the mission field with many hopes regarding employment. Even though I had worked before, I had no qualifications, so I did what I could to find work, but I was never satisfied and could not see any progress in my future.
I always wanted to study, but I could not pay for schooling, and my family was not in a position to help me.
When the Perpetual Education Fund was started, I saw an opportunity to change my future. I relied upon my Heavenly Father to help me, and thus I chose a course of study with His inspiration.
I chose to study nursing. My schooling required a lot of study and dedication. But I became impassioned with nursing. Three months after graduating, I was able to find employment at one of the best hospitals in Alagoas, Brazil.
I have many plans for the future. I plan to take advanced studies in nursing, and I have started to pay back my loan so others can partake of the opportunity of receiving an education and the blessings that come with it.

He served a full-time mission in the Texas South Mission. His testimony was further strengthened during his mission when he met a minister of another religion who told the young missionary that the only people who were to go to heaven were the members of his small church in Texas.
“I couldn’t imagine our Heavenly Father being that unkind to the rest of us. That night as I prayed to my Heavenly Father, He bore witness to my spirit that His plan and His love were for everyone. I knew then our message to the world was true.”

It was the summer of 1872 in the far Northwest, and Mike and Rena King were hurrying home from their Aunt Alta’s. Mike carried a package of fresh meat from Uncle Duane in a tin bucket. As they followed an old Indian trail, they could hear the rushing waters of the Nooksack River.
Suddenly Rena said in a hushed voice, “The birds have stopped singing.” She pulled at her brother’s sleeve. “I’m scared, Mike, and it’s getting dark.”
The sky had turned gray and heavy, and a deep rumble echoed along the canyon walls. The tallest alder trees shivered, their leafy branches whispering.
“The clouds make it look later than it is,” answered Mike.
“Can’t we walk faster?” Rena urged, tugging harder on her brother’s sleeve. She kept looking into the thick underbrush on either side of the path. “There’s something in there!” she whispered. “I’m sure of it.”
A deep, loud boom sounded in the forest and Rena leaped ahead. Mike soon caught up with her. “It’s only thunder,” he assured her.
“Let’s go back,” Rena pleaded, tears in her brown eyes.
Mike tried to sound brave and encouraging. “We’ll make it,” he said. “We’re already half way home.” But the strange silence between thunderclaps had unnerved him too. “We’ll run awhile if you want to. Our turnoff is just ahead.”
Puffing hard, they jogged to the bend, then slowed to a walk as the path led up the ridge known as Squaw Hill. The trees were farther apart now and the sky seemed lighter.
“Still scared?” asked Mike.
Rena shook her dark head. “But it was spooky back there.”
They had not gone far when Rena exclaimed, “Oh look, Mike, blackberries!”
Mike tasted the small tart berries. “We can pick enough in a few minutes for a pie.”
“I love wild blackberry pie,” said Rena. “Pick as fast as you can.”
Mike handed Rena the deer meat and his fingers flew among the thorny brambles until the tin pail was nearly full. “That should be enough,” he declared.
“This package is leaking,” Rena said, wrinkling her nose. “Do I have to carry it?”
“Only for a little while,” Mike answered. “We can’t put it back in the pail or it would squash the blackberries.”
Rena sighed and held the bundle away from her long warm coat. “The sky’s getting blacker again,” she said.
Mike looked up. “It sure is. We’ll have to make up for lost time. Maybe we shouldn’t have stopped for the berries.”
“But I LOVE blackberry pie,” Rena countered. “Besides, I was just being a scaredy-cat, and we’re almost to the top of the hill now.”
“We still have that stretch of bluejoint (grass) to go through,” Mike reminded her.
From the top of Squaw Hill they could see their house across the valley. Twin curls of smoke rose from the stone chimneys.
As they neared the field of waving bluejoint, Mike sniffed. “Smells good.”
“It’s twice as tall as I am,” said Rena. “I’ll race you home!” She turned to glance at her brother, but her attention was caught by a movement half way up the ridge. “Mike, a big tan dog is following us,” she whispered.
A shriek pierced the air like a woman screaming. Rena’s face turned white and Mike put his arm around her shaking shoulders. “It’s not a dog!” he exclaimed. “Only one animal makes a noise like that—a cougar!”
“It’s coming this way! Run Mike!”
“No!” All the stories Mike had ever heard about the huge cats flashed through his mind. He gripped Rena’s arm. “Go slow and easy until we’re out of his sight,” he warned her.
Rena forced her trembling legs to take slow steps as Mike backed after her. The big cat’s tawny, rippling body bounded with powerful grace, floating over the ground with distance-eating speed. Mike’s heart sank. He knew they couldn’t possibly reach home before the swift animal caught up with them. He felt the first blades of bluejoint on his back. He whirled and shouted at his sister. “Run, Rena. Don’t look back, no matter what!”
The grass tunnel seemed endless. Then Rena tripped and fell, almost dropping the venison.
Mike knelt beside her. They could hear the rustle of dry grass, even before they saw the great moving shadow blending with the dusk. The cougar crouched and inched toward them. His ears lay back.
“He smells the meat!” cried Mike. He pulled Rena to her feet, grabbed the venison from her arms and hurled it in the path of the advancing cougar.
The giant cat circled the package.
Growling and slashing at the wrapping, the lanky beast ripped the meat apart.
Mike and Rena broke out of the tall grass and pounded up the path, darting quick looks behind them.
Reaching the house, they lunged inside and slammed the door. Both speaking at once, they panted out the story to their parents. “And we almost didn’t think to throw the package of meat down!” Mike said, grinning in relief.
Father gently pried the boy’s white, cramped fingers from around the handle of the tin bucket. A few wild blackberries were still in the bottom of it.

