Gospel Story Finder

Photograph courtesy of the author
I often saw the same face staring from an apartment window. I thought to myself, “Isn’t it sad that someone would constantly look out their window, judging their neighbors’ activities?”
Then one day I thought perhaps I should go ask to see if I could be of some help. I decided to take some fresh-baked bread with me.
The warm bread melted the ice in my elderly neighbor’s heart. Tearfully she told me how lonely she felt. No one visited her and no one called her, not even her own children. With a trembling hand, she wiped tears from her cheeks.
She sighed and then said, “How nice it would be to just leave this world. I don’t judge anyone as I look out my window. I just watch the children playing and other things going on in the yard.”
Illustration by Alex Nabaum
Over time, we talked about the gospel. At first she was reticent because her husband served as an official in another church. But the more we talked, the more impressed she became with the truths I shared about Jesus Christ and His restored gospel.
“It’s wonderful that we have the same Jesus!” she said. “Will we see each other in heaven?”
“Yes,” I responded, “we will be there together—hand in hand.”
From then on, we were good friends for many years, until she finally passed from this world.
Now I like to think that my former neighbor looks from the window of her heavenly home, following our activities and hoping we have sufficient harmony and love toward one another.

Illustration by Taia Morley
In fourth grade, I was in the best class ever. Everything about that class was perfect—except Kylie (name has been changed). She was mean to almost everyone, including me. I saw her pushing others in the hallway, and she even pushed me a few times. I would come home crying because I could not understand why she would bully me.
Nobody was her friend. She had her own table at lunch because no one would sit close to her. I told my mom about Kylie, and she gave me some life-changing words of wisdom: “Maybe she just needs a friend.”
This came as a shock to me. How could I possibly be nice to someone who wouldn’t give a second thought to calling me an insulting name? Reluctantly, though, I decided to be nicer to Kylie and try to understand her. As I got to know her better, I found that she was actually nice. I soon learned that her life was much worse than I could have imagined. She had a tough home to live in, and she would avoid any conversation with the word “family.”
One day during lunch, I was sitting with my friends. Since Kylie was mean to others, there were some girls who were not nice to her in return. They started making fun of Kylie, talking loud enough that she could hear them. They said things like, “Come sit with us—NEVER!” “What’s that smell? Oh, it’s Kylie!” and “Stay away from us!” I sat there listening.
Then I heard a small voice in my head: “Do something.” I stood up and felt over a dozen pairs of eyes turn to me. “Stop!” I said. “Why would you say things like that to anyone? Just be nice to her!” Everyone fell silent. As I sat down, I looked at Kylie. She turned around and gave me a look of pure gratitude.
In sixth grade my 12th birthday was coming up, and I wanted to have a party with a few friends. When my mom asked if I wanted to invite anyone else, I heard the same small voice in my head: “Invite Kylie.”
“I want to invite Kylie,” I told my mom.
“Really?”
I nodded. After the birthday party, my friends and I, including Kylie, were bonded to such an extent that we got together every Friday for the last three months of school. Kylie came each time. We became best friends.
Now I am in eighth grade and have moved to another state, but I frequently communicate with Kylie, who is still one of my best friends. Sometimes my other friends ask how we became so close.
“In fourth grade she was a bully, and we pretty much hated each other,” I say.
“Well, then how did you become such good friends?”
“I looked for the good in her. Everyone has some good in them, and I reached out to find hers.”

Just two weeks into the new school year, my best friend, Scott, and I were driving home discussing our plans for later that evening. As we pulled into the driveway, I saw my dad working on the barbecue. As I stepped out of the car, I told Scott I would be ready for him to pick me up later. My dad, overhearing the conversation, told me that he was having students from his college ward over that evening for a ward social. “I could use your help getting things ready,” he said. I turned to Scott and told him that our plans would have to be postponed.
As Scott left, my dad asked me to take the grill’s propane tank to the store and fill it. After quickly changing my clothes, I loaded the tank into our truck and drove toward the store.
Between my home and the store there is an elementary school. I was well aware of the school as I had gone in that direction many times. But this time I was in a hurry and did not pay attention to the school zone speed limit. I knew school had been out for about an hour, so I ignored it.
After filling the tank, I headed home. As I approached the school, I had the feeling I should slow down. I didn’t heed the prompting and continued on. As I came closer to the school, I saw Bobby Logan,* a young boy from my ward, run onto the road.
He was on his way to the school to play with his sister and some of his friends. As Bobby came to the road, he stopped and looked at me. I started to slow down, again feeling the prompting. As I approached Bobby, he looked directly at me. We had eye contact for a second, and I had the thought that he was going to run in front of me. At that very moment, he did.
I was too close to miss him, and although I hit the brakes, it was too late. Realizing what had just happened, I quickly got out of the truck and ran to Bobby, who was lying on the ground. I ran to his house and told his mother to call an ambulance. Then I went back to Bobby’s side. I offered a silent prayer and pleaded for his life as I knelt beside him.
Bobby’s mother arrived and immediately checked for a pulse. I was crying hysterically and repeatedly said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit him.” Sister Logan looked at me and told me that she forgave me.
The ambulance arrived and took Bobby to the hospital, but he died about 30 minutes later. My bishop came to our home with the tragic news of his death. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I didn’t know what to do or say. I was devastated.
A few days later I saw the Logans. As we visited, Sister Logan told me that the family felt strongly that Bobby was happy. She told me they held no harsh feelings toward me. As I heard these things, I felt the Spirit testifying to me that what she said was true, and their sincerity was very real.
During the next few days I struggled with the realization that I had taken another person’s life. As I battled with my emotions, I withdrew more and more. I didn’t want to go anywhere or do anything.
One day my mom and sister persuaded me to go with them. They were conversing in the front seat of our car, and I was lying on the back seat, pondering the question why and wondering how I could ever move on from that point in my life. Again I offered a silent prayer to Heavenly Father for the strength to overcome this obstacle. In the midst of my crying and praying, I suddenly felt the most overwhelming feeling of joy and peace. It was at that moment that I knew Bobby was fine and that he was happy. I also realized how much love my Heavenly Father has for me. I could truly feel His arms of love and understanding around me.
Since that day I began healing from my emotional pain. It took a long time for me to get to the point where I could accept myself again, but I knew I was on the right track. Because of this experience, I have become even more grateful for the gospel of Jesus Christ. I can’t imagine trying to endure this without the love of my family, the Logans, and countless friends who rallied around me. I saw the gospel in action. I saw my Savior’s healing hands work through those I love. I also know the Spirit is one of the most precious gifts we have.
The Logans are my heroes because they epitomized Jesus Christ from the very beginning of this ordeal. They forgave. For that I am eternally grateful. I know that I will see Bobby again and that hopefully then his family and mine will rest together in the heavens.

