Gospel Story Finder

Since childhood, I dreamed of serving a mission. As I got older, however, my perspective on life began to change, and prioritizing my family’s well-being became the most important. With the responsibility to support us, I watched my mother shouldering the care for me, my brother, and my three other younger siblings—Winyordy, Drey, and Ros—‚without the assistance of my stepfather, who had previously filled that role. It was solely her and me, with the guidance of our Heavenly Father, providing for the family. I understood that I was an essential pillar in supporting the family. Nevertheless, despite knowing the hardship it would bring her, my mother encouraged me to pursue my mission.
Throughout my life, my mother always reminded me that God always knows what is best for me. But it wasn’t until one day at work that I really listened to her. I felt like I was wasting my time there and had a strong feeling I should go on a mission. Even though friends and Church leaders had told me before to follow my heart, I hadn’t wanted to admit it. When I got home, I told my mom, “I’m going to serve a mission.”
She was excited and surprised and completely supported my decision.
I was called to serve in the Dominican Republic Santiago Mission. Incredibly, while there, I have become reacquainted with Elder Jean Louis, the first missionary who taught us the gospel. God’s timing is perfect, and when you put God first, everything else will come as a result.

During the Great Depression, Harold B. Lee, serving then as a stake president, was asked by the Brethren to find an answer to the oppressive poverty, sorrow, and hunger that were so widespread across the world at that time. He struggled to find a solution and took the matter to the Lord and asked, “What kind of an organization will we have … to do this?”

And “it was as though the Lord had said [to him]: ‘Look, son. You don’t need any other organization. I have given you the greatest organization there is on the face of the earth. Nothing is greater than the priesthood organization. All in the world you need to do is to put the priesthood to work. That’s all.’”

Last summer when I was away from home, a fierce wind and rainstorm blew through our neighborhood. A huge tree had fallen from my neighbor’s yard, filling my yard and knocking down power lines. The tree needed to be removed before the damage could be repaired and power restored to my home.
Early in the morning I called my brother, who planned to find some equipment and come as soon as he could. I also called my bishop. Within minutes my bishop, home teacher, former stake president, and 10 men from my ward were there with their chain saws and made quick work of this disaster. My visiting teachers brought in dinner that evening. Many more men from the high priests group, the elders quorum, and the neighborhood came on subsequent evenings to assist me and my family in cleaning up the mess.
I was needy on that occasion. I needed help from others. My discouragement turned into joy and gratitude. I felt loved and cared for. These people were quick to recognize one in need. They lived their testimony and demonstrated the reality of their covenants.

I chose to arrange the next two family home evenings, focusing on faith. I started off by preparing the lessons and trying to learn the chords on the guitar for the songs we would sing.
The first lesson was on faith. I asked what we as a family could change to grow our faith. They replied, “Praying, studying scriptures, fasting, going to church,” and so on. We agreed that there are many things you can do to grow your faith, but the most important thing is to actually do them. It’s important that you act in order to strengthen your faith.
The second lesson was on spiritual gifts. We talked about what faith and spiritual gifts had to do with each other.
Our faith-themed family home evenings went really well. We improved some things in our family; we had fun and tried not to just get it over with. We felt the Spirit together as a family.
Riza S., 16, Roskilde, Denmark

