Gospel Story Finder

Some years ago in our ward fast and testimony meeting a young father proudly gave a name and a blessing to his first child. Afterwards the father stood to bear his testimony. He expressed thanks for this, his first son. He then said in a rather perplexed way that since the little fellow didn’t seem to understand anything they said, he wished he knew just how to communicate with him. “All we can do,” said he, “is hold him, cuddle him, gently squeeze him, kiss him, and whisper thoughts of love in his ear.”
After the meeting I went up to the new father and said that in his testimony he had given us a success pattern for raising healthy children. I hoped he would never forget it; even as his children grew to maturity I hoped he would continue the practice.

Maybe for our family it happened the night my husband John, was working late. Our daughter Katie had developed a sudden fever after dinner and was lying stretched out on the couch, whining and uncomfortable. Just then came Brother Braden’s knock at the door. Katie crawled into his lap the moment he sat down, and with a deep sigh of relief she fell asleep. I was unable to persuade him to put her into her bed and go home. Instead, he sat without moving, unwilling to disturb her, until her father had come home to take his place. Then he offered to stop at the pharmacy on his way home to get some medication for her. Later that night and again the next day she received phone calls from “my home teacher” to see that she was well.

In early 2019, Sister Setaita Ata began her mission in the Joao Pessoa Mission in Northeast Brazil. Some months later, she suffered a complex knee injury and had to return to Australia for protracted medical treatment.
Still keen to complete her mission, Sister Ata was cleared for missionary service a year later and was transferred to the Melbourne Australia Mission. Then in October 2020, she suffered yet another health challenge: a series of debilitating migraines.
Along with her physical pain, she also felt responsible for hindering her companions from working to their full capacity. With this burden heavy on her mind, Sister Ata reluctantly spoke to her mission president, fearing that she would have to leave the mission field early.
Imagine her delight to learn that she could continue to serve the Lord—that her medical needs could be managed while she completed the rest of her mission. When President Houghton explained that she could be transferred to a service mission, Sister Ata accepted immediately, even before she knew how it would work. The very same day Elder and Sister Nicholls, service mission leaders overseeing Australia, met with her via Zoom to interview her and to explain the process.
As a service missionary, Sister Ata would move back home to continue with medical treatments, but she would have to keep up her regular missionary schedule of daily prayer, scripture study, and exercise. Elder and Sister Nicholls would prayerfully consider Sister Ata’s unique strengths to determine the best way for her to contribute to the gathering of Israel.
When they met again to work out the new terms of her missionary service, the Nicholls’ noted that Sister Ata is blessed with a beautiful talent for the visual arts, that she has a great sense of compassion and a gentle strength of character. Sister Ata expressed her desire to serve in the temple, and after some discussion, with prayer in their hearts, they sculpted a unique new assignment for her:
District leadership: Sister Ata would serve as a leader for all the service missionaries in her district.
Artistic service: She would create visual art pieces that inspire faith in Jesus Christ and in His gospel.
Temple service: She would work in the office at the Australia Melbourne Temple for an agreed amount of time every week.
“I knew I had a talent with art” Sister Ata says, “but I hadn’t used it for a long time. I now realise that Heavenly Father wants me to use art to serve others.”
Thinking about the health struggles that hindered her mission in the beginning, Sister Ata would not have chosen those challenges for herself, but she knows that she is now receiving abundant beauty for ashes.2
“If anything, my transfer into a service mission helped me [to] realise what Heavenly Father has given me,” she says. “A big part of my service mission is doing the Lord’s will and just enquiring of Him. It goes back to a lesson in Come, Follow Me: if you have a desire to serve, then enquire of the Lord and He will direct you to know what to do and how to serve.”

And another incident: A member of my student branch had stopped in to see me. “President,” she said, “my dad has a birthday and I want to send him something worthwhile. But he is having such a financial struggle to keep me in school, I don’t think I should spend much. Can you suggest anything?”
I remembered the wonderful gift my own son had given me and then suggested to her: “Jan, why don’t you fast and pray for a true appreciation of your father. Then write down all the things he has done for you over the years—list all the reasons you are proud of him. Next list the things he has done for which you failed to thank him. Finally, sit down and pour your heart out in a letter that will convince him how much you love him. It will be the finest present he has ever received from you, and it will cost only a stamp.”

