Gospel Story Finder

My great-grandfather, Christian Frederick Nelson Twede, was converted to the gospel and was baptized around 1850 by Elder Erastus Snow (1818–88), one of the Twelve Apostles who was serving a mission in Copenhagen, Denmark. Christian had some amazing spiritual experiences that confirmed the truth of the gospel to him. His decision to be baptized came at a high personal cost. His family disowned him, and his fiancée broke off their engagement. Despite these setbacks, he continued to believe in the gospel and emigrated to the United States to join the pioneers on their trek to Utah.

I can remember in my high school in Portland, Oregon, two contrasting young people. One was a young man named Steve Troy. Steve as a freshman was six foot six, weighed 220 pounds. He was tall, had dark, curly hair, and was a marvelous athlete. In the course of his high school days, he was all-state in football, baseball, and basketball. I guess everybody would like to be a Steve Troy in high school. Then there was Robert Calderwood. Robert was five foot two, wore glasses, carried his briefcase to school, got straight A’s, and all of the other kids asked him for help with their homework. Do you have any Robert Calderwoods in your school?
Now it is interesting to see what happened to those two young men some years later. Both of them served in the navy. Steve Troy came back and, still a fine person, wound up working in a small shop owned by his father. The interesting thing is to see what happened to Robert Calderwood, the ugly duckling, who emerged some time later, graduated from college, and became a banker. The last I heard he was vice-president of one of the large banks in Portland and was married and had a fine family; he is a person who truly has emerged, who didn’t give up because he had been the ugly duckling at Franklin High School.

Peter, a young priest, wrote of an experience that taught him that priesthood power is very real. A young convert in his ward in Ontario, Canada, was sustained as a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood, and Peter was asked to be the “voice” in the ordination. Peter wrote: “I had never laid my hands on anybody’s head before, and I felt so inadequate. But then the Spirit reassured me that it would be fine for me to do it. …

“The young man to be ordained sat down in the chair, and I stood directly behind him. [Our Young Men president] guided me through the ordinance prayer and I repeated every word he said. After we had finished the ordination and said, ‘… and we wish to pronounce a blessing on your head at this time …’ [the Young Men president] looked at me and indicated that I was on my own.

“At that point, the priesthood entirely changed its meaning for me. It was no longer just a title, but the actual authority to act in God’s name, and I was giving that authority to someone else. I paused and waited for the Spirit to whisper to me what I was to say. It is difficult for me to describe the feelings I had that day during the blessing, but I can say that I now have a stronger testimony that the power of the priesthood is real.”

It hasn’t been all fun and laughter, though. There have been some major setbacks along the way.
Val remembers hitting his own personal rock bottom. He’d been working for several years designing cheese and hot-dog labels for an advertisement company. Then that company went out of business. He’d attempted college four different times without finishing a single term. He was close to bankruptcy and running out of options. He didn’t know what to do next.
So he went to the temple for guidance. While there, he picked up the Book of Mormon and opened to Helaman 12:2. Val read about how the Lord prospered His people “in the increase of their fields, their flocks and their herds, and in gold, and in silver, and in all manner of precious things of every kind and art.” His eyes landed and stayed on the word art.
“It was an answer to prayer,” Val said. The next day, he launched his cartoon business. He’s been going strong ever since.

“You can work in here,” said Brian Kelly, managing editor of the New Era magazine, as he pointed through an open door into a small cubicle that was once a storage closet. “There is a stack of old magazines in the corner. Spend the first couple of weeks reading through them and jotting down ideas. Get the feel of the magazine; then we’ll see if you can write something.”
So saying, he turned and left. My first-day-on-the-job smile was wearing thin around the edges as I slammed myself into a creaky swivel chair, trying not to glare after Brian as he retreated down the hall. “Me, see if I can write? After a couple of weeks?” I muttered to myself. “After all, I was selected for this internship over many other applicants. My English professors have all said I have natural ability. I can slam out a news story before deadline better than anyone at the student newspaper. See if I can write? I’ll show him.”

Finishing this monologue, I positioned a typewriter directly in front of me and pulled out some clean paper. Just one problem. Nothing to write about. After a few false starts at heart-rending fiction and preachy tomes, I finally took a handful of magazines from the old issues stack and started reading.