It was Helamán’s first day of school. He wore his favorite shirt, and he had a new pencil. His new teacher let him sit at a table with his friends Sylvester, Jorge, and Miguel. It was a good day.
“Put away your things,” said Señora Martínez. “It’s time to eat lunch.”
Helamán’s family always prayed together before meals. He raised his hand. “Señora Martínez, are we going to pray before we eat?”
Señora Martínez smiled at Helamán. “You may say a prayer for your food if you would like.”
Helamán and his friends opened their lunches.
“What is a prayer?” asked Sylvester.
“It’s talking to Heavenly Father,” said Helamán. “It’s the way we thank Him for our food.”
“Can you say a prayer for all of us?” asked Miguel.
Helamán folded his arms. His three friends folded their arms too. Helamán closed his eyes and bowed his head. His friends did the same.
Then Helamán said a prayer, just like his family did. He thanked Heavenly Father for the good day they were having and for their lunches. He asked for a blessing on their food. He ended in the name of Jesus Christ and said, “Amen.”
Sylvester, Jorge, and Miguel looked up.
“You can say amen too,” said Helamán.
His friends grinned and said, “Amen.”
The next day at lunchtime, Sylvester said, “Say a prayer, Helamán.”
“Yes, say a prayer, Helamán,” said Miguel. Jorge nodded.
So Helamán prayed again. This time he said he was extra thankful that his mom had made him a ham and cheese sandwich, his favorite. He asked Heavenly Father to help them learn in class that day.
Each day at lunch, Helamán’s friends said, “Say a prayer, Helamán.” And each day, Helamán said a prayer. He prayed with his friends each day for a week.
The next Monday at lunchtime, Miguel said, “Today I will pray.”
Helamán was surprised. He folded his arms, closed his eyes, bowed his head, and listened while Miguel prayed.
Miguel began by saying, “Dear Heavenly Father.” He thanked Him for their food and asked Him to bless it. He ended in the name of Jesus Christ and said, “Amen.”
“Amen!” said Helamán and Jorge.
“Amen,” said Sylvester. “I didn’t know you could pray.”
“I learned by listening to Helamán,” said Miguel. “I asked my parents if I could say a prayer on our meals at home. They said yes, so I pray just like Helamán does.”
“Wow,” said Sylvester. “I think I’ll ask my parents if I can say a prayer at our meals too.”
“Me too!” said Jorge.
Helamán smiled. He was glad he had been able to help his friends learn to speak with Heavenly Father. He knew Heavenly Father loved him, and Heavenly Father loved his friends too.
This story took place in Mexico.

A few months after my mother’s death and days after a broken engagement, I was invited to temporarily leave BYU to be the director of institutes and the seminary coordinator in Boston for the Church Educational System (CES). It seemed the timing couldn’t have been worse. Strangely, I had always wanted to live in Boston. In fact, I always knew I would live there, but not under those circumstances. Striving to align my will with His, I packed up my house; left BYU; said goodbye to my dad, family, and friends; and drove across the country.
A year later I returned from Boston, having fulfilled my assignment for CES. In addition, I had served as a chaplain at both Harvard and MIT and had completed postdoctoral work at Harvard in higher education administration. I had met incredible people, many of whom have since become dear friends. And, most important, I had received a live sealing recommend the night before I left. My husband and I were married shortly after. Three years later—and exactly three years from yesterday—we adopted our two beautiful daughters. One month later we were sealed as a family in the Mount Timpanogos Utah Temple. I wrote in my journal, “His ways truly are higher than mine.”

Brigham Young wrote in his journal:
“I started from Montrose on my mission to England. My health was so poor I was unable to go thirty rods to the river without assistance. After I had crossed the river I got Israel Barlow to carry me on his horse behind him to Heber C. Kimball’s, where I remained sick till the 18th. I left my wife sick with a babe only ten days old, and all my children sick and unable to wait upon each other. …”1
An economist could hardly condone the decision of Brigham Young to leave his family in such dire conditions to go off to England as a missionary. An economist learns to make decisions on the basis of what might be called a prudential value system, that is, a value system in which one counts the costs, compares them with the benefits, and follows that course of action for which the rewards are greatest. He makes a cost-benefit analysis and justifies his actions not by appeal to past authority or to previously formulated principles but by their expected future effects. The ethic is sensible and rational. We have come to respect it as a good system by which to make decisions.
By this ethic, though, Brigham Young’s action seems ill-considered, if not totally unjustifiable. Had he relied on the evidence of a cost-benefit analysis, he would likely not have gone on a mission at all: the cost in certain pain and possible death seemed to far outweigh the benefit in uncertain conversions in a far-off land.

