Gospel Story Finder

A young man who is a friend of mine came to an interview confessing some minor difficulties he was having with sin. He believed them to be major. He had concocted a tremendous guilt trip about what he had done. He had allowed Satan to cause him to believe he was not a good person, that he did not have the power to overcome his weaknesses. He was overwhelmed with the challenges and struggles of life, and had lost the peace that normally accompanies a true disciple of Jesus Christ.
“I know Christ’s role is to save us from our sins,” my friend said. “But what about all the other troubles in my life?”
As I tried to console him, I told him that Christ was sent not only to help us heal the wounds of transgression and iniquity, but also to bear our grief and sorrow and guilt (see Mosiah 14:4–5, 11; Alma 24:10); that in addition to “suffering pains and afflictions and temptations of every kind” he also took upon himself the “sicknesses of his people,” “death, that he may loose the bands … which bind his people,” and “infirmities, that … he may know … how to [strengthen] his people” (see Alma 7:11–12; italics added).
As this young man and I read the scriptures together, he was thrilled to realize that somehow Christ is able to take upon himself, not only sin in a general sense, but also grief, sorrow, death, sickness, lack of peace, guilt, and pain. What a glorious thought that, in truth, Jesus Christ is capable of bearing the problems and challenges that we each face in our daily lives. He will not only help us to be saved at the Judgment Day, but he and his Father will be involved with us on a regular basis if we will find access to them.

On the evening on the 21st of September, A.D. 1823, while I was praying unto God, and endeavoring to exercise faith in the precious promises of Scripture, all of a sudden a light like that of day, only of a far purer and more glorious appearance and brightness, burst into the room, indeed the first sight was as though the house was filled with consuming fire; the appearance produced a shock that affected the whole body; in a moment, a personage stood before me surrounded with a glory yet greater than that with which I was already surrounded. This messenger proclaimed himself to be an angel of God, sent to bring the joyful tidings that the covenant which God made with ancient Israel was at hand to be fulfilled, that the preparatory work for the second coming of the Messiah was speedily to commence; that the time was at hand for the Gospel in all its fullness to be preached in power, unto all nations that a people might be prepared for the Millennial reign. I was informed that I was chosen to be an instrument in the hands of God to bring about some of His purposes in this glorious dispensation.
I was also informed concerning the aboriginal inhabitants of this country and shown who they were, and from whence they came; a brief sketch of their origin, progress, civilization, laws, governments, of their righteousness and iniquity, and the blessings of God being finally withdrawn from them as a people, was made known unto me; I was also told where were deposited some plates on which were engraven an abridgment of the records of the ancient Prophets that had existed on this continent. The angel appeared to me three times the same night and unfolded the same things. After having received many visits from the angels of God unfolding the majesty and glory of the events that should transpire in the last days, on the morning of the 22nd of September, A.D. 1827, the angel of the Lord delivered the records into my hands.
These records were engraven on plates which had the appearance of gold, each plate was six inches wide and eight inches long, and not quite so thick as common tin. They were filled with engravings, in Egyptian characters, and bound together in a volume as the leaves of a book, with three rings running through the whole. The volume was something near 15 cm. in thickness, a part of which was sealed. The characters on the unsealed part were small, and beautifully engraved. The whole book exhibited many marks of antiquity in its construction, and much skill in the art of engraving. With the records was found a curious instrument, which the ancients called “Urim and Thummim,” which consisted of two transparent stones set in the rim of a bow fastened to a breast plate. Through the medium of the Urim and Thummim, I translated the record by the gift and power of God.

