Gospel Story Finder

Elder and Sister Weidel wrote in their weekly letter: “Please, may we take a few moments to tell you of a spiritual experience this week. Friday Elder Curtis, who was splitting with Elder Aloi, came to work with us and afterwards we took them home. Elder Aloi invited us in to see what a real elders’ apartment looks like. He went through the back door to open the front door, and in a moment he came out beaming.
‘Elder, come and see what has been brought to us.’ There on the table was a large supply of groceries. After a while Elder Curtis told us that Elder Aloi and his companion had found a family that didn’t have anything to eat, so they took all of their own food out to them. Our hearts just about broke,” wrote Sister Weidel. “The Lord does take care of his own.”

I first heard the wonderful story of The Little Engine That Could when I was about 10 years old. As a child, I was interested in the story because the train cars were filled with toy animals, toy clowns, jackknives, puzzles, and books as well as delicious things to eat. However, the engine that was pulling the train over the mountain broke down. The story relates that a big passenger engine came by and was asked to pull the cars over the mountain, but he wouldn’t condescend to pull the little train. Another engine came by, but he wouldn’t stoop to help the little train over the mountain because he was a freight engine. An old engine came by, but he would not help because, he said, “I am so tired. … I can not. I can not. I can not.”

Then a little blue engine came down the track, and she was asked to pull the cars over the mountain to the children on the other side. The little engine responded, “I’m not very big. … They use me only for switching in the yard. I have never been over the mountain.” But she was concerned about disappointing the children on the other side of the mountain if they didn’t get all of the goodies in the cars. So she said, “I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.” And she hooked herself to the little train. “Puff, puff, chug, chug, went the Little Blue Engine. ‘I think I can—I think I can—I think I can—I think I can—I think I can—I think I can—I think I can.’” With this attitude, the little engine reached the top of the mountain and went down the other side, saying, “I thought I could. I thought I could. I thought I could. I thought I could. I thought I could. I thought I could.”

Melissa and Mary Grace Moore had invited a friend who lived near them. Their mothers were friends. Doug Silcock’s parents had once been active members of the Church but hadn’t attended meetings since he was a little boy. Now, after going to the seminary breakfast, he started asking questions, wanting to learn more. He met the missionaries, took the discussions, and was baptized. Now he too attends seminary every morning.

“He gets all of the credit,” Melissa says.

Nora Graham adds, “That’s how I feel. Doug was just ready and wanted the Church in his life. Now we pick him up for church every Sunday. Our class introduced him, but the conversion really had nothing to do with us.”

It was my very first Christmas after Dad died. I was only seven then, but I was the man of the house—at least that’s what Dad had always told me whenever he went someplace. Whenever he had to go away, he’d say to me, “Son, you’re the man of the house while I’m gone, and I want you to look after Mom and Aaron.”

Aaron’s my little brother, and he was only four that Christmas. We didn’t have much money with Dad gone; at least that’s what Mom told me. Now when she went to the store, she didn’t buy peanuts and candy like she used to when Dad was still alive. Aaron didn’t get much for his birthday either—just a ball, and it wasn’t even brand-new. I didn’t tell Aaron that because he liked the ball just fine.

Christmas was getting close, and I was getting excited. I told Aaron all about Christmas. He couldn’t remember the other ones because he was just a baby back then. I told him about the lights and the decorations and about Jesus in the manger and about the presents and the stockings and Santa Claus. Aaron doesn’t talk much, but he listens a lot. I really like Aaron because he’s a good listener.

Lots of times when we were in bed at night, Aaron would ask me to tell him about Christmas. I’d talk and talk until I was sure he was asleep, but as soon as I stopped talking, he’d whisper, “Alma, tell me again,” and I’d have to start all over. He’d never go to sleep until I finally told him that my throat was sore and that I had to stop talking.

The thing Aaron liked most to hear about was the Christmas tree. He’d make me tell him about it all the time. Whenever I talked about the tree, his eyes got really big and he’d smile. He always asked me if we would have a tree, and I’d say, “Sure. Everybody has a tree. You can’t have Christmas without a tree.” Well, I shouldn’t have said that, because later Mom told me that we couldn’t afford to have a tree.

I was in trouble then, because it was getting really close to Christmas, and everybody on our street had trees in their windows. Aaron was getting more excited. He asked me every night to tell him about Christmas and the Christmas tree.