“Hi, honey.” Mom smiled as Keri hopped into the car.
“How was activity day?”
“Terrible,” Keri mumbled.
Mom pulled out of the parking lot and headed down the street. “What happened?” she asked.
“We planted flowers in Sister Jackson’s front yard.”
“That was nice of you.”
“Sister Jackson didn’t think so. She got mad at us.”
“Really? Why?”
“She said that petunias were her favorite flower, and we planted mostly marigolds.”
“That’s too bad.”
“It gets worse. She said we have to come back later and do it right. Mom, we can’t spend all of our activity days at her house. We’ve got other plans. All the girls want to learn how to knit so we can have matching scarves this winter.”
Mom patted Keri’s knee. “Tell you what—for family home evening we can plant petunias at Sister Jackson’s house. How would that be?”
Keri frowned. “All right, but it won’t be any fun. She’s grumpy and mean and demanding. We’d better have great refreshments so the night won’t be a total loss.”
The next Monday night Keri, Mom, Dad, and Keri’s little brother, Cole, arrived at Sister Jackson’s house with a box full of petunias. When Sister Jackson answered the door, she wasn’t smiling. “Plant them in the front,” she ordered, pointing with her cane. “And not too close together. Petunias need space to grow.”
As Keri and her family worked, Sister Jackson came out onto her porch. “You’ll need mulch,” she said. “I want the fine, red kind—none of that chunky gray stuff. Make sure you get enough.” She turned and hobbled back into the house, letting the screen door slam shut behind her.
“See what I mean?” Keri growled. “She’s never satisfied. There’s always one more thing to do. This service project is going to go on and on for eternity.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Mom asked, pulling off her gardening gloves. “The commandment to love our neighbors doesn’t have an expiration date. And eternal projects might just bring eternal blessings. Now, let’s go get the mulch while Dad and Cole finish planting the flowers.”
But all the way to the store, Keri kept grumbling. “What’s wrong with her, anyway? Why can’t she be grateful for what we’ve done? Why does she have to be so critical all the time?”
“I’ve been thinking about Sister Jackson,” Mom said. “She lives alone with no family nearby. She hasn’t been able to go to church for months because of her poor health. She must be lonely. Her home teachers and visiting teachers come, but the only time anyone else visits is when there’s a service project.”
“You mean, she’s stretching out this job so we’ll keep coming to see her?”
Mom nodded. “I think so.”
Keri shook her head in wonder. “Well, if she weren’t so grumpy, maybe people would want to visit her more often.”
“No one likes to always be asking for help,” Mom explained. “And no one likes to be seen as a ‘project’ to be finished and forgotten. Maybe that’s what makes her feel grumpy. Perhaps she wants to be viewed as a real person with something to give. Maybe she needs to serve, not just be served.”
“How?”
Mom shrugged. “I don’t really know. I guess we need to find out more about Sister Jackson.”
When they got back from the store, Sister Jackson was sitting on her front porch doing some kind of handicraft. As Dad and Cole helped lift the large bags of mulch from the back of the car, she squinted at them over her eyeglasses. “I also want that plastic edging around the flowers replaced with brick. You can bring the bricks next week.”
Mom winked at Keri, and Keri rolled her eyes. Then Keri noticed what Sister Jackson was doing. She was knitting! Suddenly Keri knew exactly what to do—if she dared. Wiping her hands on her jeans and saying a little prayer for courage, she stepped toward the porch. “Uh, Sister Jackson,” she said, “do you know how to knit?”
Sister Jackson leaned back in her chair and frowned. “Of course I do, child. Don’t you have eyes?”
“Ah, yes, well, we—that is, the girls who planted the marigolds and I—we’d like to learn how to knit scarves. Do you think you could teach us?”
Sister Jackson’s eyes lit up for just a moment. “But I can’t get out to the church, honey,” she said softly.
“That’s OK. We’ll come here, if that’s all right. It might take us a lot of lessons, though. We’re pretty slow learners.”
Sister Jackson nodded, and a faint smile crossed her lips. “I guess I could find the time somehow. Get a paper and pencil from my kitchen table, and write down what I tell you to bring. We’ve got to decide on colors and patterns, too. Go on now—it’s right inside the door.”
Keri looked at her mother and grinned. She knew that this was just the beginning of an activity that could go on for a long, long time. Maybe even for eternity. But that was OK with her.

A few weeks ago, Dr. Jerry Loveland, one of our original faculty, passed away. Jerry came to La`ie in 1955 with his wife Delores. His memory will always be a tender one for those who knew them best. For sheer brain power Jerry was formidable. He studied at some of the finest graduate schools in the world. He was instrumental in founding the Polynesian Cultural Center. He did found the Institute for Polynesian Studies and launched the highly respected quarterly journal, Pacific Studies, which we still publish.
Jerry was intimidating to many of us younger faculty.I'm sure it was due to my own securities, but it seemed that in my early years, I would sweat every time I was around Jerry Loveland. That is, until in a personal sacred moment he shared with me a temple experience that I shall never forget. He said he was performing sealings for a deceased family, mother, father, and children. In his words he said, "I suddenly became aware that this family was actually in the room. And when the sealings were over I watched them file out of the room. The last person was a daughter who smiled, leaned down and kissed me on the cheek. I saw them and I felt the kiss."
A few months ago, Dr. Loveland confirmed this experience and gave me permission to tell it. Brothers and sisters, I have never entered the La`ie Hawaii Temple without a confirming testimony that when you enter the house of the Lord you come into the company of God, angels and witnesses; and that there is a special interaction between people, the children of God, on both sides of the veil.