Illustration by Brad Teare
Lucia wiped away a tear. She didn’t want the other kids to see. She left the school grounds and hurried toward home.
Lucia lived on a small, beautiful island. She was the only member of the Church at school. Everybody else went to the same church. They teased Lucia and wouldn’t play with her because she was different.
That wasn’t the only problem. Sometimes the teachers ignored Lucia when she raised her hand.
But today was the worst! Lucia thought. She kicked a pebble down the road. During class, the teacher read some Bible verses that Lucia didn’t understand. They made it sound like Heavenly Father, Jesus, and the Holy Ghost were the same person. Then the teacher said there were some churches that didn’t believe what the Bible taught. She looked straight at Lucia. Everybody in class laughed.
Lucia was confused. Weren’t Heavenly Father, Jesus, and the Holy Ghost separate? What was going on?
Suddenly she had a happy thought. She could ask the missionaries! They came to Lucia’s village every day. They’ll know how to help! she thought.
When Lucia got home, she saw Sister Brown and Sister Ruiz. They were helping pump water up to a tank on the roof.
Lucia asked her question right away. “Why does the Bible say Heavenly Father and Jesus are the same person?”
Sister Brown smiled. “That’s a good question. After lunch let’s look for some scriptures to help.”
Lucia hardly tasted any of the yummy ropa vieja stew Mama had made. All she wanted was the answer!
Finally lunch was over. Lucia and the missionaries opened their scriptures. They read about Joseph Smith’s vision. Then they read about Jesus’s baptism. Both scriptures showed that Heavenly Father, Jesus, and the Holy Ghost were separate.
“So why do those other scriptures say they’re the same?” asked Lucia.
Sister Brown started turning the pages. “Let’s read in John 17:21–22. That’s where Jesus prays to Heavenly Father about His Apostles.”
They all took turns reading. In the scriptures, Jesus prayed that His Apostles “may be one” like He and Heavenly Father are one. Lucia counted three different times He said it.
“The Apostles couldn’t all become the same person,” Sister Ruiz said. “But they could become one in how they believed and acted. That’s how Heavenly Father, Jesus, and the Holy Ghost are one.”
Lucia began to feel warm inside. She knew it was the Holy Ghost. He was telling her that what Sister Ruiz said was true.
Heavenly Father and Jesus weren’t the same person. But They were the same in what They said and did. And Lucia knew that They both loved her.

For Chelsea Baugh, going to college was never really a question. “Education has always been important in my home,” she says. “My parents have encouraged college since we were toddlers.” So from the time she learned what college was, Chelsea worked hard to achieve her dream of attending a university.

Now a student in a four-year university undergraduate program, Chelsea is realizing that the hard work has just begun. Between classes, homework, friends, and the LDS institute of religion council (of which she is the youngest member), she is busy all the time. But Chelsea loves her college experience and is excited about the education she is receiving. “Education is important because even if you don’t get a job—if you decide to be a stay-at-home mom for example—you’re going to use your education in every aspect of your life.”

Life in college has been challenging at times. At one point, Chelsea decided to change her major, which can be a frightening choice because it will affect your entire future. “My decision involved a lot of pondering, a lot of thinking about what I wanted in life, and a lot of praying,” she says.

If you’re planning on going to college, Chelsea has some good advice: “Plan early. Start disciplining yourself in junior high school to study. Get involved in high school with athletics, clubs, friends—whatever you’re interested in. And take seminary and gain a testimony of it so that when you go to college you’ll have a desire to go to institute. That gospel learning will help you keep your life in balance.”

The opportunity to visit a temple of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is a seemingly impossible, yet cherished dream for those who live an ocean away. A group of people from the small Vanuatu island of Tanna were grateful to have recently made the trip to Suva Fiji to worship in the temple there.
The people of Tanna have endured much hardship in recent years as cyclones have destroyed many homes and crops. This temple trip was a bright spot and an inspiration as they continue the labour of building back their lives.
For one member of the group, Rex Morgan Ialulu, worshipping in the house of the Lord was an unforgettable experience. He said, “We were overjoyed to feel the love of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ in the temple. I know God lives, He loves His children and has a plan for them to return to Him. The temple is the House of the Lord.”

Let me further illustrate this caring concept with the following stories.

Elaine and Dave arrived at the hotel exhausted. Elaine had made all the arrangements for the room and the concert they planned to attend, and she let Dave know about it all the way, telling him how hard she’d worked to coordinate everything.

Then—horrors!—they walked up to the desk and the hotel manager told them they had no reservations. He pulled out the letter Elaine had written and proved he was right.

“I had put down the wrong dates,” she groaned. “And having been so full of myself, I thought for sure Dave would give it to me.”

What Dave gave her instead was a hug. “Honey,” he said, “don’t worry. We’ll find something else.” It dawned on Elaine that she had married the kind of person who never hits you when you’re down. “I think of that whenever I start complaining to myself about all that Dave isn’t. It reminds me that I’ve picked the right person.”

After not being able to go to church and then experiencing an earthquake in our city, we decided to sing Primary songs to older people in our neighborhood. It was like Christmas caroling but in spring! We knocked on their doors and stood back from the house with a sign saying that we loved them and that they didn’t need to invite us in. They were so surprised and happy to hear us, and it was fun! It helped us feel better when we felt scared.
Emily and Lily D., ages 8 and 4, Utah, USA

Sisters, do you realize the breadth and scope of your influence when you speak those things that come to your heart and mind as directed by the Spirit? A superb stake president told me of a stake council meeting in which they were wrestling with a difficult challenge. At one point, he realized that the stake Primary president had not spoken, so he asked if she had any impressions. “Well, actually I have,” she said and then proceeded to share a thought that changed the entire direction of the meeting. The stake president continued, “As she spoke, the Spirit testified to me that she had given voice to the revelation we had been seeking as a council.”

