Gospel Story Finder

1. The Venice Project in Los Angeles. For the past two years Mormon students at UCLA have held successful Christmas parties for underprivileged children in Venice, near Los Angeles. First, they contact the California State Service Center and receive the names of seventy-five children between five and twelve years of age. The day of the party, all seventy-five children are gathered by the center at one locale. Merchants donate cookies, ice cream, and presents. Decorated trees are given to the children’s families after the party. Said one student leader, “We learned that many people outside our own group were anxious to help. We also learned that you need plenty of games to hold the interest of everyone.”

Basketball season came. Everybody knew Billie by now. Everybody knew he would be playing. The referees knew what to do when he tried to bounce the ball down the basketball court. The teams made certain allowances for his inabilities. He was really part of things.
Stake championship time again. We successfully played the other teams in the stake, and the final game was between us and the same team we had faced in the volleyball championship.
Well, it was close the first half of the game, but then everything went wrong for us. The coach could see what was happening, and by the third quarter it was pretty obvious that nothing was going to work for us that night. While we were looking for some way to get even with the same guys that beat us in volleyball, something unique was happening on the basketball court.
Billie was playing. He really couldn’t shoot the ball. One arm and hand was withered, and he couldn’t give much direction to the ball. But every time he got the ball, their coach yelled for someone to make a foul play against Billie. I was really upset. Even the people in the crowd couldn’t believe their ears. Why was our bishop smiling? Then one of their players carefully tapped Billie. One referee blew his whistle, and when he did everyone—even me—understood. Billie got to shoot a foul shot. In fact, he got to shoot two foul shots (intentional foul), and when he missed those, one of the boys on the other team was standing with his foot over the line and Billie got to shoot again, in fact several more.
The crowd was clapping and cheering for Billie; we were cheering for him but so was the other team. Was this really losing? Everyone was pulling together. No one seemed to care what the score was; everyone was helping Billie. Both teams were helping and cheering and pulling for Billie.
Billie shot a lot of free throws that night. We all cheered; we laughed a little; and Billie went home the star of the evening. Who won? They did, we did, and the stake did.

One day at school, I heard that a boy was being bullied. I felt sad. No one should be treated that way.
Later that day, our grade had a party. The boy who had been bullied earlier came to the party and sat by himself. When I saw him, I remembered what had happened. I heard a voice tell me to sit by him. But I didn’t want to be the only one sitting by him. He’ll be fine, I thought. He doesn’t need someone to sit next to him. I pushed the feeling away.
The voice came to me again, stronger. Go sit by him.
I looked at the boy. He looked lonely and sad. OK, I thought. When I sat down by him, he looked uncomfortable. I told him my name and asked him about himself. At first, I was nervous. But as we talked, I felt peaceful. And he didn’t look lonely or sad anymore.
When he had to go back to class, I said I’d talk to him later. He smiled a little and said OK. My teacher came to me and said, “Thank you, Sierra. That was very kind.” I just nodded my head.
The rest of the day went by quickly, but that peaceful feeling didn’t go away. I knew I did the right thing. Sometimes people aren’t treated right when they’re different. I don’t like it, but it happens.
We are all God’s children. We should treat others kindly. If we do this, I know that God will bless us.

A few years ago, on the day of my parents’ anniversary, my mom was diagnosed with a stage 4 pancreatic cancer. The results of her CT scan showed that her cancer was life-threatening and her body was deteriorating. It was in that moment that I knew my mom wouldn’t live much longer.
I was not ready for that. I foresaw what life would be without my mom. Everything was dark, gloomy, and sad. There was no more joy or laughter—and no warm hugs from my mom that would comfort me. There didn’t seem to be life at all.
Months passed by and my mom’s body continued to weaken. But what amazed me the most was her desire to go to church, participate in our daily family scripture study, give lessons in our family home evenings, and even laugh with us.
One day, I asked her, “Haven’t you questioned Heavenly Father? Haven’t you wondered why you have to have cancer?” My mom smiled and shared her testimony about the plan of salvation. She told me that I needed to understand the plan of salvation to feel the genuine happiness that it gives. She said if I understood where we come from, what our purpose in this life is, and where we are going, I would understand that we will always be together, that I would never really lose her. She encouraged me to continue preparing for a mission and to share the gospel of Jesus Christ and the plan of salvation with others so that they could receive the blessings of comfort and happiness as well.
I realized that my mom was right. Why would I fear losing her here on earth if I knew that as long as I kept my covenants and completed the will of the Father that I would see her in the next life? I felt peaceful.
A little while later, my mom passed away. During my mom’s wake—a celebration of her life we held before her burial—even though it was hard and I was sad, everything seemed peaceful, and I could still feel my mom’s presence. Even the people around me seemed to be uplifted. I knew that I was feeling the true blessing of understanding God’s divine plan.

