Gospel Story Finder

In the journey of life, it is helpful and hopeful to remember that no one has sinned tomorrow. Many years ago I read a story about an elderly man who was shocked to see his name listed in the obituary section of the morning paper. In disbelief, he called the editor to complain.

The editor was very apologetic and said, “I don’t know how that could have happened, but unfortunately the papers have been printed and delivered, so there is nothing we can do about it now.” He then brightened and said, “I’ll tell you what. Tomorrow we will put you in the new birth section and give you a fresh start.”

The gospel of Jesus Christ is a gospel of hope and fresh starts. In reality, everyone gets a fresh start every day. Repentance fills our lives with peace, joy, and light as we see each day as a new opportunity to learn from the past and try a little harder.

“I was walking several steps ahead of grandpa [President Lorenzo Snow] when he stopped me, saying … ‘It was right here that the Lord Jesus Christ appeared to me at the time of the death of President Woodruff. … He stood right here, about one meter above the floor. It looked as though He stood on a plate of solid gold.’
“Grandpa told me what a glorious personage the Savior is and described His hands, feet, countenance and beautiful White Robes, all of which were of such a glory of whiteness and brightness that he could hardly gaze upon Him.
“Then grandpa said … ‘I want you to remember that this is the testimony of your grandfather, that he told you with his own lips that he actually saw the Savior here in the Temple and talked with Him face to face’” (Allie Young Pond, personal journal).

My birthday party is next week! I hope you can come.
My mom said I could only invite five friends. Sorry.
Hi, Becky! How was—
Sweetie, what’s wrong?
Kristie’s having a party, but I’m not invited.
I feel so left out.
That’s really hard. I’m sorry your feelings are hurt.
It’s not fair!
Maybe there’s a reason we don’t know about.
Dear Heavenly Father, please help me forgive Kristie for not inviting me.
The next day …
Hi, Kristie.
Hi, Becky. Sorry I couldn’t invite you to my party.
It’s OK. Do you want to jump rope with me?
A few months later …
Time to plan your birthday party! Who are you going to invite?
Kate and Jenny and Latisha. And …
Kristie didn’t invite me to her party. But she’s still my friend.
Do you want to come to my party, Kristie?
Yes! Thank you for inviting me!

His mother only lived four more years. Had she taught him enough about life and the gospel of Jesus Christ. There was still so much for him to learn. One lesson still to learn was the importance of protecting his young sister, Martha.

There was one incident that Joseph F. loved to tell. It was the time that both he and his sister were attending school in a one-room school house. One day the teacher indicated that he would hit Martha so that she could do better in school. If we thought we could get smarter by somebody hitting us, we would all say “beat us—finals are coming.” Obviously, hitting doesn’t make anyone smarter. The teacher wanted Martha to put out her hand and he would then hit her hand with a stick. Joseph reacted. He did not allow the teacher to hit his sister. When the teacher suggested that he would hit Joseph, it appears Joseph hit him first. This led to Joseph and his sister leaving the schoolhouse.

In Curitiba, Brazil, 4,330 members from the temple district, supported by a choir of 1,700 voices, presented a most inspirational program through song, dance, and video. The enormous soccer stadium where the event took place was filled with spectators. The wind had been blowing, and rain threatened. I offered a silent prayer asking Heavenly Father to look with mercy upon those who had prepared so diligently for our entertainment and whose costumes and presentations would be damaged if a heavy rain or wind enveloped them. He honored that prayer, and it wasn’t until the end of the show and later on that evening that rain fell in abundance.
A history of the Church in Brazil was portrayed in song and dance. A particularly moving scene was the portrayal of Elders James E. Faust and William Grant Bangerter, who served as missionaries in Curitiba in 1940. As their photos were displayed on large screens, a tremendous cheer went up from the audience. All in all, it was a glorious event.