On the way to my new job, I started to worry.
What if I’m not good enough? I thought as I rode the bus. What if they think I can’t do a good job?
Then I had a clear feeling: Try your best. Even if it doesn’t go well, there’s somebody who loves you.
I thought about my husband. I knew he would love me even if my job didn’t go well. And then I thought about Jesus Christ. I knew that He would always love me. I could feel it in my heart. I said a simple prayer asking Heavenly Father to help me.
When I got to work, I did my best. When I made a mistake, I just kept trying. I remembered that someone still loved me.

Lucy’s Heart
Lucy and her older sisters entered an art contest at their school about making the world a better place. Lucy knew she wanted to paint a heart. She said, “The world would be a better place if we have love in our hearts.”
A Loving Sister
When Lucy found out that her painting won the contest, she told her sister Ruby, “Yours is so good. I wish you would have won instead of me.” Lucy couldn’t believe it when she found out her painting won the contest for the whole United States too!
A Special Way to Communicate
It’s hard for Lucy to tell others what she is feeling. But she wants to help people feel loved and happy. And her paintings do that!

Ramona Morreale of the Cannonville Ward, Escalante Utah Stake, writes of a special family home evening when she read from her journal: “I found entries about our children and humorous things they said and did when they were younger. Before long we were all laughing. Our children often ask to have a ‘journal’ lesson again. Sometimes we also read spiritual entries from an ancestor’s journal. This brings great joy and helps us get to know them.”

Here’s a fun puzzle game called Chinese Writing.
Trevor carefully eyed the odd collection of a dozen kitchen utensils on the floor.
“Who drew this picture?” he asked.
“I’m the artist,” volunteered Ken. Trevor looked carefully at Ken sitting cross-legged with head in hands. Trevor walked cautiously around the strange piece of artwork somewhat resembling a stick person.
“Well, judging from the cheese grater used for hair I suspect this is a drawing of a girl.” He carefully examined the large group of people surrounding him in the circle. “Because of the potato masher used for the mouth it must be someone with a pretty smile.” He glanced at Carol intently sitting cross-legged and head in hands. “I say it is none other than Carol Parkins.”
The group gasped in amazement. “How did you know?”
“I think I know how he did it,” boasted Cheri. “I’ll leave the room next and try.”
Do you know how Trevor did it? Did you catch the trick? That’s right. The artist gave away who the subject was by simply sitting in the same pose in which the subject was sitting. Trevor had only to see who in the room was sitting exactly like Ken. It was obviously Carol. Obvious? Well, only if you know the trick. You’ll be surprised how long it will take your friends to figure it out. Try it on them at the next birthday party you go to.

Mateo and his dad walked to their family’s fruit stand together. Mateo’s dog, Zeus, followed them.
“Did you ask the bishop about my baptism?” Mateo asked. He was already eight, but he hadn’t been baptized yet because of the pandemic.
“He said you won’t be able to get baptized this month,” Dad said. “Maybe next month.”
“OK.” Mateo frowned. He really wanted to be baptized and receive the gift of the Holy Ghost. But it seemed like it would never happen!
Dad unlocked the stand. Mateo helped carry out boxes of oranges, lemons, mangoes, and bananas. Then he helped put them on the shelves.
Mateo kept thinking about the Holy Ghost while they worked. “What does the Holy Ghost feel like?” he asked.
“The Holy Ghost comforts me when I’m sad,” Dad said. “And He makes me feel good when I help someone.”
“I can’t wait to be baptized so I can feel the Holy Ghost too!”
“Even before you are baptized and confirmed, you can feel the Holy Ghost,” Dad said. “You can feel His comfort now. Like when you pray or do something kind for someone. Then after you are confirmed, you can always have the Holy Ghost with you.”
Mateo thought about that. Had he felt the Holy Ghost before?
Soon they had unloaded all the boxes. “Are you ready to help the Sosas?” Dad asked.
Mateo nodded. Mr. and Mrs. Sosa both had a hard time walking. So Mateo went to the market for them. Sometimes he helped them do chores too.
Mateo and Zeus walked to the Sosas’ house. Mrs. Sosa waved from the front porch. “Good morning!”
“Do you need groceries today?” Mateo asked.
“Yes. I need bread, potatoes, and beef.” Mrs. Sosa counted out some coins. “That should be enough.”
Mateo took the money. He saw a bag of trash by the door. “Can I take that out for you?” he asked.
“Yes. Thank you!” Mrs. Sosa said.
After he took the trash out, Mateo bought the food. He thought about all the things he’d done that morning. He helped Dad at the fruit stand. He helped the Sosas buy food. And he did have a good feeling inside. He was feeling the Holy Ghost, just like Dad said!
Mateo hoped he wouldn’t have to wait much longer to be baptized. He wanted to have the Holy Ghost with him all the time!
This story took place in Uruguay.

