Gospel Story Finder

In the early 1850s, Elizabeth’s family joined 90,000 gold rush migrants across the world to Victoria, Australia. They settled near Bendigo in 1853, when Elizabeth was seven years old.
Sadly, her family did not make their fortune in the gold rush. By the time Elizabeth was an adult, her parents had both left the family. She was raised mostly by her uncle, was unable to attend school and often worked long hours on his farm.
Elizabeth married a Chinese farmer, but he was also lured away by the gold rush and left her to raise their eight children with only her housekeeping and sewing skills. Times were difficult.
Although illiterate, Elizabeth knew the value of education and found creative ways to learn. She was determined to give her children more opportunities to elevate themselves than she had received. For example, she had her young sons read the daily newspaper to her, and they became good readers by the time they started school.
At 53, Elizabeth seized another learning opportunity. She and her daughter Jessie were walking down the street in Bendigo when a man in a black coat and top hat introduced himself as a missionary from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He offered them a book and said it would teach them God’s plan for His children. Elizabeth always eagerly accepted free books, but this one would change their lives.
All through that night, Jessie read The Book of Mormon to her mother, and the Holy Spirit affirmed to them this book was true.
Elizabeth and three of her children were baptized on 2 February 1902. A couple years later, her two grandsons were baptized.
The family eventually moved to Melbourne, where they connected with other members of the Church. It was a haven for them to be around like-minded people. Elizabeth was especially touched by the warm welcome they received from the sisters, who opened their homes for Sunday meetings and generously provided meals.
Although they were not organised as part of the official Relief Society organisation yet, the sisters worked together to cook, sew, and coordinate fundraising efforts for a new chapel. Elizabeth felt a companionship with these women that she had never known before.
Meanwhile, World War I broke out. To help connect women with each other during that challenging time, the Church published its Relief Society Magazine, which became an important resource for the sisters in Melbourne. They discussed its articles, poetry and stories as they gathered to knit socks and prepare parcels for soldiers in Europe and the Middle East.
Elizabeth’s two grandsons had enlisted to serve in the war. Her son Horace also enlisted and was sent to the Middle East as part of Australia’s Light Horse regiments.
Church attendance dwindled as more brethren were called to military duty. Soon, it was up to the women—Elizabeth and her friends—to keep their small branch together. The sisters looked forward to their weekly meetings for spiritual renewal and social and personal upliftment.
By the end of the war, almost every family in their area had lost a brother, a husband, a son or grandson. For Elizabeth, it was her grandson William Wallace Cameron Butler who died in the Battle of Fromelles. The bond amongst the sisters in the branch grew even stronger as they supported each other through the heartbreak. Then they began rebuilding their lives.
President Arnold Miller was called to lead the Victorian Conference—what we would now call a district. One of his first objectives was to support the official organisation of Australia’s Relief Society, under priesthood direction.
The first Relief Society meeting in Australia was held in Victoria on 15 July 1921. By 1923, Elizabeth was amongst the 22 sisters enrolled in the Melbourne Branch Relief Society. These were happy times where sisters could strengthen and feel strengthened.
In later life, Elizabeth hesitated to talk to her children about her childhood—her story was too sad to tell, she would say. Yet, the seed of faith that she allowed to be planted in her heart had grown beyond measure. In her wake, descendants for whom Elizabeth set the example, have been stalwarts in wards and stakes, faithfully building the Church wherever they live.
Through the lens of this humble lady’s life, we can look back at the beginnings of the Relief Society organisation in Australia and see through her legacy its true purpose: to prepare women for the blessings of eternal life, to strengthen individuals and families and to unite to help those in need.

Before I was baptized in 2006, I had been participating in another church that my family belonged to. Initially I was afraid to talk about the Church to my family because I feared rejection. But when I began to place the Posters from the Liahona in a few places in our house, family members began to ask, “What is this picture about? What does it mean?” These questions made it easier to talk about what the Church offers to families. Through this means, my youngest sister was baptized, and now, while I’m on my mission, my father and mother write me saying how they love going to church.
Elder Almeida, 20, Brazil São Paulo East Mission

I take a lot of hard classes, so typically I get home from school and am overwhelmed by my workload. By the end of the night, I am exhausted. This leads to superficial scripture study and prayer.

But this year I changed things. I started reading my scriptures before doing my homework. This made a tremendous change in my life. After reading my scriptures, I could get my homework done much faster, and even had extra time after. I’ve received more guidance on how to face my challenges and even help my friends. As I study the scriptures with the challenges of the school day fresh on my mind, I receive specific guidance for facing those challenges.