His contribution to the Reader’s Digest, where he casts himself as the sailor, reads in part:
“The Right Time at Home:
“One evening in Albany, New York, I asked a sailor what time it was. He pulled out a huge watch and replied, ‘It’s 7:20.’ I knew it was later. ‘Your watch has stopped, hasn’t it?’ I asked.
“‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m still on Mountain Standard Time. I’m from southern Utah. When I joined the Navy, Pa gave me this watch. He said it’d help me remember home.
“‘When my watch says 5 a.m. I know Dad is rollin’ out to milk the cows. And any night when it says 7:30 I know the whole family’s around a well-spread table, and Dad’s thankin’ God for what’s on it and askin’ Him to watch over me … ,’ he concluded. ‘I can find out what time it is where I am easy enough. What I want to know is what time it is in Utah.’”8

Later, when through the missionary effort I joined the Church, I gained as a new member that peaceful feeling of being safely placed in the environment of true gospel living and that Babylon had floated away from me. As it was expressed by an early European balloonist: “I felt as though I had left behind me, all the cares and passions that molest mankind.”
I testify—as one who twenty-three years ago was baptized into the kingdom of God in Toronto, Canada—that my flight since my baptism has been a magnificent one, with breathtaking scenes and spiritual panoramas and with the never-failing knowledge that my day-to-day flight plan is made available to me by an understanding, loving, forgiving Heavenly Father.

When I was 14, I played football on my ninth grade team – yes I once played football. In those days I was very skinny, actually the lightest member of the team, but I could play wide-receiver and my size mattered less than getting open. My 119 pounds was actually under the limit to qualify for the team but they listed me on the roster 10 pounds heavier. At the beginning of the season in my nearly all white junior high school of middle class homogeneity, a boy named Perry Taufaasau enrolled and came out for the football team. The coaches were interested because one, Perry was large for our age, 6’3 and 250 pounds. His pedigree was also promising; his father was African American and a former professional boxer who had actually lasted 15 rounds with Cassias Clay, you know him as Muhammad Ali. And his mother was Samoan. At that time he lived with his older brother who had just finished an illustrious career as the nose tackle for the Boise State Broncos football team – even in those days they were a team to be reckoned with. Perry had been sent to Boise from Los Angeles, California by his mother to extricate him from gang life. His arrival at our white-bread school caused quite a stir, not only was he racially different, but he dressed and moved different, like a gangster from the hood. While I am sure he longed for camaraderie, he seemed to revel in his cool, stand-offish demeanor. He just looked mean, and knew all these timid teenagers were terrified of him. The only time he really spoke with any one was during football practice when he would taunt opposing linemen with diminutives and insults.

One day during the lunch hour he strutted into the gym where most of the students were hanging out and then sat alone looking mean (again) on one of the benches. I thought, “Enough of this;” I really felt that as a follower of Jesus I should make some kind of gesture for inclusion. So I went up and sat next to him, and said, trying to sound confident with no fear, “Hey man, what’s going on?” Not a very deep opening line, but it seemed cool at the time. I gave him the hand shake of the seventies (there have been numerous variations since) and he said, “Not much.” Wow, we are getting somewhere with this. And then we just talked. I joked with him about how he had embarrassed one of our teammates when he laid him out flat during practice. He smiled just ever so slightly. He joked with me about how skinny I was. Perhaps because I made fun of myself too, he started to smile even more. So we talked through the lunch period. It was probably nothing I really said, but that I said something, anything to him, and from then on I was his “Little Mac” (My name is McArthur). We hung out together often, and everyone came to see us as an odd couple; the dark, giant, scowling, sarcastic gangster football player with the miniature white boy almost-too-skinny-to-be-seen Mormon. One thing was for sure, through all the years he remained in school no one ever hassled me! Ultimately, after a couple years of playing football and trying to make the grade Perry was kicked off the football team for just too many fights with other teams, his teammates, and even with fans who came to heckle him. But we remained friends. As I sought ever more to honor my priesthood and keep myself in good company, he continued to spiral out of control with an indulgent, sometimes violent, and often illegal lifestyle. When he needed someone to talk to we still got together and enjoyed a laugh. I even encouraged him to come to Church with me. He didn’t. But increasingly I would only see him after trouble with the law. One morning he called me from the hospital. I rushed to see him; he was recuperating from a serious injury after he wrapped a stolen car around a tree traveling 100 miles an hour while being pursued by police officers.

We kept sporadic contact after his juvenile detention sentence, and then I went away to college. Then during my second year of college as I was preparing for a mission he called me when I had come home during the Christmas break. He told me how he had a steady job; he was working as a bouncer at a local bar. He asked if we could meet. So I invited him to attend a Young Single Adult Christmas dance (a risk yea?). He accepted. I told him how he needed to be in standards and that under no circumstances could he be inebriated. So I picked him up and we went to the dance. We had a great time. He was masterful at the robot (ever heard of that dance style?). I took him home afterward. He said he had not had such good fun in years, if ever. I invited him to the YSA New Years Eve dance for the next week. He readily accepted. The following week I returned to the house he was staying where a bunch of other big Polynesian former football players lived, none of them members. “Hey Little Mac,” they greeted me, “Perry is not here. Not sure where he went. But hey, you are the one friend we can trust that will do him good.” When I arrived they had already begun their own New Years Eve libations so I departed quickly. I headed to the dance the whole evening hoping he would make a sudden appearance. He never came.

The next day, New Years Day, I received a phone call that he was in jail for a burglary the evening before. Instead of being with me and enjoying the company of great YSA members, he had gotten drunk, and then broke into a closed restaurant with really no purpose than to use the restroom. I had to return back to school before his trial, but by the time I returned home that summer he was incarcerated at the state penitentiary to serve a 3-5 year prison term. During that summer I received my mission call to serve in the Micronesia Guam Mission and I dutifully prepared myself for this honor. Each week, I traveled to the penitentiary to visit him. I was intimidated by all the security and pat downs to enter the room for the one-hour-only visit. I was the only one who ever came to see him. We had great conversations, he told me more than I wanted to know about prison life and I told him about the gospel. I told him that despite the bad hand dealt in this life, he really did matter, and that freedom only comes through obedience to the will of the Lord. He was jealous that I was headed to the islands. All his life he wanted to reconnect to the islander roots of his mother’s family. Just a few days before I would depart for the MTC I visited him one last time. I told him I loved him and that Jesus loved him too. This giant man (he was now much bigger than in high school) gave me the same handshake we used all those years ago as boys (he couldn’t hug me, it was against the rules), and told me, “I love you man, you’re my Little Mac.” And so tearfully we parted. He called out as I left, “Give `em the gospel brother.” Yes, I was his brother, and as I left I recalled the Lord’s statement, “…I was in prison, and ye came unto me” (Matthew 25:36).