While attending a conference in the East the other day, I listened to the experience of an engineer who joined the Church some months ago. The missionaries had called at his home, and his wife had invited them in. She had eagerly responded to their message, while he felt himself being pulled in against his will. One evening she indicated that she wished to be baptized. He flew into a fit of anger. Didn’t she know what this meant? This would mean time. This would mean the payment of tithing. This would mean giving up their friends. This would mean no more smoking. He threw on his coat, walked out into the night, slamming the door behind him. He walked the streets, swearing at his wife, swearing at the missionaries, swearing at himself for ever permitting them to teach them. As he grew tired, his anger cooled, and a spirit of prayer somehow came into his heart. He prayed as he walked. He pleaded with God for an answer to his questions. And then an impression, clear and unequivocal, came almost as if a voice had spoken with words that said, “It’s true.”
“It’s true,” he said to himself again and again. “It’s true.” A peace came into his heart. As he walked toward home, the restrictions, the demands, the requirements over which he had been so incensed began to appear as opportunities. When he opened the door, he found his wife had been on her knees.
Then, before the congregation to whom he told this, he spoke of the gladness that had come into their lives. Tithing was not a problem. The sharing of their substance with God who had given them everything seemed little enough. Time for service was not a problem. This required only a little careful budgeting of the hours of the week. Responsibility was not a problem. Out of it came growth and a new outlook on life. And then this man of intellect and training, this engineer accustomed to dealing with the facts of the physical world in which we live, bore solemn testimony with moistened eyes of the miracle that had come into his life.

A man I knew—one of the great men I have known—was in a bunch of roustabout boys. They were always where they should not be and never where they should be. Finally, a wise, resourceful leader got them into a Sunday School class. The teacher was this old man—just an ordinary, homely old man. More than that, he was a convert from Europe, and he did not speak English very well. They giggled, “Our teacher? Him?” These boys, I suppose, had the reputation of running any teacher out.
Then my friend said that something happened. The teacher started to speak, and they all began to listen. This friend said, “You could warm your hands by the fire of his faith.” That meant that in that older, worn-out body that did not seem to be able to erase an accent, there was a powerful spirit.
In the Resurrection the body—the dust of the earth, the carnal part of us—can be renewed and made powerful if it is to equal the spirit.
If you can understand how the Spirit operates, you will be all right. There is not enough evil put together—if it was all brought together as some kind of a dark, ugly laser beam and focused on you, it could not destroy you, unless somehow you consented to it.
In the course of your learning, “wisdom is the principal thing; therefore get wisdom: and with all thy getting get understanding” (Proverbs 4:7).
Make sure you learn the things that you are not taught overtly. If all you know is what you read or what you can hear, you will not know very much. Moments of reverence are so precious when you think and feel. That is why temples are so important. You can go to the temple and be out of the world.
The promise from the Lord is that when you receive the Holy Ghost, “he shall teach you all things, and bring all things to your remembrance, whatsoever I have said unto you” (John 14:26).
You will be doing some things automatically, almost unwittingly. Without thinking, you will find you have been prompted and guided by the Holy Spirit. That is why this young elder, without knowing why, took a 20-mark note out of his wallet as he was trotting alongside the train and handed it to me as the train was pulling out. He saved us from great danger.
That is how you will do things and then later look back and know that you were guided. And also that is how you will be warned. You will be warned, “Don’t go there! Don’t do that!” You will be warned, “Don’t go with him! Don’t go with her! Don’t be with them!” And then, “Do be in this company!” You will be guided, and the Lord will watch over you.
I know that the gospel is true, that Jesus is the Christ, that He lives, that this is His Church. Find a place in the world where you can, without embarrassment, without any hesitancy, declare to yourself: first, that you accept the gospel of Jesus Christ and, second, that what you are is more important than what you do. What you do, if it is guided, will make you what you are and what you can be.

