Gospel Story Finder

It was a beautiful Sunday morning. Augusto sat on his porch to enjoy the sunshine. His daughter, Mylene, climbed onto his lap.
“Tatay (Dad),” she said, “why don’t we go to church like my friends?”
Augusto wasn’t sure what to say.
“Well,” he said finally, “your mom and I went to different churches before we got married. But afterwards we stopped. We still believe in God and study the Bible, though.”
Mylene nodded. But Augusto kept thinking about her question. Maybe he did need to take his family to church.
Augusto decided to pray. “If you want me to serve in a church or do anything for you, just let me know,” he told Heavenly Father.
A few days later, there was a knock at the door. It was two young men in white shirts and black nametags. They said they were from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Augusto had many questions for them. For nine months, he listened to them teach. Finally, he decided to be baptized. He promised God that he would always do his best to obey and help others. His wife, Myrna, was baptized one month later. And little Mylene was happy to go to church!
Augusto and his family helped the Church to grow. They helped build the Church’s first chapel in the Philippines. Augusto also served as a branch president several times. Even though it was hard, Augusto remembered the promise he made at his baptism to do his best.
Years passed. Augusto’s family grew, and so did the Church. When the first stake in the Philippines was organized, Augusto was the stake president. Mylene grew up and got married in the temple. So did Augusto’s other children. Some served missions too.
Eventually, Augusto was called to be a mission president in the Philippines. He helped the missionaries have faith and share the gospel, just like the missionaries who taught him.
One day, Augusto got a phone call from the prophet. He asked Augusto to serve as a General Authority. That meant Augusto would teach other leaders in the Church. It also meant he would give a talk in general conference!
When it was his turn to speak, Augusto stepped up to the pulpit. He took a deep breath. He talked about the faithful members in the Philippines. He talked about the missionaries there who worked so hard. And he shared his testimony of God’s love.
As he sat back down, Augusto felt happy. He knew Heavenly Father had helped him keep the promise he made at baptism. And no matter what happened, Augusto knew he would keep that promise for the rest of his life.

Name has been changed.
I began to drink at a young age. In the country where I lived, that was socially accepted, and I felt pressure to drink to be accepted.
After I got married, my husband and I became submerged in alcoholism. This truly worried my parents. Even after my husband and I had our first child, our addiction to alcohol did not stop.
Soon after the birth of our child, I became a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and I stopped drinking and started making progress to overcome my addiction. These changes irritated my husband, and he was upset that I would not drink and party with him.
After much prayer and fasting, seeking to determine the will of the Lord, I left my husband and moved to the United States. As I strived to live the gospel of Jesus Christ, I was able to overcome my alcoholism, but I still struggled to manage my anxiety and feelings of desperation. I eventually got remarried to a fellow Church member, but I continued to struggle.
I was invited to an addiction recovery program group by a sister at church. I have no doubt that Heavenly Father is mindful of me because what I learned there was specifically for me. We discussed how the feeling of isolation is a common element for those who have experienced addiction. This isolation was something that I had imposed on myself and struggled with.
Through the addiction recovery program, I realized that I do not have to live isolated from God and others. I have the strength and the faith to face challenges and overcome them.
Now I know that I am not alone. I still attend the group meetings, and sometimes my husband attends the group meetings with me. There are people from everywhere at the online meetings, and we learn from each other’s experiences and offer support to each other. My bishop, my husband, and my children also know that I need their support.
Most of all, I know that it is through the Atonement of Christ that I can overcome my addiction.