The Lord never leaves us alone. As I have prioritized things of God, I have learned that He always prepares a way for us to accomplish the things He commands of us (see 1 Nephi 3:7).

Rozlyn N., 17, Arizona, USA

Dr. Kenneth MacFarland, a great, nonpartisan, national patriot, gave a speech entitled “Selling America to Americans.” He told about a young soldier who returned from Vietnam. In a very serious talk with his parents, the young soldier asked if they loved America. He asked how they felt about this great and glorious nation. Both mother and father got a little teary-eyed and said that they loved this country dearly, that it was more precious to them than their own life. “Why didn’t you tell me that when I was growing up?” he said. “I never heard you once say that you loved America. You never taught me to love it. I can’t tell you what an ungrateful pup I have been. I had to go to Vietnam to find out what the United States of America is all about. I would gladly lay down my life for it. I would have given anything to know how you felt about it when I was growing up.”

Years passed, and I got my mission call. Before leaving to go to Argentina, I dropped by Will’s house to say good-bye and tell him I’d miss him. He wasn’t home at first, but his mom was. Surprisingly, she shared with me how much she appreciated the friendship I had offered Will. His dad had abandoned them when Will was two, and with no male role model for him, she felt helpless as she watched him grow up. She felt she was losing touch with her son. After her husband had left, she had prayed that her son would make a friend, a friend who would help keep her son out of trouble.
“You were that friend,” she told me. “Thanks for helping me raise my son. Thanks for answering my prayers.”
I couldn’t help but hug her. She was the mother of my best friend through high school. The mother of a friend who had always been there for me. All this time she thought Heavenly Father had answered her prayer, and I thought He had answered mine. I know God hears our prayers. And sometimes, some very special times, He uses us to answer them too.

Brother Bob Layton, a news reporter for a local radio station, produced a two-part documentary on Si. It is the station’s policy to never play a documentary more than once, but the listener response to the Si Peterson story was so overwhelming, that they had to repeat it many times. Eventually the soundtrack from the documentary was combined with a series of photographic slides to form a sight and sound presentation. Brother Layton has, on request, taken this presentation to firesides, schools, and community organizations many times. The letters of response, many from school children, are evidence that Si has truly been an instrument of bringing people to God. One girl wrote, “Your faith and your acceptance of your accident help me to believe too.”

At the finish line Paula Hurtado, 14, helped her special friend, Jamie, to hold the crepe paper ribbon across the road. Jamie has cerebral palsy, is retarded, and has always been confined to a wheelchair. She was unable to enter any of the races, but cheered her brother on to a gold medal.
“She is really special,” said Paula. “I think she is having a lot of fun. I brought her cookies last week. I was kind of scared, but this is fun,” she added.

I also thought in youth conference those weeks ago about my mother-in-law. She was born with an enormous amount of musical talent. That led to a strong childhood desire to be a dancer on Broadway or in the movies. Being from a small farm town and born into a family with an average income, she was never able to find a way to make that dream reality.

Following high school in the early 1940s, Mom went to San Francisco to work, always harboring a secret desire to find the opportunity of her heart.

During a particular time of homesickness, she prayed. The Holy Ghost taught her that she could be what she wanted to be, but that she should always try to be like the Savior. It was then that she decided to pursue special traits like thoughtfulness, kindness, affection, and compassion. Those traits had always been there and they had been used periodically in adolescence. Now they would become a way of life for her.

It was never easy for any of them. Bob has worked hard in his service as a stake president. Paul has worked diligently to be a good young father. Mom has dealt with many crises in her life. They all have tried to face their obstacles in a Christlike way. Pain, hurt, and dread have been a part of their lives. It was part of Christ’s life, too!

Bob doesn’t fly jets anymore. He is now serving as a mission president. Paul is now a stake missionary. Mom has never danced professionally, though she has used her musical talents on numerous occasions. She is now serving a full-time mission with her husband. Each has lived a good and faithful life.

I’ve always made an impressive grilled cheese sandwich. Between that delectable dish and a handful of other recipes, I kept myself alive and functioning throughout my mission and well into adulthood. But then I got married and had kids, all of whom have different tastes. I needed to expand my menu!

However, on nights when it was my turn to cook, attempting new meals proved to be a challenge. For starters, my evening time was usually limited. Even though I wanted to cook a variety of meals, I kept hitting snags. I couldn’t find ingredients fast enough, or we’d be missing some. More often than not, I’d scrap my planned dinner and instead go for quick and easy. And yet I kept wanting to improve in this area. So I decided to do something I had never done. I prayed for a spiritual gift by name.