I grew up in the high mountain town of Lake Tahoe, California. As kids, we spent magical winters navigating through four to six feet of snow, digging tunnels, and engineering impressive ice caves. Winter was a wonderland of fun and adventure.
In our neighborhood there were many cabins that people used only in the summertime, and another breathtaking snow sport, indulged in by some of the older kids, was climbing up onto the low roofs or porches of these empty cottages and jumping into the snow drifts far below. This roof-jumping excitement was a big no-no for me; a mom and dad rule that I found very restrictive.
The temptation grew to be too much. One day, at the age of nine, I climbed up a woodpile, monkeyed over an old ivy trellis, and scrambled onto the roof of the neighbor’s house. I sat triumphant for several minutes, surveying my domain. I felt free, and confident. It was glorious up here! I was absolutely sure my mom and dad didn’t know what they were talking about.
I remember so clearly that first jiggle of doubt as I moved to the edge of the roof and looked down at the snow. It seemed a long way down. “Aw, come on,” I chided myself. “You’ve seen the other kids do it, and they come out laughing, so it must be tons of fun.”
Temptation took hold of me, and I launched myself off the roof. Actually, everything seemed wonderful for the two seconds until my feet hit the snow. Then I remembered something important. The big kids always put their arms out, like bird wings, so that they’d only sink into the snow up to their armpits.
My thin little arms were straight down at my sides. The result of this was that I entered the snow like a rocket—sleek, smooth—and I got stuck. The snow pressed around me. I was in about 4 feet 4 inches (1.32 m) deep, and since I was only 4 feet 2 inches (1.27 m) tall, I was in trouble. I was wedged in tight, and it was a terrible feeling. I was not free anymore.
I shoved my head back, looked up into the brilliant blue sky, and yelled. I knew my mom was just inside our house. Sure that she would hear me and come running, I yelled again. No answer. The snow was absorbing my voice like cotton.
Five minutes went by; then 10. I was getting cold and very panicked. I tried to wiggle my way up. No good. I tried to kick my legs. I lost a boot. Fifteen minutes went by. I started to cry. I was so afraid I’d be stuck here forever.
Then I heard my mom’s voice calling. It sounded far away, but it was unmistakably her voice, and it was yelling my name.
I yelled out, “Mom, mom, I’m over here! I’m in the snow!”
It took some time, but eventually she found me. She dug me out and took me in to thaw by the fire. I’d been stuck only about 20 minutes, but it seemed like days. I was so glad to be free.
Mom didn’t say anything about jumping off roofs, or the loss of my boot. I guess she could tell by the look on my face that I was pondering the big issues of life: rules, foolish acts, and consequences.
Later that day my dad came to my room to have a little talk with me.
“Gale.”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Your mom and I love you.”
I felt tears coming. “Yes, Dad.”
“We give you rules because we love you, and we want you to be safe. You may not always understand why there’s a rule, but you have to trust us.”
“Yes, Dad.”
That was it. He must have known that I’d already learned a big lesson from my snowbound mistake. He stopped at the door to smile at me, and I knew without a doubt I was precious to him. I also knew that he would be so sad if I did anything that brought pain into my life. I remember promising myself that I would try to be a better girl.
Junior high and high school brought their share of boundary pushing and challenges. There were times when I put my toes right on the edge of the roof and peered over. It was hard not to jump when so many of the other kids were rebelling. Whenever I thought about jumping, the memory of being stuck in the snow would come to me, and I’d feel again that fear, and cold, and loss of freedom. I’d remember my father’s voice of love and concern.
I know that Heavenly Father gives us rules to keep us safe. He does this out of love. I also know that He’s very sad when we make choices that bring pain into our lives.
The world may think they’re free as they go about breaking or flouting God’s laws, but true freedom, safety, and peace come by being obedient to the rules of a loving Heavenly Father.