I’ve had a testimony of the Book of Mormon since the first time I read it when I was younger. But truthfully, my scripture “study” in the months preceding the October 2018 general conference felt more like casual skimming. So when President Nelson challenged the women of the Church to read the Book of Mormon by the end of the year, it felt like just the invitation I needed.
His invitation came with some powerful promises too. He said, “As you prayerfully study, I promise that the heavens will open for you” (“Sisters’ Participation in the Gathering of Israel,” Liahona, Nov. 2018, 69).
As I listened, I felt excited to recommit to the book I’ve grown to love so much, and I couldn’t wait for the heavens to open for me.
And they did. In so many ways. After completing this Book of Mormon challenge, I’ve spent time pondering on the experience I had and am still having. I’m amazed by what I learned, how I felt, and who I am becoming by studying its inspired pages.
As I read the Book of Mormon at a quicker pace than I am used to, the narrative really came alive. I felt such a connection to those whose testimonies and experiences make up this book.
From Nephi’s brother Sam, I learned that quiet righteousness is noble. From Alma I learned to never surrender my faith. From his son, that it is never too late to approach Christ and experience the cleansing power of His infinite Atonement (see Mosiah 27; Alma 36). King Lamoni’s father inspired me to make more sacrifices for God (see Alma 22:15, 18). Pahoran taught me to be calm and Christlike when I feel misunderstood (see Alma 61). From the brother of Jared I learned that while action on our part is essential, it is not enough; we need Christ’s help and enabling power (see Ether 2–3). From Moroni I learned that though we may feel alone, we never truly are (see Mormon 8:3, 5).
I learned to inquire of the Lord often, to pray fiercely and with faith. I learned the importance of keeping records and bearing testimony and the proper way to repent. I learned that God is mindful, that Christ is merciful, and that They are one in purpose.
I learned that “[feasting] upon the words of Christ” (2 Nephi 32:3) provides the direction I need for my life.
I learned, yet again, that Joseph Smith did not—and could not—write this book.
Was it a coincidence that I read Nephi’s psalm (2 Nephi 4) on a day I felt bogged down by my inadequacies and weaknesses? Of course not. Was it a happy accident that I encountered King Limhi’s declaration, “O how marvelous are the works of the Lord, and how long doth he suffer with his people” (Mosiah 8:20) when I felt alone in my trials? No! With God, there are no coincidences, only perfectly orchestrated tender mercies, and I was the recipient of many as I read. I truly felt my Heavenly Father’s love for me and an incomparable sense of peace as I immersed myself in the Book of Mormon.
It was the Savior’s healing power that I felt most throughout my reading of the Book of Mormon. Verse after verse testifies of His grace, mercy, compassion, and infinite love. As I read about Jesus Christ, I felt overwhelmed with gratitude for His sacrifice. One of the greatest miracles I experienced while reading was the feeling of complete forgiveness for a series of poor choices made years ago. I felt as though the Savior was speaking directly to me as I read. In my heart I felt the words, It’s time to move on. Christ literally provided the healing I needed.
Though I did not see the resurrected Christ as the Nephites did (see 3 Nephi 11), I felt His presence in my life as I read about Him in the Book of Mormon. He truly understands each one of us and our unique trials, and He has the power to save, comfort, and heal us.
As I daily immerse myself in the Book of Mormon, I am more patient, compassionate, grateful, and optimistic. I tend to be less selfish and less concerned with worldly things.
Because of the Book of Mormon and the Spirit it brings into my life, I am a better mother, wife, daughter, and friend. I am a more committed disciple of Jesus Christ.
How can one book have all the answers? How can one book accomplish so much?
Only a book designed by God has that kind of power. And I know it really is of God.
Just as President Nelson promised, the heavens really did open for me, in more ways than I could have ever imagined. So I will continue to read and study the Book of Mormon. I will continue to search its pages and find Christ there because this book really is all about Him.