The business I own today was founded by my father nearly 60 years ago. He died in 1980, leaving me to take the helm of the company at the young age of 30.
In those early years, situations came up that required me to make decisions that affected the future of our frail business. I worked hard to act as my father would have acted, and I spent a great deal of time on my knees, trying to discern what to do. In all those decisions, I never felt a calming influence or any direction one way or another. I ultimately did what I thought was best and moved on. But I was disappointed I had not been able to get any confirmation of my actions.
One night my father came to me in a dream. I began to chide him for not helping me know what to do. He said he was aware of my situation but he was busy where he was and his former business was not terribly important. “Chris, we really don’t care about the business up here,” he said. “What we care about very much is what you become because of your business.”
That was a great lesson I hope I never forget. What we get during our life is inconsequential, but what we become in life makes all the difference.

Illustration by Gary Alfonso
One day my grandmother asked me to take some food she had prepared to my aunt. It was a hot Saturday afternoon, and there were a lot of other things I wanted to do instead of go on an errand for my grandmother. I told her to ask one of my cousins to go instead, but she insisted that it should be me.
An hour passed, and I began to feel that I should do what my grandmother had asked. I picked up the food and made my way to my aunt’s house. It was far away, and when I arrived, I didn’t plan on staying long.
I found my aunt and her five-month-old baby in a hammock tied to two young mango trees. The trees were beside a river that ran behind the house. I walked toward them to deliver the food. Suddenly, the ropes to the hammock broke. My aunt and her baby rolled into the river. Fear gripped me. I didn’t know how to swim, and no one was around to help. I didn’t know what to do.
Immediately, I heard the voice of the Spirit: “Jump in!”
Without a second thought, I jumped. Fortunately, I found the baby in just a couple of seconds, and my aunt was able to get out of the water. As I came out of the water with the baby, I couldn’t believe what had just happened. I jumped in a river when I didn’t know how to swim, but because I listened to the Spirit, my baby cousin and I were saved from drowning.
I realized how important it is to recognize and listen to the direction and inspiration that God gives to us through the Holy Ghost. I am grateful that I eventually did what my grandmother asked and took the food to my aunt’s house. I know we must make efforts to be sensitive to spiritual promptings so we can be the hands of God to help His children.

About a year ago, I had a letter from a woman who related this story. She said that she had married a man who was not a member of the Church. Together, they had had five children, and they had had a good life. But recently, their oldest daughter had come to them and said she was in love with a member of a polygamist family and she wanted to marry him. As a result, she was going to pull away from her own family and her religion. This mother was devastated. She said, "I didn't know what to say, I didn't know what to do, I didn't know how to handle this." It was her stake temple day that week and so she decided to go and spend the entire day in the temple. She started in the baptistery that morning. She said,
"I just began with a prayer in my heart and felt somehow the Lord would be mindful of my need and help me with this terrible problem."
Early in the day, a thought came into her mind, and she heard herself say these words to her daughter, "It will be very sad for us when someday we go to the temple as a family, and you are not with us." But she immediately brushed it aside, thinking, "There is no way I can make such a promise. My husband is not even a member of the Church." She spent the day doing some endowment sessions, and that thought continued to come to her. But each time this thought came, she discounted it. Late in the day, while participating in an ordinance, she said,
"I was just overcome with this sweet sense of gratitude. I knew that the Lord knew that we were having a problem. I didn't know what to do, but I knew the Lord knew, and He would help me."
And so it was in the ensuing weeks she had an opportunity to visit with her daughter. She said,
"In the course of the conversation, I heard myself saying the very words that had come to me that day in the temple. 'It will be very sad for us when we go to be sealed as a family, and you are not with us.'"
The remarkable thing is, the daughter responded. She found the courage to break up the relationship. And she is now engaged to a young Latter-Day Saint man, and they are now planning a temple marriage. She then added this postscript:
Last week, after nearly a year of learning the gospel through the love and patience of eight dedicated sister missionaries, my husband has finally arrived at a baptismal date.
This is a woman who paid attention to the thoughts that came into her mind and the feelings that came into her heart that day when she was in the temple. She then took those feelings and thoughts into her home, and she saved a daughter.

