Gospel Story Finder

Around the turn of the previous century, two missionaries were laboring in the mountains of the southern United States. One day, from a hilltop, they saw people gathering in a clearing far below. The missionaries did not often have many people to whom they might preach, so they made their way down to the clearing.
A little boy had drowned, and there was to be a funeral. His parents had sent for the minister to “say words” over their son. The missionaries stood back as the itinerant minister faced the grieving father and mother and began his sermon. If the parents expected to receive comfort from this man of the cloth, they would be disappointed.
He scolded them severely for not having had the little boy baptized. They had put it off because of one thing or another, and now it was too late. He told them very bluntly that their little boy had gone to hell. It was their fault. They were to blame for his endless torment.
After the sermon was over and the grave was covered, the elders approached the grieving parents. “We are servants of the Lord,” they told the mother, “and we have come with a message for you.” As the sobbing parents listened, the two elders read from the revelations and bore their testimony of the restoration of the keys for the redemption of both the living and the dead.

One of the most telling of these experiences occurred in 1978, in competition for the coveted France Cup—a trophy sought by soccer clubs throughout France and its territories. Since the Tahitian football league is affiliated with the Fédération Francaise de Football, Tahitian teams also vie for the France Cup.
By a long-standing arrangement, two top clubs from Tahiti, together with two leading teams from the French-administered territory of New Caledonia, play off to see which South Pacific club will travel to France to compete against the French professionals in the annual France Cup competition. The playoff locations alternate each year between Tahiti and New Caledonia.
In 1978, Erroll’s club, Central, qualified for the local play-off with the New Caledonians, but it was to be played outside of Tahiti and the final was fixed for a Sunday. Not even the persuasive talents of Napoléon Spitz could get the New Caledonians to move the game to another day. And so, as he had the previous year after leading his team to the France Cup finals, Erroll stayed away from the game. While his teammates spent that Sunday morning preparing for the all-important clash later that day, Erroll went to Church. When the whistle signalled kick-off, Central’s captain was alone, back in his hotel room.
“I’ll never forget that day,” he recalls. “Towards the end of the match I had the strongest feeling that things weren’t going well. I wondered whether it would be right to pray to the Lord about a soccer game, but I knew He was aware of my situation and that I had tried to do what was right. Finally, I knelt and asked the Lord to help my team players do their best.”
Erroll learned later that Sabbath day that Central had been a goal down with only 60 seconds to go when the Tahitian club had equalized the score at 2–2. In the mandatory extra time that followed, Central took the winning goal. It was one of the most memorable of Central’s matches.

Q. Tell us about your conversion and baptism.
A. I went to a dance one night with my miss. As we were dancing, I saw this girl. Later I danced with her and asked where she came from. She told me she was a Mormon from Salt Lake City, and I thought, “Oh, crumb, what have I got here?”
We talked on a while and she made a profound impression on me—it was just the way she talked. She didn’t talk about religion or she didn’t stuff it down my throat, but I could just tell by her words that she had very high standards, and I liked her. She was a student and was only passing through Belfast. She hadn’t even intended to come to Belfast, but for some reason she did and we met.
She went on to tour Europe, and we corresponded. On the way back she stopped in England, and I went over and saw her there for a week. She had a tremendous effect on me, and I started thinking about the Church. After I came back from England, about a month later, the missionaries called. It had nothing to do with her—it just happened that the missionaries called. At the time it seemed so fantastic, but looking back on it, I’m sure it was all meant to be—you know, the way it happened.
The missionaries must have called six times to find me at home. They kept coming back because my mother told them I might be interested in the Church. One missionary had a profound influence on me, too. He was a tremendous character and I really got to like him. Without the girl I wouldn’t have been interested, and if another missionary had contacted me, he might not have reached me. I joined the Church on December 4, 1969, and I was lucky that my missionaries stuck by me. Some get moved on and sort of lose contact with their investigators, and the people fall by. The missionaries stayed with me until I got my feet on the ground, and then I was lucky to make friends in the Church quite quickly and easily.

I love hearing the variety of voices and accents of youth who sent in recordings. Knowing their voices would be heard around the world, many readers worked very hard to get their recordings just right. Some, like Thomas from New Zealand (who read 3 Nephi 20) or José from Peru (who read 3 Nephi 23), practiced for hours or days before recording. A group of 10 youth from South Korea faced the challenge of English not being their first language. Their solution was to work together, each recording a few verses at a time and stitching them together into what became 2 Nephi 28 and 29.