One of the most powerful experiences I’ve had with this feeling was in my search to find a house to purchase. I was single and had been contemplating buying a house for several years. I told my realtor what I was looking for, and she did an excellent job of finding houses that fit my description. She would show me houses, but I would turn them down because they didn’t feel right. She started asking me what I disliked about each one so that she could better show me homes that would fit my needs. Unfortunately, I couldn’t articulate very well what was missing.
Finally, one afternoon we walked through a house that wasn’t as nice as some of the others we had seen. It was a little more expensive than others. It fit my description for what I had said I wanted but not as perfectly as some we had seen. Nevertheless, after walking through it, I told my realtor I wanted to put in an offer. She seemed somewhat surprised at my willingness to act so quickly. Considering my reluctance through previous months, she was right to be surprised. But the feeling that this was where I needed to live was almost overwhelming. I didn’t feel a need to stop and think about it.
I put in an offer, and the sellers accepted my bid, despite the fact that it was not the highest offer they had received. I told my family that I knew I was supposed to live in that house, though I didn’t know why.
I found out why I needed to live there fairly quickly. I met a woman in the singles ward within a month of moving in. A little over a year later, we knelt across the altar in the temple, where we were sealed as husband and wife.
The Lord truly moves in mysterious ways. I had no idea that He was leading me toward eternal marriage when He helped me choose a house. All I knew was that I was being guided to take this step, and now I can see that that guidance came from His Spirit.

Elder Robert D. Hales of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles reminds us how we can have spiritual light: “When I was a boy, I used to ride my bicycle home from basketball practice at night. I would connect a small pear-shaped generator to my bicycle tire. Then as I pedaled, the tire would turn a tiny rotor, which produced … a single, welcome beam of light. … I learned quickly that if I stopped pedaling my bicycle, the light would go out. I also learned that when I was ‘anxiously engaged’ in pedaling, the light would become brighter and the darkness in front of me would be [forced away].”
Elder Hales explains that “spiritual light comes from daily spiritual pedaling. It comes from praying, studying the scriptures, fasting, and serving—from living the gospel and obeying the commandments” (“Out of Darkness into His Marvelous Light,” Ensign, May 2002, 71).

One night our family went out for pizza and games. When I finished eating my pizza slices, I was still hungry. I wanted to take a slice from my sister Eden, but my parents said not to. A minute later she decided to give me her last slice. That made us all smile.
Two nights later, Eden finished eating her dinner first. It was one of her favorite meals, and she wanted another helping. When I heard my mom tell her it was all gone, I decided to share mine. Eden was happy, and I felt good sharing something with her that she really likes. I remembered the good example Eden was to me when she shared her pizza.

In 1918 Brother George Goates was a farmer who raised sugar beets in Lehi, Utah. Winter came early that year and froze much of his beet crop in the ground. For George and his young son Francis, the harvest was slow and difficult. Meanwhile, an influenza epidemic was raging. The dreaded disease claimed the lives of George’s son Charles and three of Charles’s small children—two little girls and a boy. In the course of only six days, a grieving George Goates made three separate trips to Ogden, Utah, to bring the bodies home for burial. At the end of this terrible interlude, George and Francis hitched up their wagon and headed back to the beet field.
“[On the way] they passed wagon after wagon-load of beets being hauled to the factory and driven by neighborhood farmers. As they passed by, each driver would wave a greeting: ‘Hi ya, Uncle George,’ ‘Sure sorry, George,’ ‘Tough break, George,’ ‘You’ve got a lot of friends, George.’
“On the last wagon was … freckled-faced Jasper Rolfe. He waved a cheery greeting and called out: ‘That’s all of ’em, Uncle George.’
“[Brother Goates] turned to Francis and said: ‘I wish it was all of ours.’
“When they arrived at the farm gate, Francis jumped down off the big red beet wagon and opened the gate as [his father] drove onto the field. [George] pulled up, stopped the team, … and scanned the field. … There wasn’t a sugar beet on the whole field. Then it dawned upon him what Jasper Rolfe meant when he called out: ‘That’s all of ’em, Uncle George!’
“[George] got down off the wagon, picked up a handful of the rich, brown soil he loved so much, and then … a beet top, and he looked for a moment at these symbols of his labor, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Then [he] sat down on a pile of beet tops—this man who brought four of his loved ones home for burial in the course of only six days; made caskets, dug graves, and even helped with the burial clothing—this amazing man who never faltered, nor flinched, nor wavered throughout this agonizing ordeal—sat down on a pile of beet tops and sobbed like a little child.
“Then he arose, wiped his eyes, … looked up at the sky, and said: ‘Thanks, Father, for the elders of our ward.’”

