Gospel Story Finder

We were looking forward to our fast and testimony meeting, but very bad chest pains at 4 am intervened. Having had heart problems, I recognised the problem I had. My wife also quickly recognised it by the look on my face and my constant wriggling in bed to find a comfortable position to ease the pain.
Like all wonderful wives, mothers, and sisters in the gospel, she paused, picked up her iPad, and said, “I am sending you a YouTube link. Please look at it.”
The YouTube link was “Slow Down” sung by Sissel Kyrkjebe at the 2019 Pioneer Day Concert with the Tabernacle Choir at Temple Square.1
It was a sweet and lovely piece of music with beautiful singing. At the end all 20,000 people in the Church’s Conference Center stood and applauded for a long time.
I have learned from my wife the calming effect of music. Although I have not been blessed with a singing voice and I am going a bit deaf, the sweet sounds touched me and said, “Slow down.”

Near the turn of the century two missionaries approached a mountain village in one of the Hawaiian Islands. A man standing near his hut saw them coming and said to his children who stood nearby, “Run down the hill and tell those men to go back. We are not interested in what they are preaching.” The children obeyed their father.
The missionaries, however, continued up the hill. Upon reaching the crest, they walked to the father and said, “We do not mean to be rude. But we have traveled many miles to tell you that there is a living prophet on the earth today.”
A look of excitement swept over the man’s face. “What did you say?” he asked.
The missionaries repeated their testimony: “There is a living prophet on the earth today, and we want to share with you his message.”
Turning to his children, the man exclaimed, “Quickly, run and get mother, and call together your brothers and sisters. Tell them that there is a living prophet.” A short time later this family accepted the gospel and was baptized. (Related to Elder Asay by Tom Kaleo of Hawaii, about his own father.)

At the same time, I have had several students from other countries express to me how difficult it is for them to believe that obeying the law will have any effect, especially considering how corrupt their political leaders are. This can make life challenging, and Yeah Samake, a political leader from Mali, West Africa, faced this very issue almost a decade ago. He came to campus last May to present to the University Forum and related his very inspiring story of how he decided to run for mayor of his village with an emphasis on leading with integrity, which is being honest in your public and private life. After he won, he persuaded his people that great things could happen if they lived with integrity by following the laws in the form of paying their taxes, as less than 10% paid taxes. This was a huge leap of faith for these people, and it was followed by remarkable results. By the end of Yeah Samake’s term, 100% paid their taxes, and their village went from being ranked in the bottom 5 cities to the top 7 out of the 704 cities in Mali. Yeah Samake credits this unbelievable progress to the idea that “consistent small actions focused on others bring about extraordinary results.”

Last summer I took a ballet class. I enjoyed seeing my friends there. We practiced for months for a Christmas dance. When December finally came, I was so excited to perform our dance. But two weeks before the performance, our teacher told my mom that it would be on a Sunday. When Mom told me, I said I would not go. I was sad that I would not be able to perform in our Christmas dance, but I was happy that I chose the right.

I would like to thank you for your articles “Gold Mine” and “Stephen” in the May New Era. Never before have I been so touched by a magazine. I live in the same ward in which Stephen Farrance lived. A few years ago Steve showed me the story “Gold Mine.” It was his intention at that time to have it published in the New Era. After his death I intended to get the story and send it to you. You can imagine my delight when I discovered it in the May issue. It brought tears to my eyes as I read it again.
Stephen was a fighter. Never did I see him give up on anything that he started. He was a fierce competitor and always put up a strong battle at the scripture chases. Stephen loved life and got the most from it. In the last weeks of his life, he was serving others, directing and producing our roadshow. The week before the performance, we practiced every morning at 5:30 A.M. For Steve this meant getting up at 4:30 or 5:00 in the morning to be at the church on time. He was always there.
The roadshow took place on Friday and Saturday nights. On Friday night Steve was cheering us on. That evening he went to the hospital, and the next morning he passed away. That night we were all surprised to see his family at the church giving us encouragement. We gave it our best, and for some reason I could remember my lines, which I had forgotten the night before. I could hear Steve telling me the words. It’s something I shall never forget. Steve was a wonderful person, with as much drive and enthusiasm as anyone I have known. I feel privileged to have known him. He was a good friend and a fine example of a true Latter-day Saint. I hope to meet Steve again. He touched the hearts of all who met him.
Brian BurgessBurnaby, British Columbia, Canada