My thanks to the fellow who asked a question about his mother’s death in the April 1990 issue. It seems that the New Era knows everything that is happening to people. I am on a mission and my mother died a few months ago. I was given two days to go to the funeral. I came back to the mission field, and even though I knew where she was going, it was hard to endure.
Later, when I was transferred to the city I am at now, the first gift I got was the New Era. I opened it to the Question and Answer column. The ideas and experiences shared by the New Era and its contributors helped me. I very much appreciate the way you answer questions and I hope your magazine will continue, for it provides good services.
Elder Akpan, Okon ImohNigeria, West Africa

Heeding the call from civic leaders, missionaries and members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints braved rainy weather on 15 and 22 July 2023 to plant trees in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. President and Sister Oliva and Rebecca Cowley, leaders of the Addis Ababa Ethiopia Mission, full-time missionaries, and local members of the Church participated in this service activity.

The funny little woman in this 1973 Caldecott Award book likes to laugh, “Tee-he-he-he,” and make rice dumplings. One day when she runs after a rolling dumpling, she laughs at the wrong moment and is captured by the wicked oni. For a time she enjoys cooking for them with their magic paddle, but soon she becomes lonely and runs away. The wicked oni try to stop her—until they too laugh at the wrong moment!

In 1967, Robert Lewis, a member of the Church, came to my office. He wanted a Church pamphlet, The Testimony of Joseph Smith, translated into Vietnamese, so I took it to a translator. When he finished, I gave the translation to Brother Lewis. He took it to church for the Vietnamese members to read. But they did not like it; it did not mean anything to them. Brother Lewis brought it back to me, and when the translator said he couldn’t do any better, I decided to try myself. I was not very good at speaking English and worried about how to translate it. I took the pamphlet home and stayed up all night reading it. As I read, something strange happened to me. It was as if someone unseen was helping me understand. The first translator translated word for word; but as I finally understood part of the testimony, I put it aside and wrote the translation in my own words. I translated according to the thoughts and feelings that were impressed upon me. I did not know it at the time, but I was translating by the Spirit.
I gave the translation to Brother Lewis and said that I would refund his money if he didn’t like it. But the members read it and said they understood what it meant. They said, “It communicates feelings—it affects us.”
Brother Lewis told me he would bring some more material to translate. So then I translated four or five pamphlets. They were all accepted.
As I worked on those pamphlets, I began to love the Church and the doctrines and teachings of the gospel. I asked Brother Lewis to send some missionaries to me. He sent two American servicemen. They taught me for three months, and I was baptized. My oldest son, Le Phuc-Hung, was also baptized a few months later.

One night shortly after his baptism, Don was tending the ship’s engines and reading the Book of Mormon in his spare time. One of the crew came up behind him and asked what he was reading.

“It’s the Book of Mormon,” Don replied.
“Are you Mormon?”
“Yes, I am.”
Burt ground out his cigarette and said, “So am I.” He had been brought up in the Church but had stopped participating when he joined the military. Don convinced him to join the others at sacrament meeting the next Sunday. Burt began the process of repenting and getting his life back in order.

“L?ook!” Sasha whispered. “Another squirrel.” He was having fun exploring the Sochi Arboretum. The giant park had all kinds of beautiful flowers and trees. Back home, in central Russia, it was still snowy and freezing cold. But here in Sochi, the sun was shining, and the air smelled like spring.
Sasha watched the squirrel nibble on a nut. It still had its thick winter coat, but Sasha guessed it was as excited for spring as he was. He grinned as the squirrel scurried up a tree.
Just then Mama’s phone rang. “Hello?” Mama said. She paused. “But I thought our tickets were for tomorrow! It’s today?” Soon she hung up the phone.
“Sasha! We have to go now. Our tour of the Skypark is this morning, and the bus is leaving in 15 minutes!”
“Can we get to the bus stop that soon?” Sasha asked.
“I hope so. Let’s pray in our hearts and do our best.” Mama took his hand, and they started to run.
The Sochi Arboretum was big. Sasha wasn’t sure they could find the way out! But he said a prayer in his heart. Please help us get to the bus stop in time. We’d really like to go to the Skypark.
The Skypark was an adventure park high up in the mountains. It had giant swings, climbing walls, ziplines, and a ropes course. It also had the Skybridge—a super-long bridge hanging high up in the sky. Sasha hoped they would get there in time.
Finally they found the main road and looked for a taxi. They saw one right away! They hopped in and Mama told the driver the name of the bus stop.
“You’re lucky!” the driver said. “I know a shortcut.”
Sasha stared out the window as they sped past the trees.
“Do you think we’ll make it?” Sasha asked Mama.
Mama looked at her watch. “I don’t know. But we prayed. And even if we don’t make it, that’s OK. We’re on an adventure!”
Soon they were at the bus stop. The bus wasn’t even there yet! It was late.
Mama and Sasha were still breathing hard, but Sasha smiled. “That driver was right! We are lucky.”
“I don’t think it was just luck, dear,” Mama said. “Sometimes we have little miracles that remind us how much Heavenly Father loves us.”
Just then, the bus pulled up. Mama and Sasha climbed on and headed off to the Skypark. Sasha was grateful tor this little miracle!
This story took place in Russia.