I can remember many occasions when my perception has crumbled and additional knowledge has wiped away judgment. During my college years I looked at a fellow student, whom I will call Roy, in amazement. Why was he so conceited? His need to be recognized and praised was never ending. Every conversation he had with anyone always centered on his recent achievements and the projects he was now involved in that would ensure his fame. He was underappreciated and let everyone know it. His name became a joke. We came to the conclusion that he was an obnoxious egomaniac who sounded his own praise from morning until night.
One day I learned that one of my friends knew his family. She began to tell me some things. “Roy’s father was an alcoholic. Did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Oh, yes. He made their life just miserable. He was a crazy man. Once, when Roy was about five, he walked in the kitchen and saw his father attempting to kill his mother. It was a terrible scene and Roy was there to watch it all.”
The impact of this information on my conscience was instant. All my perceptions, all my judgment shattered, and I saw past the facade into the reality. I saw past the obnoxious adult to the traumatized little boy that I wanted to take in my arms and comfort. I never looked at Roy the same again. I knew his secret, one of his secrets, and I understood.

Years ago my expectant wife, April, and I eagerly attended an ultrasound appointment to discover whether we were having a boy or a girl. We were overjoyed to learn we were having our third son. We also learned there were severe physical complications afflicting his body. Our son was missing sizable portions of his brain, his skull was not properly shaped, and the doctors were unsure if he would survive until delivery.
During the ensuing weeks, every time we received more information, it was distressing news. I distinctly remember when my wife called to tell me the latest update: our son did not have a right eye.
To pray more specifically for our unborn son, we decided on his name early. We chose to call him Caleb, after the Old Testament Israelite who was known for his fearlessness in the face of overwhelming odds.
Miraculously, Caleb survived his birth, though it was clear he would remain like a newborn throughout his life. He would never walk, talk, or be able to feed himself.
When we asked how long he might live, the doctor candidly replied, “Take him home and love him, but don’t bring him back to the hospital. There’s nothing more we can do for him. He has a few weeks to a few months left—at most a year or possibly two.”
I was anxious as we left the hospital with our little boy to take him home. The amount of medical equipment needed to sustain his life was daunting. I would regularly sit in his room watching the little green light on his heart monitor. I was nervous about leaving, worried the light would stop blinking and Caleb would die alone.
Simply feeding him took extraordinary effort because he needed to eat every three hours. The process to eat through a feeding pump took one hour to complete. This involved waking up throughout the night: start the pump, sleep for an hour, stop the pump, sleep for two hours, start the pump again, sleep for an hour, and so on. We constantly feared losing him and doubted how we could keep ourselves alive, let alone our fragile son.
Thankfully, the Lord blessed us with many miracles in our seemingly hopeless situation. Earthly angels rallied around us. We had a competent and compassionate nurse and a doctor who made house calls. Ward members, family, and friends provided meals and offered fervent prayers in our behalf. We felt heaven’s sustaining hand upon us and that angels walked our hallways and sat in Caleb’s room. Our three-year-old son said he sometimes saw the Savior watching over us.
The Lord blessed us with many miracles as we loved and cared for our son.

My father was an example for me of what the Lord teaches in the 121st section about getting heaven’s help in preparing young men. During my early years, he was sometimes disappointed by my performance. He let me know it. Hearing his voice, I could feel he thought I was better than that. But he did it in the Lord’s way: “Reproving betimes with sharpness, when moved upon by the Holy Ghost; and then showing forth afterwards an increase of love toward him whom thou hast reproved, lest he esteem thee to be his enemy.”3

I knew, even after the most direct correction, that Dad’s reproof was given in love. In fact, his love seemed to increase when he used even his strongest correction, which was a disapproving and disappointed look. He was my leader and my trainer, never using compulsory means, and I am sure that the promise given in the Doctrine and Covenants will be fulfilled for him. His influence on me will flow unto him “forever and ever.”4

Elder Thierry K. Mutombo had a strong testimony of the gospel when he received his mission call as a young man. Baptized with his family when he was 10, he had witnessed the powerful way the gospel changed his family.
But even as he prepared to serve a mission in the Côte d’Ivoire Abidjan Mission, he didn’t have a strong testimony of the Book of Mormon. He had never read it before.
Thierry’s inspired bishop challenged him to read the Book of Mormon every day before leaving on his mission. He even gave Thierry a key to the local church meetinghouse so he could study in peace.
Thierry read every day for three months. By the time he entered the mission field, not only had he gained a strong testimony of the Book of Mormon, but he had also developed study habits that helped him as a missionary.
“The greatest tool we have to bring people to the light of the gospel and gather scattered Israel is the Book of Mormon,” he said.

A little while ago my family and I moved to Kentucky. I was really upset because I was leaving all my friends and extended family behind. Kentucky was very different from what I was used to. The first time we went to church, I saw that there weren’t very many people there. When I realized how small my branch was, I decided that instead of thinking bad about it, I would do something about it.
The next day, my mom and I went to the store. Before we left the house, I grabbed a stack of pass-along cards. When we got to the store, I got a candy bar and went to check out. The cashier scanned the candy, then handed it to me. I handed it back. She looked confused and said, “You just paid for this, ma’am.”
I said, “I know, but I’m giving this to you as a gift.” Then I put a pass-along card with the candy. She smiled and thanked me. She looked at the back of the pass-along card, where I had written, “Everyone is a child of God.” I walked away with happiness, knowing that even if she didn’t join the Church, I still did something good.
Later that day, I remembered that I left the rest of the pass-along cards by the cash register! The next time we went to the store, I went to ask if they were still there. Then I saw something, and I stopped in my steps. About five of the cash registers had pass-along cards that said, “Everyone is a child of God.” The cashier had passed them out! I felt so happy because of what I did.