Thenceforth, I continued to walk leisurely, convinced that only dogs would act they way I had just witnessed. I was certainly saddened, in spite of my surroundings, when at a distance before me I saw two men locked in physical combat. I intervened, and they stopped at a point when one of them pulled a long knife. My presence was properly timed to prevent the certain death of the other who was apparently without any defensive weapon except his hands. I inquired what was wrong, and they began accusing each other. As a lawyer, I advised them that whoever won the fight is not a winner in the true sense because not only would he be deprived of peace of mind but that the authorities would see to it that he went to jail to pay for his crime.
The cause of it all, I finally found out, was that one owed the other the measly sum of $10.00 which he could not pay at the moment but promised to do so in an uncertain future. The latter, obviously drunk, became fed up with promises and so decided to settle it his way on the assumption it would solve his problem. Naturally, I remarked that it is the duty of the courts to collect debts otherwise impossible of recovery and that to take somebody’s life is too high a price for such an insignificant amount.
I left these two men shaking hands in renewed friendship, as I volunteered to pay the debt in behalf of the debtor.
The course taken by these two men was surely less forgivable than that of the dogs. Dogs are not expected to exercise self-control. But many of us act like dogs if we don’t.

In the mid-1980s, my husband and I were newly married and getting ready to move away to law school. We were worried about having enough money to make the move. We had always been self-reliant and did not want to ask our families for help, and the amount we needed was large. We had been praying about what to do. Out of the blue, I was commissioned to do a large art project for the college we attended. It would pay exactly what we needed. This experience was a direct blessing of paying tithing. But it was also something more. The Lord blessed me with the opportunity to work for that money. He gave me a way to earn it myself, and He honored my agency. I could have turned down the offer. I had a full-time job and a major Church calling, but I made the time and completed the project. We paid our own way to move.

In addition to spending evenings and Saturday mornings in rehearsals, the youth also served at the temple open house. Imagine spending five weeks of your summer vacation putting on and taking off slippers, hauling water and cookies, and smiling for 150,000 open-house visitors. That’s exactly what these faithful youth did between July 23 and August 20, 2005. “People would comment on how the young people were always smiling. That’s what they noticed,” recalls Alicia Bremmer of the Garden Grove First Ward.

“I felt really special because they noticed us. It is just cool because people really appreciated it,” Krista agrees. “The visitors were really interested and curious—nonmembers and members alike.”

On one occasion when we were permitted to take John to church even though he was still on oxygen, a mother approached us with her eight-year-old son. She quietly, almost reverently, asked if her son could see the baby. She explained that her son had caught the vision of serving and loving others by fasting and praying. He wanted to see how his faith and prayers had been answered. He looked at the baby and wept. He told his mother he was glad he could fast and pray. “After all,” he said, “look what Heavenly Father did.”

About 50 years ago, my missionary companion and I were tracting near the University of Córdoba in Argentina when a young man invited us into his apartment. Immediately it became apparent that he and his roommates had invited us in only to argue about the existence of God.
We didn’t want to argue, so instead we agreed to meet later to discuss our message in an environment conducive to learning. When we returned, the young man explained why he believed there was no God. He said man had invented God because of his need to believe in something greater, something supernatural.
When it was our turn, I asked, “How do you know the United States exists?” I testified of its reality and asked if there was other evidence that proved its existence. He said he had read about it in books and newspapers. I then asked if he believed my testimony and what he had read. He emphatically said he did.
“So we cannot deny the testimonies of those, such as I, from the United States,” I said. “Nor can we deny the testimony of those who have written about it.” The young man agreed.
I then asked, “Based on this premise, can we deny the testimonies of those who have seen God and written of their experience?” I showed him the Bible, telling him that it contained testimonies of men and women who had seen and talked with God and Jesus Christ. I asked if we can deny the testimonies contained in the Bible, and he reluctantly said no.
I then asked, “What would you think of a book written by a people other than those in the Bible who saw the same God as the writers of Bible?” He responded that no such book existed.
We showed him the Book of Mormon and taught him of its purpose. We testified that it was true and that God still communicates through living prophets today.
Surprised, the young man said, “I’ve been able to confound all the preachers from other churches. You have something I’ve never heard of before. May I read that book?” We gave him the book and testified of the love God has for His children.
Because the semester was ending, we weren’t able to visit this young man again before he returned to his home in Bolivia. However, I prayed he would read the book and receive a testimony.
In 2002 I was called to serve as a Spanish branch president in the Provo Missionary Training Center. One Sunday I related the above story to the missionaries. Afterward a missionary from Bolivia told me he had heard an older man in his stake tell the story of his conversion—the same story I relate here.
Tears filled my eyes. After 40 years, I had received an answer to my prayers about the young man from Bolivia. He had come to know of the existence of God and His great plan of happiness. I know that one day we will meet again, and I will rejoice with him in the gospel.