“These are very fine candles, young man. I’m glad to see that you took special care in making them. How much are you asking for the large ones?”
Thane looked up at the tall man in the fringed buckskin suit. “Two dollars for three, sir,” he answered.
“That certainly seems reasonable enough. I’ll take twelve.”
One day I’ll have an outfit like his, Thane thought after the man left. And I’ll wear soft, beaded moccasins and have a beautiful black-powder rifle.
There was something Thane wanted even more, but for that he needed fifty-two dollars. For a long time now he hadn’t thought of anything else.
“Boy, are you ever lucky to have him buy his candles from you,” Thane’s sister Stephanie said. She had come to bring Thane his lunch. “Do you know who that was, or are you daydreaming again? He’s this year’s bushway!”
“The bushway!” Thane exclaimed. Each year a man was chosen to be the bushway, or leader, of the Mountain Men Rendezvous, but Thane hadn’t realized that the man he’d sold the candles to was this year’s bushway.
“They say he’s really strict about having things exactly as they were a hundred fifty years ago,” Stephanie continued. “That’s why you don’t see any cars closeby, and inside the tepees people are cooking their meals over open fires. It really looks neat. How are things going for you? Do you have enough money yet?”
“If I keep selling at this rate,” Thane replied, “I soon will.”
“Well, good luck. I’ll see you later.”
Thane shifted his position on the blanket. He had been sitting there a long time, and his legs were beginning to hurt. From his location on Traders Row he could see on top of the many tepees the colorful banners fluttering in the afternoon breeze. The scene made him feel as if he were living in another time.
The people around him enjoyed reenacting the times of the early-day fur trappers. Besides the shooting contests with black-powder rifles, other contests included setting traps, throwing tomahawks, and starting fires without matches.
Thane always looked forward to the rendezvous, but this time even more than usual. Ever since the last one, when he had first seen the hunting knife with the caribou antler handle and the long shiny blade, it had been on his mind. At school he often drew pictures of the knife on his writing pad. He wanted it more than anything else in the world.
Three afternoons a week after school he had worked painting wooden hives for the Jones Beekeeping Company. In payment he received a little cash and all the beeswax his boss could spare. Then he had learned to make candles, and now with the money he had earned from selling his candles, he had almost enough to buy the knife. If he could earn just nine dollars more, the knife would be his.
Mr. James, one of the other traders, was holding the knife for him. Each time Thane made a sale, he took his money over to Mr. James. Perhaps by tomorrow afternoon he could pick it up. Right now he would take the bushway’s money there and see the knife again. It was getting dark, and soon everybody would put away their wares until the next day.
Thane was close to Mr. James’s tepee when a large boy came running through the trees and almost knocked him over.
He sure is in a hurry, Thane thought. He was just regaining his balance when two large hands grabbed his shoulders and roughly turned him around.
“No, no, he’s not the one we’re after!” Thane heard a familiar voice exclaim. “As a matter of fact, he’s the one I was saving the knife for.”
Thane twisted loose from the tight grip. The knife! My knife? What about my knife?
“Did anybody come through here just now?” Mr. James asked. “Some youngster took off with that knife I’ve been holding for you, and we want to make sure he remembers to bring it back.”
The men did not notice the sick look on Thane’s face as he numbly shook his head. He had seen somebody, but he wasn’t going to tell. The boy was a bully he knew at school, and he was a “boomer.” That’s what the kids called him, too—Boomer.
Thane knew little about boomers, only that they were people living in mobile homes at the edge of town. They had come because of the oil boom. Many of the men worked on the drilling rigs. One night Thane had overheard his parents say that they wished the townspeople and the newcomers could be better friends.
This situation with the knife sure wasn’t going to help anything. The rendezvous would be over in another two days. Thane needed some time to think it through, and for that he wanted to be alone. It was a good thing that his feet knew the way home, because his mind wandered in circles, searching for a solution.