I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I had to do something. Well, on Sunday my Primary teacher told a story about a pioneer boy who found his own Christmas tree. He just went outside and found a tree in the woods and cut it down. It didn’t cost him anything. I didn’t hear the rest of the story. All I could think about was getting a tree.

On the way home I looked for a tree. We weren’t pioneers or anything like that; we were just poor. We didn’t live in the woods either, but there were some Christmas trees growing in our neighborhood. Lots of people grew Christmas trees in their yards, and there were some growing in the park, but most of them were too big for our house. We didn’t have a very big house, so I knew I had to get a little tree that would fit.

I looked and looked, and I almost decided that there weren’t any trees our size when I saw one in Brother Hubbard’s yard, right next to the sidewalk. The tree was about as high as my mom, and it was really fluffy. It had lots of branches, and it was kind of blue and green. I knew that that was the tree I was going to get for Aaron.

That night in bed I told Aaron all about the tree and asked him if he would help me cut it down. He said he would, and then he asked me to tell him about Christmas again.

The next day, when Mom was in the house cooking supper, Aaron and I went to the garage and got an ax and one of Dad’s saws. Dad had two axes, but one was too big for me. The other one was still kind of big, but I was the man of the house and I figured I could use it.

We put the ax and the saw into my wagon and started down the street. At first Aaron pushed while I pulled, but after a little while he climbed into the wagon and rode.

Brother and Sister Hubbard weren’t home when we got to their house. I was glad because I didn’t want to ask them if I could cut down their tree. I figured it would be easier to just cut it down like the boy in the story and not ask anybody anything. Besides, I didn’t think Brother Hubbard would mind. He was the nicest man I knew, next to my dad. Brother Hubbard was our home teacher, and he visited us all the time. He did lots of nice things for us, especially after Dad died. He told us that whatever we needed he’d try to get for us. So I didn’t think he’d care if we cut down his tree, because Aaron really needed a Christmas tree and I didn’t know how else to get him one.

I got right to work, but Aaron just sat in the wagon and watched. Although he was cold, he didn’t ask to go home. He wanted a Christmas tree. First I had to saw off some of the branches so I could chop at the trunk. That was kind of hard because the branches prickled my hands and face.

As soon as I got the branches out of the way, I got the ax out of the wagon and started to chop, but it didn’t work very well. The ax was too big, even though it was Dad’s little one. It kept hitting into the branches and bouncing off the trunk. I knocked some bark off, but I couldn’t chop down the tree. I kept trying, though, until I dropped the ax on my foot. Then I just had to cry because the ax was heavy and my foot really hurt. I didn’t let Aaron see me, though. I put my head down close to the trunk and pretended I was looking at it.

I finally decided to use the saw, and it worked better. Pretty soon I had cut halfway through the trunk. But the tree still didn’t fall over, and the saw kept getting stuck. It would squeak and then stop. I pushed and pulled and kicked the tree, but that just hurt my foot, and I scratched my face on some branches. I was tired by then, and my hands and feet were cold. I started to cry. This time Aaron saw me, and he started to cry too. When I tried to get him to stop crying, he said that he was cold and wanted to go home and that we could get Mom to come back and help us. Yet I was the man of the family, and this was my job.

While we were both crying, Brother and Sister Hubbard drove up in their car. They didn’t know what we were doing at first, but as soon as they got out of their car, they could see. Brother Hubbard’s a nice man. He’s old—kind of like a grandpa—and he’s my best friend, next to Aaron.

“What are you boys doing, Alma?” he said when he walked over to us. Sister Hubbard stayed by the car and watched. I wasn’t crying anymore. I just stared at Brother Hubbard’s big feet. They were bigger than Dad’s. Aaron stopped crying too.

“We’re cutting a Christmas tree for Christmas,” Aaron said. “We’re going to put it in our house, and we don’t even have to buy it. Do you want to help us?”

Brother Hubbard didn’t say anything, and I didn’t dare look at him. “We can’t buy one,” I whispered, “because we don’t have any money, but my Primary teacher told me about a pioneer boy who cut down a tree, and he didn’t have to buy it. We aren’t pioneers like the boy in the story, but we thought it would be all right, since we didn’t have a tree. Yours was the very best tree. I hope you don’t need it.”

Brother Hubbard thought for a minute and then asked, “Does your mother know you’re here, Alma?” He put his hand on my shoulder, and I shook my head.