The next two days convinced me that writing for the New Era was going to be a snap. The fiction was positive in tone, evoked a happy ending, and was populated by the sort of adolescents teenagers wish they were, i.e., clever, witty, involved, and never boring. The articles were glib, fast, and seldom complicated. And it took me only two days to complete that in-depth analysis of New Era style, not two weeks.

Wednesday morning I reported to Brian that I was ready for my first assignment.

“Uh, how about an article on scripture marking?” he said, after I had blurted out how prepared I was to take the New Era by storm. “Seminary students are studying the Old Testament this year, and an interesting piece on scripture marking would really help them out.”

Simple. I spent the afternoon in the church office library researching scripture marking and the next day wrote up a concise, seven-page article outlining different methods of scripture marking, their advantages and drawbacks. Early Friday morning I presented it to Brian.

“Nice information,” he said, as he handed it back to me. “Now try writing it so the youth out there will read it. Inject some of yourself into it, get some anecdotes in somewhere, liven it up, pull the readers through. I almost went to sleep reading it myself.”

The next two weeks were among the most trying of my life. Livening up a subject with the inherent deadness of scripture marking seemed a task suitable for Dr. Frankenstein, not me. Injecting myself into the controversy of shading versus underlining was something I didn’t quite know how to do. And anecdotes! Ever heard a good story about cross-referencing?

I had come up short against “New Era style,” and although I thought I understood it, I didn’t know how to produce it. The magazine’s style was different from other writing I had done. The New Yorker has its style, so does Time, McCalls, Good Housekeeping, and True Confessions. Each magazine requires a different type of writing. What worked at the student newspaper was definitely not going to work at the New Era.

Fortunately for me, I managed to master “New Era style” (or at least begin to master it) during a two-week struggle with endless drafts of the scripture-marking article. Unfortunately, some people who want to publish in Church magazines don’t have two weeks as a magazine staff member in order to get the hang of it. What follows might be called a short course in New Era style, or “How to get something published in the New Era without developing ulcers.”

4. Now you’re ready to start writing. This article itself is a pretty fair example of how to get into subject matter for the New Era. Don’t attack something head-on. Get into the subject matter by means of an anecdote or story. Set a scene. Paint word pictures. Avoid straight declarations—lure the reader on.

The first draft of the scripture-marking article began with a paragraph detailing the virtues of a well-marked set of scriptures. The final, published version began with a true short story from my own experience about how a set of marked scriptures would have saved me from embarrassment. Both served the same purpose, but the anecdotal beginning was more interesting and readable.

But be cautious. Don’t just throw in stories. Be sure they have a place. The anecdote I used at the beginning of the scripture-marking article commented on most of the benefits of scripture marking that were outlined later in the piece. In fact what you have just read has already outlined how to write for the New Era. I’m just going into it in more detail now.

Two weeks and eight drafts after that Friday morning in Brian’s office, an article titled “But It Was in Amos Last Time I Looked” was sent off for final approval before publication. Finally.

1. Anna sat with her CTR 6 class in the Primary room. Sister Howe told the class,
Today we are going to talk about Christmas gifts. I would like you to think about what you can give to Jesus.
What gift could I give to Jesus? I don’t have very much money.
These gifts don’t cost money. They come from the heart. Who can name a gift you could give to Jesus?
2. Christina and Mason said,
I can be reverent in church.
I can be nice to my little brother.
3. Sister Howe handed a paper angel to each child.
You can write a gift you want to give to Jesus on your paper angel. Then the Primary president will put the angels on a tree.
4. Anna wrote, “I will say my prayers every day.”
5. The next Sunday, Anna saw the angel tree at church. She looked for her angel and saw it on a branch in the middle.
I love Christmas, Mom. And this year will be the best Christmas of all.
Why is that?
Because I’m giving a gift to Jesus.