When I returned home to Chile after my mission, I felt confident. In fact, my next decisions seemed clear because I felt so connected to Heavenly Father. However, as I started attending college, meeting friends, and even dating someone, I found that listening to the Spirit and feeling the joy of the gospel grew increasingly difficult.
I prayed every night to the Father to feel again what I had felt on my mission. But I didn’t get an immediate response.
The answer came later when I read Alma’s words to his son Helaman: "I say unto you, that by small and simple things are great things brought to pass” (Alma 37:6).
I thought to myself, “What are the small and simple things that I’m not doing?”
I realized there were a lot of spiritual habits I hadn’t been prioritizing since my mission, and I needed to make a change.
Here are three small and simple practices that have helped me reconnect to the Spirit:
Studying, reading, and pondering this book had always improved my relationship with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. However, when I returned home, I slowly stopped the habit of scripture study I’d cultivated for two years. Sometimes, we incorrectly believe that attending church and saying half-hearted prayers will bring us the Spirit as quickly as we can get a meal on our doorstep from a food delivery app. But it’s not that simple!
Inviting and feeling the Spirit requires effort.
The Lord has said, “The Book of Mormon and the holy scriptures are given of me for your instruction” (Doctrine and Covenants 33:16). Daily study of the Book of Mormon reminds us of who we are and gives direction on how to live our lives to become truly happy. Sometimes other things get in the way of reading, but I have a strong testimony that when we choose to put God first by reading His word, even for a few minutes each day, He blesses us in all things.
Every young adult is different: some study, others work, and many do both, among other things. But regardless of your status or living situation, make time to study Come, Follow Me. Spending time discussing the gospel with friends or family (whether in person or virtually) creates a protective barrier in your home and enables an atmosphere of revelation. Satan knows this and will use distraction and other tools to prevent this.
However, I’ve witnessed how studying Come, Follow Me with my family and sharing our thoughts from Sunday School reduces contention in our home and invites the Spirit and the Savior’s light.
“Attend institute!” was the prophet’s invitation to all young adults who wish to draw near to the Savior and His grace. With my busy school schedule, adding even more classes didn’t seem sensible. But institute was just one hour a week to give to the Lord, and it became a spiritual refuge for me and my friends, especially on days when the world felt heavy.
I know that standing in holy places with holy people will help you connect to the Spirit.
Being a busy young adult in this world is hard. It requires diligence, patience, and action to stay focused on what matters most.
President Russell M. Nelson testified, “It will not be possible to survive spiritually without the guiding, directing, comforting, and constant influence of the Holy Ghost.”
It’s true! I felt so disconnected from the Spirit when I wasn’t taking time to connect with Him. Now I know that drawing closer to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ doesn’t have to be strenuous. It just takes simple actions—like daily prayer—to intentionally reach out to Them.
If you’re feeling distant from the Spirit, ask yourself, “What are those small and simple things that I am not doing?” He will help you know how you can keep your connection to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ strong and steady.

Elder Cornish told about a time he was very tired and discouraged while learning to be a doctor. He started crying and wondered if he could ever be a good doctor. Just then, one of the senior doctors asked how he was doing. Elder Cornish told him how he was feeling. The doctor said that he was proud of him and believed he would be an excellent doctor one day. The doctor believed in him even when Elder Cornish didn’t believe in himself. Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ always believe in us and don’t want us to give up!

I often remember the feeling of sadness and frustration that came when I learned that not far from Church headquarters in Salt Lake City an elderly lady, active in serving others all of her life, was eating cornflakes every meal because she could not shop or cook for herself and had no one to help her. In that same neighborhood and ward family there were able, intelligent young people who were attending classes and Church meetings and planning and pursuing parties and service projects with no knowledge of the needs of others in their ward family. When the facts were brought to their attention, they immediately did something about the situation. Her life and theirs became immediately more happy and harmonious even though she, and some of them, were not living in the ideal family home circumstances they would have wished.