I am a professional ballet teacher. I teach talented young dancers in my studio. Before I was a ballet teacher, I was a professional dancer. I even danced for presidents and leaders from all over the world.
I love helping my students improve their ballet skills. I enjoy taking them to the ballet to watch others perform. I love to choreograph dances. I also like traveling around the country to teach.
First I had to learn how to dance. I practiced many hours a day. I learned the basic techniques and the history of ballet. I also learned the right posture and positions for each dance step. Soon I started helping my teachers. Then I became a teacher myself. Sometimes I even let my students make mistakes so they can learn from them.
Teaching ballet is the best job in the world. I use the talents Heavenly Father has given me to help other dancers discover their gifts. Then I encourage my students to share their talents with others. Heavenly Father wants us to find our talents, use them, and share them with as many people as we can.

A family from another country moved in across the street. They had two girls close to my age. They didn’t know much about Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. I became friends with them. I noticed that they swore a lot and did other things that weren’t good. Instead of walking away and not being their friend, I told them about Heavenly Father and the gospel, and said they shouldn’t swear or do bad things. I even invited them to church. Ever since then, they have been doing better and not swearing so much. They even started saying prayers at night. I am glad I can be a good missionary.
Natalie C., age 10, Idaho

When I was a small child, my mother taught me colors. She held up a blue-colored object and told me it was blue. Then she had me repeat the word after her. After awhile she would hold another blue object before my eyes and ask me its color.
“Green?” I asked.
“No, dear,” she replied patiently, “this color is blue.”
“Blue?” I questioned.
“Yes, dear. This color is blue.”
After awhile she held up another blue-colored object and asked me its color.
“Yellow?” I questioned.
“No, love, not yellow.” Then even more patiently she taught me, “This color is blue.”
“Blue,” I echoed.
“Yes, dear,” she repeated, “this color is blue.”
She let me play awhile and then held up another blue-colored object and asked, “What color is this?”
“Blue?” I queried.
“That’s my smart boy!” Mother proudly replied and gave me a big hug and a kiss. So I learned to know colors.
I have no idea how long it took my patient mother to teach me colors. I wasn’t any smarter or any slower than other boys. But eventually I learned to distinguish blue from other colors. Now when anyone holds up such an object and asks me what color it is, I confidently answer, “Blue!” If anyone should ask me what makes me think that color is blue, I answer, “I know it is blue for I can see it!” Others agree with me for they too can see that it is blue. The object, however, is blue only because we agree with one another to call such a color blue. In other words everything we say we know is only because we have been taught it. Our knowledge comes from those things we have been taught or have read or have heard or have experienced.

Let me tell of another person I met in Guatemala. He is John O’Donnal, the president of the Guatemala City Temple. He stood before a congregation and with a voice choked with emotion told his story.
As a young man he was graduated from the University of Arizona with a degree in agricultural science. He was employed by the U.S. Department of Agriculture and was sent to Guatemala to work on a project to develop the growth of natural rubber trees to meet a critical need during World War II.
As I remember his words, he said: “I was twenty-four years of age and unmarried when I came to Guatemala forty-three years ago. I had been raised with a love for the Savior and His teachings. During my work here, I walked day after day through these mountains and jungles among the native peoples of this land. I came to know them and to love them, and as I saw the poverty and darkness in which they lived, I wept for them. They were the purest people I had ever known, but they were without the light of the gospel. I cried to the Lord concerning them. I knew that their one sure hope lay in obtaining a knowledge of and a love for Jesus Christ, and in receiving the record of their forebears, which testifies of Him.
“In time I fell in love with a beautiful girl who had English and German blood and also the blood of Lehi, Laman, and Samuel. We were married and spent our honeymoon in a little house in the mountains among the native people. I told her that some day these people must hear the gospel and that they would rise in strength and beauty.
“In 1946 and again in 1947 I traveled to Salt Lake City, Utah, and pleaded with the President of the Church to send missionaries. Finally, in December 1947, the mission president and his counselors brought four elders to our house. The next day we drove onto a mountain where together we had the sacrament, and the mission president dedicated the land for the preaching of the restored gospel.
“My wife was the first native of Guatemala baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Today she stands at my side as the matron of this beautiful temple.”
He continued: “In 1956 I was in a serious accident and was taken to the hospital for major surgery. I almost lost my life, and in those circumstances I had a remarkable experience. The Lord showed me that a temple would be built in this land.
“Also, I was informed by a power beyond the power of man that I would not die but that my life would not be my own.”
His life has not been his own. As a scientist and administrator, he established and operated a large rubber plantation and built and operated a tire factory for one of the great rubber companies in the United States. But he did still yet a far more significant thing. In the spirit of the Master, he went about doing good. He worked sharing the gospel among the native peoples of Guatemala. For more than forty years he has lived with them, has spoken their language, has sorrowed with them in their sorrows, has taught them the everlasting gospel, and has been a quiet, unassuming, but magnificent pioneer in the development of the work of the Lord in that land.
When he walked the jungle trails alone, he was the only member of the Church in all that land. Today there are more than forty-four thousand of them. He nurtured the first little branch. Today there are eight stakes of Zion in Guatemala and many more in the surrounding nations of Central America. Once, a few members met in his home. Now beautiful chapels of the Church are seen throughout the land. On a hill above Guatemala City is a magnificent temple, atop whose tallest steeple is the figure of Moroni.