In our times, Sister Knell is a covenant woman who makes a difference. She is a widow in her 80s with a 47-year-old son, mentally and physically disabled from birth. A few years ago this dear sister set out to do what seemed impossible to everyone else—to teach her son Keith to read. Learning to read was his greatest desire, but doctors had said Keith was incapable of reading. With faith in her heart and a desire to bless her son’s life, this humble widow said to her son, “I know Heavenly Father will bless you so you can read the Book of Mormon.”
Sister Knell wrote the following: “It was hard work for Keith, and it wasn’t easy for me, either. At first there were some bad days, because I got upset. It has been a time-consuming, word-by-word struggle. I sit by his side each morning. I point to each word with a pencil to help him stay on track. After seven long years and one month, Keith finally finished reading the Book of Mormon.” His mother said, “Hearing him read a verse without help is a thrill I just cannot put into words.” She testifies, “I know miracles do happen when we put our trust in the Lord.”

The first thing is to set a good example. Lots of people become interested in the Church because of the good example members set. Let me share one story with you. Sometime ago, a little friend named Jessica invited one of her nonmember friends over to her house to play. As they were playing, the friend took Heavenly Father’s name in vain. It took courage, but Jessica stopped her and said, “I’m sorry, but in my house we don’t swear or ever use Heavenly Father’s name that way.” Her friend was not angry but, instead, asked Jessica why. This gave Jessica a chance to tell her friend about the Church.
At one time Jesus taught, “Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven” (Matt. 5:16). He is instructing us to be good examples everywhere so that people will see how content we are and become interested in what we believe.

Lee W. Johnson, who was at the time Cubmaster of Pack 218, rescued his brother from underneath a fallen haystack. “My brother was covered by a haystack four feet deep and about 20 feet square. Where do you dig? In my mind a voice said, ‘Over here.’ I dug to within six inches of my unconscious brother, and the voice said, ‘Throw the pitch fork away.’ And there he was. You have to give somebody besides myself credit for something like that.” Brother Johnson is in the Benson Ward, Benson Utah Stake.
Brent advised hikers to always travel with a partner and not to take shortcuts. “Stay on the trail or you’ll get in trouble,” he said. Daniel warned swimmers to know the water they’re swimming in and not to swim in conditions beyond their capability. Kristin advised everyone to learn how to swim and to become familiar with lifesaving techniques. Brother Crockett advised those who find themselves in an emergency to do something, rather than just watch, which complemented Brother Johnson’s advice to “be quick and alert, but think things out before you act. Keep calm and don’t panic. Move as quickly as possible and listen for guidance from the Lord.” Mike Poppleton said Scouts should pay attention during classes on lifesaving techniques so that when an emergency does arise, they’ll be able to think of what to do. And the entire group agreed that proper training is vital and that people should be careful about what they do if they have had no training.
But perhaps it was Brother Johnson who summed up the most common sentiment: “It was a spiritual experience,” he said, “but I wouldn’t want another one of this kind.”

Even though I’m 12, I still love reading the Friend. If I am worried or feel unsafe, the Friend is always there. Not long after the December 2004 tsunami, my family and I were watching the news on television. There were pictures of children who lost their parents or who were lost themselves. I began to feel sick and shaky. I asked my brother to read the Friend to me. The Friend helped me stop shaking that night, and it has also helped me with other things. THANKS!Jessica C., age 12, Washington

I offer this as profound conviction born in the fiery crucible of life’s experience. Our second son, Adam, entered our lives when I was far away in the jungles and rice paddies of Vietnam. I still have the joyful telegram announcing his birth. Adam was a blue-eyed, blond-haired little fellow with an impish personality. As he turned five years old, Adam eagerly looked forward to starting school. Then a common childhood illness blanketed our southern California community, and Adam contracted the disease. Aside from concern for his comfort, we were not worried. He even seemed to have a light case. Suddenly one morning he did not arise from his bed; he was in a deep coma. We rushed him to the hospital, where he was placed in intensive care. A constant cadre of devoted doctors and nurses attended him. His mother and I maintained a ceaseless vigil in the waiting room nearby.