“I’m the man of the house,” I said, “and I wanted to surprise her.” I looked up at Brother Hubbard and then at Aaron and then back at Brother Hubbard. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” I pulled Brother Hubbard by the hand and took him behind the tree so Aaron couldn’t hear us. “I’ve been telling Aaron all about Christmas, but now it doesn’t look like we’ll have too much Christmas. Tommy—he’s my friend at school—says Santa Claus is just your mom and dad. Well, we don’t have a dad now, and Mom is poor, so if there isn’t a Santa Claus, we won’t have any Christmas at all unless we get a tree. That’s why I needed a tree. I really want Aaron to have a Christmas. He can’t remember the other ones, and I want him to have a real good Christmas, even if Santa Claus doesn’t come.”

I don’t know why I started to bawl, but I did, I guess my foot still hurt. Brother Hubbard patted my shoulder and said, “Well, Alma, it doesn’t look like that tree will be doing much good where it is now. Do you want me to help you finish cutting it down?”

I looked up at him, and he was smiling, so I figured everything was OK. I just nodded my head. I was afraid I’d start to cry again.

When Brother Hubbard had finished cutting down the tree, he said, “Alma, don’t worry too much about what your friend Tommy said. I don’t have a dad or a mom anymore, but Santa visits me every Christmas.”

“He does?” I asked.

“Sure. And I bet he’ll come to your house. In fact, I know he will.”

Brother Hubbard dragged the tree home for us, and I pulled Aaron in the wagon. When Mom saw the tree, she was really happy. She even cried.

On Christmas Eve Aaron and Mom and I sat around the Christmas tree and sang. Mom told us about Jesus and all the people who came to see Him when He was born. We were almost ready for bed when someone knocked on our door. I answered it, and there stood Brother Hubbard with a big box in his arms. It was filled with oranges and apples and nuts and fruit cake and a turkey and candy and lots of other good things. Mom invited Brother Hubbard in, and while Aaron and I looked through the box, she and Brother Hubbard whispered in the corner. When they were through, Brother Hubbard put his arms around me and Aaron and asked us if we were ready for Santa Claus. I nodded my head, but I really didn’t believe Santa Claus would come. I was afraid Tommy was right and that Brother Hubbard was just trying to make me feel good.

I guess Brother Hubbard knew what I was thinking, because he patted me on the back and smiled. “He’ll be here, Alma. You wait and see. He hasn’t forgotten you and Aaron.”

Aaron and I had to go to bed then. I was tired and wanted to go to sleep, but Aaron wouldn’t let me. He made me tell him everything I knew about Christmas. I don’t know which one of us fell asleep first, but it didn’t seem like I’d been sleeping very long when I felt Aaron shaking me and heard him whisper, “Alma, he’s here! He’s here! Wake up!”

Finally I opened my eyes. I couldn’t see anything but a crack of light under our bedroom door. Someone had left the light on in the living room. “Who’s here?” I asked grumpily.

“Santa Claus!”

“Santa Claus? Who said?”

“I can hear him, Alma! I can hear him! He’s out by the Christmas tree!”

“Go back to bed, Aaron,” I said. “I’ll turn the light off. It’s not Santa Claus. Go back to bed.”

I stumbled down the hall to the living room. Aaron was right behind me. I was too tired to stop him. All I wanted to do was turn the light off and get back into bed. Before I could, Aaron yelled, “It is Santa Claus! Alma, it is Santa Claus!”

I turned around and there he was! Aaron ran and kissed him on his white beard. I couldn’t even move; all I could do was stare. Santa’s eyes got big. He was surprised. I could tell. I was afraid he was going to go away and not leave us anything. Mom used to say that if we didn’t go to sleep, Santa wouldn’t come.

“Aaron, come here,” I hissed. “We aren’t supposed to be here.” But Aaron didn’t mind me. Santa was holding him, and Aaron was squeezing his neck and wouldn’t let go.

All of a sudden, Santa started to laugh. He sounded a little like Brother Hubbard, but Brother Hubbard is skinny, not fat. He put Aaron and me on his knees and laughed and hugged us. He looked at me and said, “I heard you didn’t think I was going to come.” I looked at the floor. “Well, I’m here,” he said. “I brought you and Aaron something very special, but you must go back to bed while I work. You’ll see everything in the morning.”

Santa carried us to our beds and tucked us in. He kissed us both on the forehead, and his beard tickled my cheeks and nose. It felt good. I didn’t go to sleep for a long time. I listened to Santa doing things in the living room. When he left, I listened for him on the roof, but I didn’t hear anything.