When my wife and I were first married, my parents lived in another state. During a break in our university schedule, we decided to go visit them.
We made sandwiches, packed the car, prepared a bed in the backseat for our young son so that he could rest during the 10-hour trip. After a full day in the car, we were beginning to get on each other’s nerves. The preschooler never slept and seemed to gather energy as the day wore on. We knew that if he would just close his eyes and be quiet for a while, he would fall asleep.
After sundown, with two hours of travel still to go, we decided to play a game. The purpose of the game was to try to get an exhausted youngster to sleep. We called it hide-and-seek. Have you ever tried to play hide-and-seek in a car? Let me tell you how we did it. We said to the small boy in back, “Let’s play hide-and-seek.” He enthusiastically agreed. We said, “Close your eyes and don’t open them until we call you. We need time to hide.”
The game started. A front-seat passenger would crouch down in the seat and 10 or 15 seconds later would call, “OK.” Our son would bound over the seat and say, “Aha, I found you!” We would say, “Next time we will hide better. Close your eyes again.” A minute or more would go by. Then we would call, and again he would energetically climb over the seat to find us. Finally we said, “We have a really good place to hide this time. It will take longer. Close your eyes and we will call you.”
A minute, two minutes, five minutes went by. We drove along in silence. The tranquillity was marvelous. We must have traveled 15 miles before we began to whisper quiet congratulations to ourselves on the success of our devious game. Then, from out of the backseat, came the sobbing voice of a heartbroken little boy. “You didn’t call me, and you said you would.”
“You didn’t do what you agreed to do.” What a terrible accusation. It was a defining moment in our lives. We knew that we could never play that game again.

There was an architect in that first company, William Weeks, who had designed the Nauvoo Temple. But the hopeless desolation was too much for him. When President Young went east in 1848, Brother Weeks left, saying, “They will never build the temple without me.”

Truman O. Angell, a carpenter, was appointed to replace him. He said: “If the President and my brethren feel to sustain a poor worm of the dust like me to be Architect of the Church, let me … serve them and not disgrace myself. … May the Lord help me so to do.”

“Well, believe it or not, I used to be his Primary teacher,” Sister Jensen explained.
“Oh.” Robby nodded. “I guess you could have been; you are old.” Robby blushed when he realized what he’d said.
Sister Jensen laughed heartily. “That’s true! He was a sweet little boy, just like you. You and he have a lot in common—his parents never brought him to church, either. I used to pick him up all the time. He even sat with me in sacrament meeting.
“When he was about your age,” Sister Jensen continued, “he decided to make choices that would help him the rest of his life. He had a little problem with angry words, and he decided that when he became upset, he’d say ‘How exasperating!’ I told him that was a good start but he also needed to fill his mind with good things. That way only good things would come out of his mouth.”
Robby traced on the floor with his other shoe. “Well, maybe when I’m a grown-up, I can do that, too,” he told her.
“But now’s the time to make important choices that will bless you throughout your life, including your choice of words.”
“How can words bless me?”
“When you are careful with the words you choose to say, you show others you care enough about them not to offend them. Choosing good words helps you gain more friends, and you’re also not offending your Heavenly Father. Besides, when you have good words inside, good actions often follow.”
Robby nodded that he understood, and he helped Sister Jensen gather up the rest of her teaching materials.
The next Sunday, Sister Jensen picked Robby up in time for sacrament meeting. The bishop was conducting, and he seemed to be having a difficult time with some of the announcements. Finally he put down the paper he was reading, smiled at the ward members, and exclaimed, “How exasperating!”
Robby giggled as Sister Jensen nudged his arm. He leaned over and whispered, “That’s what I’m going to say when I’m mad, too.”
“Good for you, Robby,” Sister Jensen said with a wink.
Later, in the Primary room, Robby again noticed his name on the yellow birthday board. “That’s funny,” he said.
“What’s that?” Sister Jensen asked.
“Last week my name seemed different.”
Sister Jensen looked puzzled. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“Well, last week my name looked out of place up there by the names of the church kids. But today it looks like it belongs.”
Sister Jensen put her arm around Robby, and he noticed tears in her eyes. “That’s because you do belong here,” she said.