I telephoned our dear stake president—a childhood friend and now a beloved colleague in the Seventy, Elder Douglas L. Callister—and asked if he would come to the hospital and join me in giving Adam a priesthood blessing. Within minutes he was there. As we entered the small, cramped space where Adam’s lifeless little body lay, his bed surrounded by a bewildering maze of monitoring devices and other medical paraphernalia, the kind doctors and nurses reverently stepped back and folded their arms. As the familiar and comforting words of a priesthood blessing were spoken in faith and earnest pleading, I was overcome by a profound sense that Someone else was present. I was overwhelmed by the thought that if I should open my eyes, I would see the Savior standing there! I was not the only one in that room who felt that Spirit. We learned quite by chance some months later that one of the nurses who was present that day was so touched that she sought out the missionaries and was baptized.

But notwithstanding, Adam made no improvement. He lingered between this life and the next for several more days as we pleaded with the Lord to return him to us. Finally, one morning after a fitful night, I walked alone down a deserted hospital corridor. I spoke to the Lord and told Him that we wanted our little boy to return so very much, but nevertheless what we wanted most was for His will to be done and that we—Pat and I—would accept that. Adam crossed the threshold into the eternities a short time later.

Frankly, we still grieve for our little boy, although the tender ministering of the Spirit and the passage of the years have softened our sadness. His small picture graces the mantel of our living room beside a more current family portrait of children and grandchildren. But Pat and I know that his path through mortality was intended by a kind Heavenly Father to be shorter and easier than ours and that he has now hurried on ahead to be a welcoming presence when we likewise eventually cross that same fateful threshold.