I unloaded my purse, and there on the bottom with my boarding pass, was an issue of the Ensign.
Illustration by Allen Garns
As I entered the airport on my way home from a visit with old friends, I felt discouraged that I hadn’t shared the gospel on this trip. I always carry a Book of Mormon in my purse to remind me to pray for someone I can give it to, but too often it stays in my purse. This trip was yet another miss.
I took a deep breath and prayed a silent apology. I felt like a terrible member missionary.
As I shuffled through the security line, I felt prompted to speak to the woman ahead of me. We chatted about our destinations and then separated to different lines. As I headed toward my gate, however, I saw the same woman. “Oh, hi again,” she said. “Good to see you!”
I asked her when her flight was leaving. “Oh, not for hours—I’m early.”
“Well, come and sit with me!” I said.
I still had 45 minutes before my flight boarded, so we sat at my gate and talked about our work. I mentioned some of the writing I do for Latter-day Saints, and suddenly she lit up.
“You’re a Mormon?” she asked. “I’ve been wanting to know more about Mormons. How can I get a copy of the Book of Mormon?”
“Well,” I said, opening my purse, “I have one right here.”
“Oh, my,” she said. “I think maybe we were supposed to meet today.”
Gratitude flooded my heart. When she asked what makes Latter-day Saints different from other religions, I felt guided in what to say.
I told her I’d have the missionaries contact her, and then boarding was announced. I opened my purse to get my boarding pass but couldn’t find it. I unloaded my purse. There, on the bottom with the pass, was a general conference issue of the Ensign! I gave it to her and thanked the Lord that I had to search for my boarding pass. She mentioned that she usually brings reading material with her but felt she shouldn’t this time.
“Maybe it’s so I can read this,” she said. With my boarding pass in hand, I gave her a hug and said good-bye.
Now we talk each week, and she tells me about her visits with the sister missionaries. It has been a year, and I hope to someday see her baptized. I don’t know if that will happen, but I still marvel at the workings of Heavenly Father to help our paths cross. I thank Him for hearing my prayer and granting me the simple opportunity to share a Book of Mormon.

When I was a deacon in the Aaronic Priesthood, I was called to be secretary of my deacons quorum. I prepared the records I kept very carefully, for I wanted to do my very best in that calling. Doing all I can, to the very best of my ability, has been my goal in every calling I have ever held.
One day the bishopric asked me to take the sacrament to a man who could not leave his house. That special Sunday morning, when I knocked on Brother Wright’s door, I heard his weak voice call, “Come in.” I went into his humble home. His room was filled with the Spirit of the Lord.
I went to Brother Wright’s bedside and carefully placed a piece of sacrament bread to his lips. I then held the cup of water so that he could drink. As I left, I saw tears in his eyes as he said, “God bless you, my boy.” And God did bless me. He helped me appreciate the sacred emblems of the sacrament and the priesthood that I held.

It sounded simple. For two weeks I was to choose a family member and every day give something small to the person to express my love. I chose my little brother because we usually did not get along very well, and I figured this would be a good opportunity to draw closer to him. I decided to do it anonymously, and for the first week I bought him small bags of candy and various trinkets, leaving them by the side of his bed or under his pillow. After the week was over, I was thinking, Wow, this has got to be the easiest Personal Progress goal ever!
The second week, however, fell during our family camping trip, and the absence of convenient stores seriously complicated things. But I soon found that all it took was a little more creativity. Instead of buying things, I started doing things. I helped him roll his sleeping bag, whittle a marshmallow stick, and untangle his fishing line. Thinking constantly of ways to serve my brother strengthened our relationship incredibly, and I could see clearly the promise being fulfilled: “He that loveth his brother abideth in the light” (1 Jn. 2:10).
The last day of camp I lay in the dark tent, deep in the woods, listening to the soft calls of the birds and the gentle splashing of water from the nearby lake. The wind rustled through the tree tops, and I felt a cool breeze across my face.
“Someone tie up the window,” my brother mumbled sleepily. I felt him shiver beside me and suddenly realized that I had not done anything for him that day. I tied up the window, but since it was the last day, I felt I should give him something extra special. Maybe when we get home, I can buy him something especially expensive, I thought. No, that won’t do. It has to be today, and he is almost asleep. I lay quietly, thinking for a moment, and then rolled onto my side to face my brother.
“Warren,” I whispered.
“Hmmmm?”
“I love you.”
He was quiet for a second before he clearly responded, “I love you, too.”
I lay on my back and looked through the “sun roof” at the clear, dark sky and smiled.

