Gospel Story Finder

When I was a new bride, I asked my mother-in-law, who is a very good cook, if she would teach me how to make her delicious dinner rolls. With a sparkle in her eye, she replied that it took 25 years to learn to make a good roll! Then she added, “You had better start making some.” I followed her advice, and we have enjoyed many good dinner rolls at our house.

I sometimes compare myself to others and feel bad that I’m not as beautiful or “perfect” as them. Because of this, I went through some tough mental and emotional trials. I searched online for resources to get through them, but I couldn’t find anything that helped.

One day I decided, “I just need to get down and pray, because there’s someone up there who can give me the biggest hug.” So I relied on Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ and genuinely prayed.

When I did, I remembered that Heavenly Father made me individually and in His image, so I need to appreciate myself. He put me here for a purpose, and I’m glad that I’m on the earth! Through the Holy Ghost, He reminded me that I’m so much more than I think, and that gave me strength.

I decided to get rid of social media and make sure that I was surrounding myself with the right people—people who showed me Christlike love. I’m so grateful for my friends in my Young Women class because they’re such lights. Anytime I criticized myself, they reminded me that I’m beautiful and have worth.

I still compare myself to others sometimes. But every time I pray, a still, small voice tells me, “Amara, you’re beautiful.”

Jesus Christ is my Redeemer and best friend. He’s always there for me, even when I feel like I’m not always remembering Him like I should. I know that He and Heavenly Father love me, and I love Them. I don’t think I would ever experience the type of love They give me anywhere else.

The experiences of the Prophet Joseph Smith offer a guide. He began and continued his ministry with the decision that his own wisdom was not sufficient to know what course he should pursue. He chose to be humble before God.
Next, Joseph chose to ask of God. He prayed in faith that God would answer. The answer came when he was a young boy. Those messages came when he needed to know how God would have His Church established. The Holy Ghost comforted and guided him throughout his life.
He obeyed inspiration when it was difficult. For instance, he received direction to send the Twelve to England when he needed them most. He sent them.
He accepted correction and comfort from the Spirit when he was imprisoned and the Saints were terribly oppressed. And he obeyed when he went down the road to Carthage even as he knew he faced mortal danger.
The Prophet Joseph set an example for us of how to receive continual spiritual direction and comfort through the Holy Ghost.

I want to thank you for publishing “His Grace Is Sufficient” in the August 2012 issue. It made the Atonement so much more understandable and applicable to me. I feel that my life has been changed. I wish I could go out and shout this message to the world! I already shared it on my Facebook page and plan on telling all my friends about it.
Laura P., 18, Idaho, USA

“My bishop is the greatest!” This was an expression overheard as Nancy came down the hall from her personal interview with the bishop. Obviously, the interview had been rewarding—the kind that every young woman should have.

An innovative program in the Sunnyvale Second Ward, Los Altos California Stake, is helping Scouts 14 years of age and older to earn Eagle awards. The “Eagle Patrol” was established last year for young men who had turned 14 without attaining their Eagle ranks but who still had the desire to do so. The program was designed so that it did not interfere with regular Mutual activities and was completely administered by the youth leaders. Those who earned their awards during the first year of the program were Brian Burrows, Chris Oliver, Bill Murri, and James and Bruce Morrison.