But the story does not end there. And there really is no happy ending though I am sure you are hoping for one. Into the last half of my mission I received word that he had been released from prison on parole, and then one winter day, when my mother had gone out in the garage to get in her car, she was startled to find Perry sleeping in the back seat to get out of the cold. After gathering herself she told him to come in the house to get warm and prepared him some hot food for breakfast. Then she sent him on his way. A short time later he was wandering the streets one evening in the inclement weather and called my parents in his distress. My father went to bring him home and out of the cold. They prepared him another hot meal and sat at our table. After he had eaten he suddenly, in an abrupt shift, slammed his hand down upon the table, stood up, and ordered my parents in a gruff voice to stand. They were greatly alarmed by this sudden aggressive and seemingly hostile behavior. Frightened beyond reason, they stood up. And then, this giant outlaw that even put fear into the meanest of street fighters, wrapped his arms around my parents, hugged them tightly but tenderly, and kindly told them, “You and your son are the only people who have ever been nice to me. This is family.” Relieved and also moved, my parents returned a kind word. Then my father took him and dropped him off where he wanted to go. I wish there was more to tell you. Perry exited our lives. He was eventually ordered out of the state, and should he return he would find himself back in prison for a very long time. All we heard is that he returned to California. But I can testify, that this son of God taught me more about becoming a true follower of Christ than about any other. Strangely, he also prepared me well for my mission. He served as one of my missionary prep. teachers, because you see, he was my Samoan precursor to my much loved companions Nelson Leausa, Fatu Stevenson, and Tiitii Tuiletefuga, they too much larger than me, men of great girth and stature. Because there were only four of us missionaries in the Marshall Islands I even remained with one of them for nearly a year, 24/7, opening areas to mission work and learning to serve and love each other as we served the Lord. But often, during my mission while I diligently worked with my companions, I would reflect on Perry and quietly thank God, and hope in some way he would feel this gratitude. As I taught with these noble Polynesian companions I would remember Perry’s encouraging words from prison, “Give `em the gospel brother.”

My husband, Eddie Uele, and I have three children: Indie-Rose, Rollo, and Kamaukiterangi (Kamau). On 12 Jan. 2022, we tragically lost our then 2-year-old son, Kamau.
That afternoon, playing and laughing with our children in our bedroom, we suddenly realized Kamau was missing. Moments later, Kamau was found unconscious in our backyard. Eddie performed CPR until the paramedics arrived while my family and I pleaded for Heavenly Father’s help.
Kamau was rushed to the hospital where a team of doctors were waiting for him. When we arrived, Eddi and I were taken to a private room where we spent the next few minutes holding each other’s hands, still in constant prayer. A doctor finally walked in, sat down in front of us and began to speak.
I couldn’t hear any words that he was saying as everything around me had become still, quiet, and peaceful—then, as clear as day, I saw my son in front of me playing with a little toy truck, giggling and happy. It was then that I knew my son had died. I also knew that this was Heavenly Father’s way of preparing me for what was to come.
It wasn’t until later that evening when I truly understood the heavenly significance of that moment.
My mum held me as I cried in her arms, unable to bear the loss of my child. She asked me, “Are you angry with Heavenly Father?” I replied, “No, I’m not angry, but He ignored me, Mum. I begged Him not to take my son. I begged Heavenly Father to please let him stay. But He ignored me.”
My mum lovingly said to me, “Heavenly Father wasn’t ignoring you. He heard you. He performed a miracle by opening the veil to heaven and allowing you to see that He’s with Kamau, and Kamau will forever be safe in His arms.”

Ethan gazed at the colorful video game covers that lined the shelves. His parents said he could pick one game for a birthday present, and there were so many to choose from! Ethan’s eyes jumped from a car racing game to an adventure game to a dance game. Finally, he picked up the racing game and took it to his dad.
“Did you find one you like?” Dad asked.
“I think I want this racing game,” Ethan said.
“Looks fun,” Dad said. “What is it rated?”
Ethan turned the cover over. He knew he could only play games with certain ratings. When he first got his computer, his parents talked to him about the importance of following their family’s rule about video game ratings. Ethan knew that a lot of games had bad stuff in them, and he wanted to be obedient.
Ethan found the rating on the cover and showed Dad. “It’s rated for everyone,” he said.
“Great,” Dad said. “Let’s go pay for it. Happy birthday, Ethan!”
“Thanks, Dad!” Ethan grinned, excited to get home and try out his new game.
A few days later, Ethan went to his friend Chase’s house to play. He and Chase were in the same Primary class, and they played together a lot. Ethan took along his new video game.
“Hi, Ethan,” Chase said when he answered the door. “Come on in. I got a new video game we can play!”
“I did too!” Ethan said, holding out his game.
The boys settled in front of the computer, and Chase put in his game. The title flashed across the screen, and so did the rating. Ethan froze. It was a rating that he wasn’t allowed to play.
Chase eagerly navigated through the menus with his controller and started the game. Ethan didn’t see anything bad yet. He clicked his own controller to move his character in the game. It was fun, but the longer he played, the more uncomfortable he felt. He still hadn’t seen anything bad, but he wanted to follow his family’s rule.
“Hey, Chase, I’m not allowed to play games with this rating,” Ethan spoke up.
“Oh, it’s OK,” Chase said. “There isn’t anything bad in it.”
“Are you sure?” Ethan asked.
“Yeah,” Chase said. “My family plays it. I think it was given the wrong rating.”
Just then, Chase’s mom stuck her head into the room. “Hi, boys,” she said. “Is everything OK?”
Ethan swallowed hard. “Hi, Sister Murphy,” he said. “It’s just that I’m not allowed to play video games with this rating.”
“I told him there wasn’t anything bad in it,” Chase said.
Chase’s mom waved her hand. “Don’t worry, Ethan,” she said. “I know a lot of the games with that rating aren’t good, but I’m sure your mom would let you play this one.” She smiled and then left the room.
Chase continued playing, but Ethan put down his controller. “Chase, how about we play the racing game I brought?” Ethan asked.
Chase shrugged and kept staring at the screen. “Nah, I’d rather play this.”
Ethan quietly got up and went to Chase’s room, where he found some toy racing cars to play with. They weren’t as fun as his video game, but Ethan felt good knowing he was following his family’s rule.