In a recent general conference message, President Henry B. Eyring, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, spoke about the perilous times in the world: “The Apostle Paul wrote to Timothy, ‘This know also, that in the last days perilous times shall come’ (2 Timothy 3:1).
“… And so it will become more difficult, not easier, to honor the covenants we must make and keep to live the gospel of Jesus Christ.”1
As I heard these words, I felt anxious. I was already dealing with challenges in my home in Venezuela. So questions like, “How can I stay optimistic when the world is so dark?” and “How can I look forward to a bright future in such a blackened present?” were in my heart at the time.
But President Eyring offered the solution. He quoted Helaman 5:12, which speaks about building our foundation “upon the rock of our Redeemer, who is Christ.”
I have always believed that this scripture was true, but building my foundation on the Savior seemed a lot easier said than done. Nonetheless, as I have drawn closer to Christ, I have seen that everything works for your good when your faith is firm in Him (see Doctrine and Covenants 90:24).
A couple of months ago, I received devastating news from my family. My world seemed to be crumbling in front of me. I felt numb, confused, and so anxious that I even got sick!
I did not understand why we were facing such hardships when I was trying to be faithful. I wondered if I’d done something wrong. The future looked bleak, and I felt abandoned by Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.
In the middle of my affliction, I talked to a good friend. He told me something I will never forget: “I think this situation is a good opportunity for you to ponder on your personal relationship with the Lord. No matter what happens, it is up to you to turn to Him for help. If you do, He will provide you with the love and relief you need right now.”
Those words changed my perspective. I was angry and hurt and confused by my circumstances, but I had a choice. No matter what we’re going through, what fears we have, or what difficulties we are facing, Jesus Christ is always right beside us. We have the choice to turn toward Him with faith, not away from Him, in troubling times.
That is how we strengthen our foundation of faith in Him and withstand the hardship in the world. By choosing Him.
As Elder D. Todd Christofferson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught: “In the midst of this refiner’s fire, rather than get angry with God, get close to God. Call upon the Father in the name of the Son. Walk with Them in the Spirit, day by day. Allow Them over time to manifest Their fidelity to you. Come truly to know Them and truly to know yourself.”2
Christ was waiting for me to turn to Him for help. That didn’t mean He would make all my problems go away or fix everything in my life and family instantly, but He helped me become better, find joy, and become more refined.
And over time, as I sought the Savior through prayer, scripture study, and faith, He helped me forgive my family members and invite joy into my life again, even though some challenges are still not solved.

Recently on a flight home, I found myself next to Steve, who shared with me parts of his personal story. He had graduated from high school, entered the U.S. Army as a communications specialist at 18 years old, and soon began working at the White House, providing communications support to the President of the United States. From age 18 to 26, he served two U.S. Presidents. His stories were fascinating!
“Steve,” I said, “you have to write these stories down for your posterity! They need to have these stories firsthand from your perspective.” He agreed.
Then the Spirit prompted me to ask him what he knew about his ancestors. Steve knew plenty about his mother’s side, including a story of how his family had once eaten dinner with Abraham Lincoln while he had been campaigning through the countryside during the 1860 U.S. presidential election.
He knew very little about his father’s side, however. He really wanted to know more. I pulled out my phone and opened the FamilySearch app. “Steve, we can find your family right now!”
I connected to the in-flight Wi-Fi. I rested my phone on the tray table in front of me so we could both see. We searched FamilyTree. Within minutes we were both staring at his great-grandfather’s marriage certificate to his great-grandmother.
“That’s them!” he said. “I remember her last name now!”
The spirit of excitement poured over both of us. We worked on building profiles for his lesser-known ancestors for the next 45 minutes. He asked me to promise him that we would continue searching together in Colorado. We exchanged contact information as the plane was landing.
Here we were, flying 30,000 feet (9,144 m) in the air, with a device as small as my hand, searching for a man and a woman married 100 years ago who had been lost to him and his family. Incredible! But we found them. Families were linked. Stories were remembered. Feelings of gratitude were felt for the technology and the tools. It was nothing short of a miracle.
Jonathan Petty, Colorado, USA
Photograph from Getty Images

Luisa Fernanda Espinosa Sachica, a young Colombian woman, had come to the church meeting at the invitation of a young man who worked with her at a bank.

The little ward in Bogota, the nation’s capital, did not really impress her favorably. The Church members were nice, but Luisa just didn’t like the meetings. They were too long, she thought, and there didn’t appear to be anything of interest for people of her age.

But, during Relief Society, the teacher used the June 1987 Liahona, the Church’s Spanish-language magazine. On the cover was a picture of the Savior teaching in the synagogue. In the painting, the Savior had a glow about him that attracted Luisa’s attention. Not wanting to stay, she left the building following Relief Society, but she thought to herself, "I want a copy of that magazine."

Later that week, Luisa was on a crowded bus in Bogota and, as she was getting off, she noticed a copy of that same issue of the Liahona on the dashboard of the bus. She thought that it was quite a coincidence. The next day, as she was shopping, she saw behind the counter another copy of the magazine. She began to think that it was more than a coincidence. She wanted to ask the store clerk about the magazine but couldn’t find the courage to do so.

Then, at the end of the week, while she was working in the bank, a man carrying a copy of the magazine approached her teller’s window. She just had to ask him about getting a copy for herself. "I can’t understand what it is about that magazine," she explained. "It seems to follow me around." The man smiled and gave her his copy.

She took the magazine home and read it all the way through. The First Presidency Message, by President Ezra Taft Benson, was "Valiant in the Testimony of Jesus," and it described Joseph Smith and the First Vision. The more Luisa read, the more her interest grew.

She told some friends, who were members of the Church, that she wanted to meet the missionaries. Before the first discussion was finished, "She bore her testimony to us that the Joseph Smith story was true," said Elder Doug Fulsome, one of the missionaries who taught her. Luisa was eager to hear the rest of the discussions and was soon baptized.