Tyler peeked over at Dad during sacrament meeting. There he was again, scribbling down notes as fast as he could. Weird. Was Dad trying to write down the whole talk or something? He never used to do this before. But for the past few weeks, Tyler had noticed Dad copying down as many notes as possible during church.
Why?
“Hey, Dad,” Tyler said after the meeting. “I keep forgetting to ask. What’s with all the notes?”
Dad gave a small smile. He looked a little sad at the same time.
“These are for Sister Puckett,” Dad said. “I thought she’d like to know what was said in church. She misses being able to come every week.”
“Oh! That makes sense,” Tyler said. He knew that Sister Puckett was very sick. “That’s pretty cool, actually.”
“Thanks,” Dad said. “Now isn’t it time for you to head to Primary?”
Tyler gave his dad a fist bump then hurried down the hall. The note-taking mystery was solved! He knew that Dad and his ministering companion visited Sister Puckett and talked with her a lot on Sundays.
Tyler had been surprised to learn that just talking with someone could be a way to serve them. He’d always thought service meant stuff like raking leaves or helping move a couch. But now it looked like service could be as simple as taking notes!
A few weeks later, it was time to meet with Bishop VanWagoner to talk about becoming a deacon. Dad went to the interview with him.
“How do you feel about being ordained?” the bishop asked.
“I’m really excited!”
Bishop VanWagoner smiled. “What are you looking forward to the most?”
Tyler thought about that for a minute. “Well, for starters, passing the sacrament. I’ve been watching the other guys. I think I know what to do.”
“Good for you,” Dad said. “Plus, if you forget, the other deacons will help.”
“True,” the bishop said. “Everyone in your quorum should care for and help each other.”
That’s good to know! Tyler thought. He really was excited to help pass the sacrament, but he had been a bit worried about remembering which rows to pass to.
He leaned forward in his chair. “Actually, there’s something I’m even more excited about,” he said.
“What’s that?” the bishop asked.
“Ministering.”
Bishop VanWagoner nodded. “I think that’s a great thing to look forward to.”
“Me too,” Tyler answered. “I want to minister the way my dad does! He helps people in all sorts of ways. Like with Sister Puckett and the notes.”
Bishop VanWagoner tilted his head a little. “The notes?”
Tyler nodded. “Yeah. Dad thought Sister Puckett would like to know what was said in church on the weeks she can’t come. So he writes down a bunch of notes and brings them to her. I like the idea of doing things like that for people.”
Bishop VanWagoner smiled. “You know, Tyler, I think you’re going to make a great ministering companion one day.”
Several days later, Tyler smelled something delicious in the kitchen. “Is that taco soup?” he asked.
“Yup,” Mom said.
“Did you add in the corn?” As far as Tyler was concerned, that was the secret ingredient that made this soup extra tasty.
“Of course,” Mom said. “Would you like to help Dad take some to Sister Puckett?”
“I’d love to!” Tyler answered. As he carefully carried the soup, Tyler thought about other ways he could help brighten Sister Puckett’s day. He always wanted to serve like Mom and Dad. He would try to be kind every day.

What a special day for Andrea! She was going to school for the very first time.
“I painted a picture of a tiger,” she said, racing into the house after school. “I listened to a story about a big brown bear, and I even have my own hook for my jacket. Can I go to school again tomorrow?”
“Yes,” her mother replied.
The next day when Andrea came home, a smile covered her face from ear to ear. “We went on a nature walk,” she said. “I found three bugs, two sticks, and a purple flower. I even have a new friend, named Samantha. Can I go again tomorrow?”
“Yes,” Andrea’s mother said with a smile.
The next afternoon, Andrea raced up the stairs two at a time. “Mom!” she hollered. “Guess what? We have a gerbil in our classroom. He lives in a glass case, and we named him Patches. I even drew a picture of Patches. Do you want to see?”
“What a handsome gerbil,” Mother said, admiring Andrea’s picture.
“Can I go to school again tomorrow?” she asked.
“Yes,” Mother replied.
The next afternoon, Andrea skipped into the house and plopped down at the table for milk and cookies. “We saw a movie about a lost polar bear,” Andrea said, wiping her mouth after a big gulp of milk. “Samantha and I played ball at recess. I had sixteen bounces without a miss! Can I go to school again tomorrow?”
Mother nodded and bit into a cookie.
The next afternoon, Andrea sang all the way home from school. “Oh, Mom,” she said, hugging her mother, “I made a truck using scissors and glue and lots of colored paper. And you should’ve seen the tower I built with blocks. Before it fell, it was this high.”
“That’s a mighty tall tower,” Mother said, looking at Andrea’s upraised hand.
“Can I go again tomorrow?” she asked.
“I’m sorry, Andrea,” Mother replied. “You can’t go to school tomorrow.”
Andrea’s eyes widened, and her smile melted away. “But I want to go to school,” she said, blinking hard. “School is fun.”
Mother knelt down and put her arm around Andrea. “School is fun,” she said. “But you can’t go tomorrow.”
“Why not?”
“Because tomorrow is Saturday,” Mother explained with a hug.
“Saturday!” Andrea said with a laugh. “Oh, I forgot! But can I go to school again on Monday?”
“Yes,” Mother told her. “You can go to school on Monday.”
“Good,” Andrea said, and she raced outside to ride her bike.