When the Church published a rendering of the temple to be built in Bengaluru, a friend messaged me, pointing out how closely it resembled a picture I had drawn in my missionary journal 20 years ago. I had forgotten all about this drawing, so I immediately looked for the journal and was awestruck to see that my friend was right. To me this was a very personal and special manifestation of God’s love for me. How utterly grateful I am to see this dream come true. My rendering in 1999, depicted my stick-figure future family going to the temple outside our home in India. Although I now live in Melbourne, Australia with my family, I can’t wait for us to one day visit this temple. But for now, I truly rejoice with by brothers and sisters in India and many Saints around the world, as we celebrate a sight that we have so longed to behold.

I had a conversation once with a young man I cannot forget. His story of activity, complete inactivity, and a return to activity included the description of two classrooms. He said: “When I was about 15, I started to have a lot of questions about the Church. I thought maybe there would be a chance to talk about my questions at church, but it didn’t happen. In priesthood it seemed like most of the time everybody talked about the game the night before. Sunday School was about the same—maybe a little lesson thrown in during the last five minutes where the teacher asked questions, and it was kind of ‘guess-the-right-answer-from-the-manual-time.’”
Well, other things happened—late Saturday nights, a switch to an earlier meeting schedule—and soon the young man’s attendance dropped to nothing. Several years passed by until he found himself in church again. This time his face lit up as he described his Sunday School class:
“The teacher was this unimpressive-looking guy, but he was so excited about what he was teaching. He didn’t waste a minute. He asked important questions. Everyone had their scriptures. They looked up verses, shared ideas. They listened to each other. They talked about problems at school and how they fit in with the lesson. You could tell that the people in the class were all different, but they had one amazing thing in common—they were all interested in learning the gospel. After five minutes, I knew that this was a good place for me.”

While I was a mission president in Texas, I was informed that a particular missionary had lost his testimony and wanted to go home. Some checking disclosed that doubts of the divinity of his call had been planted in the young man’s mind by an investigator. In an interview with the so-called investigator, I experienced special powers of discernment that enabled me to know that the man was a minister of another faith, posing as a college student and pretending to be an honest investigator of Mormonism. Confronted with the knowledge that had been revealed to me, he became confused and admitted his fraud. With the deceiver out of the way and the truth known, the missionary stayed and completed an honorable mission.

The Saints in Singapore have been tested, in ways common to all as well as peculiar to their circumstances. Joseph Goh, Bedok Branch executive secretary, has fought through two bouts of cancer, with the help of his wife, Jemmie, and his two children. In 1987, Joseph discovered a growth on his left leg. He relates, “I’d been playing soccer and felt some pain while walking. When the pain persisted, my wife insisted that I see our doctor. X-rays revealed a tumor. The doctor later said that he might have to amputate if the growth was connected to the bone. But we remembered the priesthood blessing I had received the night before. It had promised that I would walk again.”
The operation successfully removed the growth, then Joseph underwent radiation treatment for three months. “I had to relearn balance and walking. Our seven-year-old son, Kelvin, prayed every day for me and often held my hand to comfort me. I recovered in time to baptize him. I worried about falling during the baptism since I couldn’t put weight on the leg, but everything went smoothly.”
Then, in January 1988, X-rays uncovered white spots on his left lung. He underwent chemotherapy for six months, losing all his hair. Because his natural immunities were weakened, he suffered through several illnesses, including chicken pox. Eventually, all spots but one disappeared. The remaining spot is being monitored closely. Joseph was well enough by December for his family to travel to the New Zealand Temple to be sealed.
Jemmie, who serves as first counselor in the Relief Society presidency, says, “These experiences taught us how to pray deeply. I had never really known what sorrow was before, or joy. I learned a lot about faith from Joseph: he did not blame God, and he did not murmur. The second fight with cancer was very frustrating. But during one prayer, some words came to my mind, ‘I know what I am doing,’ and I realized that I must trust God.”
Joseph adds, “The problems drew us together. Through our testing, I learned of the love my wife and children have for me, and I loved them more. I believe the Lord wants us to learn to be more patient and to know how people suffer so we can be more compassionate and understanding.”