It’s the same every Mother’s Day. I ask my mom what I can give her, she stops what she’s doing, takes my face in her hands, smiles her what-a-wonderful-boy-you-are-smile, and says, “A poem and a kiss. That’s all I need.”
Well, that always sounds pretty wimpy to me. I mean, a guy in sixth grade just doesn’t go for that mushy stuff. I usually end up giving her one of my drawings. But this particular Mother’s Day had to be different. Mom needed something bigger than a poem, something better than a kiss, and something bolder than a drawing.
Dad lost his job a couple months ago. He’s been looking hard for a new one and doing freelance work whenever he can get it, but Mom always looks worried. She’s been substituting at the elementary school for a teacher who just had a baby. The fifth grade class is noisy and rowdy, and she comes home real tired. Then she has to cook dinner and do laundry and make phone calls for her Church calling. This was no ordinary Mother’s Day. I had to think up an awesome present.
I was watching an old movie on TV, when I got an idea. A great idea! I checked out my wardrobe and decided I had what I needed. I did a little practicing in front of the mirror and figured I could pull it off. I was all set. Not only would my present help Mom out, but it would make her laugh, too.
It was the Saturday morning before Mother’s Day. I had already told my friends that I wouldn’t be joining them for our usual bike ride. I got up pretty early for a change, and instead of putting on a T-shirt and jeans, I put on a white dress shirt, my dark Sunday suit, and my Sunday shoes. I wet my hair and slicked it back. I stood up straight, threw back my shoulders, stuck out my chin, and walked up to Mom, who was putting a load of dirty clothes in the washing machine. I never thought it would be so hard to keep a smile off my face. But I had to.
“Madam,” I said in a formal voice, my eyebrows raised. “I am Andrews, your Butler-for-the-Day.”
Mom looked up from her work with a start. “Andy! You’re all dressed up! Where in the world are you going? Is there a funeral? What was that you said?”
“What I said, Madam,” I replied in my most stately manner, “is that I am your Mother’s Day Butler.” I bowed slightly, just like the guy in the movie. No smiling allowed, I told myself.
Mom was speechless, so I continued, “You may call me Andrews. This entire day I will be at your complete disposal. You have merely to ask, and I will immediately carry out your orders. Your wish is my command.” Now I was sounding more like a movie genie, but Mom didn’t seem to notice. She hadn’t laughed like that in weeks, which made it even harder not to smile.
“Are you serious?” Mom asked when she regained control of herself.
“Sure I am—I mean—most assuredly, Madam. What will you have me do first?”
“This is such a treat!” Mom exclaimed. “How about, … well, … would you mind setting the table for breakfast?”
“Certainly, Madam,” I said. Giving her another bow, I went to work.
“What’s Andy doing, Mom?” I heard my twin sisters ask. They were being total pests, as usual. “Why is he wearing his Sunday clothes?”
“Yeah, what’s up, Andy?” said Dad, coming in from the garage.
“Andrews is my Butler-for-the-Day,” Mom proclaimed like the queen of the world.
My sisters stared holes in me while I poured the orange juice. I guess they weren’t used to seeing me help in the kitchen. My next job was to pull weeds in the front yard. Not a very distinguished, butler-type job, but I did it anyway, even though my Sunday shoes got caked with mud. Mom was really taking this thing seriously!
I had promised myself that no matter what Mom asked me to do, I would do it in true butler style, without a wince. It wasn’t hard, really. She wanted the furniture rearranged and the carpet vacuumed. As long as I had the vacuum out, she said I could clean under the sofa cushions. I crawled on the floor and polished the table and chair legs. I climbed the ladder and dusted the ceiling fan. I hefted overloaded laundry baskets and put clothes away. If the doorbell rang, I hurried to answer it in my formal manner and announced visitors. I picked up the phone before it had a chance to ring twice, and I made some of Mom’s calls for her. Mom smiled and giggled over everything I did. I merely bowed and said, “What further service would Madam wish?” Then she’d smile again.
She kept me busy just about all day. I didn’t slow down until she did, which was after dinner. I put a white dish towel over my arm and served ice water on the porch to her and Dad while they watched the sunset.
“That will be all, Andrews,” said Mom, faking an English accent. Then she laughed and acted like her regular self. “Andy, this was the best Mother’s Day present I’ve ever had. I feel like I’ve had a vacation! I didn’t even have to answer the phone all day!” She let out a big sigh. “I can’t tell you how good it feels to be caught up with my housework—and to have such a willing worker!”
“Very good, Madam,” I said. “Will that be all?” I didn’t want to break character while I was still in costume. Mom chuckled and then regally waved me away. “I sure love you!” she called after me, as I hurried to get my Sunday clothes clean for the next day.
The “real” Mother’s Day, Sunday, was a pretty good one. Mom was relaxed and happy. In sacrament meeting, she kept smiling at me with a double-mushy, wonderful-boy look. At home, every two minutes she raved about her Butler-for-the-Day. She kept saying how she could feel the spirit of the Sabbath day so much better in an orderly house.
The twins, however, stared at me with something less than stars in their eyes. They had gone the poem-and-a-kiss route.
“I wish I’d thought of that butler thing,” one of them said.
“Well, I know what I’m going to do,” the other one said. “I’m going to ask Mom if I can be her lady’s maid all day next Saturday.”
“I have dibs on the next Saturday! Let’s dress up and call her mum, and curtsy!”
They ran up to the attic to look for a costume. Once my sisters get an idea, there’s no stopping them, even if it’s somebody else’s. But if they want to steal my idea and be lady’s maids, that’s fine with me. Being Butler-for-the-Day was pretty strenuous. Once a year is about all Andrews can handle. But I guess Andy could help out a little more regularly. Only I’m not wearing a suit to do it—no way!

The first experience happened when my brother was sick. My father called a man from our ward to come to our home and help give a priesthood blessing. As our family gathered before the blessing, the man suggested that we children should leave because we might disrupt the spirit of the blessing. My father replied gently that it was important that each child be present during the blessing because our pure faith was needed.
Even at that young age, I not only felt the presence of the Spirit, but I also sensed the great love my father had for his children. My father’s love helped me believe in and understand Heavenly Father’s love for me.