Here is another trial. There have always been a few who want to discredit the Church and to destroy faith. Today they use the Internet.
Some of the information about the Church, no matter how convincing, is just not true. In 1985, I remember a colleague walking into my business office in Florida. He had a Time magazine article entitled “Challenging Mormonism’s Roots.” It spoke of a recently discovered letter, supposedly written by Martin Harris, that conflicted with Joseph Smith’s account of finding the Book of Mormon plates.19
My colleague asked if this new information would destroy the Mormon Church. The article quoted a man who said he was leaving the Church over the document. Later, others reportedly left the Church.20 I’m sure it was a trial of their faith.
A few months later, experts discovered (and the forger confessed) that the letter was a complete fraud. I remember really hoping that those who had left the Church because of this deception would find their way back.

I was grateful for that school year to end. The summer was a welcome escape from my old friends who didn’t understand why they saw less and less of me. I knew that the less I saw of them the easier it would be to begin repenting. Some of them didn’t care. Some hated me and my new religion. Some were very hurt and just didn’t understand. But I understood, and I knew that I would always be different.
I caught hold of the gospel and hung on tight. I worked furiously to catch up in knowledge with my friends who had been raised in the Church.
I tried to be perfect because I was convinced that I could never escape my sins. I thought that by knowing all of the answers in church and receiving awards in seminary I could somehow make up for all that I had done. I remember thinking at the time that I could never be free from my haunting past. I accepted that fact and resolved to be perfect in order to compensate.
One of the hardest steps of repentance (at least for me) was to forgive myself. Like the scripture that asks how we can love God whom we have not seen when we hate our brother whom we have seen (see 1 Jn. 4:20), how can we grow closer to Him when we hate and refuse to forgive ourselves?
For four long years I struggled. To everyone around me I seemed spiritual and well versed in the scriptures. Others told me how far I had come and how well I was doing, but only I knew the black that lined my heart. I had forsaken my past sins, and I was sure that God was pleased with my new life. But I felt that he was holding my past over my head, waiting for me to fall again.
Finally, in despair and confusion, I asked for a blessing. Words cannot express the peace that entered my heart as I received this personal revelation: I would receive the comfortings of the Holy Ghost and know that I was in good standing with Heavenly Father.
How could that be? My mind didn’t understand it, but my heart accepted it. So I believed it.

I remember an experience I had in the United States Marine Corps when we came in after being on a long, heavy, forced march. We were tired, hungry, and thirsty. The cooks had prepared a chicken salad to tide us over until our evening meal, and boy, was it going to taste good! A friend and I always paused and blessed the food before we ate. We prayed while the others dived in. Within hours, the whole group was violently ill, except for two—the two of us who had stopped to thank the Lord.

I wish to share with you a very special family experience. This is an interview I had with my grandson. Several years ago, when I was preparing myself spiritually in prayer to interview one of my daughters, I felt inspired to interview Kemish, my grandson who was a little over three years old and was living with us. Kemish was a bundle of energy and could not stay quiet for more than a minute, always running, jumping, and playing. So I let that feeling pass, thinking that I would wait until he was a little older and able to pay attention.

Several months later, while praying, the feeling came again; only this time it was stronger, and I heeded it. I went to Kemish and told him, “Tomorrow you and I will have an interview.” The next day, at the beginning of the interview, I told him that during an interview we had to look each other in the eye and remain seated all the time, among other things. It was a real miracle; Kemish sat and stayed quiet for almost ten minutes. But more marvelous than that, however, was that I got to know his thoughts and feelings. The thing that worried him the most was when he could get a two-wheel bicycle. When I explained to him that he would have to wait until he was a little older, he understood perfectly. He then told me the story he had learned about Nephi and his brothers. But the greatest thrill for me, as his grandfather, was when he told me that he knew who Jesus Christ was and bore his testimony of the Savior to me. Nowhere could you ever find more truth and purity than in the testimony of a three-year-old boy.

Grandma squeezed Celie’s shoulder. “When I was a little girl my grandma taught me how to make tarts. They’re like miniature pies. While my grandma was busy peeling apples, I stuffed the tiny tart tins full of dough. I filled them so high there wasn’t room for the apple filling.”
“Did she get mad?” Celie asked.
“No, she showed me how to fix the tarts and rolled the leftovers into a ball. I got to play with it. She even let me sneak a taste of the dough.”