But some problems persisted in Winter Quarters. Since leaving Nauvoo, the apostles had continued to perform spiritual adoptions among the Saints. Brigham observed that a few Saints were urging friends to be adopted into their families, believing their eternal glory depended on the number of people sealed to them. Jealousy and competition rose as they argued over who would have the biggest family in heaven. The contention left Brigham wondering if any of them would make it there at all.44
In February, while speaking on the practice of spiritual adoption, Brigham admitted that he still did not know much about it. He deeply loved the dozens of Saints who had been adopted through the ordinance into his family. He nevertheless felt unschooled in this practice and wondered about what it meant.45
“I will attain to more knowledge on the subject,” he promised the Saints, “and consequently will be enabled to teach and practice more.”46
The next day, he felt sick and lay down to rest. As he slept, he dreamed that he saw Joseph Smith sitting in a chair in front of a large window. Taking Joseph’s right hand, Brigham asked his friend why he could not be with the Saints.
“It is all right,” Joseph said, rising from his chair.
“The brethren have great anxiety to understand the law of adoption or sealing principles,” Brigham said. “If you have a word of counsel for me, I should be glad to receive it.”
“Tell the people to be humble and faithful and sure to keep the Spirit of the Lord,” Joseph said. “If they will, they will find themselves just as they were organized by our Father in Heaven before they came into the world.”
Brigham awoke with Joseph’s words echoing in his mind: “Tell the people to be sure to keep the Spirit of the Lord and follow it, and it would lead them just right.”47 The counsel did not answer his questions about adoption sealings, but it reminded him to obey the Spirit so that he and the Saints could be guided to greater understanding.

I would like to start by sharing an experience from the life of President Joseph F. Smith, sixth President of the Church: Joseph F. Smith was raised in a single-parent home. His father, Hyrum, was martyred at Carthage Jail with the Prophet Joseph Smith. Little Joseph F. was only six years old at the time.

Years later, at the age of 19, Joseph F. Smith was returning home from a mission with a group of other missionaries. His wagon-train journey took him through a dangerous area where enemies of the Church had vowed to kill the Mormons.

I quote now from a biography of President Smith:
“One day after the little company of wagons had . . . made their camp, a company of drunken men rode into the camp on horseback, cursing and swearing and threatening to kill any ‘Mormons’ that came within their path. . . . Some of the brethren when they heard them coming had cautiously gone into the brush down the creek, out of sight. . . . Joseph F. was a little distance from the camp gathering wood for the fire when these men rode up. When he saw them, he said, his first thought was to do what the other brethren had done, and seek shelter in the trees and in flight. Then the thought came to him, ‘Why should I run from these fellows?’ With that thought in mind he boldly marched up with his arms full of wood to the campfire. As he was about to deposit his wood, one of the ruffians, still with his pistols in his hands and pointing at the youthful Elder, and cursing as only a drunken rascal can, declaring that it was his duty to exterminate every ‘Mormon’ he should meet, demanded in a loud, angry voice, ‘Are you a “Mormon”?’

“Without a moment of hesitation and looking the ruffian in the eye, Joseph F. Smith boldly answered, ‘Yes, siree; dyed in the wool; true blue, through and through.’

“The answer was given boldly and without any sign of fear, which completely disarmed the belligerent man, and in his bewilderment, he grasped the missionary by the hand and said: ‘Well, you are the —— —— pleasantest man I ever met! Shake, young fellow, I am glad to see a man that stands up for his convictions.’

“Joseph F. [Smith] said in later years that he fully expected to receive the charge from this man’s pistols, but he could take no other course even though it seemed that his death was to be the result.”

Recently, Brother Shamola was thrilled to receive additional information about his ancestors from an oral interview that was conducted in his grandmother’s village in Homa Bay, on the western shores of Kenya.
The interview was given by a family member and recorded for future reference. It gave him information about seven generations of his family, and he was able to identify many ancestors of whom he was previously unaware. He has already submitted several of their names to the temple and plans to submit many more in the future.

When I was younger, I lived next door to an elderly lady who spent most of her time alone and seldom left her house. When she did leave, she would be gone for a long time, and that is when I went to work.
I would get a rake or snow shovel or broom and do what I could to clean up the area around her house. Sometimes I would just leave her a plate of cookies with a note. I tried so hard to be a friend to the lady who lived there, and I thought that if I did these things for her she would be nice to me.
I really enjoyed the extra work because it made me feel good inside, but I thought I would feel even better if she would only acknowledge my kindness. I would watch her come home and feel disappointed because she never made an attempt to show thanks or appreciation. I had worked so hard and never received so much as a smile.
Then one Sunday at church we had a lesson on service, and I realized that I had been performing acts of service for my neighbor with the expectation of getting something in return. I went home and asked my mother about service and she gave me a scripture to read. It was Mosiah 2:17:
“And behold, I tell you these things that ye may learn wisdom; that ye may learn that when ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God.”
That taught me a valuable lesson about my activities. And I knew that even if my neighbor didn’t seem to care about my efforts, my Heavenly Father did care.