In 1950—a few days before Christmas, when I was six years old and living in Palma de Mallorca, Spain—I stood on our living room balcony and watched a ship leave the harbor. On board were my father and my brother. With me on the balcony were my mother and my sister. My father, a chemist of perfumes, was leaving to pursue opportunities in Uruguay, South America. He never returned to his children or his wife. Several years later, he and my mother were divorced.
In the years that followed, I rarely heard from him. In the meantime, my mother took us to her native country, France, where, in 1964, I was baptized a member of the Church. One year later I left France for Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah. In time, I served a mission, pursued graduate studies, and married.
Although my father had been almost completely out of my thoughts up to this point in my life, soon after my marriage a desire to do genealogical work for my ancestors made me think of him more and more. My patriarchal blessing told me that the time would come for me to do the work for my ancestors through genealogy and temple ordinances and that “means and opportunities” would be provided for me to accomplish that work.
After I had joined the Church, my brother, who had moved by then to France, had informed me that my father had accumulated facts, names, and dates on the Ainsa family. I resolved to write to my father, hoping to gain the necessary information to tie my genealogy from my grandparents to my paternal great-grandparents. I sent him a letter asking for details.
His reply consisted of a letter with only general information—and a request that I not bother him again. I felt resentful and angry, but I continued to pray that the “means and opportunities” necessary to do my family history work would be provided.
Sometime in March 1986, while we were living in Arizona, my father wrote again during a family crisis in which my mother was losing her sight. I was comforted by the care and concern that my mother’s second husband showed her and was again offended at my father’s critical letter. I sent it back to him and indicated that if I couldn’t receive pleasant letters instead of criticism, I would rather not communicate at all. Within three weeks, my father answered the letter, telling me, “Your brother will inform you of my death when it occurs. I don’t intend to write to you again.”
Nine months passed after I received the letter. Again I prayed about the admonition in my patriarchal blessing. The answer came unmistakably from the Spirit—I felt I should apologize to my father. I consequently composed a five-page letter to him that detailed the events of the year and that included an apology for my erratic behavior in my previous letter. When I mailed the letter, I prayed that the Lord would soften my father’s heart.
More than two months went by with no answer. Then one day a registered letter arrived. In it, my father asked, “Would you spare ten to twelve days during your upcoming summer vacation to visit me? If you accept, I will send you the money to help meet the cost of your expenses.”
I called my brother in Paris, France, who suggested that I wait a year, since my father had waited thirty-five years to try to see me. But as I prayed with my wife, Angie, we both thought of my patriarchal blessing and knew that my ancestors had waited long enough. I would go this year. My mother’s husband offered to pay for Angie’s trip, as we couldn’t afford it ourselves. My mother-in-law offered to care for our four children in her home in California.
Everything went according to schedule—everything, that is, except for feelings of apprehension. I started worrying that my father might criticize my mother, my wife, or me. He had done it before. How would I handle it this time?
Only when two dedicated home teachers—to whom I will be eternally grateful—came to our home a few days before our departure and gave us a priesthood blessing, did I feel at peace. They blessed my wife that she would be a source of inspiration to me, and they blessed me that I would be receptive to the promptings of the Spirit and would know what to say. I then knew that everything would be all right.
When we arrived in Montevideo, Uruguay, I nervously looked for my father and saw him standing with his wife. He waved his cane at me in recognition. I waved back. Finally, the customs officer told me to proceed. As I walked through the customs door, my father eagerly came toward me. We embraced and kissed each other. As we left the airport terminal, the Spirit told me that the man walking beside me was a different person than I had imagined.
We spent the next few days getting acquainted with one another, laughing together, discovering what we had in common, and becoming friends. Angie and I asked him to record on tape his experiences in his youth and in courting my mother, and we discovered many things about his past. Then, one morning, Angie and I prayed that we would be blessed that day with the right words in asking my father to share with us the Ainsa genealogy and history.
It was my father’s eighty-first birthday. After opening presents at breakfast, he excused himself and came back with an object hidden underneath a towel. He handed me a box and said, “This is the least I can do after all these years. Somehow I feel that I have to make it up to you.” Inside the box was a beautiful watch.
Thirty minutes later, as we were upstairs sitting around my father’s oak desk, I inserted a blank tape into the cassette recorder and asked him to tell me about my ancestors. He talked for a few minutes, then stopped. “It’s a waste,” he said.
I panicked. “Lord, please help me,” I prayed. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for years.” Then I asked my father, “Why do you say it is a waste?”
“Because I have it in print,” he replied. My heart began to beat faster as he reached for a drawer in his desk, opened it, pulled out a folder, and handed me a sheet of paper with a list of names on it. “These are your ancestors on my father’s side,” he said, “and you’re welcome to this list.” I glanced quickly through it; it contained the names of his parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents, as well as those of distant relatives.
“What about your mother? Have you compiled a list on her side of the family?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“Your grandmother’s lineage is not important,” he muttered, brushing aside my inquiry. I replied that were it not for my grandmother, he wouldn’t be here, to which my father said, “Well, if it is that important to you, you can have it.” With that, he gave me an envelope containing names scribbled on several sheets of paper and said, “As a matter of fact, you might as well have everything.” He placed the folder in my hand.
I opened it and, as tears began to blur my vision, I read through several lists of names of distant relatives. Inside were pictures of my grandmother, my grandfather, and others. I wept openly. During the past twenty-one years, I had prayed on many occasions for this day. The Lord had heard my requests and had answered them at the appropriate time.
“Why are you crying?” my father asked.
“Because I am happy to be here,” I said.
At that moment, he, too, began to cry. He leaned his head on my shoulder and took my hand between his. “I am sorry,” he said. “I am sorry for what I did. I was wrong. I was never a father to you. During all those years, I never bothered to find out who you were. Will you ever forgive me?”
“Of course I forgive you—it is forgiven and forgotten,” I uttered between sobs. As I embraced him, the Spirit whispered softly, “I, the Lord, will forgive whom I will forgive, but of you it is required to forgive all men” (D&C 64:10). We were at peace. All the years of separation, loneliness, and turmoil melted away. He knew who I was. He had found a son. And I had finally found my father.