One minute Norene was sitting quietly in the passenger seat with her little brother, Mark, while her sister, Janette, drove toward home. The next minute the car went out of control and crashed into a cement culvert.
The accident happened so fast Norene only knew that her face hurt, that Mark lay on the floor much too quietly, and that Janette sagged against the steering wheel with blood dripping from her head. A fear worse than any she had known in all her eight years seemed to freeze Norene’s body, and she began to cry.
She heard voices coming closer to the car. “You call an ambulance, and we’ll try to get them out before the car catches fire.” Hands reached in and lifted Norene through the window.
“Are you all right?” a woman asked.
“Yes, but my brother and sister—”
“We’ll have them out in a minute. You lie right here on the grass and rest.”
The man who had come to help pulled at the car doors, but they wouldn’t open. He climbed through the back window and over the seat to get Mark off the floor. He handed the still unmoving two-year-old out the window to the woman. After she laid Mark on the grass beside Norene, she and the man carefully lifted Janette through the broken glass.
Janette moaned weakly and opened her eyes. She tried to reach out to Norene, but her hand fell to the grass by her side and her eyes closed again.
“The ambulance should be here any minute,” the woman told Norene, putting her arm around her shoulder. “Don’t cry any more. They’ll take good care of all of you. Where’re your mother and father?”
“They went on a trip,” Norene replied. “My big sister knows where.”
“Well, the folks at the hospital will find them, and everything will be all right. Don’t you worry.”
The trip to the hospital was a frightening one. The siren was going, and the attendants were too busy with Janette and Mark to offer Norene any comfort.
At the hospital a nurse helped Norene onto the bed in a little room and cleaned the cuts on her face. Janette and Mark had been taken to a room down the hall. Norene tried to answer all the questions the nurse asked, but there were many things she didn’t know. Then a new nurse came in and put her arm around Norene’s shoulder.
“Your sister is too sick to tell us very much, but whenever she is able to talk, she says, ‘Get the elders.’ Norene, do you know what that means?”
“Oh, yes! She wants you to call the missionaries.”
“What missionaries does she mean?”
“The Mormon missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” Norene answered. “Can you find them?”
“I don’t know if there are any in our town, dear, but I’ll try to find one.”
“Can I see my sister and brother now?”
“Not yet. The doctor is still with them. I’ll be back, and as soon as possible, I’ll take you to see them.”
When she was alone, Norene began to pray. She asked Heavenly Father to help her sister and brother and to please bring Mom and Dad to them quickly. When she opened her eyes, the door had been swung open and she could see nurses and doctors hurrying back and forth, pushing carts and carrying trays filled with bandages and medicines. Then she saw two young men. Their faces were unfamiliar, but Norene knew who they were. They wore suits and had name tags. She had never been so glad to see anyone in her life. Norene ran out of the room. “Are you the elders?” she asked.
“Yes, we are,” one of the young men answered. He glanced at a paper. “Are you Norene?”
“Yes.” She threw her arms around the young missionary’s waist. “Will you give my brother and sister a blessing? They’re really hurt.”
“We’ll be glad to, Norene,” the other missionary replied. “Would you like a blessing too?”
“Yes, please,” she answered.
An elderly couple hurried down the hall. “We got here as soon as we could,” the man said, all out of breath.
“Brother and Sister Kendall,” the first missionary said, “this is Norene. We’re going to administer to her and her brother and sister now.”
A calm feeling came into the room when the elders put their hands on Janette’s head and then on Mark’s. They asked Heavenly Father to heal them and to help the doctors do everything they needed to do. When Norene’s turn came, a peaceful feeling took the place of the frantic one she had had, and she knew everything would be all right.
The doctor and nurses came back into the room to take care of Janette and Mark. One of the nurses said, “I’m afraid you won’t be able to see your brother and sister again until tomorrow. Please go out to the waiting room now and try to get some rest.”
Norene and the missionaries went back into the hallway. The elderly woman held out her hand. “Until your parents are located and can get here, how would you like to come home with us?” Sister Kendall asked. “My husband and I are here on a mission, too, and we have grandchildren back home who are just about your age. It would be a treat to have you stay overnight with us.”
Norene thought for a minute. She felt sure that Heavenly Father would watch over Janette and Mark and that He must have sent these kind people to take care of her until her mom and dad came. She reached out, put her hand in Sister Kendall’s and walked with her toward the door.