Things looked a little better when he awakened the next morning. Maybe, just maybe, he had found the answer.
Boomer was not the kind of boy who would readily admit that he had done anything wrong. Thane hoped that he could talk to him alone at the general store. Sooner or later everybody in town went there.
Luckily, Thane didn’t have to wait long at the store before he saw Boomer walking down the road.
“Do you have a minute?” Thane asked, falling in beside the bigger boy. “It’s important.”
“Sure. What do you want?” Boomer acted tough, and his hands were buried deep in his pockets.
Thane took a long breath. “I know that it’s you they’re looking for. I saw you, but I’m not going to tell, if you promise to return what you took.”
“You must be joking. Why should I?” Boomer was belligerent and cocky, not denying anything. “Who else knows about this?”
“Nobody. This is just between us.”
Boomer hesitated. He had never really meant to take the knife; even now he wasn’t sure why he’d done it.
“I’ll make a deal with you,” Thane suggested. “I’ll challenge you to a tomahawk throw. If I win, you return the knife.”
“And if you don’t?”
Thane smiled. “Then it’s up to you and your conscience.”
“How good are you, anyway?” Boomer asked.
“Good enough to think I can beat you,” Thane responded firmly. “I’ll go get my tomahawk and meet you at that big cut log in twenty minutes.”
Boomer was already practicing when Thane arrived. Without looking up, Boomer made a line in the dirt with the toe of his boot. “We’ll throw from here,” he said. “You go first. Two out of three wins.”
Thane positioned himself behind the mark and took careful aim. The boys alternated throwing their tomahawks. After two turns their score was exactly the same.
Much depended on the next throw. Thane wiped the perspiration from his hands, gripped his tomahawk, and threw it as hard as he could. The blade sped through the air and bit deeply into the heartwood of the log. He breathed a sigh of relief.
“Not bad,” Boomer said dryly. Completely expressionless, Boomer stepped up for his final throw. The tomahawk flashed in the sunlight and landed far to the right of the log.
Thane was surprised. It’s almost as if he did it on purpose, he thought.
“Well, that decided it. You won fair and square,” admitted Boomer, “and I’ll keep my part of the deal. I’ll return the knife right now.”
“Can I come with you?” Thane offered.
“All right,” said Boomer quietly. His steps slowed considerably by the time they reached Mr. James’s tepee.
Boomer squared his shoulders. “Sir, I’m the boy who took the knife yesterday. It was the wrong thing to do, and I’m sorry. Here. I brought it back.” Boomer reached inside his boot and pulled out the knife. “Maybe I could make it up to you somehow,” he added.
“I’m sure you can, son. It takes a big person to admit his mistake. You’ve done that, so I’m not going to be too hard on you. If you want a knife like this, Thane can tell you how to get one. Right, Thane? As a matter of fact, for helping me recover the knife, Thane, I want you to have it now and to consider your account as being paid in full.”
“I don’t know what to say. How can I thank you?” Thane stumbled over the words.
“Oh, that’s easy,” Mr. James assured him. “Just sell me some more of your candles.”
“I’d be glad to,” Thane exclaimed. “I’ll go home and get some right now. Why don’t you come with me, Boomer? I think my mother is making ice cream.”
Boomer didn’t hesitate a minute. “Hey! That would be great, if you’re sure it’s OK. I haven’t tasted homemade ice cream for a long time.”
Thane was beginning to understand that, more than anything else, Boomer needed a friend.
The boys walked along slowly, each lost in his own thoughts.
“What are you thinking about?” asked Boomer.
“Maybe, just maybe, you’re not such a bad guy,” Thane answered.
“Well! I see you’ve got good taste, anyway,” Boomer said.
Both boys smiled and responded to an unspoken challenge to race home.
“Hello, Thane! Hi there, Wilbert,” Thane’s mother called from the doorway. She took the mail from its box and went back into the house.
Wilbert! Thane wasn’t sure that he could trust his ears. Had he heard right? A name like that explained a lot of things. But how does Mom know Boomer? Maybe she knows his mother. Thane decided to ask her about that later.
“Since I know your real name,” Thane said cautiously, “would you mind if I call you Will?”
For a split second Boomer hesitated, intently studying the expression on the other boy’s face.
“Sure,” he answered with a relieved grin. “But let’s keep my real name a secret, OK?”