I wanted to go out and see what he’d brought, but I didn’t dare. I knew I had to go to sleep. As I lay there thinking, I was glad that I was the man of the house and that Brother Hubbard and I could get Aaron a Christmas tree. That was one of my very best Christmases.

One day, as I was walking on my crutches to the local grocery store, I was attacked by a large dog. It bit me on the legs and the arms and knocked me to the ground. I remember screaming for help. Suddenly, a little black shape came flying into the fight and began to help me. It was a savage battle between a crippled cocker spaniel and this much larger, ferocious animal. Pepper’s efforts gave me enough time to get one of my crutches and join in the battle. Together, Pepper and I were able to chase the dog away.
We were both hurt, Pepper much more than I. Soon, my brother arrived to help us. Pepper suffered from his injuries for a few weeks but overcame them and lived for several more years. Little Pepper saved me from potentially serious injury.

Meet Esther (left) from the Calabar Nigeria South Stake. After taking the gathering place baking class, she has become self-employed. She opened her own home-based business where she makes her own products and distributes them to various outlets. She wraps each of her items for individual sale and supplies over 10 establishments. Her business is growing every day under the name “Esther, Snacks and Chops.”

Sissy was crying again. She didn’t want to cry, but the warm, wet tears kept sliding down her cheeks. Ever since Pa had died last winter, she found herself crying almost every time she was alone.
Today she had run home from the little pioneer church and climbed into the hayloft. It was the Sunday before Easter, and her Primary lesson had been about the Resurrection. Sister Nelson had reminded the class that when people we love die, we can be comforted knowing that they will live again and that we can be with them at some future time. Sissy knew that Sister Nelson was speaking especially to her and was trying to be kind, but her teacher just didn’t understand! What good is it to think about resurrection when I need Pa right now? she thought.
Sissy had been very close to her father. Pa had always said that she was special. He called her his “own little angel right from heaven.” The tears rolled down her cheeks, and she cried, “Oh, Pa, why did you have to die? How can I ever be happy again?”
Her thoughts were interrupted by her brother Joe’s husky voice calling her from the barn door. “Sissy! Sissy, are you in here?”
“I’m coming, Joe,” Sissy said slowly as she dried her tears and began to climb down.
Joe stood at the bottom of the ladder; he lifted her off the rungs, swung her around, and gently set her down. “What’s the matter, Sis?” he asked as he bent his tall frame over and looked into her reddened eyes. “Has it been raining in the hayloft again?”
Sissy gave him a little smile and held his hand as they left the barn. She loved Joe. He was kind and gentle, like Pa, and Sissy knew he understood her sorrow and loneliness. She wondered if he still missed Pa too. She hadn’t thought about that before. Joe always seemed so strong and sure of everything.
“Joe,” Sissy said, stopping suddenly, “what do you do when you feel sad and lonely without Pa around?”
Joe walked slowly over to a tree and sat down. Sissy sat down beside him. He was quiet for a moment and seemed to be studying the daffodils that Pa and Sissy had planted last spring. Then he looked up into Sissy’s eyes and spoke softly. “Missing Pa is natural and will probably last all our lives, Sissy. But when I’m sad, I try to get busy doing something that I know would make Pa happy. You see, I know that someday I’m going to see Pa again, and I want to be the kind of man he always wanted me to grow up to be. Somehow that seems to take my mind off my sad thoughts and put it on the happy thoughts of how proud I can make Pa when I see him again.”
Sissy thought about Joe’s words as he got up and headed toward the woodpile. She knew that Pa would be sad to think that the only thing she did when she thought of him was cry. Maybe if she tried Joe’s plan, it would work for her too. She wrinkled her forehead as she tried to think of something to do that would make Pa happy and proud of her.
In a minute Sissy was on her feet, running to catch up with her brother. “Joe,” she asked, filling her arms with kindling, “do you think we could take some daffodils over to Sister Harding this afternoon? I noticed she wasn’t at church today, so maybe she would like a little visit. We could take over some of those good molasses cookies too!”
Joe gave her a quick smile and a gentle squeeze and nodded his head. “That’s the best idea I’ve heard in a long time,” he said.
Later, as Sissy gathered the flowers, she found herself thinking about Pa and smiling for the first time in a long while. She could almost see Pa smiling too!