My wife, Mamie, has often shown me the example of selfless service. She is an ordinary woman whose abilities to love and to serve others are extraordinary. I really appreciate her swift response when service is needed. I am impressed by her vigor and caring spirit when it comes to rendering service. Recently, she made a nonmember woman feel happy. This woman was afflicted by terminal cancer. My wife’s unannounced visit to this woman, to whom she brought food and a bit of money for medicine, turned her pain into joy. My wife knows that this sick woman probably will not recover, but her act of service has shown the woman that she still matters to someone.

Eternal perspective and temple covenants have also strengthened Knud and Bodil Christensen’s marriage. Knud manages an electronics and appliance store, and Bodil teaches school. Health problems brought one trial after another, recalls Bodil, now Relief Society president of the Herning Branch.

“There have been many mountains for us to climb, but we could always count on each other for support,” says Bodil. This understanding alludes to her difficulty with childbirth, Knud’s struggle with cancer and subsequent chemotherapy and recovery, their infant daughter Katharine’s meningitis, and the faith and gratitude these have all brought to the Christensen household.

“Going to the temple for strength has provided a spiritual core to our marriage,” adds Knud. He is a man of quiet strength, yet he and his outgoing wife are equally yoked.

Every time Olin Pinter heard his Uncle Pembroke’s coal-box buggy banging over the little bridge just up the ridge from his family’s sod house, the boy hooted louder than a lightning-struck owl and ran to greet his uncle.
Outside of a good meal, Olin reckoned Uncle Pembroke was the most welcome sight the end of a day could bring. The bearded, gray-haired wheelwright, who rode out from Livingston every month or so to talk and laugh and spend the night, always brought with him his magic black felt hat.
Following supper and some fireside talk, and maybe even a tall tale or two, Arthur Pembroke would ask Olin to fetch his hat from the deerhorn coatrack on the wall where he always hung it when he first came in. In less time than it took Uncle Pembroke to shake his head and slap his knee, Olin would be back with the tall headpiece.
He would plop down on the old bearskin rug in front of his uncle, his brown eyes glued to the strange hat in the dancing firelight. Olin would fidget anxiously as the stout little man rubbed his hands together, scratched his invisible chin through his long whiskers, and winked slyly at Olin’s father and mother. Then Uncle Pembroke would pretend to clean a dust speck off his gold-rimmed spectacles with his old red bandanna.
Just when it appeared that his nephew’s patience would give out, the little man would burst out laughing and reach into the hat. Olin would sit spellbound, as though the slightest movement would somehow jinx the flow of magic from the hat.
Almost anything could appear from the hat. Maybe, Olin reasoned, that was the best part of all—the not knowing. One time a real live rabbit was pulled from it! Another time it was a jar crammed full of jellybeans. He remembered the time a windup toy soldier that played music was drawn out of the magical hat. Once a fine china cup for his mother came out of the hat. The cup had come all the way from Paris. Even a pair of shoes with tiny gold buckles for Baby LeRoy had come from that wondrous hat.
How his uncle managed to get so many different things out of his hat was always a mystery to Olin. Before he ever took the hat to his uncle, Olin always checked it carefully inside and out, but there was never a clue as to what would soon materialize from inside it.
Olin had concluded that Uncle Pembroke was pure magic. In fact, Olin was sure his uncle could make anything happen that he set his mind to. He could turn a frown into a smile or a gloomy day into a happy one.
This visit, however, was to be different. When Uncle Pembroke’s buggy appeared on the little bridge over Sweetwater Creek, the look on the man’s face was as gray as his hair, and no shout was heard from the boy waiting quietly by the front porch.