Mitzi stormed out of the family council, ran up the stairs two at a time, and threw herself on her bed. What’s the big deal, anyway? she wondered. So I let a little trash word slip out. Did I need to hear the five-dollar lecture? Well, it hadn’t really been a lecture. Her dad would probably call it a reminder; but it was the same old line. “Honey, in our family we don’t use those kinds of words.”
Right—and “in our family we don’t wear those kinds of clothes,” as if there’s something sinful about a tank top or a bare midriff. And “in our family we don’t watch that kind of TV program.” Oh, yes, and “in our family we don’t talk back to our parents.”
Well, she had talked back to her dad this time; but before he’d had a chance to answer, her four-year-old brother had piped in. “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.”
That’s when Mitzi had yelled, “Shut up, you little smart aleck,” and run from the room. She could only imagine her mother saying, “In our family, we don’t say shut up.”
Why does our family have to be so old fashioned, anyway? Why can’t we ever do anything fun and exciting? Into Mitzi’s mind popped the memory of last summer’s vacation—a camping trip by Crystal Creek. They had hiked and fished and stayed up late around the campfire, laughing and telling stories.
Mitzi pushed those thoughts out of her mind. She wanted to stay angry for a while, to feel picked on and misunderstood and unloved. Even so, she remembered the family roller-skating together a couple of weeks ago. They had all laughed at Mom because she was so shaky at first, but she was soon zooming around with the rest of them.
Downstairs the home evening had progressed from the family council to the lesson to refreshments. Mitzi could smell popcorn, and she was pretty sure that Mother would be fixing caramel to pour over it.
Her anger had mostly melted away, and now she was trying to figure out a way to say she was sorry to her brother and parents. She went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her red eyes. Then she paused for a moment to whisper a prayer to ask Heavenly Father to forgive her and help her. She slipped quietly downstairs.
“It’s good to know,” she said to her father, “that in our family we forgive people who do stupid things.”
Dad reached out and pulled her into the world’s warmest hug.

During the time of the Korean War, a young man, Rhee Ho Nam, was pressed into a helping role by an American military unit involved in court martials. At the time, being dislocated from his regular way of life looked like a tragedy. Ho Nam, however, made the best of his challenges as did Joseph in ancient Egypt. He developed English as a second language. He carefully observed the things the American soldiers did, especially an LDS lieutenant who was “different” from his fellow soldiers and much admired by Ho Nam. They discussed things often. One day the lieutenant asked Ho Nam what the purpose of life was. Rhee Ho Nam could not answer, saying only that philosophers had struggled in vain with that question for centuries. Thereupon, the officer took out a plain sheet of paper and drew an outline of the plan of salvation. At that very moment, the Lord bore testimony through the power of His Spirit to Rhee Ho Nam’s heart that what the American had told him was true. Ho Nam studied, then joined the Church, keeping that piece of paper for years as a treasured reminder of that special moment.
The Korean War was soon over, but Ho Nam’s life in the Church had just begun. While in his thirties, Rhee Ho Nam became the first stake president of the first stake of the Church on the mainland of Asia. He served with distinction as a mission president in Pusan, Korea, as an outstanding leader among his people. With special conviction, President Rhee taught his missionaries and members to look with hope beyond what is to what may be! Sometimes within difficulty and even seeming tragedy there is opportunity!