“You have flour on your nose, Jeffrey,” Mother teased.
Jeffrey looked down to see the white flour powdering his nose. They both began to laugh.
“I think I have flour on more than just my nose,” said Jeffrey as his eyes traveled farther down to his shirt and trousers. He dumped another cup of flour into the big batch of bread dough and mixed it thoroughly. His sister Barbara began wiping off the kitchen table so the dough could be kneaded and divided into loaves.
“You’re both doing such a good job helping to make the bread that there’s nothing left for me to do!” exclaimed Mother.
Jeffrey and Barbara beamed at each other, and Barbara said, “Look. Even Jason wants to help.”
Three-year-old Jason was sitting on the kitchen floor struggling to pull bread pans out of the cupboard.
“Welcoming our new neighbors across the street has really become a family affair,” Mother said. “Your dad’s out in the garden right now,” she added, “picking tomatoes and zucchini to take over to them.”
“Where’s Jenny?” asked Barbara.
Just then Jenny came bursting into the kitchen.
“Mother!” she wailed. “You simply have to help me decide what I’m going to do for the school variety show. I’m supposed to tell my teacher this week.”
“Maybe you could play that new piece you’ve been learning on the piano,” Mother calmly suggested.
“Oh, Mother!” Jenny replied impatiently. “I played the piano last year. I want to do something new and different.”
“Mmm,” said Mother, “I’ll have to think about it. Why don’t you help us finish making this bread for our new neighbors, and we’ll talk about what you might do.”
Jenny glanced scornfully at the powdery white trail across the kitchen floor and at the gooey globs of dough on Jeffrey’s hands. She retreated to her bedroom, mumbling something about having more important things to do than make bread.
“Jenny certainly isn’t much help today,” Barbara declared.
“She just doesn’t realize how much fun she’s missing,” Mother said, sighing with disappointment.
That afternoon, when the Anderson family was ready to take their gifts to welcome the new neighbors, Dad found Jenny watching television.
“Aren’t you coming with us?” asked Dad. “We’re all anxious to meet the new people across the street.”
“Doesn’t sound like much fun to me,” replied Jenny, not taking her eyes off the show she was watching.
“Jenny,” said Dad firmly, “we really feel that the whole family should go over to welcome our new neighbors. Please come with us.”
“Oh, all right,” said Jenny, “but I’d much rather stay here and watch television.”
Dad rang their new neighbor’s doorbell, and a man with black hair and dark eyes opened the door and looked curiously at the family. Dad introduced himself and the rest of the family and explained that they were a welcoming committee. The man’s face broke into a big grin. Calling his wife and two daughters, he enthusiastically invited Dad, Mother, Jeffrey, Jenny, Barbara, and Jason into his home.
When Dad presented them with warm bread and freshly-picked vegetables, the new family exclaimed in unison, “Mahalo! Mahalo!”
The Andersons soon learned that Mr. and Mrs. Kanahele and their daughters, Leimomi and Lani, had moved to California from a small town in Hawaii and that mahalo means thanks in Hawaiian.
Looking around at the stacks of boxes, the Anderson family offered to help the Kanaheles unpack. Soon everyone was talking and laughing.
Leimomi was delighted to find that she would be in Jenny’s class at school. Lani was Barbara’s age.
As the four girls chattered away, Mother smiled because Jenny seemed to be enjoying herself most of all. She and Leimomi were busily rummaging through a box of Leimomi’s Hawaiian treasures, and Jenny was telling Leimomi that she would be glad to show her around school.
Jenny and Leimomi were gaily dancing around with the grass skirt Leimomi had dug out of the box when they heard Mrs. Kanahele exclaim to Lani, “Now you will be able to have a hauoli la hanau!”
“Hauoli la hanau means happy birthday in Hawaiian,” Lani explained to the Andersons. “My birthday is next week, and I was afraid I wouldn’t have any friends to invite to the party, but now Barbara and Jenny are here. Will you come?”
“That would be a lot of fun!” exclaimed Barbara. “I’ve never been to a Hawaiian birthday party.”
When the Andersons went home, Dad’s arms were loaded with pineapples, Jeffrey was lugging two coconuts, and Mother was wearing a lei. Jason toted two big bananas that had been grown in the Kanahele’s backyard in Hawaii.
“You know,” Mother said, smiling thoughtfully, “I think we’re taking more home with us than we took over to them.”
“Yes,” Dad said, “and we all seemed to enjoy our visit.”
Jenny tugged at Dad’s sleeve. “It certainly was more fun than watching television. And, Mom, now I know what I’m going to do for the variety show. Leimomi is going to teach me some hula steps and let me wear her grass skirt. Best of all, she’s my aikane (friend).”