“Father’s mournful sick, Uncle Pembroke,” Olin announced when the buggy came to a halt. “He’s got a graveyard fever!”
Arthur Pembroke nodded somberly. “I know, Olin. Doc Chamberlain told me as soon as he got back to town.”
“He’s out of his head,” Olin continued. “Mother nearly had to tie him down to the bed.”
The wheelwright put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, and they started toward the house.
“You can help him, Uncle Pembroke!” Olin went on confidently. “I know you can. You’re magic. You can do anything!”
Uncle Pembroke stopped just outside the door and eyed Olin gravely. “I’m afraid there’s no magic in my hat, or in my possession, that can help your father, lad.”
Olin looked at his uncle with surprise. “What do you mean?”
Uncle Pembroke took off his glasses, sighed, and looked Olin straight in the eye. “It’s one thing to pull a rabbit out of a hat, Olin. Anyone can do that if they’re clever enough and their hand is quick enough. It’s quite another thing to snap my fingers and take the fever from a man, even your father.”
Olin sagged, and the near awe he had for the little man with the bright gold spectacles began to evaporate. His uncle sagged inwardly, too, as he beheld the boy’s faith in him flicker.
Uncle Pembroke turned away and started to open the door. Then he paused and looked back, his dark eyes misting. “I do know a kind of ‘magic’ that may help, lad. It’s a power far greater than my own, or even the doctor’s. It will take all of us together to make it work, if it is indeed meant to work.” He regarded Olin with solemn reassurance and motioned for the boy to follow him inside. Olin held back for a moment, his face reflecting his bewilderment.
The moon quivered in the heat waves that poured out of the chimney of the sod house, and the stars shimmered and blinked in the dusky heavens like a million fireflies frozen in flight. Inside, Olin and Uncle Pembroke were kneeling in prayer by the great, warm hearth. Olin shifted his knees. He, like the old man, had been on them for some time. Olin looked up for a moment. He could see his mother seated beside his father’s bed through an open bedroom door. She was wiping a cool cloth across his brow. Then he looked over at Uncle Pembroke. Olin had never seen him so serious, so humble and dependent on a power other than his own.
Olin bowed his head and started to pray again. Sure, he was tired, but how much more tired his Uncle Pembroke must be, and he had not stopped.
Morning’s crimson light splashed down over the top of the dark hills and flooded through the window. Uncle Pembroke stirred from where he had fallen asleep on the floor. He saw Olin still praying by the dying fire. The boy was whispering so as not to disturb his uncle. The wheelwright pulled his crumpled bandanna from his pocket and wiped a tear from his eye.
When Olin’s mother stepped into the room, the sound of the bedroom door closing behind her roused Olin from his fervent prayer.
“His fever’s broken,” Mother said, tears streaming down her face. “He’ll be all right”—her eyes settled on Uncle Pembroke—“thanks to you.”
Uncle Pembroke pointed to Olin. “It’s the boy who kept up the vigil with heaven, Polly.”
Olin blinked back his tears. “And it’s you who showed me the way, Uncle Pembroke.”
Polly, Olin, and Uncle Pembroke knelt together, and Uncle Pembroke, on behalf of them all, thanked a merciful God for extending the life of their loved one.
Uncle Pembroke would come again, and Olin would listen for the welcome sound of the coal-box buggy rattling over the bridge. He would run to greet his uncle, but no longer was it just for the fun of seeing him make magic pop out of his black felt hat. It was more for the pure joy of seeing the wheelwright himself—and for the memory he brought of a power he had helped Olin discover, a power that could lift a man or boy to heaven.

Spencer W. Kimball visited Tonga in 1970 as a general Authority; he was President of the Quorum of the twelve at the time. I was a junior in high school at Liahona. As President Kimball toured the school campus he stopped at the Boys Dormitory. As he went in the main entrance he saw a bulletin board with his picture on it. He was impressed with the art work and he gave a message to the dorm father to relay to the student who created the work.