When I started my doctoral program, I felt discouraged. The program accepted only four students that year, and the other students were brilliant. They had higher test scores and more work experience at senior management positions, and they exuded confidence in their abilities. After my first two weeks in the program, feelings of discouragement and doubt began to take hold, almost overwhelming me.
I decided that if I were going to complete this four-year program, I would finish reading the Book of Mormon each semester. Each day as I read, I recognized the Savior’s declaration that the Holy Ghost would teach me all things and would bring all things to my remembrance. It reaffirmed who I am as a son of God, reminded me not to compare myself with the others, and gave me the confidence in my divine role to succeed.

After Sister Teh and I dated for a little while, it became obvious that I wanted to spend eternity with her. Naturally, I made it a subject of earnest prayer and fasting. No particular change in my feeling followed. I did not feel a burning in my bosom. I did, however, continue to feel good about my decision, so I persevered. Sister Teh got the same answer, so here we are. Since that experience, I have arrived at many of my decisions in a similar fashion (see D&C 6:22–23).
Contrast that with experiences I now have concerning specific assignments from the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles to call a new stake president. As I approach this assignment in the spirit of prayer and fasting, I have been blessed with distinct impressions that help me know who should be called. The impressions come sometimes before, sometimes during, or sometimes even after the interview process. I always feel a burning in my bosom. I have since recognized that as the way the Holy Ghost guides me in such assignments.

One morning a call was received at the Kendall chapel. A lady explained that she understood the Church had a group of people who were going out to patch roofs and windows to keep the rains out. She was told that this was true, and she left her address. She was told that volunteers would be out soon to do whatever they could to assist. She then asked if she had to come and pay first and also whom should she pay. She was told that there would be no charge, at which she began to cry uncontrollably, finally managing to say, “I can only thank God for you people, for I have no means of paying anything.”

My seminary teacher began my very first seminary class by passing out small booklets to all the students. I was ready to really dig into the gospel at seminary, so I was excited to find out what wisdom these little books held. When I received my book and flipped through it, however, I realized it was full of blank pages.
My teacher explained that these blank books were for us to record our own spiritual impressions. He then shared a quote from Elder Richard G. Scott (1928–2015) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles:
“Write down in a secure place the important things you learn from the Spirit. You will find that as you write down precious impressions, often more will come. Also, the knowledge you gain will be available throughout your life.”1
My teacher bore testimony of Elder Scott’s words and encouraged us to write down insights we received as we studied the scriptures that year.
I was touched by Elder Scott’s promise that the Lord will give us more direction when we write down what we receive, and I wanted to show Heavenly Father that I valued His guidance. The only problem was that I wasn’t sure I even knew how to receive personal revelation. I couldn’t think of anything I should write down. There was no way I could ever fill up my book with insights!
But Elder Scott’s words stuck with me throughout the day, and by the next morning I had decided that I would trust the counsel of a living prophet and try to write down impressions.
Within a couple of weeks my daily scripture study changed. Before, I would read a few verses every day just to be able to check “read my scriptures” off my to-do list. Now I was looking for answers. I was looking for something that the Lord wanted me to write down.
Soon I found out that Elder Scott’s promises were true. I started to recognize the Spirit’s voice as I studied, first helping me feel God’s love, then testifying of truth as I read, and finally giving specific direction for my life. Not only did I have things to write in my study journal, but also—and much more importantly—I was learning how to recognize personal revelation.
Blessings continue to come. The act of writing things down helps me remember them later more easily, and I also now have a record to reference if I can’t quite remember the details of a lesson I learned. When I’m discouraged or struggling with a gospel question, I go back and read about specific experiences where I received undeniable confirmation of the basic truths of the gospel. These experiences are the backbone of my testimony, and my study journal is a way to always keep them fresh in my mind.
I will always be grateful that I decided to take an Apostle’s advice and write things down, even though at first I thought I had nothing to write. Keeping a study journal has shown me how to recognize when God speaks to me.