Chrissy Peterson had her arms folded neatly in front of her. She knew that some of the other girls were crying, but she knew she wouldn’t cry. I’m not like these others, she thought. I don’t have a problem. I have everything under control. I get good grades in all my classes, I have a boyfriend, my weight’s under control now, I got a superior rating on my piano solo, and I’m a National Merit Scholarship winner. Everything’s under control. I’m not like some of these others. Like Jason Miller. He really had a drinking problem. It’s a miracle he’s still alive.

I don’t have a problem. Other people have problems but not me. There’s nobody who’s been able to achieve what I’ve done this year. In any area you pick I’ve done great.

But what am I going to do if they have refreshments? I can’t eat anything or my weight will go up. All I’ve had today is a piece of toast, and that was just because my mother made me have breakfast. I weigh less than 100 pounds now. That’s good progress. Another ten pounds or so ought to do it. And to think I used to weigh 128 pounds. I was so fat. It’s funny that even though the scale says I weigh less, I still look fat.

Julie is crying and trying to talk at the same time. Doesn’t she know how messy that looks? Somebody should at least give her a tissue so she can wipe her face.

I wish I could have refreshments. I guess I could. But then I’d feel guilty and maybe I’d go into their bathroom and throw it all up again. What I wish more than anything is that I could have refreshments without feeling guilty. Yesterday my mother said she thought I was anorexic. I don’t have a problem though. She has a problem. Everything is going my way.

Now the bishop is talking. He’s talking about the Savior. I wish he wouldn’t talk like that. What does he mean, everybody has problems? Not me—I don’t have any problems.

Who am I trying to kid? I have a problem all right. Father in Heaven, can you hear me think? I have a problem. I know it’s not right, but I can’t eat. I feel so weak all the time, trying to push myself all the time, trying to be perfect in everything. Oh Father, I can’t do it. I’m crying now. Everybody can see me, but I don’t care. I can’t handle this anymore. I’ve got to ask my parents and the bishop to help me out of this. I think I’m going to die if I don’t change the way I feel about food.

I do have a problem, and I can’t handle it all by myself.

I’ll ask the bishop if I can talk to him right after the fireside. Oh Father, please help me, like you’ve helped the others.