As a junior in high school, I worked away from my family in Washington, D.C., through a program whose schedule dictated that school start at 6:45 a.m. When school ended, work at the capitol continued until 5:30 p.m. at the earliest. Seminary started at 6:00 p.m. and took an hour and a half from my evening. I rarely had time to finish my homework before falling—exhausted—into bed. I didn’t have time, I told myself, to do everything, and I decided seminary was the only thing that could go.
So, I quit seminary. I was confident I would make up the credit somehow and that I would still be able to graduate, and I reasoned to myself that it wouldn’t affect my entrance into the celestial kingdom or cause me to lose my testimony if I didn’t go to seminary for a few months.
Everything seemed fine, except that my grades dropped. My math teacher put me in mandatory study hall for an hour every night for several weeks. After three months without seminary, my friend convinced me to go just one Friday night. I agreed reluctantly. Deep down, I truly did want to go, but I was too embarrassed to walk sheepishly into the classroom after my three-month absence.
However, my whole outlook changed the moment I entered the room. A feeling of peace and contentment flooded over me, wiping away my embarrassment and apprehension. I couldn’t believe that I had let myself remove a constant source of strength and peace from my life, especially at a time when I was away from my family and needed extra strength to stand as a witness of Christ. I wondered how I could have let myself leave the place that made me happy. That night I made a commitment to attend seminary consistently.
I followed through with that commitment, and I was never put in mandatory study hall again. Even though I still struggled with math, my grades came up and stayed up, and I passed with a good grade. I know that Heavenly Father provided a way for me to follow His commandments and that He blessed me so that I could do more in His hands than I could do by myself.

How, then, do we strengthen our faith so that we can defend the faith?
Four years ago, a marvelous young woman who had just graduated with honors from BYU called me, distraught. Through sobs she blurted, "I'm not sure I believe the Church is true anymore, and I'm scared. What if my family isn't going to be together forever?"
I asked, "Do you want a testimony?" "Yes," she said.
"Are you willing to work for it?" Again, "Yes."
And she was. She had a great bishop and an off-the-charts Relief Society president, both of whom worked with her. Friends and family came to her rescue. And she and I began to meet for gospel study sessions. I told her, "Bring your scriptures and every question you have. Questions are good. Let's see what the Lord will teach us."
She took me at my word and brought one thorny question after another. We searched the scriptures and the teachings of prophets for answers. Little by little, she began to realize that just because she had questions didn't mean she didn't have a testimony. The scriptures are filled with accounts of prophets who had questions. And she began to recognize when the Spirit was bearing witness to her-including bearing witness that prophets, seers, and revelators are truly prophets.
Her testimony began to grow, and time passed. Then about a year ago she called again. "I wanted you to be one of the first to know that I am holding in my hand a temple recommend. Will you come when I receive my endowment?" Then she added, "Do you know what you said that helped me the most? You told me that questions are good, and that allowed me to see myself as a seeker rather than a doubter."
I was overjoyed! But two days later, I received a much different call from another BYU graduate. "Sister Dew," she said, "before you hear it from someone else, I want you to know that I'm pregnant." She said that for several years she had doubted the truthfulness of the gospel and had finally decided there was no reason to live the law of chastity.
I told her that I was not her judge and that I loved her. Then I asked her if she would like to have a testimony. "No, I don't think so," she said.
The contrast was stunning. At about the same time, these two young women had questions that threatened their testimonies. One of them sent out a cry for help, and family, friends and leaders followed President Monson's counsel and went to her rescue. The other girl nursed her doubt and convinced herself that her immoral choices were acceptable. I love and care about this girl. But for now, she has chosen a spiritually perilous path.
One girl's questions propelled her to become a seeker of truth. The other girl used her questions to justify her immorality.

May I share one personal experience with you in this regard. About eight years ago a handful of us, all Church members, gathered around a conference table in Orem, Utah. We challenged ourselves to see if we could help lift one million people out of poverty. We had no extraordinary insights or resources, just a desire to bless our fellow man and great faith. Today the organization we founded is currently helping lift over 5.1 million impoverished people around the globe. Never did such impact ever cross our minds. Yes, in a deep way I know as the Savior said, "all things are possible" to those who believe-even great works.