Somehow, Sage hung on to life, and two days later the doctors felt she was strong enough to receive the first of what would eventually be eight skin grafts. Then she developed pneumonia.
“All we did those first ten days was cry and pray,” says Michael.
Denise learned of the accident while teaching her kindergarten class. “A deputy sheriff called me. I had to stuff my fist into my mouth to keep from screaming. When I finally saw Sage, I would not have known she was my daughter if someone hadn’t told me.”
Both Michael and Denise credit Sage’s survival to the skill of the medical staff who attended her and to the faith and prayers of the members of their new church.
“We found out immediately what the Church was all about,” Michael says. “The ward held some special fasts, although we didn’t even know what a fast was at the time. And many people came to give their support. Sage received many priesthood blessings.”
One of the first blessings was given by Robert DeBuck. Robert with his wife, Ruth, had introduced the Volkmans to the Church. “When Robert blessed Sage,” Ruth recalls, “he told her to go where it was safe—into Heavenly Father’s arms. We lived for a long time on faith in that blessing. We believe that’s where she was.”

A devoted colleague once shared with me an experience he had when fulfilling an assignment to put away chairs and straighten up the stake center following a stake conference. After 30 minutes of carrying out these duties, he realized that he was the last person remaining in the building. Rather than feeling alone with a rush to leave, however, he noticed that the same sweet sense of peace he had felt during the conference remained with him and was even increasing.
As he finished the assignment and exited the meetinghouse, he encountered another member who seemed to be watching him intently. Realizing what my friend had been doing, this member took him by the hand and said, “Brother, the Lord sees these small things that you do for Him, and He looks down and smiles upon them.”
Years later while serving as a bishop, this same friend found himself alone again in his ward meetinghouse. After turning out the lights in the chapel, he lingered for a moment as the moonlight shone through the windows onto the pulpit.
The familiar sense of peace again washed over him, and he sat down near the front of the chapel and reflected on the myriad sacred moments he had experienced in that setting—the many times he had observed the priests breaking the bread at the sacrament table, the occasions when he had felt the Holy Spirit accompanying him as he delivered a ward conference address, the baptismal services he had conducted, the beautiful choir numbers he had heard, and the numerous testimonies from ward members that had touched him so deeply. Seated alone in that dark chapel, he felt overcome by the collective impact of these experiences on his life and on the lives of his ward members, and he bowed his head in profound gratitude.

We had a large LDS population in my hometown. I played in our high school band, but my band teacher did not like the Church and was always trying to discredit the Book of Mormon.
When we went on band trips, he would bring ideas from his church meetings with him and confront me. He found it entertaining to bash the Church, and I felt like I was the only one who would defend it.
At first I wanted to prove to him that he was wrong. He would tell me that every sin is equally as bad—murder and lying alike—and that there is really no repentance. Instead, we go through this life and as long as we acknowledge Christ as our Savior we will go to heaven.
I felt like the plan of salvation had suddenly been turned into a game of Monopoly. There are no free rides, I tried to explain. But he was not there to learn about my beliefs.
Since he was there in the spirit of contention (and I followed somewhat ignorantly), we just went around in circles. No matter what explanation I could offer, he would come up with something else to debate. It wasn’t until a year later that I realized what it was I was doing.
I had thought I was doing missionary work, but I was not. After studying the scriptures, talks, and lectures on the subject, I now know that if people are there with the intention to debate beliefs, they are not ready to hear the gospel. This seems so obvious to me now, but at the time I had no idea. People must open their hearts to receive the gospel message.
If we learn to share the gospel with those who truly want to learn, we can share the truth with them.
We need not contend, but instead we need to proclaim the gospel. It brings happiness to all who partake of it.

While in South America, I was touched by the sacrifices made by many of our Saints to have their families sealed to them for eternity. I shed tears of gratitude as I heard some of the experiences recounted.
One of our stake presidents brought his family to the Sao Paulo Temple from Lima, Peru, normally a nine-day bus ride, but, because of bus strikes and other problems, the journey took them fourteen days of travel.
Upon their arrival at Sao Paulo, the family went to the first session they could, and the sealing ceremony was performed. Then they immediately prepared to leave. The temple president asked them if they were staying the night. The father replied that the family had to leave immediately since they did not have sufficient money for lodging and food. He said they would have to travel several days without food as it was. The family was then persuaded to stay the night and have breakfast before their departure. That represents the spirit of sacrifice of many of our Saints worldwide.