Brother Baron carried the blue fast offering envelopes into our deacons quorum meeting and set them on the table in the small classroom. He scanned our young faces with a serious scowl. After handing out all the envelopes but one, he patted it in his hand and looked at me and said, “Joey, for five months I’ve been giving you Brother Mumford Grossenheider’s fast offering envelope, but he tells his home teachers that no one has come by. What’s going on?”
I looked at my friend Reggie, who smiled innocently and folded his arms.
Brother Baron sat on the table in front of us and looked at me while tapping the envelope against his knee. “Joey, Brother Grossenheider hasn’t been to church in more than 60 years. We finally got some home teachers that he’ll talk to, and the home teachers asked him if someone could come by to collect fast offerings, and Brother Grossenheider said okay. Have you been going to his house?” he asked.
I leaned forward and looked down at the floor. “Well, yeah, but nobody answers the door.”
“He’s an old man,” Brother Baron said. “He uses a cane. You’ve got to give him time. How long did you wait at the door last month?”
I glanced at Reggie again. He was watching Brother Baron as if nothing was wrong.
“Last month?” I said slowly.
“You went to his house last month, didn’t you?”
“Well, I went the first two months and nobody answered, so …” I looked up into Brother Baron’s disappointed face.
“You haven’t been going?” he said sadly.
“It takes too long,” I said.
“But what’s the big hurry?” Brother Baron asked. “It would only take another five or ten minutes. You can sacrifice five minutes a month can’t you?”
“Well,” I said, “Reggie doesn’t have any hard ones like that, and he always beats me.”
“Beats you? This isn’t a race, Joey.” He looked at Reggie, whose mask of innocence suddenly seemed removed. Brother Baron dragged his hand over his face, flattening his nose. He looked back and forth at me and Reggie. “You’ve been racing?”
After church Reggie and I walked together down Main Street until we reached house number 433, where Mumford Grossenheider lived. We looked at the house together. Brother Baron was waiting for us back at the church, and when we returned, he wanted a report on every house—something he said he probably should have been doing all along.
It was a strange old house. A fence, barely visible behind raggedy bushes and tall yellow grass, surrounded the weedy front yard. There a fat mulberry tree stood with its branches nearly touching the ground, and a shaggy hedge had begun to climb onto the raised front porch, where posts and eaves had long since begun peeling their coats of faded brown paint. As we stood at the front gate, my eyes followed the straight sidewalk, narrowed by overgrown edge grass, to a broken screen door that leaned like a car with a flat tire. The house had a tall narrowness about it—a steep pitched roof with peaks pointing heavenward. The dark windows were covered with heavy closed curtains, concealing all evidence of who lived there.
“This is creepy,” Reggie said. “I’ll wait here.”
I lifted the latch and pushed the front gate forward. It squeaked loudly and wavered back and forth from its open position. Indeed, it was creepy, and I must now confess that I hadn’t actually ever knocked on Brother Grossenheider’s front door as I had told Brother Baron. I had rattled the gate and yelled, “Is anybody here?” then quickly left.
A few steps placed me halfway up the front walk. I hesitated. A breeze started the gate moving, and it slammed closed.
Suddenly the front door of the house opened, and a raspy voice yelled, “What are you boys doing in my yard?”
I froze on the walkway. I heard Reggie’s feet pound the pavement as he ran away. “Run!” he called from across the street. The daylight reflecting on the broken screen door left darkness behind it, and I could not see the angry man, though I imagined the worst.
“Answer up quick, boy,” the voice continued. “What do you want?”
The broken screen door swung suddenly open and out shot what looked like a six-foot arm, but later I realized was a normal arm pointing a cane at me.
I dropped the envelope and grabbed the top of the gate and heaved my body over it, landing on my knees on the other side. I jumped to my feet and ran down the street until Reggie and I met a block away, breathing heavily.
When we returned to the church with our other envelopes, Brother Baron was not very understanding. “Why didn’t you just tell him who you are and what you were doing?” Brother Baron asked. “He probably thought you were just a couple of kids.”
“We are just a couple of kids.”
“No,” Brother Baron said. “You’re Aaronic Priesthood holders on an errand from the Lord Jesus Christ.” Then he looked seriously into my eyes. Finally, he shook his head and said, “I’ll have the home teachers explain it to Brother Grossenheider.”
The next Sunday in our priesthood lesson, Brother Baron told the story of President Spencer W. Kimball’s father, Andrew Kimball, who was called on a mission to the Indian territory in 1884. The summer of that year, both Elder Kimball and his companion got malaria and lay sick in bed for many weeks. Malaria had caused many missionaries to return home early from their missions. Some even died, so the Church sent word to Andrew Kimball that he and his companion could return home, which his companion did. But Elder Kimball sent this message back to Salt Lake: “I have the priesthood with me. I will get well and prefer to stay.” And he did stay for two more years.
“You see,” Brother Baron said, “the priesthood is a great, great privilege. It’s your enlistment into the army of God. And when you are given an assignment, I think the Lord watches as much to see how hard you try as He does to see whether you succeed or fail.”
After church I grabbed Reggie and said, “I’m going back to Brother Grossenheider’s to get the fast offering envelope, and you’re coming with me.”
“No way,” Reggie said. He argued all the way down Main Street until we stopped next to the gate. We stood to the side of the gate, behind the overgrown bushes, unseen by the silent house.