In April 2010, Evelyn Vigil was concerned that her husband, Amado, was losing his faith. He had not attended any church for 11 years, having arrived at the conclusion that the true Church did not exist. Meanwhile, Evelyn had never stopped believing in God, and she went from one church to another, yearning to hear His word but never satisfied with what she heard. Some mornings she awoke in tears. On such days, she pled for guidance from her Heavenly Father. She asked Him why she never felt right in any of the churches she attended, even though she wanted so desperately to learn of Him. She also prayed that her family would someday find unity in one church.
“Our story began,” Amado recalls, “when we found a pair of elders—rather, when they found us. We were leaving the home of Evelyn’s parents, and we were carrying shopping bags. We noticed that the elders had seen us and were crossing the street toward us. One of them kindly asked if they could help us.
“They also asked if we would allow them to visit us. I said yes, mostly out of curiosity. Up to that point, I didn’t know much about the Church—only comments I had heard from other people.
“After I agreed to let the elders visit our home, I told my wife, ‘Don’t get too excited about this. Don’t get any illusions about me deciding to join a church. I’m just curious to see what they have to say.’
“The elders started visiting us. I was ready to politely tell them to go away if they said anything that didn’t seem right to me. But they were so kind, and I was impressed that they never said anything bad about other churches. They taught with such love and diligence, and they were patient when I asked many questions. They quickly endeared themselves to us.”
Bit by bit, Amado and Evelyn prepared themselves to be baptized and confirmed members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Evelyn’s biggest challenge was the Word of Wisdom. She was saddened by the realization that she would need to let go of her desire for coffee. Amado didn’t need to let go of any bad habits; he just needed to learn to grab hold of the truth. He believed what the missionaries were teaching, and he even recognized many doctrines and practices that he and his wife had felt were missing from other churches, such as eternal families, baptisms for the dead, and fellowship and organization in the Church. But he hesitated to commit to be baptized. He worried that he would join the Church only to find that he had made the wrong decision.
These concerns soon faded. Evelyn prayed for help and overcame her coffee habit, saying, “I’m not going to let this keep me from receiving blessings.” After about two months of indecision, Amado committed to be baptized. Now, according to Evelyn, he frequently says, “We need to embrace the doctrine.”
Amado, Evelyn, and Michelle were baptized and confirmed in early July 2010. “From the time that we were baptized,” Evelyn says, “I could feel that everything started to change. My family was united in the Church. We had found the restored gospel. We have had trials and sickness since then, but our Heavenly Father has poured many blessings on us.”
Amado observes: “The first change I noticed was unity in our family. It’s not that we were dysfunctional before, but we started to unite more. The doctrines of the gospel helped us. As Church leaders taught us about the sacredness of the family, we thought more about the value we should place on our family.”

In my various Church assignments, I have been humbled by the love and concern bishops and Relief Society leaders demonstrate for their flocks. While I was serving as a stake Relief Society president in Chile during the early 1980s, the country was experiencing a deep recession and the rate of unemployment was 30 percent. I witnessed how heroic Relief Society presidents and faithful visiting teachers went about “doing good”8 under such grim circumstances. They portrayed the scripture in Proverbs 31:20: “She stretcheth out her hand to the poor; yea, she reacheth forth her hands to the needy.”
Sisters whose families had very little themselves were constantly helping those who they thought were in greater need. I then more clearly understood what the Savior saw when He declared in Luke 21:3–4:
“Of a truth I say unto you, that this poor widow hath cast in more than they all:
“For all these have of their abundance cast in unto the offerings of God: but she of her penury hath cast in all the living that she had.”