The empty sound of the ringing on the other end of the telephone line repeated itself over and over, and I puffed out a small breath of air—half sigh, half-confused laugh. So what do I expect Sister Randolf to do—sit home waiting for a call from me? She has better things to do with her life.
I rubbed my hand over my face and turned because the digital clock on my radio had just clicked a number change. It was 8:16 now. Rick would be over in less than 15 minutes, and the panicky feeling swept through me again. “She’s just got to be home,” I said aloud. But the ringing persisted, and after three more rings I pushed the disconnect button.
“Nobody is ever there when I need them,” I mumbled to myself. “Nobody cares about me.” But even as I said the words, I knew they just weren’t valid. Sister Randolf did care about me, and there were others who met in the old brown chapel just a few blocks from my home who cared about me too.
The quietness of the house seemed strange, and I wandered into the living room where at least the ticking of the grandfather clock could keep me company. The steady ticking had often comforted me as a child when I was upset about something. But even listening to the quiet rhythm didn’t subdue my present turmoil.
Slipping into the recliner where dad liked to relax and smoke his pipe didn’t help my confusion either. It just reminded me of what dad had said as he and mom were leaving. “Well, you and Rick will have the house all to yourselves, huh?” he had said with a chuckle. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Dad expected Rick and me to take advantage of being alone in the house!
Mom had just laughed and had scolded him with mock concern. “Honestly, Stuart.” But she hadn’t mentioned the matter later, and when I thought about it, she had never really said how she felt about a lot of things. But then, neither of my parents had ever been religious and they had always believed in letting my brother, Tom, and me do our own thing. Well, now Tom was in California, mom and dad were at their convention in Chicago, and I was alone—all alone in our three-bedroom rambler. But I wouldn’t be alone long. Rick was coming, and that was just the problem.
I reached for the living room phone next to me on the end table and placed it on the armrest of dad’s chair. Again I dialed the number—the number that I had called so often because I had needed to talk to Sister Randolf about so many things. She was one of the best things that had ever happened to me. She and, of course, Rick. But they wanted such different things for me.
“Rick.” I said his name aloud, sighed, and started tingling inside as I thought of him—the way he looked, his light brown hair, his gentle smile, and the way he acted, his cute sense of humor, and the pleasant way he treated people. When I thought of him, I always felt warm inside, and when I was with him—oh, the feelings! But hadn’t Sister Randolf told us that?
“Girls,” she had said, “don’t think you won’t have those feelings because you will. They’re natural. They’re a part of your physical and emotional makeup, and they’re important to have because they’re part of the beautiful plan. It’s what we do with those precious feelings that makes the difference, because if we don’t control them, they will control us.”
She had held up two rings then—one a diamond, the other a rhinestone. “Don’t ever let the spurious or artificial get mixed up with the real thing,” she had added. “Please don’t settle for the counterfeit. Don’t sell yourselves short.” And she had written the word spurious on the board and then the word genuine. Then she had told us about the beautiful life that she knew was ahead for each one of us. “It’s out there,” she said. “It’s just ahead of you, and that life is meant to be yours. If you could see into the future, you wouldn’t settle for anything less because you wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less. I have tasted a little of that life,” she continued. “It’s filled with love and with children. Oh, sure, there are frustrations sometimes, and my children can be little characters, but …” Tears came into her eyes. “There is nothing,” she had said with emphasis, “nothing sweeter or more beautiful than knowing your love is an eternal commitment. There is such security and peace in knowing that you are living life our Heavenly Father’s way and that your love is something special and sacred between you and your partner. Something so special and sacred that you waited for it because you didn’t want to cheapen it.”
I couldn’t remember the rest of what she said, but she had made it sound so beautiful and so right. I had wanted that kind of life more than anything.
Then Sister Randolf had added with a chuckle, “I know that here in the building in our Young Women classroom it sounds easy. ‘It’s a cinch,’ you’re thinking. ‘Of course that’s what I want. I want the genuine.’
“But out in the field,” she said, “well, fieldwork is often more challenging than classroom work, isn’t it?” We had laughed. Then she turned serious again. “It may be difficult for you at times. But you can do it. And I want you to know that if you need to call me at any time, I’ll be anxious to talk to you and help you.”
I swallowed as I finished dialing the number, and I glanced at the clock again. It was 8:20 now. “I’ll be over at 8:30,” Rick had said.
“Why are you doing this to me, Rick?” I whispered as the telephone rang again. “Why are you making me feel all mixed up?” Fieldwork difficult? It was difficult all right. That’s putting it mildly, Sister Randolf, I thought. Very mildly.
“Now where are you?” I called out in exasperation as if she could hear me. “Help me, Sister Randolf! Answer your phone!” But I wondered what I would say if she did answer. I wondered how I would put into words what I was feeling. How could I explain to her that life isn’t simple. That the feelings I had for Rick were genuine and not artificial. That he needed me. And that that was why I was so mixed up now. My present turmoil was symbolic of the tug-of-war of my entire last year. One side of me thirsted for and pulled me toward the gospel’s eternal values. The other side of me pulled toward the world and its “anything goes” attitude.
I remembered how Rick had reacted when I had told him that mom and dad had gone to Chicago. “Sarah, why didn’t you tell me?” he had whispered. “Just think, the house all to ourselves! No one to bother us.” His breath brushed my cheek, and there was a tenseness in his voice unusual for Rick. I began getting nervous about what he was thinking. “We love each other,” he had said then.
“Yes, but, Rick …”
He laughed a little, and the old Rick returned as he lifted my chin. “Hey don’t look so horrified. What am I, some kind of an ogre?”
I laughed. “Believe me,” I said, gulping, “you’re hardly an ogre. You’re, well, you’re … That’s just it. If you come over, I’m just afraid of what …”
He put his hand over my mouth. “Everything will be okay,” he said, his voice cracking slightly with tenseness again. “Hey, I know what’s best for us, don’t I?”
Do you, Rick? I thought. Do you? Rick was a member of the Church and had attended until his mother died of leukemia when he was only ten. After he moved in with inactive relatives, his life had changed drastically. But now Rick wasn’t ten anymore. He was a college man, and he liked to pretend he was tough and wise, but I knew better. I had seen his vulnerable side—the side of him that he rarely lets others see. We were close, and I knew Rick had been deeply hurt by what life had meted out to him. More than anything I wanted to make him happy because I loved him. I didn’t ever want him to be hurt again. Rick needed me. He loved me and needed me.
Thinking of Rick made me pull myself to the edge of dad’s chair. Maybe I was silly to worry about my feelings. On television the networks showed bed scenes now, and the movies—well even Superman, the great hero, hadn’t been so perfect. According to the screen, making love out of wedlock was expected and accepted in today’s world. And hadn’t Rick said it would be okay? He loved me and I loved him. We’d get married in a year or two after he had a little more schooling behind him. I wasn’t worried that he would be a good husband because he was a good person—better than he knew. We’d have kids and he would make a good father. It would be all right because we’d make it all right. We would!
I put my head in my hands and pressed them hard against my face because I knew it wasn’t all right and it was 8:25.
Oh, Sister Randolf, please come home immediately! I need to hear your voice right now! I decided to try her number one last time. This is it, I thought. If she isn’t home this time … well … It rang 14 times before I slammed down the receiver. The phone slipped with a thud to the floor, and I hit the armrest where it had been. “Well, I tried!” I said. But a hollowness filled the pit of my stomach, my lips twisted, and the roof of my mouth felt dry.
“I tried, Sister Randolf,” I said. “I wish you had been home, but you weren’t, and I can’t help that.” But I sighed as I thought of Rick’s arms around me and how I always felt whenever he held me close. Maybe I’m glad you weren’t home, Sister Randolf, I thought. My breathing became jerky as the grandfather clock’s hand hit the six mark. It was 8:30. I stood up quickly, stretched my neck, and took a deep breath as I walked to my room to brush my hair. I looked into the gold-framed mirror at the girl in the reflection. I pulled my hair back and then let it fall around my face. There was no emotion in my eyes, and I felt like an empty form.
“I said I tried,” I repeated again to myself. “Can I help it if she wasn’t home?”
Pushing my mascara wand against my lashes, I concentrated on my eyes. At first they were just eyes, and then I looked closer. Rick always said he liked my eyes. I looked even closer, as if I were trying to look inside myself, but all I could see were the little gold flecks and my own reflection in the dark pupils. “Hey, you in there,” I whispered, “who are you?”
I pushed the wand against my lashes again. “It’s too bad Sister Randolf wasn’t home to tell me what I believe, but that’s just the way it is,” I said. “It’s not my fault.” The words seemed to echo through the room. “It’s too bad Sister Randolf wasn’t home to tell me what I believe?” The person I was looking at in the mirror was me. Those were my arms, my torso, my hair, and my face. And behind the face, behind the eyes, was a mind—my mind. Nobody else’s—mine. “To tell me what I believe?”
I thought of what my dad always said. “You’ve got to stand on your own two feet in this world.” Sister Randolf had said something similar in a lesson on free agency. I had to admit to myself that whatever I decided would be my decision. My choice. Nobody else’s. And I knew. I knew very well what the right choice was. I had felt the Spirit of truth before, and I was only kidding myself if I tried to pretend I didn’t know. But that was not the problem really. That was not why I was kidding myself. The problem was whether I could be strong enough. Could I be firm with Rick when he had a way of melting my bones just by looking at me?
Could I?
I looked back into my eyes and tried to remember the quote that always made me feel strong inside. “Choose you this day.” Oh, yes, that was it. “Choose you this day whom ye will serve; … but as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord” (Josh. 24:15). I stood straighter and did feel stronger. “Choose you this day, Sarah Beckstead!”
“Rick will just have to realize that I’m my own person and make my own decisions and that I have to be accountable for those decisions and actions and … well, he’ll just have to understand.” I picked up my brush again and began brushing my hair with firm, swift strokes. But suddenly the strokes weakened, and I looked back into my pupils with panic because I had heard a car drive up and a car door shut.
Rick. My stomach hurt and I put down the brush. But what about Rick? Rick’s footsteps were sounding on our driveway. I could picture him climbing our steps. I pictured the way he held his head when he smiled at me. I thought of how hurt he had been in his life. He’ll think I don’t love him and I do, so much, I thought.
The doorbell rang and I began trembling. What am I going to do? I changed my plea to a prayer. “Oh, Father in Heaven, I love Rick. I care about him, and I don’t—” I stopped talking. “I care about him,” I repeated. I guess it struck me then. I tried to continue my prayer, but I had my answer. “I care about him.” I opened my eyes. You silly girl, I said to myself, don’t you see? If you care about Rick, you want the best for him. Of course, I thought. Of course! I don’t just want what’s best for me; I want what’s best for him too. I don’t want him to blow it. I want to help him. It was so clear now that I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it before. Rick needed me all right.
Then something else struck me. I had never shared with Rick the feelings about the gospel that I had had in the old brown chapel. I had never told him, the person I love most, about the kind of life that is possible for him—for us. I had never told him how important he is in our Father in Heaven’s eyes—that we are both too important, too precious, to cheapen ourselves. That our love is genuine, something sacred and worth waiting for. I had never told him that I believe—that I know—that we can share that love forever. As close as we were, I had never ever even told him.
I began trembling again, but this time I was trembling with a desire to tell Rick.
Hurrying to the door, I grabbed my jacket just as Rick was beginning to tap loudly, probably wondering what was wrong with the bell. “Rick,” I said, slipping through the doorway and closing the door behind me, “I’ve got so much to tell you. We need to have a talk right now.”
“Where are we going?” he asked with confusion as I pulled him down the steps.
“For a walk!”
“Oh, great! Right now?” Rick looked back at our front door. “I was thinking—”
“I know what you were thinking, but you don’t want to be thinking that right now.”
“I don’t?”
“No. Come on.” I pulled him down the driveway to where it meets the sidewalk.
“Hey, whoa!” He pulled me to a halt, turned me around, and placed his hands gently on my shoulders. “Now,” he said, “what’s the hurry? Is it that important?” His soft blue eyes looked into mine, but I returned his gaze without flinching.
“It is, Rick,” I answered firmly. “It really is.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“I’m sure,” I said.
Rick continued looking into my eyes until at last he sighed. “Well, if you’re that sure.” He looked up at the sky, sighed, and looked down at me again. This time he had a small smile on his face, and as he began chuckling, he lifted my chin. “You’re really something, Beckstead. You know that, don’t you?” To my surprise, there was admiration in his voice. And I was almost sure there was something else—relief. Rick was relieved! Deep down he knew.
“So, which way do we go?” he asked with mock disgruntlement as he looked up and down the sidewalk.
I grinned happily, welling over inside, feeling as if I would burst as I slipped my hand in his and turned in the direction of the old brown chapel. “How about this way?” I said softly.