I learned from my wife the importance of expressions of love. Early in our marriage, often I would open my scriptures to give a message in a meeting, and I would find an affectionate, supportive note Jeanene had slipped into the pages. Sometimes they were so tender that I could hardly talk. Those precious notes from a loving wife were and continue to be a priceless treasure of comfort and inspiration.
I began to do the same thing with her, not realizing how much it truly meant to her. I remember one year we didn’t have the resources for me to give her a valentine, so I decided to paint a watercolor on the front of the refrigerator. I did the best I could; only I made one mistake. It was enamel paint, not watercolor. She never let me try to remove that permanent paint from the refrigerator.
I remember one day I took some of those little round paper circles that form when you punch holes in paper, and I wrote on them the numbers 1 to 100. I turned each over and wrote her a message, one word on each circle. Then I scooped them up and put them in an envelope. I thought she would get a good laugh.
When she passed away, I found in her private things how much she appreciated the simple messages that we shared with each other. I noted that she had carefully pasted every one of those circles on a piece of paper. She not only kept my notes to her, but she protected them with plastic coverings as if they were a valuable treasure. There is only one that she didn’t put with the others. It is still behind the glass in our kitchen clock. It reads, “Jeanene, it is time to tell you I love you.” It remains there and reminds me of that exceptional daughter of Father in Heaven.

There is an old story of a waiter who asked a customer whether he had enjoyed the meal. The guest replied that everything was fine, but it would have been better if they had served more bread. The next day, when the man returned, the waiter doubled the amount of bread, giving him four slices instead of two, but still the man was not happy. The next day, the waiter doubled the bread again, without success.

On the fourth day, the waiter was really determined to make the man happy. And so he took a nine-foot-long (3-m) loaf of bread, cut it in half, and with a smile, served that to the customer. The waiter could scarcely wait for the man’s reaction.

After the meal, the man looked up and said, “Good as always. But I see you’re back to giving only two slices of bread.”

Nearly one year ago, our daughter Alisa died. She had struggled with cancer for almost eight years, with several surgeries, many different treatments, exciting miracles, and deep disappointments. We watched her physical condition deteriorate as she came to the close of her mortal life. It was excruciating to see that happen to our precious daughter—that bright-eyed little baby who had grown up to be a talented, wonderful woman, wife, and mother. I thought my heart would break.
Last year at Easter time, a little over a month before she passed away, Alisa wrote: “Easter is a reminder of all that I hope for myself. That someday I will be healed and someday I will be whole. Someday I won’t have any metal or plastic inside of me. Someday my heart will be free of fear and my mind free of anxieties. I am not praying that this happens soon, but I am so glad I truly believe in a beautiful afterlife.”1
Each of us has physical, mental, and emotional limitations and weaknesses. These challenges, some of which seem so intractable now, will eventually be resolved. None of these problems will plague us after we are resurrected. Alisa researched survival rates for persons with the type of cancer she had, and the numbers were not encouraging. She wrote: “But there is a cure, so I’m not scared. Jesus has already cured my cancer, and yours. … I will be better. I’m glad I know this.”10
I long to see my mother again and feel her gentle touch and look into her loving eyes. I want to see my father’s smile and hear his laugh and see him as a resurrected, perfect being. With an eye of faith, I picture Alisa completely beyond the reach of any earthly troubles or any sting of death—a resurrected, perfected Alisa, victorious and with a fulness of joy.
A few Easters ago, she wrote simply: “Life through His name. So much hope. Always. Through everything. I love Easter to remind me.”23