In 1983, thirteen years later, a couple from Fiji came to Provo. They brought some handicrafts from Fiji as a gift for Pres. Kimball's daughter who was living in Sandy, Utah. This couple needed a driver to take them there, so Sheila and I volunteered to drive them.
As we got there, I noticed a big black car slowly pulled up into the driveway. As the car door opened I instantly recognized the passengers; it was Pres. Kimball and his wife Camilla. We were surprised to find out that his daughter had arranged for them to come for dinner. Pres. Kimball at this time could not talk due his throat cancer.
After dinner, I was given the chance to stand and share something about Tonga, since the Fijian couple had spoken about Fiji and the church there.
Because my voice was not loud enough the daughter asked that I come over and stand next to Pres. Kimball. This made it difficult since I was nervous. I had never stood next to a prophet of God before.
I stood on his side, close enough that he wrapped his right arm around me. That made me more nervous. However, I gathered my thoughts and continued, "President Kimball, I am here today to tell you that I got your message. When you visited Tonga in 1970, 12 years ago, you visited the boys' dorm in Liahona. You left a message with the dorm father for the student who created the art work on the bulletin board at the main entrance. I was that student.

In a couple of weeks I will be graduating with a master's degree in Fine Arts. Your message was conveyed and it has been a guiding light. Your message served as a pedestal for me to stand taller and have a better perspective of God's love."

I didn’t have much chance to play while I was in the MTC until the night before I left. Those from my branch who were leaving had a meeting together with the branch president for some final words of advice. There were many tears and tender feelings. And I was asked to play the closing hymn, “God Be with You Till We Meet Again” (Hymns, no. 152). This stirred up more emotions and made the Spirit even stronger.
After the closing prayer, which built upon the Spirit we already felt, I played some quiet postlude music as people talked and began to filter out. I played “The Spirit of God” (Hymns, no. 2) very softly on the upper keys. It’s hard to explain, but sometimes just believing in the words of the song you’re playing, and having the Spirit with you, causes you to play so that the people listening feel what you’re feeling. You can actually express your emotions through the way you play the song. It doesn’t always happen (at least not to me), but it happened this time. I really felt what I was playing, and I really wanted to convey a message by the way I played it.
As I played, I noticed that someone was behind me watching and listening. I finished the hymn and quickly glanced to see who it was. It was Elder Smith, someone I didn’t know very well. He was standing there, crying.
He had already felt the Spirit during the meeting, like the rest of us, and now the music was helping to intensify it. So I kept playing.
That’s when it struck me. For perhaps the first time, I was playing the piano, not for my own enjoyment and not to receive praise, but to help someone feel the Spirit. I actually, truly wanted to be an instrument in the Lord’s hands and serve him. In this case, the best way I could serve him was to help convey the Spirit to one of his children through music.

I know of another little boy who came home from school one day long ago to find a rented piano in the house. “What’s this piano here for?” he asked his mother.
“It’s for you,” she replied.
“For me?” he asked. “Why for me?”
“Because,” she said, “you are going to take piano lessons.”
He said he didn’t want to take piano lessons. But she had already arranged for a teacher.
Well, this little boy began to miss a few lessons. One day his mother asked, “How was your piano lesson?”
He said, “Fine. I’m doing pretty well.”
“That’s interesting,” she said. “I just talked to your teacher, and she hasn’t seen you for a while.” He had been caught. He didn’t know what the punishment would be, but he knew it would be bad. Then his mother said, “Just for that, you may not take piano lessons.”
He tried to look punished, but inside he was very happy with her decision. Mother, he thought, you have hit on the perfect punishment. I hope you use it often. Within his heart he felt that he had just been liberated. He was free from practice, free from lessons, free from discipline, routine, and regimentation—free from all that seemed to limit his freedom.
When he grew to be a man, he was sitting one day in a church meeting during which a woman was to sing a solo. When her time to perform came, she walked up to the podium and announced, “My accompanist could not come today. I need someone to accompany me.” Looking over the congregation, she saw a man who used to teach piano. “Will you accompany me?” she asked him. The man came forward, and she handed him the music.
As he watched this happen, my friend who had avoided music lessons thought, What would I have done if she had asked me? If she had asked me, I would have been free to do only one thing: to say no. Suddenly, he realized that what he had assumed to be one of the great liberating moments of his life—when his mother said, “You may not take lessons any more”—was in fact a moment of bondage, not freedom. As he sat in that church meeting, he might as well have been handcuffed, for he could not have played the piano if he had wanted to. The other man was free; he could choose to play or not to play. Ultimately, then, freedom is more a matter of capacity and ability than of permission.