“The Lord gave us an errand,” I said. “Now let’s finish it.”
“It was your errand to start with, not mine.”
“Well, we’re both deacons. We both have the priesthood, and I need your help. Brother Baron made you my official companion.” I reached for the gate latch.
“Hold on a minute,” Reggie said.
“What?” I said, actually relieved to postpone our entry.
Reggie exhaled a great breath and looked around the vacant street. “We could call him on the phone from my house,” he said and looked at me with a fresh smile.
I nodded. “But then we’d still have to come and get the envelope.”
We looked at the raggedy house through the equally raggedy bushes.
“Let’s just do it,” I said.
“Well, what’s the plan?” Reggie asked. “Walk up to the door and ask him for it?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess so. It’s like Nephi going to get the brass plates from Laban. We’ll just have to let the way open up once we get there.”
“Oh, brother. That won’t work for us. We’re just kids. Nephi was a prophet.”
“We’re deacons. And besides, Nephi was a kid, remember?”
“Yeah, but a ‘large in stature’ kid.”
“Come on. Are you a Laman or a Nephi?”
“That’s not a fair question. I’m kind of a Nephi-in-the-making, you know, but I’m not quite there yet. And besides,” he mimicked me, “Nephi went alone, remember?”
“Well, I’m not going up there alone. You’re coming with me. Now, let’s go.”
I grabbed the gate latch and Reggie’s arm at the same time.
“All right,” Reggie said, still resisting me as the gate swung open and I pulled him through. “But if he’s passed out like Laban was, no way are we going to …”
“Shhh,” I said.
We slowly moved up the narrow walk to the porch steps and stopped, looking at the shabby house.
“Boy, does this place need paint,” I said.
“And a weed whacker,” Reggie said.
As we carefully proceeded up the steps, the top step flexed and creaked louder than a doorbell when we put our weight on it, announcing our presence.
“You boys!” a voice suddenly said from behind us. As we turned, Reggie slipped, sitting on the top step and bouncing his way to the bottom.
Brother Grossenheider was sitting in a lawn chair in the shade of the overgrown mulberry tree near the front gate. The bushes and weeds had kept him out of our sight. He had been there the whole time, even as we had been talking.
Reggie stood quickly and rubbed the back of his pants.
“H-hello, sir,” I said from the top step.
The old man reached into the big pocket of his faded overalls, and Reggie motioned to the gate to run for it, but Brother Grossenheider pulled from his pocket the blue fast offering envelope. “You looking for this?” he asked.
He was a very old man. His cane leaned against his chair. The top of his head was bald, the sides covered with thin gray hair. Small wire-frame glasses rested on the end of a large hooked nose. With his chin down, he watched us over the tops of the glasses but beneath the bottoms of his bushy white eyebrows.
“I found this on my walkway,” Brother Grossenheider said and shook the envelope at us as if it were evidence of our guilt.
“Y-yes, sir,” I said nervously and came down the steps next to Reggie. “We, uh, left it for you last week, and, uh, we’ve come to—to get it back.”
“So you’re deacons, are you? From the Church? Why didn’t you say so last week?”
I looked at Reggie, and we smiled sheepishly together, and I asked, “You didn’t hear us talking outside the gate, did you?”
He nodded slightly and looked at the envelope.
“We didn’t mean that you are like Laban, Brother Grossenheider. It’s just that …” I shrugged my shoulders.
“I remember that story of Nephi,” Brother Grossenheider said in his raspy old voice. “I was a deacon once, you know. But I was 16 or 17 years old. I didn’t know they sent young bucks like yourselves to do this kind of work.” He squinted at the sky. “I haven’t been to church in 60 years. But I remember doing fast offerings a few times when I was a deacon.”
He paused. “I’d forgotten all about that.” He turned the envelope over and over in his hands and examined it. “That used to be an important job, fast offerings. The bishop took us around in a wagon, and we loaded that wagon with eggs and tomatoes and carrots and meat, sometimes a chicken or two. And we drove right over to the people who needed it and gave it to them. They surely were glad to get it. Nineteen thirty-six, it was. Lots of people out of work. The Depression, you know.”
He looked keenly at us over his glasses. “No, I guess you don’t. But it was an important job back then. I suspect there’s still people in need, eh.” He looked at us sharply. “You boys look mighty young to be doing important business like this.”
We didn’t answer.
He shook the envelope at us again. “Can’t fit a chicken in here. How does this work?”
Reggie and I exchanged glances. “You just put some money in it,” I said and shrugged again. “Whatever you can afford.”
“Yep,” Reggie said and put his hands in his pockets. “And then the bishop takes care of it from there.”
The old man nodded and thought for a moment. “So I’m Laban, eh?” he said and squinted his eyes at us.
We looked at the ground, embarrassed, and adjusted our feet.
He took a dollar bill from his pocket. “I don’t have much,” he said and slid the dollar into the envelope. Then he stood and slowly walked to us with the envelope, his cane supporting his left side.
“You’ll be back next month?” Brother Grossenheider asked, handing me the envelope.
“Yes, sir, we will,” I said.
He worked his way up the porch steps with his cane, groaning as his legs lifted his body to each level. At the top he turned around and paused as his hard breathing settled to a quieter mode. “You boys close that gate when you leave, will you?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, and we did.
When we got to the street, Reggie said, “You know, I was thinking how the quorum needs a service project. Maybe next month we could ask Brother Grossenheider about helping with his yard. What do you think?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s go tell Brother Baron.” I turned and ran. “Last one there is a rotten egg!”