Roger threw his jacket onto the back of the couch, slumped into the wing chair in the living room, and let his books slide to the floor.
“How was school?” Mother asked from the doorway.
“Not very good.”
“I thought something must be wrong when the smell of chocolate chip cookies didn’t lure you into the kitchen. Do you want to talk about it while I finish baking the last batch?”
Roger followed her into the kitchen in silence. He pulled a stool up to the counter and watched as she scooped out spoonfuls of cookie dough, rolled them into balls, and placed them on the cookie sheets in neat rows. The timer buzzed, and she exchanged the sheet of raw dough with the sheet of freshly baked cookies in the oven. Roger didn’t even reach for one of the warm cookies.
“Is it a school problem?” Mother asked, looking at him with loving concern. “Or is it a friend problem?”
When Roger didn’t answer, Mother tried again. “I haven’t seen Lance around lately. Has he been sick?”
“He hasn’t been around because I don’t want him around.”
Mother slipped the cookies one by one from the sheet onto the cooling rack. “I see. Any reason in particular?”
“He’s a thief,” Roger announced. “I don’t need a thief for a best friend. Especially when he steals from me.”
“It sounds like Lance has done something that really hurt you.”
“He stole the twenty dollar bill that Grandma Smith gave me for my birthday.”
“When did this happen?” Mother asked.
“Last Saturday. I had it on the shelf above my dresser. Lance kept taking it, saying he needed it more than I did.”
“He was just teasing, wasn’t he?”
“I thought he was. But Sunday morning when I went to get it so Dad could change it and I could pay my tithing, it was gone.” He picked up a cookie from the rack and took a bite.
“You didn’t actually see Lance take it and not put it back, did you?”
“No. But no one else was in my room. And it was there Saturday and gone Sunday.”
“Have you asked Lance about it?”
Roger scowled. “I don’t even talk to that thief anymore.”
“Losing that money is really upsetting, isn’t it?”
“With that money, I finally had enough to buy the new eighteen-speed bike I’ve been saving for. Now I don’t know how long it will take me to get the bike.”
“That’s really frustrating. I know you’ve saved a long time for that bike. But maybe we need to look at it from Lance’s point of view. Suddenly his best friend doesn’t speak to him, and maybe he doesn’t even know why. Wouldn’t it hurt you if Lance suddenly stopped talking to you without giving you any reason?”
“He knows he stole my money. He can figure it out.”
“You think he stole your money, and it sounds like you have a very good reason to suspect him. But you haven’t asked him if he took it. Did anyone else in the family see him take it and tell you about it?”
Roger shook his head. “I’ve been praying that I could forgive him, Mom. Honest, I have. And when I get done praying, I feel calm inside, like I can still be Lance’s friend. But then when I see him at school, I just get mad again.”
The buzzing of the oven timer announced that the cookies were finished. Mother removed the cookie sheet and placed it on the top of the stove to cool. “Let’s go into the living room and sit for a while,” she said. “I have a story to tell you.”
They sat on the couch under the picture window. Roger could hear his brothers and sisters and the neighbor children playing a game of hide-and-seek outside.
“Years ago,” Mother began, “I had a neighbor who felt I had done something very wrong. It hurt me deeply. I couldn’t even see her in church without hurting so much that I wanted to go home where I wouldn’t have to look at her. I talked to your dad about it, but it didn’t help. I even talked to the bishop. But still the hurt went on and on. In time, I think she realized that she was wrong, but she never apologized to me.”
Mother reached for the large family Book of Mormon on the end table next to the couch and flipped through the pages. “I used to pray so hard that I could forgive her so that we could go on being friends like before. But it didn’t seem to help. I didn’t even want to have a Church calling anymore if it meant working with her or teaching her children. It was like a poison, and I knew it. But I just didn’t know how to overcome it.
“I was reading in the Book of Mormon one afternoon, and I came across these verses.” She pointed to Moroni 7:47–48 [Moro. 7:47–48]. “Will you read them for me, Roger?”
“‘But charity is the pure love of Christ, and it endureth forever; and whoso is found possessed of it at the last day, it shall be well with him.
“‘Wherefore, my beloved brethren, pray unto the Father with all the energy of heart, that ye may be filled with this love, which he hath bestowed upon all who are true followers of his Son, Jesus Christ.’”
“Well, at first I thought, That’s just what I’m doing. I pray every morning and every night that I can forgive, but it just isn’t helping. And then another thought came to my mind as clearly as if someone had spoken it: It doesn’t say to pray to forgive, it says to pray for the pure love of Christ. The thought was startling to me, and I realized that by asking Heavenly Father to help me forgive her, I was really asking Him to side with me. After all, if I had to forgive her, then she was wrong and I was right. But if I just wanted to love her the way Jesus Christ loves her, it didn’t matter who was wrong and who was right. Then I was leaving the judgment in the Savior’s hands, where it belonged.”
“Are you still friends?” Roger asked.
Mother nodded. “That neighbor was Kathy.”
Roger sat up and looked at his mother in surprise. Kathy and Mom were always doing things together. Mother had often told him that she was a “spirit sister.” Now he understood why.
He leaned his head against Mother’s shoulder. “It feels terrible to be angry with Lance. It was a lot better when we were friends. Will you pray with me that we can be friends again like you and Kathy?”
Mother nodded. Together they knelt at the couch. Roger prayed, “Dear Heavenly Father, Thou knowest what angry thoughts I’ve had about Lance because I think he stole my money. I’ve been praying to forgive him. But now I just want to love him and not ever wonder again if he stole my twenty dollars. Help me have the courage to tell him I’m sorry for the way I’ve been treating him. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Roger felt a deep love pour over him as Mother slipped an arm around his shoulders. “Will it last?” he whispered.
“For me it would last awhile, and then I’d have to pray again. Remember, Moroni said ‘with all the energy of heart.’ It takes a lot of praying, but you’re on the right track.”
“Is it all right if I go over to Lance’s?”
Mother smiled. “Why don’t you take a plate of warm cookies with you?”
As Roger ran to the kitchen, Mother picked up his jacket and books and took them to his room. When she came into the kitchen, Roger was sitting silently on the stool, a plate of cookies sitting on the sideboard in front of him. “Mom?” he said as she started to take the last batch of cookies off the cookie sheet. “I think the Holy Ghost just spoke to me.”
Mother put down the spatula and looked earnestly at Roger. “What happened?”
“I was thinking about Jesus while I put the cookies on the plate. I started thinking about him hanging on the cross and saying, ‘Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.’* And then the thought came to me, Father, forgive me, for I know not what Lance did. I think I need to ask Heavenly Father to forgive me for being angry with Lance.”
Tears glistened in the corner of Mother’s eyes. “I think you’re right, Roger. It was a very special message from the Holy Ghost to you.”
“Isn’t it great, Mom?”
“Isn’t what great?”
“That we have the Book of Mormon and the Holy Ghost.”
“Yes, Roger,” Mother agreed. “And best of all, we have the Savior’s Atonement.”
A few minutes later, as Roger headed for Lance’s home with the plate of cookies, he felt happier than he had for a long time.