Some years ago, my husband, David, and I took our young children to a lake to vacation. He has always had the greatest confidence in their ability to do anything for which they are prepared. He taught a small son, age nine, how to manage a one-man sailboat, then let our son take the boat by himself out onto the lake. He joyfully sailed away, his bright life jacket and silhouette getting smaller and smaller against the horizon. Finally, we felt that Dave should make sure all was well, so in another little boat he sailed out to him. When he arrived Doug was sitting calmly in the boat, but he had forgotten how to turn it around! The thing I love was his response to his dad. He looked up and said, “I knew you’d come.”

Will you imagine something with me? Imagine that I have decided to present to a typical teenager a car such as this, and you are the one who has been chosen. On the evening of the presentation, I see that you are not quite financially able to run such a car, so I generously include free gas, oil, maintenance, tires, anything your car will use. I’ll give you all of this, and the bills will come to me.
How you will enjoy that car! Think of driving it to school tomorrow. Think of all the new friends you will suddenly acquire.
Your parents may be hesitant to let you use this car freely, so I will visit with them. I am sure they will be reluctant, but because of my position as one of the leaders of the Church, they will consent.
Let us imagine, then, that you have your car, everything to run it, and freedom to use it.
Suppose that one evening you are invited to attend a Church social. “There are just enough of you to ride in my station wagon,” your teacher says. “You may leave your car home.” When they come to take you to the party, you suddenly remember your new convertible, with the top down, parked at the curb. You run back in the house and give the car keys to your father, asking that he put it in the garage, for it looks as if it may rain. Your father, of course, obediently agrees.
Later you come home and notice your car is not at the curb. “Dear old Dad,” you muse, “always willing to help out.” But as the station wagon pulls into the driveway and the lights flash into the garage, you see it stands empty.
You rush into the house, find Father, and ask where your car is.
“Oh, I loaned it to someone,” he responds.
Then imagine a conversation such as this.
“Well, who was it?” you ask.
“Oh, that boy who comes by here regularly,” Dad says.
“What boy?”
“Oh, that … well, I have seen him pass here several times on his bicycle.”
“What is his name?”
“Well, I’m afraid I didn’t find out.”
“Where did he take the car?”
“That really wasn’t made clear.”
“When will he bring it back?”
“Well, there really wasn’t any agreement on that.”
Then suppose that your father should say to you, with some impatience, “Now you calm down. He rushed in here. He needed a car. You weren’t using it. He seemed to be in a frantic hurry over something, and he looked like an honest boy, so I gave him the keys. Now relax. Go to bed. Calm down.”
I suppose under the circumstances you would look at your father with a puzzled expression and wonder if some important connection had slipped loose in his thinking mechanism.
It would take a foolish father to lend such an expensive piece of equipment on an arrangement such as that—particularly a car that belonged to you.