Specifically, I prayed for the gift of organization. Yes, organization! We already had a spice cupboard. We also had cooking utensils drawers. Yet even with those in place, I seemed to spend more time looking for supplies than cooking.

As I consistently prayed for this gift, I began receiving specific ideas. A wall-mounted spice rack would organize spices and keep them handy. A magnetic kitchen bar (also wall-mounted) could store knives and other metal cooking utensils. These and other ideas, once put in motion, made a big difference in my cooking efforts. Need some thyme? Garlic salt? Garlic powder? I’m your guy!

But then a funny thing happened. Little ideas continued popping into my mind for small ways to better organize other areas of my life. For example, my three-level homemade laundry tower won’t carry my family to the promised land, but even Nephi would’ve appreciated the way in which I built it—by following promptings that came to me one piece at a time.

The spiritual gift of organization has improved my life and the lives of my family more than I would’ve ever guessed.

And it all came because I asked for it.

I was born and raised in a small city in Chile. When I was 12 years old, I saw the missionaries for the first time, and I was curious. Then one day a classmate at school told me that he and his family had become members of the Church. He invited me, and I attended all Sunday meetings and Tuesday activities for several months.

Our branch was new, and because I attended practically from the beginning, everyone thought I was a member. After six months I told one of the missionaries I was not, because I thought the missionaries were interested only in families.

The missionaries tried to involve my family, but my parents and siblings were not interested. They invited me to be baptized, but since I was 12, I needed my parents’ permission. I thought my father would say I needed to wait until I was 18, but he said, “I have seen my son wake up every Sunday morning while his brothers and sisters keep sleeping, dress up in his best clothes, and walk to the chapel. If my son will be responsible with this decision, you have my permission.” I couldn’t believe it. I was in heaven in that moment. So I was baptized the following day.

As I was growing up, I watched my family become strong in the gospel through their solid faith. I followed them, wanting to be strong in the gospel, and learned to live their teachings and work hard to develop faith in God. When I grew up, the time came for me to prove my faith in God. I applied for my passport and sent in my papers to serve a mission. I received my mission call within a month but not the passport. I waited more than 45 days but no result.
I served a mini mission while waiting for the passport. My mission president, President Karl E. Nelson, called me every morning and asked me for my passport status. I kept praying for my passport. I thought that Heavenly Father needed me to put in more effort, so I fasted and prayed. Then I felt inspired to meet the district collector even though I didn’t know who he was. With my mission president’s permission, I went to meet the district collector with my companion and submitted a petition for my passport, as my mission president had instructed. One thing I noticed was that the other officers were expecting a bribe, but I decided not to give even a single penny. I was going to serve God, and I knew that the prophet’s words were true and that what needed to happen would happen.
Now the time scheduled for me to go to the MTC and start my mission was close. There was only one week left. My faith was tested, whether I would be persistent in my decision or whether I would I give up. I never gave up. After much discouragement and many trials and temptations, I remembered the words of God: “Faith without works is dead”1 and “ye receive no witness until after the trial of your faith”2. Finally, Heavenly Father blessed me to receive my passport and visa within four days and I was on my way to the MTC in Manila, the very day fixed by the prophet. Many times since, I have had trials of my faith, but I have tried to remain true to God and to what I was taught in my youth.

One elder who was transferred from another mission wanted to go home. He knew his parents and bishop wanted him to stay and complete his mission. In one of the many interviews we had, he said that five previous elders in his ward had abandoned their missions and had returned home early. I thought what a great disservice the first elder did to the other young men who followed his poor example. I made a solemn vow that this elder would not go home until his mission was completed successfully. Every week for thirteen to fifteen weeks he would write in his letter to the president all the reasons he should be released from his mission. Each week I wrote a letter of response.
After all these weeks I received a letter which appeared the same as the others—until I got to the P.S. He said, “President, you are winning and you know it.” I sat in my office, and tears filled my eyes.
Vince Lombardi said, “The harder you fight for something, the harder it is to surrender.” This elder completed his mission as a great presiding zone leader. He has a great warmth and a great talent to teach; he loves and cares for people; and he is extremely spiritual. He returned home with an honorable release from a very successful mission, married a beautiful girl in the temple, and now they live near the temple where they visit regularly. This elder set a great example for all prospective missionaries from his ward.