Calmly the bishop turned his head toward the sacrament table and gave the dreaded “no” sign. The young priest had missed a word while blessing the sacrament.
Give the kid a break, I thought to myself, trying in vain to transmit my brainwaves to the bishopric. After all, this was Billy we were talking about. This was a kid who had a tough enough time talking in complete sentences, let alone reading prayers in front of a congregation of people, speaking words verbatim from a card.
Just a week before, Billy’s dad had ordained him a priest. With that prayer came a promise that the Lord would help him overcome his handicaps. The following Sunday, that promise was put to the test. Billy was kneeling behind the sacrament table, confronted with a task that demanded nothing less than perfection.
Billy prayed again, and with loving composure, the bishop once again signaled for him to say the prayer over. Billy’s face filled with disappointment as he dropped to his knees, cleared his throat, and prayed. An anxious reverence filled the chapel.
As Billy began again, I prayed along with him, mouthing each word as if I could somehow control his speech. Amazingly, the technique seemed to be working. With only a few phrases to go, Billy’s prayer was perfect. And then the unthinkable happened as the words that I mouthed and Billy spoke went suddenly out of sync.
There would be no need for Billy to look at the bishop. Billy knew he had to start over. For one awkward and eternal moment he remained on his knees as all eyes focused on the bishopric. And then Andy arose from the congregation, walked quietly to the sacrament table, and knelt down next to his younger brother.
Bowing our heads in gratitude, we waited for Andy to offer the prayer and put an end to Billy’s suffering. But it was Billy’s voice—not Andy’s—that broke the silence. I held my breath as Billy tiptoed through the phrases with his brother at his side.
Then at last came “amen,” and the bishop smiled and nodded.
Billy emerged from behind the sacrament table wearing the same big grin he seemed to always have. For one sweet moment he had tasted perfection, and he knew it. We all knew it, and I more fully understood the wisdom of our bishop.
He was well aware of Billy’s weaknesses. But he loved Billy. He loved him enough to allow him the chance to magnify his priesthood and to let him try and fail until he found perfection.
In that perfect prayer that Billy uttered, we were all lifted and edified. We all saw a priest of great courage who knelt with his older brother and preached a powerful sermon from the sacrament table.