A few days ago, I went to a local supermarket, quite late at night. I had had a long day. Working with clients and then studying, my day didn’t finish until 10 p.m. I decided to just run in and grab a few items.
The night was cold, and I was glad to finish and load my shopping in my car. As I did so, a woman approached me and asked me for some help. I imagined that she wanted a coin for a trolley or something like that. She looked a little dishevelled. She began a long explanation about not having any money, and that she and her partner had hoped to purchase £5 worth of petrol for their car, because this particular petrol station made a charge on cards 24 hours later and they didn’t have any money until the following day, only to find that the petrol station was closed. Now they would have to travel further to buy what they needed, with no funds available.
I explained that unfortunately, I didn’t have any cash or my cards with me. I only had my phone. I was aware that the night was dark and cold, and I knew I wanted to help, but felt I couldn’t. She then asked me if I would transfer some money into her bank, using my phone. I admit, I did not want to do that! Now I was having to really ask myself what kind of human being I was. I had to balance my wish to just go home, to let myself off the hook, with my desire to be helpful. I could reassure myself that my intention was to be kind, but honestly, transfer money into a stranger’s bank account? What if this was a scam? What if I was being tricked?
Then she asked me if I would call her partner, to allow him to give me his bank details (he was in the supermarket, trying to find a solution.) Everything in me wanted to say no, and yet another part of me said, “it’s cold and dark, you can’t just leave them here.” I wanted my faith to be convenient! In my version of this story, I would give her £5 that I happened to have in my purse (that I had not left at home), and then get on and feel good about myself. I wanted her to accept that I didn’t have any ready cash and go away. I didn’t want to stand about getting cold and feeling anxious and worry about whether I was doing a good thing or being taken advantage of.
Yet through it all, I kept thinking, “it’s cold and dark.” I had to let myself know about the times when I have been cold, in the dark, with no one to help. None of this was easy, or quick, or convenient.
So, I transferred the money and wished them well.

The second way remembering helps us is by providing protection. Perhaps you can relate to a simple experience I had as a boy. The furnace in our home was in a small utility closet. One winter day, as I reached for something, I put my hand on the hot furnace pipe for balance and burned myself. This experience taught me a tangible lesson that I remember all these years later: don’t touch hot things! Similarly, the memory of our mistakes can help keep us from making them again.

Among many unsigned letters I have received was one of particular interest. It contained a twenty-dollar bill and a brief note which stated that the writer had come to my home many years ago. When there had been no response to the bell, he had tried the door and, finding it unlocked, had entered and walked about. On the dresser he saw a twenty-dollar bill, took it, and left. Through the years his conscience had bothered him, and he was now returning the money.
He did not include anything for interest for the period during which he had used my money. But as I read his pathetic letter, I thought of the usury to which he had subjected himself for a quarter of a century with the unceasing nagging of his conscience. For him there had been no peace until he had made restitution.

I have recollection of my first experience with remorse of conscience. I was four years old. As I walked up the street, I passed a small grocery store. The proprietor had built a ledge about four to five inches wide in front of the windows of the store, where at this particular time of the year he would place beautiful, red, polished apples to attract the passers-by, but not little four-year-old boys.

As I passed the store, I saw one of those delicious, juicy, rosy apples. My cheeks ached as my saliva began to run. Without realizing I was doing wrong, I reached over, picked up an apple, and continued up the street. When I got two houses beyond the store, I looked in my hand and realized I had stolen an apple. I began to run where any four-year-old boy who was in trouble would run—home! Our secret hiding place was under the front porch where we stored our gardening tools. I ran all the way home, crawled under the porch, sat there all afternoon shivering with fear, and eating the apple.

Remorse of conscience is not always that simple, but I have often reflected upon the fact that at four years of age, my conscience told me I had done wrong. I knew it was wrong, and I knew that my Heavenly Father knew that I had done wrong. I was both frightened and ashamed. Whether we are four years old or forty years old, it is all the same. Our conscience teaches us right from wrong—unless we have destroyed it through careless abandonment.

As a teen I studied in a technical school for young men. It was hard to be a member of the Church in an atmosphere where there were other beliefs or no beliefs at all. Being the only member in school was difficult because I felt alone; I felt different. My classmates were relatively good, but many didn’t share my principles.
I remember well one time when they wanted to get me to smoke. They didn’t say it directly. Instead, one of them lit a cigarette while we were in our classroom waiting for the professor. We weren’t supposed to smoke inside the school.
I was sitting in the back. The guys at the front of the room lit the cigarette, and they each took a puff and passed it on. Everyone was watching to see it get to me. Finally the guy in front of me took a puff and turned around.
I didn’t take the cigarette.
He said, “Come on. Go ahead.”
“No, I’m not going to smoke.”
He took the cigarette and put it to my mouth. So I hit him. He hit me back. Then almost everyone in the room started to fight, though we quickly calmed down before the professor got there.
Now I’m not saying that was the right way to respond, but I was only 13. I didn’t know how to respond. I just knew no one was going to make me smoke.
After class I found the boy I had hit and asked his forgiveness. With some emotion, he told me, “No, I’m the one who needs to ask your forgiveness.”