"If the Lord wants someone to be baptized," said Elder Fulsome, "he finds a way. Even if he makes a copy of the Church magazines ‘follow’ them."

At the beginning of my freshman year on my high school basketball team, I told my coach that Sunday practices were out for me because I had church. The team practiced from 10:00 a.m. to noon, but I never went.
Then during my sophomore year, things changed. “I moved Sunday practice so everyone can go to church first,” my coach told us. “Everybody’s going to be at practice at 3:00 p.m.”
Sports is a religion here in Louisiana. But now I had to explain to my coach that not practicing on Sunday was an all-day thing out of reverence. It wasn’t easy.
“Hey, Coach,” I texted him, “I wanted to let you know I can’t make practice on Sunday for the same reasons as last year. I believe the whole Sunday is the Sabbath, and my family and I don’t do any sports on that day.”
I was really worried my coach would be upset and kick me off the team. But in his text back to me, he said, “I completely respect this decision. You are one of the hardest workers in our program. I can’t promise you’ll score like Steph Curry. Ha-ha. But I can promise that you put yourself in a great position to help your team because of your work ethic.”
It’s not easy to say no in a situation like that. And not going to practice on Sunday doesn’t mean the Lord will bless you to be some great athlete. You still have to work hard. But the blessings are there if you have an eternal perspective.
Merrick R., Louisiana, USA

Paulo flicked a few drops of water onto his customer’s shoes and then snapped his buffing rag furiously across the already shining surface. The effect was amazing.
“Paulo! They shine like polished silver,” the man exclaimed. “You must be the best shoeshine boy in Rio de Janeiro. No, in all of Brazil!”
Chico (Little One), Paulo’s pet monkey, was tied to Paulo’s shoeshine box by a leather thong and was now chattering angrily from Paulo’s shoulder. His shrill voice screeched louder and louder as he flipped one somersault after another, while slapping his pink bald head with his tiny, wrinkled hands.
“Oh, excuse me, Chico,” the man said. “I did not mean to forget you, for you are, indeed, the best little monkey in all of Brazil.” Smiling, the man reached into his pocket and pulled out a shiny coin. “You can have this, Chico, or give it to Paulo for his new futebol (soccer ball) that he is trying to buy.”
Jabbering happily, the little monkey took the coin and flipped it high into the air to Paulo. He then stood tall and straight, proudly clapping his hands.
“It would seem that Chico wants you to buy that new futebol,” the man remarked. “And so do I. Because of your fine work, here’s an extra cruzeiro (Brazilian dollar) to help you buy it.”
“Muito obrigado (thank you very much),” Paulo said excitedly, stuffing the money deep into his pocket. “That’s the last cruzeiro I need to buy the futebol. But how did you know I was saving for one?”
“How did I know?” the man laughed. “I think the whole town knows. Now, if you hurry, you may still have time to buy a futebol before the store closes.”
“You’re right!” Paulo said with a grin.
Clutching his shoeshine box under one arm and Chico under the other, Paulo raced through the city streets. The evening shadows were beginning to fall as the ice-cream wagons and bakery stands folded up their umbrellas and wheeled their portable units home. Merchants were pulling together metal doors to be locked into place for the night.
“Oh, Chico! I’m afraid we’re too late to buy the ball tonight,” Paulo said breathlessly as he rounded the last corner and came to a stop in front of the soccer supply store. The door was already bolted shut. “We’ll just have to come back in the morning.”
Chico sat in silent disappointment, then shrieked with excitement when Paulo pulled an old ball of rags from the shoeshine box. “Just think, Chico,” Paulo said, bouncing the ball neatly from one foot to the other, “tonight’s the last night for this old ball. Tomorrow I’ll have a real futebol.”
Paulo skillfully lofted the ball high into the air and slightly ahead of him. With perfect timing, he stepped under the falling ball and struck it a sharp blow with his forehead, sending it rolling down the street.
As Paulo slowly dribbled the rag ball homeward, it was easy to pretend he was a soccer hero. He imagined himself making first one goal and then another to tie the score. The fans were on their feet, urging Paulo’s team to win. Paulo received a quick pass from a teammate and, looking for someone to pass to, deftly dodged a charging defender. All of my teammates are covered, Paulo dreamed on. The crowd’s roar rose to a deafening pitch as Paulo sidestepped yet another defender and rifled the ball with a sharp kick that scored the winning goal. The crowd’s chant was music to his ears—“Paulo! Paulo! Paulo!”
The sound of breaking glass brought Paulo back to his senses. Chico was scolding angrily and jumping up and down on his master’s shoulder, and the fear in Paulo began to grow. He crept slowly up to a gate set in a high yellow wall that surrounded an expensive-looking house. Peering through the wrought iron gate, Paulo saw his homemade rag ball lying amid the broken remains of a beautifully decorated vase on the front porch of the house.
Paulo’s stomach tightened with fear. “A broken vase!” groaned Paulo. “That vase must cost more than three futebols.” Looking around quickly and seeing no one, Paulo began to run.
Chico disapproved and went wild, leaping and turning somersaults on Paulo’s shoulder and squawking at the top of his voice.
“Would you please be quiet, Chico! What do you know, anyway?” Paulo asked. “You’re just a monkey and people don’t put monkeys in jail or take their futebol money. So please be quiet.”
Chico’s chattering stopped and Paulo soon slowed to a walk. His legs still felt rubbery, but the pounding in his chest didn’t hurt quite so much now. What really bothered Paulo was his conscience, and he knew what he had to do to remedy that. “Chico, I have to go back,” Paulo said, retracing his steps. “Remember that church song I sometimes sing to you, ‘Do What Is Right’? Well, now I must do what is right.”
But I’m so scared, Paulo thought as he stopped in front of the house with the high yellow wall.
Looking through the gate, Paulo could see the empregada (maid) cleaning up the broken vase. He got her attention by clapping his hands (a Brazilian custom for entering a yard).
“Por favor (please), could you get the dono (owner) for me?” Paulo asked. “I must speak to him about the vase.”
The empregada left and returned in a few minutes with a tall, kind-looking man. “Can I help you, young man?” the dono asked.
Paulo hesitated. He knew what he wanted to say, but somehow, he couldn’t open his mouth to say it.
“Go on. Don’t be afraid.”
The dono seemed so friendly that before he knew it, Paulo was blurting out the whole story to him. “And that’s what happened,” he concluded. “It was an accident, Senhor, but I have money to pay for the vase.” Paulo dug deeply into his pocket and held out all the money he had been saving for his futebol. “It’s not much, but I hope it’s enough so I won’t have to go to jail.”
“You won’t have to go to jail,” the man said with a laugh. Then he added, “You must be Paulo.”
Paulo gulped. “Yes, I’m Paulo. But how did you know that?”
The man laughed again. “I think the whole town knows of Paulo and Chico and how hard they’ve been working for a new futebol.”
The man looked long and hard at Paulo and then sat down. “Paulo, it took courage to come back here when no one knew that you were the one who broke the vase. Yet, you came back and brought me your futebol money. Why?”
Paulo looked the man straight in the eye. “No one else knew, Senhor, but I did,” he said quietly.
“I’m glad you came back and that we had this talk,” the dono said, shaking Paulo’s hand. “You keep your money and buy that new futebol.” The man’s bright eyes twinkled with a smile. “However, you must repay me for the vase.”
“But, Senhor, I’ve not enough money for both the vase and the futebol,” pleaded Paulo. “How can I do both?”
“You will have to shine my shoes for three months as payment,” the man explained. “I have heard that you’re the best shoeshine boy in town. But today, because of your courage and honesty, I think you must be the best boy in all of Brazil!"