For me the message of reconciliation sank deep when my beloved teacher, Manuel Tun, told the parable of the prodigal son in his own words in the Maya language of Yucatán. Allow me to retell it, with adaptations, as he gave it to me.
A father had two sons. I’ll call the younger son Johnny. Johnny’s father was rich. He had hired hands who worked in his fields. Johnny and his brother and father worked hard alongside the hirelings.
To each son the father gave a gold ring to symbolize fidelity to God and to family. Working and talking with his father and brother, Johnny felt contented. His eyes shone, and there was a peaceful expression on his face. He was twelve years old. He was responsible. He was obedient. He was polite and respectful.
Three years passed. He was fifteen now and had new friends. But these boys didn’t like to work. They only liked to play. They teased him: “Johnny, your father takes advantage of you.” And Johnny began to believe them. Often he played all night with them, and in the morning he was too tired to get up and work. He thought: “Why should I work? Why should my father exploit me? I have my own life.”
Quarrels erupted between him and his brother, and unkind feelings developed between Johnny and his father. Now Johnny no longer prayed. He no longer read the word of God. He didn’t like to spend time with his family. At home he felt bored. He didn’t want to work with his father and brother, or even talk with them. He only wanted to play with his friends. He didn’t notice that the warm feeling that was in his heart had disappeared, together with the light that formerly shone in his eyes.
One day his friends said to him: “Your father is rich. Why should you work? Let your father’s hirelings do the work. Go to your father and demand your inheritance. Then you can leave home and be your own boss.”
And Johnny thought: “That’s right! I’ll leave, and I’ll never come back. With my inheritance I can live like a king. I don’t need my family. I’ll live with friends.”
The decision made, Johnny went to his father and said:
“I want my inheritance now! Here’s your ring, your ‘symbol of family unity.’ It has no meaning for me anymore. I’m leaving, and I don’t plan to come back.”
“Your inheritance? You want it now? Johnny, have you thought this over thoroughly?”
“I won’t discuss it, Dad. Just give me my money now!”
Johnny took his inheritance money and left. He made his way to a far city, feeling immensely rich and totally free. Where he went we don’t know, but we can imagine that he went to a place where he was sure no one would recognize him. In the city he found friends, and with them he squandered his inheritance, leading a debauched life. One day he woke up to find that the money that he figured would last forever was all spent. And soon he found that his friends were no friends at all. There was no one who cared for him. He was alone and frightened.
Shortly after the money was all spent, there came a famine, and Johnny began to suffer from hunger. I can just see him standing on a street corner. A cold wind is blowing, and he is clutching a tattered blanket about him. He is hungry, but more than that, he is ashamed. People look on him with pity for the misery he has brought on himself, and children mock him for his wretchedness.
I note the painful expression on his face as he shouts out: “You make fun of me, but my father is richer than you all. Don’t you know who I am?” But no one pays any attention. No one helps.
Now he had lost everything. He had no home, no family, no dignity. He had thrown away everything. In his desperation he thought of sending a letter to his father, asking for money. He still thought money could solve his problems. He did not yet see that the void in his heart could only be filled by reconciliation with his father.
One day a neighbor traveling abroad saw him in this sad state. “So, Johnny, this is where you are. I see you’re in dire straits. Listen, lad, before setting out, I told your father I was coming here. He said: ‘Please, if you happen to see my Johnny, tell him I still love him and want him to come home.’”
“What? Does my father speak of me?”
“Does he speak of you? Every day he speaks of you. Johnny, his heart aches for you.”
“Tell my father I’m okay. I’ll manage.”
But Johnny couldn’t manage. He begged a citizen: “Sir, help me, I am hungry. Give me something to eat.” The man looked on him with pity and gave him work. He sent him into his fields to feed swine.
Emaciated and weak, Johnny ate pig fodder and swill. Soon sick, and with no one there to attend to his desperate need, he cried out in agony: “Oh, God, what have I done? Help me, God. Help me return to my father. I’ll say to him: ‘Father, I am no longer worthy to be called thy son. Make me only as one of thy hired servants.’”
Now Johnny got up and set out for home. I can imagine him walking along dusty roads, climbing hills, descending into valleys, passing through fields and wilderness. He is aching within. Sweat mixed with tears streams down his face, but his every step is quickened by hope.
Nearing his father’s lands, he wondered, “What if Father’s heart has turned against me?” (Oh, but how little he knew of his father’s heart!) How he longed to see his father’s fields. He remembered the happy days of his childhood, pleasant hours spent at play with his brother, times that he was working, playing, singing, and chatting with his dad and mom.
Now Johnny came within sight of his father’s house. His father was standing on a hill from where he could look down on the road. Every day he had stood there, hoping to see if by chance his lost son might be coming up the road. And that day, as always, he was there hoping and praying. Suddenly he saw the figure of a young man approaching. His heart jumped. The boy’s clothes weren’t recognizeable. They were tattered and dirty. The boy was limping. His hair was long and disheveled. But the father recognized his son, and his heart filled with compassion. Johnny had come home! He ran joyously to meet his son and threw himself on his neck and kissed him. “Johnny, my son, you’ve come back!”
But the son said to his father, “Father, I have sinned against God.”
“Yes, Johnny, I know.”
“I have sinned before you, Father.”
“Yes, my son, I know.”
“Oh, I am ashamed, Father. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.”
“Johnny, my son, my son. How terribly you must have suffered.”
The father called to his servants: “Bring clean clothes and dress my son. Put shoes on his feet. Put this ring back on his finger. Come, let us celebrate. For this my son was lost but now is found. This my son was dead but has returned to life.”