President Baudin describes his second voyage to Taenga as one of the most unforgettable experiences of his mission. President Temanu had come to get him, and soon after they left Makemo, stormy weather set in, with the wind and waves buffeting the boat through the waters and altering its course. “Imagine my concern,” relates President Baudin, “when after six hours there was still no land in sight.
“Suddenly, President Temanu stood and pointed with his finger and calmly stated that the island was in that direction. Almost immediately, the wind died and the sea became calm, and as if they had come to greet us and guide us to the pass in the reef, dozens of dolphins appeared, leaping out of the water in front of the boat. As if this weren’t impressive enough, we also saw a whale some thirty meters to the side, spouting water and unhurriedly keeping pace with our forward movement.”

After going through endless formalities to obtain a passport (I was underage, my parents were separated, and I was of military age), I was finally able to leave for my mission, a year and a half after completing my papers. I flew to Paris, France, with only my five years of high school French and without knowing any English. The zone conferences in my mission were in English. And I hadn’t been endowed yet because there were no temples in South America at that time.
One month after I began my service, President Willis D. Waite sent me with a young Frenchman, Jean Collin, to receive my endowment in the Swiss Temple. We traveled all night by train and spent three emotional and spiritual days there.

As the Ellsworth Company started its third month of travel, food supplies began to dwindle. During this part of the journey, the pioneers were blessed to come across many buffalo on the Plains. The pioneers replenished their food supplies by shooting a few buffalo, cooking and eating the fresh meat, and then drying some meat for the days ahead. Buffalo chips were used, in the absence of wood, to build fires for warmth and for cooking. The pioneers spent many hours repairing the handcarts that often carried up to 500 pounds of goods over hard roads, through numerous streams and rivers, and up sandy bluffs from Florence, Nebraska, to the Salt Lake Valley.
23
Captain Ellsworth shot a buffalo, which was very thankfully received (16 miles)

Elder William Grant Bangerter
“… I must tell you … that Spencer W. Kimball … is a prophet of God. I can say this because when he was presented to the Church to become our president a year ago, the Spirit of the Lord said distinctly and almost audibly, ‘He is speaking as a prophet of God.’”