My teacher was out of the room, helping other students. Some of the rest of us who didn’t need to use the computers were messing around—walking around, reading, goofing off. I was at my desk, quietly drawing a comic page I had been working on.
Jason* came over and said, “Will you draw this for me?” He pointed to a picture in our social studies book that he wanted to use for an assignment.
When I asked why, he replied, “I can’t draw very well, so can you draw this for me? The teacher won’t know it was you, I swear.”
I thought, What should I do? He knows I’m a good artist, but this just doesn’t seem honest.
“Ehhhh, no,” I said.
“Why not? Please, man,” he begged.
“Because this isn’t right. I don’t want to,” I told him.
“OK, if you can tell me five reasons why it’s not right, I won’t bug you anymore.”
“Look,” I said, “why can’t you do it? Just do your best. It isn’t like he’s going to give you a bad grade for a not-so-good picture. Just try.”
“But …” he started, then trailed off and walked away from my desk.
It was really hard to make that choice. I thought that if I didn’t draw the picture, he wouldn’t like me and I couldn’t be his friend. But now he’s just like normal. I’m glad I made the right choice.
Austin Lee Ballard, age 11Rexburg, Idaho

Going to the conference was easier for some than for others. “I thought I had better things to do,” said Jeff Foster of the First ward. But he decided to go anyway. By Saturday afternoon he had changed his tune. “My parents are going to say, ‘I told you so!’” Jeff says. “There are people who don’t want to go on missions because they don’t want to leave their stuff behind—like their jobs and their music or whatever—but it’s worth it!”

As missionaries in the Argentina Buenos Aires South Mission, my companion, Elder Allred, and I received a referral card to contact a family from Russia. When we found the house, the woman recognized us as missionaries and invited us in to meet her family.
We quickly realized the Balva family understood very little Spanish, and it was difficult for us to understand them as well. From their broken Spanish, we gathered that they had been in Argentina only a short time but were eager to learn about the Church. We adapted the first lesson into simplified Spanish, and the family flipped through their two Russian-Spanish dictionaries as we slowly taught our message, but we weren’t sure how much of it they really understood.
After making an appointment to return, we walked home, discussing how difficult it had been to convey the meaning of our message. We wondered if the family would understand the other lessons any better or if they would get frustrated and ask us to stop coming.
We returned to visit the Balva family the following day to see how they were and if they had begun reading the Book of Mormon and praying to know of its truthfulness. To our surprise and joy, they excitedly showed us a paper on which they had written in Spanish the principles we had taught them. They also shared with us what they had read in 3 Nephi 11 regarding the Savior’s visit to the American continent, assuring us that they had understood all we had discussed the day before and that they were excited to learn more.
Over the next few weeks my testimony was strengthened as the Holy Ghost witnessed to the Balva family of the gospel’s truthfulness and enlightened their understanding in Spanish. Heavenly Father knew the desire of their hearts and recognized the sincerity of their prayers to find truth. Together, the Balva family, Elder Allred, and I experienced the joy described in D&C 50:22: “Wherefore, he that preacheth and he that receiveth, understand one another, and both are edified and rejoice together”—not because we spoke the same language but because of the universal language of the Spirit.
The Balva family introduced us to another Russian family, whom we were also privileged to teach. Both families made covenants with Heavenly Father by entering the waters of baptism not long after we met them.
I am a witness that the words of President Ezra Taft Benson (1899–1994) are true: “The influence of the Spirit is the most important element in this work. If you will allow the Spirit to magnify your callings, you will be able to work miracles for the Lord” (new mission presidents’ seminar, June 25, 1986).