The children of Eulogia Diaz and Delio Cosme Sanchez remember this about their mother’s service as branch Primary president: Back when Primary was held on weekday afternoons, Eulogia would shepherd a large group of children from her neighborhood—“our little band,” one of her daughters recalls—on the long walk to church each week. It didn’t matter whether or not they were members; if they wanted to be there and their parents allowed it, Eulogia would bring them along. She wanted as many children as possible to enjoy the blessings of Primary.

The first thing Zayne Callahan can remember is living in the basement of an orphanage in China. He had been there since he was a baby. Zayne later learned that he was kept in the basement so people who came to the orphanage to adopt children wouldn’t see him.

“I was considered an embarrassment because I was born with spina bifida,” Zayne says. Spina bifida is a birth defect that made his legs weak and prevented him from walking normally. “I wasn’t able to go to school or hardly even learn the Chinese language because the people at the orphanage didn’t think it was important to teach a child with a disability.”

Zayne was seven years old when John and Wendy Callahan—his future parents—first saw him on a videotape of Chinese children waiting to be adopted. When the photographer passed the camera over Zayne briefly, he smiled and waved. That action won the hearts of his future parents who recognized his brave, strong, intelligent spirit.

That was five years ago. Now, Zayne is a deacon in the Lolo Ward of the Stevensville Montana Stake. When he turned 12, he wanted to fulfill his priesthood responsibilities by passing the sacrament. That was a big challenge for a boy who must use crutches to walk.

Originally, Zayne tried to pass the sacrament while balancing on his crutches. When that didn’t work, he decided to use his wheelchair instead. Now Zayne passes the sacrament by placing the trays on his lap and wheeling down the aisles.

Zayne works hard to fulfill his other priesthood duties too. An older member in his ward says she was impressed when the young men went to her home to pick up rocks as a service project. She found Zayne sitting on the ground putting rocks into a wheelbarrow. He had laid his crutches down because they were in the way, but his disability didn’t stop him from serving just like the other boys.

According to his father, Zayne doesn’t waste time feeling sorry for himself. If he wants to do something, he figures out a way to do it. He played a lead part in the school production of Red Riding Hood. He was the head wolf and led a pack of wolves onstage, his crutches keeping time to the music. He is also an accomplished violinist and pianist. While playing his violin, he has to sit on a high stool rather than stand like most violinists, but that doesn’t distract from the beauty of his music.

No matter where Zayne goes or what he does, people notice his good example. One classmate summed it up by saying, “He’s that boy with the big smile.”

About a month ago, my family went to the local fair. My mum and I went up to a stall that was all about being healthy. The lady said that if I could answer a question I would win a prize. She asked, “What can you do instead of smoking?” I quickly said, “Pray.” She seemed surprised but very happy with my answer. She gave me my prize, and Mum said that I was a good boy for being a good example and “shining my light.”Zachary Ainge, age 5, with help from his mum, Burpengary, Queensland, Australia