While serving a mission, I had many opportunities to use the musical skills that I had learned. I relished the many opportunities to sing and play the piano and played nearly every week in sacrament meeting. I will always remember listening to those faithful Guatemalan members singing the hymns. I taught members new hymns that they weren’t familiar with. I taught some basic piano lessons. My companions and I would sing to the people we were teaching. Even if we sang off-key, the Spirit was always there to touch the hearts of the people.

When I enrolled in a philosophy class in high school, my dad was a little concerned. In philosophy, everything is questioned, including the existence of God. My teacher taught us things that go against religion and deny God’s existence.
One philosophy test asked, “Why have we come to the earth?” The answer I was supposed to give was so that we could become self-actualized and take our place in the circle of life. I didn’t write that answer because it’s not what I believe.
Instead, I wrote, “We have come to the earth to be tested and to return to live with our Father in Heaven for eternity with our families.”
Afterward, the teacher called me up and asked me if I knew the correct answer to the question. I told him I did but that I wasn’t going to write something I knew was untrue.
He asked me if I was religious and which church I belonged to. I told him I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He told me that he had never known any religious student who was courageous enough to stand up for his beliefs and write such an answer.
“I did not give you full credit because your answer wasn’t the correct one,” he said. “But I gave you points for having the courage to write what you believe.”
I was happy because I had answered according to my convictions and according to the gospel truths I know and am trying to live.
Benjamin M., Chile

David Bednar’s own reliance on the scriptures and his teaching of their importance have been evident throughout his priesthood service. Elder Bednar remembers: “During my training before my mission, we went to the solemn assembly room in the Salt Lake Temple. President Harold B. Lee was there to answer questions from about 300 missionaries. He stood there in his white suit, holding his white scriptures. He answered every question from the scriptures, or he said, ‘I don’t know.’ I sat there and thought that I would never be able to know the scriptures the way he did, but my objective became to use the scriptures in my teaching the way that I saw President Harold B. Lee do it. That desire is the genesis of all my scripture study.”

1 At the time of his martyrdom, Joseph Smith was an active candidate for the U.S. Presidency. Earlier, when he polled potential 1844 presidential candidates, only Henry Clay, Lewis Cass, and John Calhoun replied, and their views about the Saints’ civil rights were unsatisfactory. So Church leaders decided to back Joseph Smith for the presidency. They created the National Reform Party to run Joseph Smith for president and his counselor, Sidney Rigdon, for vice-president. Joseph’s platform, published in pamphlet form, advocated economic ideas taken from Henry Clay’s “American System,” and expansionist and abolitionist positions from the Liberty and Democratic parties, along with some of his own ideas. He called for economy in government, the annexation of Texas and Oregon, a strong national bank, a judicious tariff, prison reforms, paying slaveowners to free their slaves, a smaller House of Representatives, and U.S. presidents to have power to suppress mobs. But Joseph’s shocking martyrdom in June 1844 ended his party’s campaign. At the time of his death, about 300 LDS men, including most of the Quorum of the Twelve, were campaigning for him in the eastern United States. Joseph ran for office, not to win but to draw national attention to civil rights sought by the Saints after their expulsion from Missouri.