My mother hated them because they cluttered up my room—and often overflowed into the living room. My friends hated them because I always had more of them than they did. And, at times, I even hated them because I couldn’t force myself to put them down.
I’m referring to my baseball card collection, which at one time included as many as 15,000 of the thin pieces of cardboard. The players on them ranged from Harmon Killebrew to Mickey Klutz and Steve Garvey to Guido Grilli. The worth of the cards was substantial and the sentimental value enormous, but I had no idea when I began collecting them that one day they would lead to the most valuable experience of my life.
When I joined the Church I was 20 years old, but I had the same decision to make that all teen age Aaronic Priesthood holders face: Should I serve a mission?
When I told my bishop that I was seriously thinking and praying about serving a mission, he was delighted. However, when the discussion turned to financing the endeavor, my smiles evaporated. Almost all of my savings had been used on my education, and there was no hope of receiving help from my nonmember parents.
The bishop was careful not to let money concerns discourage me and said the ward would be able to help with part of the cost. But he told me the importance of paying for as much of my mission as I could and suggested the figure of $1,500. I agreed with his counsel but was concerned that my hair might turn gray before I could save the amount he suggested. But, the bishop had moved me from thinking about a mission to planning for one, which gave me the faith that I could save enough money.
My first plan of attack was to get a full-time job, which meant postponing my education. My parents didn’t like that idea but stood behind my decision when I assured them I would return to college when I completed my mission.
I knew jobs were scarce, but at the first place I applied, a stylish pizza parlor, the owner asked when I could start without so much as an interview. Though my paychecks turned out to be substantial, having to pay for my own food, rent, and utilities ate most of them up before I could save much. Thoughts of getting a second job crossed my mind, but they soon passed after the exhaustion of selling pizzas all week long set in. One night while trying to think of how many pizzas I would have to sell to save $1,500 (a thousand? a million?), I decided that I would have to sell my car to get more money. My Ford Maverick was in good shape, but I figured it would bring in only about half of what I needed. While contemplating the loss of my car, I began to thumb through some of my baseball cards to help me escape from it all. I proudly looked at the rest of the cards neatly stacked in two apple boxes and pulled a complete set from a few years back. For a moment I thought about now much the set was worth and then did the same with another and then another. My pulse raced as the total amounted to hundreds of dollars. But how could I sell them? They were like old friends. I remembered how I had spent countless hours one summer memorizing the middle names of over 700 major leaguers. The decision to sell my collection wasn’t an easy one to make, but I knew if I held on to the cards I would be collecting dust just as they were.
But just how does one go about selling 15,000 baseball cards? I decided to place an ad in a collector’s magazine. Cataloging what I had and putting the list together was tougher than expected, but with the help of friends it was done about the time responses to the ad came pouring in. And pour in they did, as over 100 people answered the ad.
I was amazed that the amounts people were willing to pay exceeded my own expectations. One bid on a set for which I had originally paid $40 topped $120. Bids on two other sets were over $100 apiece, more than double my initial investment.
When the dust finally settled, I had earned $780 from selling my collection, which was $10 more than I had received for my car. After tithing, the amount I had left was close enough to what the bishop had asked me to save to allow me to send in my missionary papers. Happily I informed him of my success, and before I could say “I’ll trade a Mickey Klutz for a Guido Grilli” I was on my way to the Washington Spokane Mission.
I managed to save two cards from the auction block: my most valuable card, a Harmon Killebrew from the 1950s, which I gave to the friends who helped get the price list together; and a 1977 Ted Sizemore, which I carried with me throughout my mission. As a player, Sizemore had limited talents but always sacrificed individual accomplishments for the good of the team. That kind of attitude I tried to take with me into the mission field.