A time back I clipped a column from the Deseret Morning News, written by Jay Evensen. With his permission, I quote from a part of it. Wrote he:
“How would you feel toward a teenager who decided to toss a 20-pound frozen turkey from a speeding car headlong into the windshield of the car you were driving? How would you feel after enduring six hours of surgery using metal plates and other hardware to piece your face together, and after learning you still face years of therapy before returning to normal—and that you ought to feel lucky you didn’t die or suffer permanent brain damage?
“And how would you feel after learning that your assailant and his buddies had the turkey in the first place because they had stolen a credit card and gone on a senseless shopping spree, just for kicks? …
“This is the kind of hideous crime that propels politicians to office on promises of getting tough on crime. It’s the kind of thing that prompts legislators to climb all over each other in a struggle to be the first to introduce a bill that would add enhanced penalties for the use of frozen fowl in the commission of a crime.
“The New York Times quoted the district attorney as saying this is the sort of crime for which victims feel no punishment is harsh enough. ‘Death doesn’t even satisfy them,’ he said.
“Which is what makes what really happened so unusual. The victim, Victoria Ruvolo, a 44-year-old former manager of a collections agency, was more interested in salvaging the life of her 19-year-old assailant, Ryan Cushing, than in exacting any sort of revenge. She pestered prosecutors for information about him, his life, how he was raised, etc. Then she insisted on offering him a plea deal. Cushing could serve six months in the county jail and be on probation for 5 years if he pleaded guilty to second-degree assault.
“Had he been convicted of first-degree assault—the charge most fitting for the crime—he could have served 25 years in prison, finally thrown back into society as a middle-aged man with no skills or prospects.
“But this is only half the story. The rest of it, what happened the day this all played out in court, is the truly remarkable part.
“According to an account in the New York Post, Cushing carefully and tentatively made his way to where Ruvolo sat in the courtroom and tearfully whispered an apology. ‘I’m so sorry for what I did to you.’
“Ruvolo then stood, and the victim and her assailant embraced, weeping. She stroked his head and patted his back as he sobbed, and witnesses, including a Times reporter, heard her say, ‘It’s OK. I just want you to make your life the best it can be.’ According to accounts, hardened prosecutors, and even reporters, were choking back tears” (“Forgiveness Has Power to Change Future,” Deseret Morning News, Aug. 21, 2005, p. AA3).
What a great story that is, greater because it actually happened and that it happened in tough old New York. Who can feel anything but admiration for this woman who forgave the young man who might have taken her life?

Julie was sad. Grandma was in the hospital, and Mother had gone to visit her.
“What’s wrong, Julie?” Angie, her older sister, asked.
“Is Grandma going to get better?” Julie wondered.
“I don’t know,” Angie replied.
“Why aren’t you upset? Don’t you love Grandma?” Julie asked.
“Of course I love her,” Angie said. “But even if she dies, we can be together forever.”
“I thought being together forever meant none of us would ever die,” Julie said.
Angie smiled. “Being together forever means we can be together as a family in Heavenly Father’s kingdom.”
Julie sighed. “I don’t understand.”
“Next month Mark and I are going to be married,” Angie explained. “Do you know where?”
“In the temple,” Julie answered. “You’ve been planning it for months.”
“Actually, I’ve planned on being married in the temple for as long as I can remember,” Angie explained. “In the temple we will be sealed together as an eternal family unit. Because Grandma and Grandpa were sealed in the temple and Mom and Dad were sealed in the temple, we are all sealed together as a family even after this life.”
“And that’s all there is to it?” Julie asked.
“We also have to try to live as an eternal family now. We need to live the gospel, love one another, and help each other.”
“I’m glad you are my sister forever,” Julie said.
“So am I,” Angie responded.