All my life I strived to be who I thought Heavenly Father expected me to be. But there was a problem: I never knew if I was good enough.
I fixated on my imperfections, especially after studying scriptures or listening to general conference talks. When reading these things that were supposed to encourage me, I would only focus on what I was doing wrong.
I lived this way for a long time—miserable and feeling weary in my discipleship.
But I didn’t realize that what I was actually failing to do was truly believe in the Savior and the pure, simple truths of His gospel.
My perspective changed while I was listening to a recent devotional with Sister Patricia T. Holland. She said, “What I regret most in my youth is that I didn’t see the simple beauty of the gospel; I made even the gospel too complex.”1
Her message struck me.
I realized that I complicate the gospel frequently! Many of us do. We expect ourselves to be perfect, believing there is no room for flaws and progress. And if things aren’t going the way we expect them to, we become anxious about the future, compare ourselves to others, lose connection with Heavenly Father, and even start wondering if living the gospel is worth it.
I realized my anxiety wasn’t caused by living the gospel. I was anxious because I had stopped focusing on the reason I live the gospel: Jesus Christ.
I forgot that He and Heavenly Father love me with perfect love (see John 15:9; 2 Nephi 1:15).
I forgot that I am meant to have joy in the journey (see 2 Nephi 2:25).
I forgot that mortality includes having imperfections and relying on the Savior to overcome them (see Ether 12:27).
I forgot that the Savior is here to help me learn and grow and progress and that He consecrates my efforts along the way (see 2 Nephi 2:1–2; 32:9).
We run into trouble when we turn the gospel into a checklist of rules and forget the pure truths of Jesus Christ. When we strive to keep our covenants and the commandments with the intention of becoming more like Him, then we are truly living the gospel.
Heavenly Father wants us to always remember that the Savior can help us reach our divine potential. But how do we not forget this important truth?
Here are a few practices that have helped me:
I pray for Heavenly Father to help me feel that He loves me and accepts my best efforts.
I take the sacrament, focusing on Jesus Christ’s Atonement. I remind myself that His grace can help me in the future and is already at work in my life as I strive to follow Him.
I turn to the scriptures for comfort. I read about those who also felt inadequate and were strengthened by the Lord.
I go to the temple often. Everything in the Lord’s house reminds me of His mercy and that I am capable of progress. There, I can feel peace amid so many anxieties.
These practices have made me appreciate what matters most in the gospel. They remind me to not complicate its simplicity.
By focusing on the pure truths of the gospel of Jesus Christ, I have seen my life and faith miraculously simplify. I know yours will too.

Muhammad (Arabic, “praised”) was born in 570 C.E. in Mecca, a prosperous city that was a center of caravan trade and religious pilgrimage in the northwest Arabian peninsula. Orphaned in early childhood, he lived a life of poverty as a youth, working as a herdsman for his family and neighbors, an occupation that gave him ample time and solitude to contemplate the deeper questions of life. Muhammad gained a reputation in the community as a trusted arbiter and peacemaker as indicated in the following account:
“At one time the Quraish [Muhammad’s tribe] decided to rebuild the Ka’ba [sacred shrine], to re-set the stones above the foundations. In one of the corners they wanted to put the black stone, but could not decide who should have the honour of placing it there. They would have quarrelled violently if [Muhammad] the young man they all admired and trusted had not come by. They asked [him] … to settle the dispute. He told them to spread a large cloak and place the black stone in the middle. They did so. Then, he asked a man from each of the four clans who were in dispute to take hold of a corner of the cloak. In this way they all shared the honour of carrying the stone.”

Spending time with my family is always a cherished experience for me. Because I work as a railroad engineer, my schedule is unpredictable. Occasionally I am transferred to distant locations and become temporarily separated from my wife and children. During these times, I see them only a few days each week—and only after a lengthy drive home.
Once, my wife, Scarlett, and our sons traveled to visit me during one of my breaks. Our sons enjoyed sleeping in a motel room and eating at restaurants. This trip became a vacation for them. This refreshing reunion passed quickly, and before too long we were hugging and saying good-bye. Glancing in my rearview mirror, I saw Scarlett’s car disappear from view as we got on opposite on-ramps to the freeway. I was traveling back to the railroad, and Scarlett was taking our children home.
I smiled as I thought about my family and decided to call Scarlett to thank her again for coming to visit me. I reached for my cell phone in my coat pocket, but it was not there. After an unsuccessful search, I realized that the phone must have been put in Scarlett’s car by accident.
I used my cell phone to keep in touch with my family, but it was also necessary for my work. My wife and I had been driving in separate directions for 10 minutes, but I knew I had to retrieve my phone. I decided I would dash up to the next overpass, turn back in the opposite direction, and try to catch her. As I prepared to turn around, I seemed to hear a voice say, “Stop!”
I began slowing down, even though each passing moment was making it more difficult to recover my phone.
A second thought came: “Stay here!”
This strong feeling swept over me. Defying logic and reason, I pulled over and turned off the car. I did not know why, but I sensed that I should stay put. As I yielded to what I felt was a prompting from the Holy Ghost, I felt panic being replaced by peace. I offered a humble prayer, grateful for Heavenly Father’s direction and guidance.
Shortly thereafter I caught sight of Scarlett driving toward me. When she saw me, she quickly brought the vehicle to a halt and came over to me with the cell phone in hand.
“How did you know to stop and wait?” she asked.
Joyful tears filled our eyes as I related my experience receiving promptings from the Holy Ghost.
That incident has stayed with me, and I can never deny the divine help I received that day. It strengthened our testimonies that Heavenly Father is aware of the seemingly minute details of our lives. I strive to remain worthy of that same guidance I received many years ago.