I guess I was about seven when Mom told me that Heavenly Father hears and answers prayers. Maybe she had told me earlier, but I don’t remember that. (I was very young when I was born.)
“So, if I really want something, and if I’m a really good boy, and I ask for it—Heavenly Father will give it to me?”
“That’s right, son. If your faith is very strong, and if it’s for your own good, he’ll give it to you.”
That hot summer night in 1944 I lay in bed thinking about what I wanted most from Heavenly Father. Another brother? Maybe. A new baseball? I’d probably get one for my birthday anyway. How about an end to the war and my dad coming home? Yes. But Mom was working hard on that one with her prayers.
And then it came to me—the one single, most critical, most desirable, most longed for, most important thing in all the world to my seven-year-old heart: I wanted to fly … like a bird.
And why not? Birds flew. Bats flew. P-51s flew. Kites and paper airplanes and bugs and butterflies flew. Why not me?
How the other kids would envy me! How Miss Gamble would gasp with astonishment and admiration! And wouldn’t Joey Hirschberger next door just turn bright green with envy?
Taking care not to wake my little brother, Lynn, I slid out of bed and dropped to my knees. I folded my arms (like Mom), and squeezed my eyes shut (unlike Lynn). Then I clenched my teeth (a sure sign of great faith) and scrunched up my face (for intensity), and uttered my first all-alone-by-myself, out-loud prayer:
“Heavenly Father, I want to fly. I really, really, really want to fly. Won’t you please bless me so that I can fly? I’ll be a really good boy if you’ll help me to fly. Honest. Amen.”
Then I got off my knees, pulled my chair to the center of the darkened room, and climbed up on the chair. Extending my arms out wide, I whispered it again: “Please, Heavenly Father, help me to fly. Mom said you could do it. I know you can do it.”
With this, I began to flap my arms furiously. Up and down, up and down, faster, faster.
You can probably guess what happened: My arms got tired.
I sat down and thought about it. Maybe I was missing something important. Maybe what I needed was to jump off the chair while I flapped my arms.
I climbed back up on the chair. This time I flapped my arms really hard and then jumped off the chair, upward, outward.
And downward. Thump! Soon Mother appeared at the door, wondering what had caused all the noise.
The next day I pondered the problem until I thought I had it figured out: Heavenly Father must be testing my faith. Maybe the secret was to pray for several nights in a row and to grit my teeth harder and to scrunch up my face tighter while I prayed.
I tried it. Each night for a week I prayed and prayed, my faith and fervor growing. By Sunday night I was sure that I was ready.
Back up on the chair, arms extended, I once more whispered my plea to the Lord, absolutely sure that he would hear and answer my prayer and grant me flight.
My arms began to flap up and down, faster, faster. I jumped upward and outward.
And downward. Thump! Again I was questioned about the loud thump from the upstairs bedroom.
What was missing? I had gritted my teeth and scrunched my face. Why hadn’t it worked? Why hadn’t I soared from the chair and flapped around the room? I lay in bed for a long time thinking, wondering.
The next day I was down in the foxhole-fort-dugout-clubhouse on the shady side of the garage when I heard Mom calling me.
Blackberries. I had promised to pick the berries from the huge wild blackberry bush behind the garage. But it was hot, and I didn’t feel like fighting the vicious brambles and thorns of August to ensure jam next January.
Just for a moment, I pretended I hadn’t heard her. That’s when the inspiration came: How could I expect the Lord to give me flight if I couldn’t give Mom a few minutes for an errand?
From that moment, I became an errand boy possessed. I not only picked blackberries, I chopped kindling wood. I filled the wood box. I swept the porch. I set the table and went to the store. And then I picked more blackberries until my arms and hands were scratched and bleeding from the thorns.
I wore Mom out with demands for more and more errands. How could the Lord deny me now? I had prayed with all my might for two weeks, had exercised enormous faith, had filled my days with good works and gallon buckets of blackberries. Surely, my first flight was now at hand!
That night I mentioned all of this to the Lord in my prayer, then climbed back onto the chair in my darkened bedroom. This time … This time … This time it will work!
It didn’t work. The upward, outward curve again continued into the downward curve, ending in the by now familiar thump. Sure enough, Mother soon appeared at the door, warning me not to awaken Lynn.
I was stumped. For all my prayers and all my faith and all my good works, I remained as earthbound as Joey Hirschberger or Jimmy Johnson. What could be missing?
Without ever mentioning my desire to fly, I put the problem of unanswered prayers to my Sunday School teacher. What followed was a lesson on how to pray and how Heavenly Father answers prayers. And there was the answer. I marveled that I had missed it: I had failed to trust utterly and completely in the Lord.
Up until now, I had jumped off a low chair—a chair low enough that if the flapping didn’t work, I at least wouldn’t break my neck. The Lord must be waiting for me to show real faith by jumping off of something high enough that failure would hurt. That would prove my faith!
And beyond that, I had always made my attempts in the privacy of a darkened bedroom. Next time I would prove real faith by jumping off of something really high—and with an audience and in broad daylight.
All the next week I prepared. The faith, the prayers, the endless helpfulness to Mom continued. By Saturday afternoon I was ready.
Down in the fort I explained my project to Lynn and Joey Hirschberger and Jimmy Johnson. I explained about faith and good works. I explained about the kind of prayers where you grit your teeth and scrunch up your face. I explained about having to risk yourself to show that you trust the Lord absolutely.