“Anxiety made me feel like my brain was going 100 miles per hour and like I couldn’t overcome anything. I felt very disorganized and like I couldn’t get a hold of my life and the tasks for the day. I felt very alone and like nobody knew what I was going through. The hardest part for me was the constant need to compare myself to others. I denied that I had anxiety for a long time until I took an anxiety test at the doctor’s office.”

“Genuine relationships helped me overcome my anxiety. When I started opening up to people, they listened and helped me understand my eternal potential. They took my mind off things that were overwhelming me but in the long run weren’t that important.
“I feel like everyone is different, but to help myself, I needed to get organized. The simple deed of planning my daily tasks helped me feel like I could tackle the day. I also prayed a lot. Heavenly Father helped me recognize that I needed to delete my social media for a time because I was comparing my life to everyone else’s lives, which in turn made me anxious. It helped a lot.”

“I hate freckles!” Tommy exclaimed as he studied his face in the mirror. “Why do I have so many?”
“Well,” Mother said thoughtfully, “I guess you could say that they’re a gift.”
“A gift! Who would give freckles as a gift?”
“Grandma Flamm would.” Mother smiled. “And I’ll bet if you ‘climb’ your family tree, you’ll find even more surprising gifts.”
Tommy thought about the trees in his backyard. There was a big oak tree, an apple tree, and a pine tree, but he couldn’t think of a family tree. “Where is my family tree?” he asked.
“I’ll get it.”
Tommy shook his head, puzzled. Mother sure was saying funny things this morning. He imagined his big old oak tree covered with brightly wrapped packages. How could Mother find something like that?
“Here it is,” Mother called, coming down the stairs. She held up a piece of paper as Tommy eagerly ran toward her.
“Why, it’s nothing but words on some lines,” he said, disappointed. “I thought you said it was a tree.”
“Look at it this way,” Mother said, turning the paper sideways.
Tommy studied it thoughtfully. “Hey, that does look kind of like a tree! But I don’t see any presents.”
“Let me explain,” Mother said. “Every line on this chart has the name of one of your ancestors. And every one of your ancestors has given you a gift. They have given you something that they had, so now you have it, too.”
“Like freckles?”
“Exactly!”
“I think I’d rather have birthday presents,” Tommy said glumly.
Mother laughed. “Grandma thought so, too. In fact, she hated her freckles until she met Grandpa. But he said that he couldn’t forget the girl with the cute freckles, and they got married.”
“Really?” asked Tommy, wide-eyed. Maybe this gift business wasn’t so bad after all. “What other gifts did I get?”
“Well, look at your hair—it’s blond like Grandpa Peck’s. That’s his gift to you.”
“Yeah, and my hair’s curly like yours! Is that your gift?”
“That’s right, Tommy. You’re starting to understand. Let’s see if we can find another gift.”
“Blue eyes! Grandma Peck has blue eyes—just like me!” He studied the chart. There were still two more names there—Dad’s and Grandpa’s. He tried to think of gifts from them. “I guess Dad and Grandpa Flamm didn’t give me a gift,” he decided sadly.
“Sure, they did. Let me give you a hint,” Mother said. “Do you remember the pictures Grandpa painted that are hanging in our living room?”
“Yes,” said Tommy, “but Grandpa didn’t give them to me.”
“No, he didn’t. His gift to you is much better than that. He gave you a love of painting and the talent to paint beautiful pictures.”
Tommy’s eyes began to sparkle. “You mean Grandpa’s gift was that I can paint well?”
“That’s right.”
“And what about Dad?” Tommy asked excitedly. “What did he give me?”
“Dad’s gift is extra special, too. He gave you the gift of kindness. You have a special talent for being kind, just like him.”
“Wow! I never knew I could get so many gifts from a family tree,” said Tommy. A big grin spread across his face, almost connecting his freckles. “You know what, Mom?” he asked happily. “This is even better than birthday presents!”