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

Chances are you haven’t heard of the town of Santa Maria in the Philippines. There’s not much to see in this sleepy farming community—or so you think until you climb the mountains for a sprawling view of the national capital, Manila. It’s definitely kahanga-hanga—a marvel.
And chances are you haven’t—but must—hear of Santa Maria’s other marvel, an ordinary-looking elder who is surely kahanga-hanga too. Elder Bienveniedo Cayetano can tie neckties single-handedly or give left-handed handshakes nonstop. But it’s an armful of spiritual strength that has made him an exceptional missionary.
At first glance, Bien is like any other 19-year-old Filipino Latter-day Saint serving in the Philippines San Pablo Mission. But shake hands with him and you’ll notice something unusual. Bien lost his entire right arm during an earthquake. But that’s going ahead of the story.
Bien comes from a large family. To support their widowed mother, all of the Cayetano children did backbreaking labor in the rice fields. Nevertheless, they managed to attend school. Bien garnered medals in English, newswriting, and fine arts. He won track-and-field awards.
An older brother, Chris, had previously been baptized, but the rest of the family did not follow. While serving a mission, Chris requested that the elders back home visit Bien, who was taught and soon accepted baptism. But as Bien started high school, other pursuits—including a new group of friends—made church seem less attractive.
“My brother could not force me to go,” says Bien, “and I resisted attempts to reactivate me.” But Bien knew that despite good grades and many friends, he felt empty and aimless at times. He remembered how happy people at church were, and finally decided to return.
After graduating with honors from high school, Bien studied political science at the Christian College of the Philippines. “We were talking in class about earthquakes,” Bien remembers, “laughing about getting caught in one.” Suddenly, the whole classroom swayed. It was an earthquake.
Terrified, everyone scrambled to escape. The building was dancing madly. Just as Bien was about to dash to safety through an open door, he was pinned by an avalanche of concrete.
“A broken chair jabbed at my stomach, one of my legs was in a half-kneeling posture, and I was face down,” he remembers. His fractured right arm bled profusely under a block of collapsed flooring. Yet, incredibly, a huge chunk of fallen concrete had barely missed his head. “Classmates were crying for help, but I couldn’t budge,” Bien recalls. One by one they died, including three lying on Bien. The quake struck in late afternoon, and by evening it was pitch dark. Everything was silent.
“I cried,” Bien admits. But as he wept, a Primary song crossed his mind. He started singing “I Am a Child of God.” As each word pierced the silence, a feeling of peace came, a feeling that he was no longer alone. “I prayed, saying, ‘Father, if I still need to live, then please let me live.’” As he prayed, Bien remembered the Savior. “He suffered a lot more than I did,” Bien realized. The cave-in became a tremendous spiritual experience.
As the sun rose the following morning, so did Bien’s hopes. Rescue workers pried him from the rubble and carried him to safety. His relieved family was notified. Bien was rushed to a hospital. Doctors immediately amputated his right arm. “I woke up, looked at my right side and cried out, ‘What’s happening here?’ I thought I was dreaming.” Shock turned to sorrow. “I felt so lonely because I might not be able to do what I used to do.”
After three bedridden months, Bien went home. Nearly all of his 50 classmates had perished. It seemed the same thing happened to Bien’s will to live. How could he, a right-handed person, manage with just his left hand?
While tutoring his nephews one day, Bien felt prompted to practice writing the alphabet. At first it was pure frustration. “My mind knew the shapes, but my hand had difficulty following.” However, practice makes perfect; less than a year after that fateful day, Bien was not only writing with ease but also back to his oil-painting hobby. And he resumed college.
After a year, he felt it was time to make use of his newfound strength to serve a mission. His family was aghast. “We’d really worry about you,” his mother protested.
“I know this is what the Lord wants,” Bien reassured her.
Months later, as a missionary, Bien received a family letter. “Don’t worry about us,” they wrote. “We’re boasting about you already.”
Bien’s personality affects just about everybody. At the Manila Missionary Training Center he was an inspiration, and his dedication has touched the Santa Maria branch. But Bien admits there are still some challenges, like forgoing basketball and service projects like harvesting rice.
One of Bien’s favorite scriptures says God “will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will … also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it” (1 Cor. 10:13). It’s a scripture that helps Bien see everything as a learning experience.
Mission life, he says, “is like a school where I learn much, not only about the gospel but also about myself.” He hastens to add that it was in the rubble of another school where he learned to trust Heavenly Father.
Ask Bien to sum up his blessings and he’ll share his motto: “I asked God for health that I might do great things, and I was given an infirmity that I might do greater things.”
Then he’ll smile and extend his friendship to you—with a warm, left-handed handshake.