Well, I’m the eighth child in a family of nine, and I wonder if I gave my older brothers and sisters such a hard time. Oh, I’m sure that I did things like spill food on their clothes as they were heading out the door for a date, but it seemed that no matter how badly I embarrassed them, they still treated me kindly. I admired them a lot.
I especially looked up to my older sister Lynette. I started second grade when she entered college. We both had a love for music. She was majoring in music composition and spent many hours at the piano. When she practiced, I often sat on the couch next to the piano and listened to her play. I watched as her fingers glided over the keys and wondered if I would ever be able to play like that. I liked to think that by keeping her company, I was helping her out in some way.
One day as I listened to her practice, I noticed she was playing something new. “Hey, Lynette! That sounds like wind chimes!” I said.
She explained to me that she was composing a piece for her class. She then decided to name the song “Wind Chimes.” She even let me help her with it. She showed me which two notes to play on the organ pedals while she played the rest of the song on the piano. I tried in vain to keep the right rhythm, and she just smiled and said, “Try to keep it even, Rebecca.”
By then I was feeling pretty special. I couldn’t believe that she was letting me, a second grader, help her with her college homework.
A few days later Lynette told me that her composition had been graded. She said that “we” got an A! I was on cloud nine. I was happy for her, and at the same time I felt like a princess because she had let me be a part of it.
Now I’m a freshman in college and going through the struggles of being a music major myself. I even have some of the same teachers that she had. There are times when I have difficult questions, and I know just who to go to for help. Although Lynette is now married and lives miles away, I call her and she patiently explains the theory of music to me. For those few moments, it feels like we are once again a team. Nothing makes me happier than to be able to phone her again a few days later and say, “Hey, Lynette! We got another A!”
As the years come and go, I’ll always remember the time my big sister shared with me. She took the time to make me feel special—to let me know she cared. It’s a great lesson I learned about sisterhood.

Listening selflessly can be painful, however. You may be the one who needs to change. You may find out things about yourself that you don’t like. My wife once explained, “When we disagree on anything, you end up making me feel stupid.” That hurt. My first inclination was to show her she was wrong, but then I realized I was doing just what she had accused me of doing. I suppressed my pain and listened carefully. Those moments were an important turning point in our relationship. The Lord has promised that if we act with “kindness, and pure knowledge,” our souls will be greatly enlarged. (See D&C 121:42.)

Recently at work, I was listening to music while typing away at emails. Suddenly, a favorite song of mine came on, and as I listened to the lyrics of the song, it made me think of moments in the past where I had wished I could “fix” and heal loved ones who were hurting. Let me take you back to a few examples:
When my grandma was sick a few years ago, I would stay with her several nights a week. After giving her medicine and tucking her into bed, I would get in my car and drive through a dark canyon to get home. I would play this same song on repeat and cry and cry. I would beg Heavenly Father to give me more patience. To be kinder. To be softer. But most of all, I begged Him to know how I could fix her.
Then, about two years ago, a friend of mine died by suicide. The phone call I received that delivered the news will be etched in my mind for the rest of my life. I beat myself up for months, wondering what more I could have done for this person. How I could have been a better friend. How I could have called more. How I could have invited this person more. I had so many thoughts of regret and self-blame that went on and on.
And finally, I recently hit a point of exhaustion I’d never felt before. My friends, family members, and even coworkers had been opening up to me about their current challenges, and the more they opened up to me, the more I would try to take on what they were struggling with. I was hyperfocused on that idea of “fixing,” and I felt powerless to do so.
So when that song came on at work, tears instantly flooded my eyes as I stopped typing and listened to the music. It was all I could do to mutter a small prayer: “Heavenly Father … I’m exhausted.”
Then God, in His loving grace, answered my prayer by patiently teaching me. These words instantly came to my mind: “You’re exhausted because you’re trying to be the fixer. And that is what I sent my Son to do.”
I felt incredibly humbled in that moment. I’d been trying to do a job that was never mine to do in the first place.
As Sister Reyna I. Aburto, Second Counselor in the Relief Society General Presidency, taught: “Sometimes, the natural man or woman in us makes us think that we have been called to ‘fix’ other people. We have not been called to be ‘fixers’ of others, and we have not been called to lecture or to scorn. We have been called to inspire, to lift, to invite others, to be fishers of people, fishers of souls so they receive the opportunity to be spiritually healed by Jesus Christ, our Savior and Redeemer.”1
I’ve learned that because of the world we live in, we will constantly be with people, including ourselves, who are imperfect. And living in an imperfect world means that we will all experience challenges in this life, including difficult things that are beyond our control. That’s why God sent Jesus Christ—so He could help us.
Heavenly Father reminded me that day in my office that it wasn’t my job to heal my grandma. I wasn’t to blame for my friend’s death by suicide. And it certainly wasn’t my role to take on all the burdens and weaknesses of those around me.