Today I tried to slip out the door and get to school before my mom could catch me. I knew if she caught me, she’d make me go. And going to the annual youth canyon fireside was the last thing I wanted to do. Even though my mom says she only wants what’s best for me, and honestly thinks she’s trying to help, she just doesn’t understand how hard these things can be. Testimony meetings are the hardest, everyone breathing and shuffling around in silence, wondering what, if anything, I’ll say.

My mom was called to be the Young Women president in my ward last year, so when I skip meetings, it’s pretty glaringly obvious. When I was 13, I could get away with not going to Mutual because I would just conveniently forget to tell my mom about things, but now she knows everything. Everything. And so does everybody else. I can imagine the Young Women presidency discussing the less-active girls, all of them avoiding my mom’s eyes when they come to my name. I know that people talk. I also know that many of them think I don’t care what they say, but I do.

So today I walked extra carefully down the stairs, skipping the one that squeaked. And right as I put my hand on the doorknob and almost felt safe enough to breathe, I sensed her behind me.

“Leslie,” she said, and she put her hand on my shoulder. She was wearing dusty rose polish, and I could still smell it fresh on her fingertips.

“Leslie, honey, I really feel you should come tonight. You don’t want to miss this. I promise.”

I shouldn’t have glanced up at her face, because that’s when I saw the look. It wasn’t like I hadn’t seen it before. I see it almost every Sunday when I decide I want to stay asleep, those weekend nights when I come in late and she is wrapped up in the old blue blanket, waiting. I see it all the time. But at that moment, I looked up at my mom, and it struck me hard that she was a little bit scared. Of me. Of what I’d say. And you know, most teenagers like me would have thought they were powerful, making their moms look that way, but I didn’t like it at all. It must have really thrown me off, because somehow my mouth popped open and the words, “Okay. Okay, I’ll go,” came out.

I kicked myself throughout the school day for saying okay because now I was stuck—really stuck. I kept seeing the relief on my mom’s face when I said okay. I knew that I wasn’t terrible enough to change my mind on her, and the knowledge that I had gotten myself into something that I couldn’t get out of sat and simmered at the bottom of my stomach all day long.

As my mom and I drove to the activity, she hummed to the radio and tapped her fingernails on the steering wheel. She kept looking at me and smiling, just barely, like she was excited but didn’t want to be too excited in case she’d scare me off. It was a look I remember from when I was a little girl and we went camping and she got a squirrel to eat out of her hand. She talked to it softly, smiled quietly, and tried to stay as still as possible so she wouldn’t break the spell. I remember the squirrel snatched the food from my mother’s hand but didn’t run away. His curious eyes were fixed on hers as they stood inches apart, his hands tucked up against his chest. I remember reaching out my hand to pet him, but when I moved, he scampered away. “They have to trust you quite a bit before you can touch them,” I remember my mother telling me.

When we stepped out of the car onto the gravel parking lot of the campsite, I stuffed my hands deep into my pockets and studied the ground, avoiding all the eyes that I knew would be staring my direction. Then I heard my name being called. “Leslie!” “Hey, Leslie, it’s great you came!” “Leslie, long time no see!” Six or seven girls came toward me, waving their arms, smiling and squinting into the dusky sunlight. I remembered all the lessons—fellowship the less active. Let them know you care. When they came close enough for me to see their eyes, I searched them for the insincerity I knew I would find. Maybe it was the setting sun casting shadows across their faces, but I studied their expressions, and their smiles seemed genuine.