Our love can expand from a close circle of family to encompass not only our friends but ultimately our neighbors—and even enemies. One Church member serving in the American military in post–World War II Japan told of his struggle with bitterness toward the Japanese people. After being welcomed into a shrine of worship by Japanese townspeople, however, he found that “their spirits touched mine, and I felt an amazing change in my feelings toward them. My bitterness melted. … I thought about what had happened in that shrine and the amazing transformation I felt toward the people there.”11

Recently my dad asked me to play the piano in priesthood meeting. Reluctantly, I said yes. I had a hymn memorized, so I thought I could play without any serious problems. When I began to play, I realized I couldn’t remember the song. I tried to play the introduction at least four times, but it wouldn’t come. I kept thinking, I can play this at home with my eyes closed. Why can’t I play it now? I decided to skip the introduction and go to the beginning of the hymn. With shaking hands I played the first verse without any problems before I got lost. The priesthood brethren ended up singing the rest of the song a capella. I felt so bad, as I hurried to my seat and buried my head during the prayer. The next day I picked up the July 1993 New Era and read the story “Hymn and Me.” The whole time I was reading the story, I could relate to how she felt. I want to thank you for this article. It really helped me feel better about what happened.
Scott OlsenHighland, Utah

This story happened in Mexico.
Javi liked learning to do new things. He liked learning to play baseball. He liked learning the guitar. He liked learning to play new video games. So when Papá asked if he wanted to learn something new, Javi was ready.
Javi watched Papá open his laptop and bring up a site called “FamilySearch.”
“I’m going to teach you how to find the names of our ancestors,” Papá said. “Many of them lived a long time ago, and they didn’t have the gospel. When we find their names, we can go to the temple to be baptized for them. Then they will have a chance to accept the gospel.”
Javi remembered how good he had felt when he was baptized. If he could help his ancestors feel the same way, he wanted to learn how!
Javi watched Papá show him what to do. Then Papá passed the laptop to Javi. “Your turn!”
Javi grinned. He practiced clicking around and reading the names and dates. This was his family!
For the next few nights, Mamá and Papá helped Javi learn more about doing family history work. His older sister Lily started to learn too. It felt like playing a video game with a very important quest!
One Sunday, the bishop announced that the stake was holding a special challenge. The stake members would have 60 days to find as many names as they could to send to the temple. The goal was a total of 5,000 names. At the end of the 60 days, there would be a big party to celebrate. There would also be awards for the people who had found the most names.
“I want to help,” Javi said when they got home from church.
“Me too!” Lily said.
“How about you start right now?” Papá said. “See how many names you can find before dinner.”
Javi and Lily raced to the front room. Lily opened FamilySearch on her phone, and Javi worked on Papá’s laptop. Soon he found a record for his great-grandfather’s brother. It also listed three children who hadn’t been baptized. Javi whooped. He had found three names to send to the temple!
For 60 days Javi spent most of his free time doing family history. He searched for names almost every night after school. On Sundays, his whole family worked on it together.
At the end of the 60 days, Javi and his family went to the church building for the party. There were tacos, music, and lots of people. It was fun!
Finally, the stake president stood up.
“I am so proud of everyone,” he said. “Our stake found 10,000 names for the temple!”
Everyone cheered. Javi’s eyes got wide. That was twice as many as their goal!
Then the stake president announced the winners. The adult winner was a woman Javi didn’t know, but the youth winner was Lily!
“Now for the children. We had someone send in 216 names,” said the stake president. The crowd clapped so loudly that Javi couldn’t hear what the stake president said next.
Javi’s father nudged him. “Javi, he said your name.”
Javi could hardly believe it. Had he really sent in 216 names?
Javi walked to the front. He smiled big as the stake president shook his hand and handed him a certificate. It had his name on it!
“How does it feel to win?” the stake president asked.
“Really good,” Javi said.
It did feel good to win. And it felt really good to have learned a way to help so many people!
Illustration by Josh Talbot