“And the winner of our school reading contest is Joshua Hawkins!”
Marcus watched his friend Josh high-five his way to the podium. The principal, Mrs. Houston, shook his hand and gave him a certificate. Marcus knew Josh deserved to win. He could read a book in one afternoon that would take Marcus two weeks to finish.
Next, Trina got an award for winning the science fair. Then Mrs. Houston gave out awards for straight As and for the highest scores on the state achievement tests. Marcus kept listening, but Mrs. Houston didn’t call his name.
Marcus hoped the assembly would be over soon. He was tired of sitting, and his hands were getting sore from clapping. Most of all, he was disappointed. He wished he could be the best at something.
Finally, Mrs. Houston adjusted her glasses and smiled. “Our last awards are for perfect attendance,” she said. Marcus slumped in his seat. Last month he had chicken pox, so he wouldn’t be getting an attendance award either.
On the way home, Ari leaned over the bus seat and poked Marcus on the arm. “Hey, Josh got three awards, but Trina only got two,” he said. “How many did you get?”
Marcus’s face felt hot. “None,” he said.
Marcus got off the bus and kicked a rock up the driveway to his house. Mom was in the garden pulling weeds. “How was your day?” she asked.
Marcus frowned. “We had an awards assembly, but I didn’t get any awards,” he said. “I’m not the best at anything.”
Mom put down her weed digger. “Well, maybe it seems that way,” she said. “But who does your teacher ask when she needs someone trustworthy to take a message to the office?”
“Sometimes she asks me,” Marcus admitted.
“And who always reminds us when it’s time for family home evening?”
“I do,” Marcus said.
“Who found a ten-dollar bill at the store and turned it in, even though he was saving money to buy a soccer ball that he really, really wanted?”
“I did,” said Marcus.
Mom ruffled Marcus’s hair a little. “And who can make your little brother laugh when no one else can?”
Marcus couldn’t help smiling when he thought about his brother’s goofy laugh. “Me,” he said.
“Well,” said Mom, “you may not think you’re the best at anything, but you’re doing your best to be the kind of boy Heavenly Father wants you to be. And I wouldn’t be any prouder if you had come home with a whole armful of awards.”
Marcus gave Mom a hug. He noticed how hot and tired she looked. “Do you need some help with the weeding, Mom?”
“Thanks, Marcus. You’re the best.”

One day my little brother’s friend was at our house. He asked who the picture of Jesus was in my room. He asked if it was Heavenly Father. My brother and I told him it was Jesus. This friend said that Heavenly Father and Jesus were the same person. We told him that Heavenly Father, Jesus, and the Holy Ghost were three different people. I was glad we shared a little bit of the gospel with him.
Taelor and Owen T., ages 10 and 7, Idaho, USA

At home in a hidden-away corner, I have a small black walking stick with an imitation silver handle. It once belonged to a distant relative. Why do I keep it for a period now spanning more than 70 years? There is a special reason. As a small boy I participated in a Christmas pageant in our ward. I was privileged to be one of the three Wise Men. With a bandanna about my head, Mother’s piano bench cover draped over my shoulder, and the black cane in my hand, I spoke my assigned lines: “Where is he that is born King of the Jews? for we have seen his star in the east, and are come to worship him.” I vividly remember the feelings of my heart as the three of us “Wise Men” looked upward and saw a star, journeyed across the stage, found Mary with the young child Jesus, then fell down and worshipped Him and opened our treasures and presented gifts: gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

I especially liked the fact that we did not return to the evil Herod to betray the baby Jesus but obeyed God and departed another way.

The years have flown by, but the Christmas cane continues to occupy a special place in my home; and in my heart is a commitment to Christ.

Once I was invited by a civic organization to present an award of recognition to the person who had done the most to help handicapped people in the area. When the honored lady, who was herself severely handicapped, came to the podium to receive her award, she walked between two stalwart men assisting her, with another wheeling an oxygen tank on a carrier behind her, helping her to breathe.
She protested her unworthiness but accepted the award on behalf of all others who had been helpful to the handicapped. She told how her saintly father had prepared her for her first day at school and then left his office to come home to meet her when she returned. He had prepared her to expect some disagreeable comments from a few who could not handle her physical appearance—the humped back and other problems. These birth difficulties, he had assured her, were no one’s fault—they were the consequence of problems not yet solved in this imperfect and sometimes unfair world. “But,” said he, “if you will always be more fair and more kind to others than a few of them may sometimes be to you, you will enjoy every sweet blessing life affords.”
That was her one qualification, she said: she had tried to be more fair and more kind to others than a few of them had sometimes been to her.