And then I started up the ladder to the roof of the garage. Lynn and Jimmy and Joey remained in the fort watching and wondering.
Joey said he thought I was crazy. But what did Joey know about faith and works and prayers?
And now I was on the roof of the garage, looking down. It seemed farther from the roof to the ground than it had appeared the other way around.
Directly below me was the terrible blackberry bush. It looked higher and wider than it ever had from the ground. Great long guard brambles covered with vicious thorns reached up almost to where I stood.
I fought down the doubting thought: “What if it doesn’t work? What if I don’t fly? What if I land in the blackberry bush?” But one mustn’t doubt! The entire effort might fail if one doubted!
For doubt is the opposite of faith. Simple logic dictated that if one removed his protection from the awful blackberry thorns that would prove absolute, unshakable faith.
Off came the shirt. Joey said he thought that was the dumbest thing he’d ever seen, and he was going to tell my mom.
I told Joey to sit down and be quiet, but he left to tell Mom anyway. Now I had to hurry!
I closed my eyes and reminded the Lord about how he answers prayers of faith and how if someone wants something badly enough and is a good boy and helps his mom and goes to Sunday School, his prayers will be answered.
That done, I began to flap my arms, faster and faster. Then, eyes still closed tight, I jumped upward and outward from the roof of the garage—upward and outward over a huge wild blackberry bush—with no shirt on.
Before I opened my eyes, I knew I was lying on my back on the kitchen table. Doc Nichols was just leaving, saying something about how you couldn’t possibly break a bone jumping into an overgrown “pillow”—even if it was covered with stickers. I could feel the cool washcloth as Mother continued washing the blood from my dozens of scratches and cuts.
After Doc Nichols left, Mom chased out all the small, wide-eyed spectators, and I opened my eyes. I saw that my mother’s arms and hands and face were covered with dozens of scratches—and realized the price she had paid to rescue me.
She smiled her special tender smile and held me close in her arms. “For injuries sustained in battle, I award you the purple heart,” she said quietly, “and maybe a bronze star for bravery.”
“Do you have a medal for dumbness?” I asked. “I feel so stupid!”
“I suppose we all feel that way sometimes,” Mother replied. “We make mistakes, we learn from them, and then we go on.”
There was a long pause before I asked the question: “You said Heavenly Father answers prayers …”
Mom finished the sentence: “And now you’re not really sure if he does answer prayers.” Somehow Mom always knew what I was thinking.
“Of course he hears and answers prayers,” she said—and I could tell she really meant it. “Only sometimes we pray for things that aren’t good for us. Sometimes we forget to say, ‘Thy will be done.’ And sometimes his answer is a quiet, firm no. But no is an answer, too, isn’t it, son? He can’t always say yes, can he? Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I guess so. But, Mom, I wanted so much to fly! And I tried so hard!”
“Someday, son, when your dad comes home from the Navy, you’ll have the answer to your prayers. You and Dad can go to the airport and pay for a half-hour flight. There are many ways Heavenly Father could give you a yes answer to your prayers for flight. But it won’t come through flapping your arms and jumping off garages into blackberry bushes.”
By now all the bleeding had stopped, a small bandage over each cut and scratch. As she turned to tending her own wounds, Mother smiled at me and pretended to be stern, “And speaking of jumping off of garages into blackberry bushes: Young man, if you ever do that again, I’ll take away your purple heart and give you a dishonorable discharge!”
A voice interrupted my daydreaming. “We are on our final approach to Hamburg International. Please fasten your seat belts.”
Funny about that childish prayer for flight all those years ago. For a while it had seemed that Heavenly Father didn’t really answer prayers. My answer hadn’t come just then when I had wanted it so badly. It had come later—flying over Portland in a biplane with Dad. And with the other Scouts in pursuit of a merit badge. And then aboard a huge jet en route to the Germany Hamburg Mission. Funny how the answers always seem to come—though not always at the time or in the way we expect.
I fastened my seat belt and let a little prayer run through my mind: “I thank thee, Father, for hearing and answering the prayer of a seven-year-old boy. I thank thee for giving me flight.”

This change prepared Truman to accept the message of two Latter-day Saint missionaries a few years later, after he had moved to western New York. He was baptized, and so were his wife, Polly, and his mother. Then, filled with the spirit and happiness of the gospel, Truman and a cousin traveled east five hundred miles, preaching daily for nine weeks.

I had trouble respecting my drivers’ ed teacher when I was a sophomore. I felt like he was unfair to me and could sometimes be kind of mean. I really wanted a better relationship, so I looked for a time when he taught me something I didn’t know before and I said thank you. Though he was still not my favorite teacher, I was able to learn some valuable things from him.
Hope H., 18, Utah, USA

One weekend our school lost a big game. Some teachers in the lab vigorously discussed the loss, repeatedly using the Lord’s name in vain. Lincoln approached the teachers and asked them if they would please stop speaking about Jesus Christ that way.
“Does that really bother you?” they asked with some doubt.
“Yes,” Lincoln replied. “Jesus Christ is my best friend.”
At that moment, my investigation of the Church changed from an intellectual exercise to a question of faith. If this religion produced men like this, it was Christian in every way that mattered.
As Lincoln and I left that night, I asked if I could attend church with him sometime.