Erin, from North Carolina, USA, and her family (left) have always had one goal in mind: to become an eternal family. However, Erin’s father was not a member of the Church.
“Of course my mom and siblings wanted my dad to share in the blessings of the gospel. The gospel of Jesus Christ made us happy, and we wanted Dad to share in that happiness. We also all desperately wanted to be sealed together as a family,” Erin says.
Determined to become a forever family, Erin and her siblings and mother did all they could to keep the commandments and develop strong faith, and they prayed together for their father’s heart to be touched by the gospel.
Though it took several years, Erin’s father was finally baptized and confirmed. Ten days after his baptism, he was able to baptize Erin’s younger brother and sister. Soon their family will reach their goal of being sealed in the temple.

After the closing prayer, I carefully watched Sister Forester, the Primary president. Because I’m deaf, she always smiles and nods at me when it is time for my Merrie Miss class to leave Primary. Her lips shape the words, “You may leave now.”
But Sister Forester’s mouth formed different words this time. “Melissa, please stay after Primary.”
I watched the other girls move by in their pastel and print dresses. Why was I supposed to stay? I hadn’t done anything wrong. Or had I?
I usually have to read the lips of people at church, but Sister Forester knows sign language. She told me once that her sister was deaf. Now she beckoned me to meet her on the Primary stand. I sat down beside her. The scent of her perfume tickled my nose. Then she moved her lips. “Would you sing for our special Father’s Day program next month?”
Something in my stomach turned to a hard lump, and I felt the blood rush to my face. Was Sister Forester making fun of me? She knew that I couldn’t sing. Even when I tried talking, other children sometimes made fun of the sounds that came from my throat.
Every Sunday I ached inside when all the other children sang and I had to sit there on the hard metal chairs in silence. I learned the words, and tried to imagine what music was. But I knew that as long as I lived, I would never sing a word. There was no music for a deaf person.
But looking into Sister Forester’s eyes now, I saw only kindness. I knew she wasn’t joking. Quickly I signed, “I can’t sing. I’m deaf.”
Sister Forester reached out her hand. I felt the back of her fingers touch my cheek. Then her mouth formed the words, “I don’t want you to sing with your voice. I want you to sing with your hands. Would you sign the words to the first verse of ‘I Believe in Christ’ while the other children sing them?”
The knot in my stomach tightened. I knew she was trying to be kind, trying to find something for me to do, but it would be so hard. How would I know how fast to move my arms, when to start, when to stop? I asked Sister Forester, and she said that she would give me special signals.
I told her I would think about it and talk to my parents.
Sister Forester smiled, then signed, “Could you talk to Heavenly Father, too, since it’s His Son you will be singing about?” Then her lips moved again. “If He doesn’t want you to do it, that’s OK.”
I felt relieved. Sister Forester wouldn’t force me, and I knew my parents would let me choose. I promised that I would pray about it. I thought that Heavenly Father wouldn’t want me to look silly in church, either.
But when I asked Heavenly Father, His Spirit came through the silence and warmed my heart, and I knew that I should do it.
“But I’m scared,” I told Him. “What if everyone laughs at my funny signs?” Then I cried.
I practiced hard for the next month. One day each week I went to Sister Forester’s house. She had been a dancer, and she taught me to move my arms and hands in slow, soft motions as I signed the words. She said that the movements were like music and that with practice I could turn my signs into a gorgeous melody. Her words were kind, but I wasn’t sure.
When I woke up the morning of the program, I wanted to be sick. I lay in bed and buried my face in my pillow. I thought about how silly I would look as I waved my arms around. To people who didn’t understand sign language, I would look like an octopus.
Dad must have guessed that I was having trouble. He came in my room and sat on the edge of the bed. His eyes smiled kindly. “Are you afraid?” he asked.
I nodded.
He held out his arms. I rolled over and sat up. Dad’s arms wrapped around me. Then gently he pushed me back so that I could see his face. “Sister Forester told me that you remind her of an angel when you sing ‘I Believe in Christ’ your way. She believes that the ward members will enjoy your song very much.”
Dad’s words didn’t seem to help, but having him close to me did. His lips moved again. “If you become frightened, just remember Whom you are singing about.”
Even you don’t understand, Dad, I thought. Moving your hands isn’t singing at all.
An hour later I was standing at the podium in front of a microphone I wouldn’t use. My mouth was dry. The ward members filled the chapel, and the clock on the back wall seemed to have stopped. Sister Forester was signaling that it was nearly time for me to start.
I lifted my arms. They felt like wriggly worms that didn’t want to obey my head. My heart pounded, and I wasn’t sure that I could remember all the movements Sister Forester had taught me. The atmosphere around me seemed thicker than usual. Why couldn’t I hear? Why couldn’t I sing like other children?
Sister Forester gave me the signal, and I began moving my arms and hands to her rhythm. “I believe in Christ …”
I saw Sister Forester smile, and Dad’s words came to me: “Remember Whom you are singing about.” A warmth came into my heart. I pushed the fear away and sang the only way I knew how.
Sister Forester and I worked together, just as we had practiced. My hands moved effortlessly as I signed the words. But I wasn’t performing. I was bearing my testimony through song. Finally I signed the last words: “Good works were His; His name be praised.”
Finished, I looked down from the stand. Everyone’s eyes seemed to be on me. I saw tears on the cheeks of gray-haired Brother Hansen. Sister Frankel was dabbing her eyes under her glasses with a handkerchief. Sister Forester smiled like she does in Sharing Time when she’s trying not to cry. Even Mom and Dad were wiping tears off their smiling faces.
Then I knew why Sister Forester and Heavenly Father had asked me to do this. It was to teach me that songs about the Savior come from the heart, not the lips or the hands. Now I know that He hears the songs of all the silent children in the world. He always has. He always will.