Megan and Natalie grabbed me by the wrists, pulled me over to the refreshment table, and started loading me up with chips and oatmeal chocolate chip cookies and orange slush. They were my friends once, before I hit my “stage.” (That’s what my dad calls it, my stage.) As a matter of fact, they were the ones that took care of my hand when I slammed it in the van door. I still saw them at school, and they always said hi, but I was never sure if they meant it or if I was just another “service project.” I wasn’t sure now, either. In many ways, I wanted to sense they were being false. I remembered the countless Sunday mornings complaining to my father, “I know they don’t like me, Dad. Nobody likes me there.” I had used that justification so often that I had begun to believe it. But here they were, talking with me, laughing, like there wasn’t one thing wrong with me and never had been. Amazingly, I found myself laughing right along with their jokes, almost feeling like I belonged, a little bit afraid that I’d have to come up with a new excuse for my dad on Sunday mornings.

Night fell quickly, and the leaders managed to get everyone in a circle around the fire. Already huge and bright and hot, the flames cast themselves on everyone’s faces, lighting up their eyes. Shining in the glow of the fire, our faces seemed transformed, like we weren’t the teenagers who just 20 minutes before had been getting in water fights and toilet papering the bishop’s car. The dark and silent forest surrounded the circle of people, and all we could see or hear was each other.

For the first few minutes everyone was quiet and shifted in their seats, just like I’d expected. I sat as still as possible, staring at my hands in my lap, listening as the fire popped and crackled and everyone breathed. Then I heard a rustle, and someone stood up. I didn’t look to see who it was. But once I heard his voice, I knew. It was John Caldwell, the star football player. Big John, scary John, John who had been gone all summer so he could work out some problems and had just come home.

He cleared his throat. I could hear his feet shuffle nervously in the dirt.

“I don’t know where to start,” he said. “I’m not too good with words, really. But I have something to say that you all need to hear.

“The last year of my life has been really rough. One night I felt really bad. So bad I didn’t think I wanted to see the morning. That feeling scared me a lot, so much that I did something I hadn’t done since I was a little kid. I got down on my knees.

“I was scared to pray, almost too scared to even try. I wasn’t sure if there was a God, and if there was, I didn’t know why He’d want to listen to me. But I needed to do something. Anything.”

I lifted up my head and looked up at John. He was staring straight out into the fire, and his face was lit up and shining. For the first time, I looked at his eyes. Dancing and sparkling, they reflected the light from the fire, and he looked more alive than I had ever seen him.

“I don’t know how to explain it, really,” he said. “I don’t know what to say except that it felt like a blanket. I didn’t even have to try to say the right words. I just got down on my knees, and I could feel Him, and He was all around me. Right then, I knew everything would be okay. Somebody loved me, even if I didn’t even like myself, and for the first time I felt like I had the strength to go on.

“Now I want to make something out of my life. I still have a long way to go, but there’s one thing I can say without a doubt. I know there’s a God. He watched over me that night, and He’s been with me ever since.”

John sat down and it was quiet again, but not the quiet like before. It was something more than silence. It was a hush. I felt a peacefulness surround my body that I hadn’t felt for a long time—a peacefulness I had forgotten how much I missed.

The rest of the night passed, and people stood up and bore their testimonies. I couldn’t stop thinking about John. I kept seeing the light in his eyes, the way he looked so powerful and so sure when he said, “I know there’s a God.” I was shocked to see what I had been trying to find for so long—real faith and conviction—embodied by a humble football star who learned how to pray.

At the end of the meeting, we all sang “I Need Thee Every Hour.” I even remembered the words. As I sang, I looked across the fire at my mom. She looked around the circle at everyone, smiling, and I sensed how much she loved us all. I was glad for the chance just to watch her, to see her as a person on the outside would. She was so beautiful, and so happy, and for the first time in much too long, I was proud to claim her as my mother.

The drive home was dark and quiet. There was no radio. No sound, really, but the hum of the tires along the pavement. Then we turned up the hill that led to our street. I saw the light coming from the windows of my home, and I knew I had to say it. I hadn’t felt the love and peace and power of that night for so long, and I didn’t want to let those feelings go again. By saying four simple words I’d kept locked inside me for so long, I knew I’d soon find myself on the path I never should have left.

I laid my hand on top of my mother’s.

“I love you, Mom,” I said.

She was silent for a moment, and then I saw her smile.

“I know,” she said. Then she took my hand in hers and squeezed it, tight, and neither one of us tried to let go.