Playing Santa to the Henrys was Dad’s idea. At home evening two weeks earlier he asked if the family wanted to do a Christmas project again this year. We did our first project about six years ago; I was Nickie’s age. We took some toys to the Sub-for-Santa program, and I remember that I wasn’t very excited about giving away my toys, except for a few old broken ones that I thought I could part with. Then at school I heard a man talk about how much some gifts had meant to his family. He cried, and I barely managed not to. I went right home and wrapped up my biggest Tonka truck. It was only two years old and still in great shape.
Every year since, our family has contributed to Sub-for-Santa. When Dad asked about this year’s project, I thought that he intended to do the same. “There’s a family in our neighborhood who could use some help,” he said. I was surprised; I never thought that there were people in our own neighborhood who would not have a good Christmas.
“Who?” the family asked, almost in unison.
“Well, you know the Arnold Henry family, don’t you?” Dad started.
I knew the Henrys only slightly. They had moved into the ward in September or October. There were three or four kids, all young. The oldest boy was about eight or nine. That’s all I knew about them, but some of my little brothers and sisters were acquainted with the Henry children.
“Brother Henry had a job at the steel plant, but they had a cutback,” Dad continued. “The bishop mentioned last Sunday that Brother Henry hasn’t yet found work.” Dad paused long enough for us to get his message, and unanimously we adopted the Henry family as our Christmas project.
The grass was damp, but Nickie and I continued to peer through the hedge at the house. “Why don’t they come to the door?” Nickie whispered impatiently.
“Did you hear the bell ring?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” he said.
“The first rule of successfully rousing people,” I sermonized, “is to listen for the ring. You were in too much of a hurry.”
“I’ll do it again,” Nickie said.
I guessed that he wasn’t sorry to have to repeat his dramatic approach. I watched him go again. This time he crawled to the locust tree like an infantryman under fire. Too much TV, I figured, had programmed him against simply walking up to the door, ringing the bell, and then running. I thought how silly he would look to the Henrys if they opened their door and saw this ten-year-old boy elbowing his way across their lawn. And I thought again about the change I’d seen in Nickie in the last hour.
From the time that we had decided as a family to assist the Henrys, the bulk of the work had fallen on Mom. She’s a good organizer—or maybe prodder is a better word. Every day she’d ask, “Who has an idea for the Henry’s three-year-old girl?” or “What should we do about a tree? Will they have one or shall we take one?” She kept us interested and excited.
On the first day my littlest brother, Tommy, age four, ran to his room and came back with a toy car he wanted to give. I suggested that we take a small decorated tree, whether or not they already had one. Since I had an after-school job and was earning a little money, I offered to buy it as my contribution. My two sisters, Ann, 13, and Tricia, 7, started working together to make presents.
Everyone got involved except Nickie. I don’t know why, unless ten is a selfish age or something, but he just wasn’t very interested. When Mom pressed him for a commitment, he said he’d put in a “quarter or something” on a present. I could tell that she was disappointed because he wasn’t catching the spirit of the project. But I remembered how I felt at his age on our first Sub-for-Santa, and I couldn’t be too hard on him.
It wasn’t that Nickie wasn’t a good kid. Once when he was about three, a neighborhood friend complained to Nickie that he was hungry. Nickie went to the refrigerator, stuck his hand into a bottle of home-canned fruit, and carried a dripping peach half to his buddy. He can be generous all right. So Mom didn’t push him; I think she knows that sometimes good deeds just can’t be forced.
Finally, the big night arrived. The excitement mounted as we gathered the things together to take to the Henrys. Even Nickie seemed a little more interested, but I don’t think he felt as much a part of it because he hadn’t really contributed.
The Henrys live only four blocks away; and we thought it would be fun to walk. But because we had quite a few things to carry, including a decorated tree, we loaded the station wagon instead. As the holder of the family’s newest driver’s license—only—six months old—I took my now-unquestioned place behind the wheel and drove past the Henry’s house. Only the porch light was lit. “Great,” said Dad, who was facing backwards in the third seat, holding the tree out the rear window. “They’re not home. We can take our time.”
I made a U-turn and drove past the house from the other direction. Still no sign of life, so I coasted to the curb two houses away, and we unloaded. We must have looked comical strolling down the sidewalk like a Christmas parade in the dark. We were quiet, so as not to draw attention from the neighbors, and we kept an eye out for cars, hoping the Henrys wouldn’t return too soon.