There is a silver-haired Argentine sister who knows the Shepherd. She has given a long life of service to the Lord, his Church, and her fellowman.
The first time Sister Herta Mellor attended a Latter-day Saint church service, she was brought by the missionaries. They felt that she was the most sophisticated, cultured, and best-educated investigator they had ever met. They held a few meetings in her lovely home, and when they invited her to accompany them to a Sunday church meeting, she readily agreed. The service was being held in an old building. The members attending were of somewhat humble circumstances compared with the new investigator.
The service did not go well by the standards of the two missionaries hoping to impress their guest. The branch leaders had just been recently called, and they were still learning their duties. There was some confusion at the pulpit. There was an interruption at the sacrament table at the most sacred moment. The sermons seemed to be less interesting than those desired by the eager missionaries. The reverence was threatened from time to time by children moving or crying. There was no organ to provide deep, religious sounds. The missionaries agonizingly thought of the negative impressions their elegant investigator must be receiving. They knew she normally worshiped in a very fashionable cathedral where everything would have been highly professional and the congregation would have been of the highest level of local society.
On the way home, one of the missionaries began to reflect his embarrassment. He explained: “Please excuse our present building. Some day we will build a lovely new chapel.” Then he added: “Please excuse our new leaders. We have a lay priesthood, so we take turns conducting, and the new leaders are still learning how to conduct services.” He was just about to give another excuse when Sister Mellor turned to him and said somewhat sternly: “Elder, don’t you apologize! It must have been like this at the time of Christ!”
With her spiritual eyes and her knowledge of the Shepherd, acquired through studying the holy scriptures, she saw through centuries of tradition. She saw past cathedrals and organs. She saw back through the corridors of time to the Shepherd meeting with his humble fishermen-Apostles, with some sinners, and even with leper outcasts. She saw the early Saints meeting in a small, rented, upstairs room. She saw children, with the Savior smiling at them lovingly. Because she knew the Shepherd, she could say with profound and deep insight, “It must have been like this at the time of Christ.”
She exemplifies to me the admonition which many have followed: “Fill your mind with thoughts of Christ, your heart with love of Christ, and your life with service to Christ.”