As a boy, I remember my father having a large key ring with dozens of keys on it. All of the keys looked exactly alike to me. I was amazed at how my dad knew which key went to which door or cabinet. But even more amazing to me than how he knew which key went where was my dad’s seemingly amazing ability to find the right road when we travelled.

I grew up in a small, rural community in Utah. Occasionally, we would take family trips to Salt Lake City. We would enter the Salt Lake Valley from the east, exiting what is known as Parley’s Canyon. As we would leave the canyon and enter the valley, the highway seemed to split into countless off-ramps, on-ramps, side-roads, multi-lane freeways, and intersections surrounded by buildings of all shapes and sizes with thousands of other cars all around us, each coming and going on their own errands. There were no smart phones with built in navigation, no GPS, and he didn’t use any maps, yet my dad always, without hesitation, found his way to wherever we were going. I could not understand how he knew his way in such a complex situation, yet I had complete trust that my dad could get us to our destination. Now, as an adult, I do what he did and find my way on complex road systems – although today it is nice to have GPS.

Rod was a better shot at it than Dave. Dave thought of the summer night a couple of years before when Rod had been helping him with his chores so they could go out on the lake together. Rod had the holstein, and Dave had the jersey, and things were going along pretty fast before Rod started shooting him with milk. But Dave had the advantage—he had a cow between him and Rod, and Rod was in clear view. At least the last pint from each cow, before stripping, landed not in the buckets but on the cows, on Rod and Dave, on the walls and floor. They had started laughing so hard that Dave’s dad came out to see what was up. He failed to see the humor in their battle.

One of the sweetest things in my cart is a letter I have written to a teacher I had at BYU–Provo. His name was Dr. Douglas Gibb. He was a communications teacher, and I enjoyed several classes from him. I was nearing the end of my master’s program and faced a huge comprehensive test. The test would ask four questions from which you could pick three. You had a ream of paper placed in front of you and as many writing utensils as you brought with you. You began at 9:00 AM and wrote nonstop until noon. Your fingers would ache from the writing. There would be a one-hour lunch break. You then began the process over until 4:00 PM. I feared most the statistical questions, as that was my weakest area. I felt relief as I finished the exam. My relief soon ended when I received the results. I had been qualified based on my answer on the stat question. Now, I faced going before a board of four professors that could challenge me on anything I had studied over the last two years. I was given the opportunity to draw from a container the names of the professors who would sit on my board. All my friends said, “Pray that you do not draw Dr. Whiting. He is a killer on stats and math.” As I drew the names, my heart almost stopped. I drew the name of Dr. Whiting. My fear of being dropped out of my program after two very difficult years raced round and round in my mind.

I studied and prayed; I prayed and studied. A thought came to me to ask Dr. Gibb if he could sit in on my board. Could I do such a thing? Would he? Could he do such a thing? I got the courage and asked, and he said yes.

The day came. I pleaded with the Lord for help, for tender, tender, tender mercies, for anything he might give me. I entered the room. The questions began. I felt some glimmer of hope as I answered them. Then it happened: Dr. Whiting, who had sat quietly, spoke. “How would you measure…”

Stop. Measure? Wait! This was a stat question. I braced myself. I began my answer. I finished and stood ready for the bullet that would take my academic life. Two years would be over. Then he spoke. “I do not accept that answer.” Everything began to go black. I felt panic race through my whole body. He then said, “Would you like to try that again?” What choice did I have? I tried to use different words. I used words I hoped would impress. I finished. He said, “I don’t think you know what you are talking about.” I knew it was over. There was nothing else I could say or do. Dr. Gibb who had sat quietly the entire time suddenly spoke up. “I think Rob understands it this way,” he said. He proceeded to give the answer. He said, “Is that the way you understand it, Rob?” “Yes,” I said. Dr. Whiting looked at Dr. Gibb as to say, “What have you done?” Dr. Gibb just smiled. After standing in the hall for what seemed to be an eternity, I was brought back in the room. Dr. Whiting scowled and Dr. Gibb smiled. “It is the decision of this panel that you are to be awarded a master’s degree from this university.”

I thanked them, trying to hold back the tears. I looked at Dr. Gibb and thought, “In my moment when there was nothing more I could do and drowning in fear, you reached out and saved me.” I understood as I never had before what our Savior, Jesus Christ, does for us. Realizing that we cannot help ourselves and drowning in our sins, the Savior reaches out and pulls us to safety. I thought, “Dr. Gibb, you didn’t have to do that for me, but you did it.” I marvel that the Savior would do that for me. Oh, it is wonderful, wonderful to me.