After everything was positioned on the front step, right under the porch light, we went to the neighbor’s yard to watch through the hedge, but we weren’t very well hidden. It was cold enough that it wasn’t fun staring at the porch, and we were just about to leave when a car turned in the Henry’s driveway.
“Come on,” Mom said. “They’ll see us when they get out of the car.” We tried to look casual as we strolled down the walk to the car. But Nickie, his spying instincts aroused, insisted on staying.
“Dad, can I stay?” he pleaded. “I won’t let them see me. I just want to watch while they find all that stuff. Then I’ll run home. Okay?” Dad consented, so Nickie crawled back to the hedge while the rest of us got in the car and drove home.
We’d been home about ten minutes and were sitting around the Christmas tree talking about our adventure when the front door flew open. In ran Nickie, all out of breath. It was obvious that he was excited about something. Without saying a word he went straight to the tree and pulled out a square box wrapped in shiny red paper.
“What’s up, son?” Dad asked.
“I want to take this present to the Henrys, Dad. I … didn’t give very much,” he said.
I couldn’t believe it! Everyone knew what was in that package. Nickie’s Little League baseball mitt, which he had inherited from me and which had already snared more than its share of fly balls, had seen its day. Since the end of last season Nickie had been talking about getting a new one. “And if I happen to get it at Christmas,” he had hinted with ten-year-old subtlety, “I’ll have plenty of time to break it in before spring.”
When Dad and I handed Nickie the wrapped mitt for him to put under the tree until Christmas morning, we could tell from the grin on his face that he knew what it was. And now he was going to give it to a family he hardly knew! Up until ten minutes ago he was only willing to give them a quarter! It didn’t make sense.
“They’ve got a nine-year-old boy, Dad,” Nickie said quietly. Dad swallowed and looked at Mom. She had a strange expression on her face. I wanted to say, “Hey, man, you can’t give away your new mitt!” but Mom just said, “Are you sure that’s what you want to do, Nickie?”
“Yea, Mom, I’m sure,” he replied as he ran out the door.
No one said anything for a minute, and then Dad asked if I would go with Nickie. It was a little late for him to be out alone, and I knew that Dad wanted me to find out what was going on—if I could. By the time I grabbed a coat and ran outside, Nickie was already a block away. I couldn’t catch him, and by the time I reached the hedge, he was doing that Indian scout thing across the lawn.
Nickie was now back with me behind the hedge after his second dash to the door. This time, results. Brother Henry opened the door, saw the red package, and shouted, “There’s more!”
Suddenly the doorway was filled with little faces, all wearing expressions of disbelief at finding yet another gift on the doorstep. We watched them pick up the package, shake it, and pass it around. They even came down the steps and looked around the yard and down the street. Then they went in and turned off the porch light, and we started home.
Nickie wasn’t running this time; he was quiet. After walking half a block I asked him what had changed his mind.
“Well, after you left for home,” he began, “I sneaked up to the hedge and watched while the Henrys started into their house. They stopped dead when they saw the stuff on their step. Then the kids ran up the steps. They shook every present, walked around the tree, and looked up and down the street. Finally, they gathered up everything and went inside.”
Nickie stopped talking, and we walked a while without saying anything. It was getting colder.
“Then what?” I finally asked. What I really wanted to say was, “What changed you? What made you give away your baseball mitt that you’ve wanted for so long?” but I refrained.
“They’d all gone in except the oldest boy and his dad,” Nickie continued. “They were starting to bring in the tree when I heard the boy say, ‘Dad, do you think the Lord blessed us with these things?’ His dad said, ‘I’m sure he did, son, but what do you mean?’ Then the boy—his name’s David—said the funniest thing. He said, ‘Well, it’s just that these things were brought to our house while we were taking Christmas to some poor people.’”
My feet stopped. I looked at Nickie.
“They were what?” I gasped. “Taking Christmas presents to other people? Why … why, they don’t even have a job! I mean, they’re supposed to be the poor people!”
“That’s what he said,” Nickie went on. “Then his dad said that even though they didn’t have much money right now, they wanted to share what they had, and that these presents must have come from people who felt that same way.”
“Right then I decided,” Nickie continued,” and I’m glad I did. I’ll bet David Henry never had a you-know-what before.”
He grinned at me, and I knew the secret was out. It was all right to talk about it.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s run.”
I could have beat him home, but instead I kept an even pace. As we turned in our driveway and leaped up the front steps together, I noticed that it was just beginning to snow.