Two years later my wife and I drove past the scene of a car accident. I realized that no police or ambulance had arrived yet. I had just completed an emergency medical technician course, so I stopped to see if I could help. When I made my way through the crowd, I saw an overturned vehicle with a small child lying nearby on the ground. There was no one giving her any care. I kneeled beside her and began to assess her condition, which was serious.
As I did, I heard someone call my name. I looked up into the face of a man in our ward who was less active. I realized this was his young daughter, who had attended our Primary. A nurse arrived, and we began CPR. When the ambulance crew took over, I returned to my friend’s side. I learned later that his child had ended up partially under the vehicle and others had pulled her out before my arrival. Her injuries were internal, and she did not survive.

A translator in the Philippines discovered another problem. He completed his translation of the Gospel of John, printed it, and gave some copies to the tribe he was with. Nobody liked it, and nobody read it. After some investigation, he found that the native language had two forms for stories, one for fiction and one for true stories. In his translation, he had used the fictional form. He redid the translation in the other form, and the new version was a success.

When Marcus Martins and his wife, Mirian, received their calling to the Brazil São Paulo North Mission, the Laie, Hawaii, USA, residents were counseled by Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles that there would have to be sacrifice, but he told them not to sacrifice too much.
The Martins went home and prayed to know how they could afford to accept this opportunity. They sold everything. “The blessing—we sold everything in one day,” Sister Martins said. “It was a miracle for us.”

I recall a very troubling conversation I had years ago with a young man in a South American airport, where we were both delayed by late planes.
His hair was long and his face bearded, his glasses large and round. Sandals were on his feet, and his clothing such as to give the appearance of total indifference to any standard of style.
He was earnest and evidently sincere. He was educated and thoughtful, a graduate of a great North American university. Without employment and sustained by his father, he was traveling through South America.
What was he after in life? I asked. “Peace—and freedom” was his immediate response. Did he use drugs? Yes, they were one of his means to obtain the peace and freedom he sought. Discussion of drugs led to discussion of morals. He talked matter-of-factly about the new morality that gave so much more freedom than any previous generation had ever known.
He had learned in our opening introductions that I was a churchman; and he let me know, in something of a condescending way, that the morality of my generation was a joke. Then with earnestness he asked how I could honestly defend personal virtue and moral chastity. I shocked him a little when I declared that his freedom was a delusion, that his peace was a fraud, and that I would tell him why. …
Can there be peace in the heart of any person, can there be freedom in the life of one who has been left only misery as the bitter fruit of indulgence?
Can anything be more false or dishonest than gratification of passion without acceptance of responsibility? …
No family can have peace, no life can be free from the storms of adversity unless that family and that home are built on foundations of morality, fidelity, and mutual respect. There cannot be peace where there is not trust; there cannot be freedom where there is not loyalty. The warm sunlight of love will not rise out of a swamp of immorality. …
Is there a valid case for virtue in our world? It is the only way to freedom from regret. The peace of conscience which flows therefrom is the only personal peace that is not counterfeit.1