I design and sell dresses for women to wear in the temple. I own a small business, so I do everything myself. First I create dress designs, then I have another company make them, and then I advertise and sell the dresses online.
I get to be my own boss and have my dog as a coworker! But I have to be responsible too. No one will get mad if I don’t work for a day, but no work will get done unless I do it. I work extra hard because I love my job and I know it’s what Heavenly Father wants me to do.
It took lots of research, asking questions, and praying. When I had questions or problems, I asked for help from people who had their own businesses. Most important, I prayed to Heavenly Father to help me know what was best for my company.
My job helps me put more faith in Heavenly Father. If I trust Him, He helps me do big, scary things. He knows my talents, so He helps me grow them through my work. This way I can share my talents and help others too. Heavenly Father has taught me to be the best business owner I can be. I feel good knowing that I’m helping women as they go to the temple to learn about Heavenly Father.

The first principle is to have a feeling of gratitude to Heavenly Father during the sacrament for the Atonement of His Son. The following story is told about passing the sacrament:
“The sacrament never really meant much to me until the Sunday I was ordained a deacon. That afternoon I passed the sacrament for the first time. Prior to the meeting, one of the deacons warned me, ‘Look out for Brother Schmidt. You may have to wake him up!’ Finally the time came for me to participate in the passing of the sacrament. I handled the first six rows quite well. Children and adults partook of the bread with no noticeable thought or problem. Then I got to row seven, the row where Brother Schmidt always sat. But I was surprised. Instead of being asleep he was wide awake. Unlike many of the others I had served, he took the bread with what seemed to be great thought and reverence.
“A few minutes later I found myself again approaching row seven with the water. This time my friend was right. Brother Schmidt sat with his head bowed and his big German eyes shut. He was evidently sound asleep. What could I do or say? I looked for a moment at his brow, wrinkled and worn from years of toil and hardship. He had joined the Church as a teenager and had experienced much persecution in his small German town. I had heard the story many times in testimony meeting. I decided finally to gently nudge his shoulder in hopes of waking him. As I reached to do so, his head slowly lifted. There were tears streaming down his cheeks and as I looked into his eyes I saw love and joy. He quietly reached up and took the water. Even though I was only twelve then, I can still remember vividly the feeling I had as I watched this rugged old man partake of the sacrament. I knew without a doubt that he was feeling something about the sacrament that I had never felt. I determined then that I wanted to feel those same feelings.”
Brother Schmidt had communicated with heaven, and heaven had communicated with him.

Another good example of a positive statement in response to a difficult question was experienced by Elder Angel Abrea. We had a missionary murdered on a street in Peru, a Peruvian Elder. Elder Abrea was sent to represent the leadership of the Church at the funeral. He called on the mother of the murdered missionary. She was a widow and this was her only son. In tears, she asked the agonized question, “Why, Elder Abrea, why?” He didn’t know what to say, and stood silent, pondering why the only son of a widowed mother would be taken from her. Then the mother answered her own question with these words: “Well, one thing I do know. I will see my son again, in the time of the Lord.”