I would like to read a little statement here that I published in the book I wrote. It is taken from a pamphlet entitled The Strength of the ‘Mormon’ Position (Orson F. Whitney, Independence, Mo.: Zion’s Printing and Publishing Co., 1917). The late Elder Orson F. Whitney of the Council of the Twelve Apostles related the following incident under the heading, “A Catholic Utterance”:
“Many years ago a learned man, a member of the Roman Catholic Church, came to Utah and spoke from the stand of the Salt Lake Tabernacle. I became well acquainted with him, and we conversed freely and frankly. A great scholar, with perhaps a dozen languages at his tongue’s end, he seemed to know all about theology, law, literature, science and philosophy. One day he said to me: ‘You Mormons are all ignoramuses. You don’t even know the strength of your own position. It is so strong that there is only one other tenable in the whole Christian world, and that is the position of the Catholic Church. The issue is between Catholicism and Mormonism. If we are right, you are wrong; if you are right, we are wrong; and that’s all there is to it. The Protestants haven’t a leg to stand on. For if we are wrong, they are wrong with us, since they were a part of us and went out from us; while if we are right, they are apostates whom we cut off long ago. If we have the apostolic succession from St. Peter, as we claim, there is no need of Joseph Smith and Mormonism; but if we have not that succession, then such a man as Joseph Smith was necessary, and Mormonism’s attitude is the only consistent one. It is either the perpetuation of the gospel from ancient times, or the restoration of the gospel in latter days.’” (A Marvelous Work and a Wonder, LeGrand Richards, Deseret Book Co., 1958, pp. 3–4.)

Gordon B. Hinckley grew up loving nature. A walnut tree he planted as a boy was used to build the pulpit for the Conference Center. Gordon often compared the Savior’s love to the guiding Polar Star, a star he learned to recognize as a young boy. He traveled more than two million miles (3.2 million km) while serving in the Church. Satellites transmitted his testimony around the globe. More than 70 temples were dedicated while he was President, including the rebuilt Nauvoo Illinois Temple.

When Shellee first met Sam Carrick, the man who would become her husband, she thought he was arrogant and stuck-up because he wouldn’t talk to her. He defends himself now by explaining, “I had never met a deaf person. I didn’t know how to talk to her.” It took him just days to find out that Shellee was easy to talk to. She was fun and outgoing, and she could read lips.
When they met, Shellee was serving a mission to the deaf and was assigned to the California Riverside Mission for a few months. Sam was her zone leader. He was impressed, he says, “with her ability to succeed.” After their missions, they found they had a lot in common. Sam found that Shellee loved the outdoors like he did. Now Shellee and Sam live in Utah with their two children, Austen and Kylee.

I was forever changed upon hearing these words from Elder Neal A. Maxwell of the Quorum of the Twelve, spoken in the midst of his struggle with leukemia. He said, “I was doing some pensive pondering and these 13 instructive and reassuring words came into my mind: ‘I have given you leukemia that you might teach my people with authenticity.’” He then went on to express how this experience had blessed him with “perspective about the great realities of eternity. … Such glimpses of eternity can help us to travel the next 100 yards, which may be very difficult.”