With the help of my mother and sister, I painted a banner for the Relief Society sports festival held in our stake. My mother recommended me to the Relief Society president, who asked me to make their banner for them. I accepted their request and started to make rough sketches. Through the combined efforts of my family and me, we were able to create a beautiful work of art that represents the theme, “Find Nobility in Motherhood and Joy in Womanhood.”

When I was about to enter ninth grade, my dad announced that our family was moving from Utah to Colorado. I was excited to make new friends and experience a different world, but my expectations changed after my first day at my new junior high school.
I felt lonely and miserable for a long time. Eventually, I shrugged it off and worked hard at school. For the first time since elementary school, I received straight A’s. I spent my nights at home reading. For the next four years, many of my Friday nights were spent with my parents.
Although I had a hard time making friends at school, I realized the love my parents had for me. My mom and my dad became my best friends.
My dad got up at 5:45 a.m. to take me to seminary. During those early-morning drives, I bonded with my dad. We talked about everything from the latest news to politics and money. Although my dad is not a talker, he would listen as I rattled on about my latest story for the school newspaper or a cute boy in one of my classes. Once in a while, he would get in a comment or two.
My mom wasn’t much different. I started spending time exercising and shopping with her. Every Saturday we would buy groceries and run errands together. I would talk endlessly while she grated cheese or prepared a roast for dinner.
In those early morning hours and on those Saturday trips, I found myself, and my testimony of the gospel grew. My parents’ love and support reminded me of my infinite worth. I didn’t have to go to dances or be student body president. I could be myself because I knew I was important, not only in my parents’ eyes, but in Heavenly Father’s eyes too. I still have hard times, but I have found that knowing the Lord loves me is miraculous and comforting.

On the afternoon of Dec. 11, 2022, three buses pulled in at Konka, the facility rented for FSY—a five-day youth conference held for young people in the Gauteng, South Africa area. The following morning, 530 young men and young women would descend on the facility, but these first three buses carried the 70 faithful young single adult men and women who had accepted the call to be coordinators, assistant coordinators and counselors for FSY; dutifully arriving the night before to set up for the exciting week to come.
Little did these young leaders know what the night would bring.
That evening, the rain arrived. Rain was forecast for each day, but the intensity of the storm took all by surprise. The night sky was almost constantly lit up by lightning. Roars of thunder and a tumultuous downpour went through the night and continued, heavy and strong, as dawn arrived.
Konka is located about two hours north of Johannesburg. To reach the venue, the buses had to travel some distance on dirt roads and cross a river using a low-water bridge before entering the facility.
The morning that the youth were due to arrive, we looked at the river and saw it had swelled to the point that nothing could cross the bridge. The roar of the water flowing over the low water bridge sounded like Victoria Falls. We began praying that the rains would subside soon or there would be no accessing the facility when the youth were to begin arriving at 11 am. Yet the rains continued. That is when the calls of concern began to come in from leaders and parents. “Are you cancelling FSY? You should cancel FSY.” “Should we send the buses in this weather or are you putting things on hold?” “Perhaps you should delay the start of FSY until the water levels drop.”
As we prayed to know what to do, the words of President Russell M. Nelson kept coming to mind. “Seek and expect miracles.”1 Yet as we prayed it seemed the rain was simply becoming more intense. We still had four hours until they were to arrive. Perhaps it would slow down enough by the time they got here that the water level would drop sufficiently, though it was appearing unlikely. “We are not cancelling. Just come. It will work out,” we responded. As we spoke those words in faith, we knew it would take a miracle.
We inspected the bridge to see if it would be possible for the youth to cross it by foot. We observed that most of the bridge was out of the river, but if we were to use it, the youth would still have to cross a portion of the river in at least knee-deep water that was running swiftly for the last 30 meters. We asked the Konka staff to begin setting up ropes across the bridge, emphasizing that we would not take any risks with the youth, many of whom do not swim at all. If it was clear we could cross the river safely, we would go forward with this plan.
The young single adults leapt to their feet volunteering in excitement to be a rescuer for the 2022 FSY and carry our youth across the river. They ran to their dorm rooms and changed into suitable clothing, knowing they were about to get very wet and dirty in the river and mud.
At 10:45 am we walked down to the water. The youth had already begun to arrive. The Konka staff had fixed the ropes to hold while crossing the water and were ready for the assistance of the young single adults. Several leaders grabbed onto the ropes and walked across the river and foot bridge to greet the youth and their parents and leaders as they arrived, to give them confidence and assurance that everything was safe, and we were moving forward.
There was shock on the faces of the youth and leaders as we explained the situation and instructed the youth to remove their shoes and socks and pull up their pant legs as far as they could. An umbrella to protect them from the rain was all most had planned on. Now they were about to cross a river on foot. As they walked down to the footbridge, several slipped, a few even falling in the deep and slippery mud. “Hang on to the rope!” was the yell that echoed for the next three hours as group after group arrived.
The young adult leaders took every suitcase and all the bedding and carried it across the footbridge. Over 500 youth made it across the river, either on the backs of the young single adults or picking their own cautious paths across the river whilst holding onto the safety ropes. A few hours later, the rain began to lessen. We had made it, and the FSY experience could go forward.
Uniformly, the youth expressed thanks that FSY had not been cancelled and we had found a way forward. Several analogies to our river crossing followed during the week, all relating back to the theme trust in the Lord. The young single adults acting as counselors not only carried and guided the youth across a literal river, but then spent the week teaching and strengthening the youth in a way that has had a deep and meaningful impact—teaching them and sharing tools for navigating an increasingly difficult world. Lives have been forever changed.

I recollect the story of a very voracious reader, a woman who had a study filled with books. Each night she came home and read from books in her library, and she always finished every book she read.
One night she came to a particularly interesting crossroads: She decided that she would read a book that she had been especially avoiding. Finally she picked the book up, sat down, and began to read. It was very dull and uninteresting, but she had made herself a promise that she would never read a book without finishing it. She continued, night after night, until days later she finally turned the back cover of the book, took it back, placed it on the shelf, and made this mental note to herself: “That was the dullest book I have ever read in my life.”
Sometime later she was out with a gentleman friend, and after dinner they started talking. He asked if she had ever read such and such a book. The mental note came back, “That was the dullest book I have ever read in my life.”
She said, “Yes; why?”
He said, “I wrote it.”
Then they talked about the book. Finally, that evening about midnight when he dropped her off, she went into her study, pulled this same book off the shelf, and read through the long hours of the night. When the first streaks of sunlight shafted across the sky, she closed the back cover of the book, placed it back again in its place on the bookshelf, and made another mental note to herself: “That was the most beautiful book I have ever read in my life.” The difference was that she knew the author.