6:00 A.M.—Angie sat in the dark room, memorizing smells, colors, and how each trophy seemed to dominate the one next to it. Everything is just the way Mike left it, she thought.
She had come to her brother’s room often in the two months since his death—hit by a car while biking with his friends. He died doing what he loved, her dad had said at the funeral, as if the thought of biking to heaven was supposed to make it all right. She knew her dad was trying to find his own comfort, but it made her angry anyway. The whole family made her angry. How could they just accept it and go on with life? Well, she couldn’t. She buried her head in the pillow and felt the familiar gray feeling swallow her up.
6:15 A.M.—She glanced at the clock, time to get ready for school. She’d better wake Carrie up, too. She rolled off the bed and into the room she shared with her five-year-old sister. Carrie could sleep through, and on, anything, Angie thought, as she emptied a stack of books from Carrie’s bed.
“Quite a pile for someone who’s still trying to figure out how the letter A sounds. Time to get up.”
Carrie flopped over on a magazine. “Read this one to me,” she yawned, pointing to a book.
Angie pretended not to hear the sleepy voice.
“Read to me,” Carrie repeated, nuzzling and wiggling into Angie’s lap.
Angie just couldn’t get into their reading ritual lately. They’d been reading to each other for two years. Rather, she’d read while Carrie invented. At some point, Angie had begun inventing, too. Their additions had lived again each time they read their favorites. But not anymore. Somehow, when Mike had died, the old stories had disappeared.
Okay, just one, Angie thought. She let the New Testament picture book fall open to Christ feeding the multitude.
This’ll do, Angie decided. I can handle bread and fish—just no details.
She absently read the black and white print. Something about John the Baptist. He was dead, beheaded, and friends were trying to tell Christ.
Dead, dead, dead, the word echoed in her mind.
Don’t think, Angie. Read, but don’t think, she warned herself.
“Jesus wanted to be alone. He went to a place above the Sea of Galilee to think about John.”
Carrie grabbed the book and pulled it closer. “He looks sad. Was John one of Jesus’ friends?”
Angie looked at the picture of Christ sitting away from the crowds, his head bowed, his face grief-drawn. “John was Jesus’ cousin,” she said softly.
Carrie’s finger slowly circled the picture. “He feels like us, doesn’t he?” Like us—He feels like us. The thought invaded her gray feeling and echoed in the giant hole her heart had become.
Without waiting for an answer, Carrie rearranged herself—a signal for Angie to go on reading.
“Jesus turned to the people and left the place where he was alone.” She hesitated.
He felt then as you do now, something whispered to her heart.
It wasn’t a question anymore, but an affirmation. And this time the words weren’t from a child. Waves of understanding and warmth broke over her, challenging the deep gray sorrow.
Again it came—He felt then as you do now. Uncontrollable tears welled up in her eyes.
“He teaches and feeds them …” she mumbled, fighting to keep her voice steady, but it was no use.
“Can I finish later?” she asked, running to the bathroom. She locked herself in and let go of the tears. Clutching at the book, she heard her sister banging on the door.
“Hey, how come you didn’t finish?”
“I have to get ready for school, Carrie. Later …” she covered her mouth to keep the sobs from escaping.
“You’re such a meany,” Carrie said with five-year-old frustration and marched back to their room.
Tears splattered on the child’s drawing of Christ. His pain had been so much like her own. Once more it came—I have felt as you—and love enfolded her.
8:15 A.M.—Angie walked to school, torn-out pages from the book tucked inside her coat. I’ll buy a new book, she told herself. These pages are mine.
1:15 P.M.—In algebra, Angie ignored Mr. Bott’s explanation on quadratic equations and laid the two pages across her desk. Angie looked at the red and blue drawings of Christ surrounded with people.
“Shall we send them away?” his disciples questioned.
Christ said no.
The next picture was of Christ teaching, feeding 5,000 individuals long into the night.
Was John forgotten? No.
The assurance, the strength, swept her from the room full of quadratics and out into the hall. “You’ll need a hall pass,” Mr. Bott said.
“Yeah,” she managed, running to the nearest bathroom.
Alone in the bathroom, she let her finger trace the outlines of his face as Carrie had done earlier. New tears of gratitude and understanding wet the pages. Christ had felt the same grief for John that she felt for Mike, but he had continued teaching, loving—and living. She would too, she promised. Peace surrounded her and this time the soul-filling love sank in and completely pushed the gray out.
3:45 P.M.—Angie walked home carrying a detention slip for skipping out of algebra. She came up the back porch and grabbed an apple on the way in the door.
“Carrie—you home?” she yelled, then took a bite of the apple. It tasted good. She took another bite and wandered through the house. She found Carrie playing with a doll.
“Hey, want to read a story?” she asked.
Carrie’s eyes looked up from the doll she was rocking.
“Come on,” Angie coaxed, reaching out a hand. “I have this great story.”
She pulled out the crumpled pictures and sat down next to her sister. “It all started when Jesus’ friends came to him with some news, sad news.”

But another day I spent with my father shaped my life forever. He took me to the home of an ordained patriarch. The patriarch led me to a chair, placed his hands on my head, and gave me a patriarchal blessing as a gift from God.
He said I was one of those of whom it had been said, “Blessed are the peacemakers” (Matthew 5:9).
Because the Lord revealed this gift to me in my patriarchal blessing, I have been able to recognize it and look for opportunities to use it to bless others.