President Russell M. Nelson embodies all of these qualities. He is a man who always has time for others. He is meek and kind. Recently I was invited to join with the First Presidency and one of the apostles, along with one or two others, to meet with the ambassador from Rwanda. Mistakenly, the meeting appeared on my calendar for Friday, but when I arrived, I found that it should have been Thursday. I had not read the invitation correctly and missed the meeting. I felt absolutely sick in the stomach for disappointing our prophet, and I wondered how I could possibly face him. My feeble attempt to apologize was met with absolute kindness. He responded to my apology by indicating that I shouldn’t worry about missing the meeting. He said he completely understood how such a mistake could happen.

I have always loved music and felt strength in the words of the hymns. Yet prior to my stroke, when I was called to be the ward’s Primary music leader, I was very apprehensive. How was I supposed to make a difference in the children’s lives? My music education background had taught me to set goals in my teaching, so I decided to try to help the children feel the Spirit as we sang. When we sang songs such as “I Lived in Heaven,” I was astonished by the strong presence of the Holy Ghost in the room and by the children’s deep, thoughtful questions about the lyrics.
One of my favorite teaching methods was using American Sign Language (ASL). I found that the children understood the songs better when we discussed how the signs offered a visual representation of the words. I really enjoyed hearing the children sing and watching them sign “I’m Trying to Be like Jesus.” The message rang true in my heart, and I often felt that I was the benefactor of the Spirit that the children invited. I could sense my testimony growing, and I truly felt blessed by the Lord.

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.

Let us remember the Savior “descended below” all things (Doctrine and Covenants 122:8) because He is the Master Healer.

That’s a truth I’m continually learning to hold on to when I feel that need to solve everyone’s problems. I now strive to allow the Savior to guide and teach me.

Our simple mandate from Him is to “bear one another’s burdens” (Mosiah 18:8), which entails loving, supporting, listening, comforting, praying, fasting, forgiving, and serving. We can do that as we turn to follow the Savior. And as we let Him offer His healing hand to us and to those we love, our burdens will truly become light.

A faithful young woman decided not to compromise her standards when she was asked to dress immodestly to fit into the business division of the fashion company where she worked. Understanding that her body is a sacred gift from our Heavenly Father and a place where the Spirit can dwell, she was moved to live by a standard higher than the world’s. She not only gained the confidence of those who saw her living by the truth of the gospel of Jesus Christ but also preserved her job, which for a moment was in jeopardy. Her willingness to do what was pleasing in the sight of the Lord, rather than what worked for the world, gave her covenant confidence amidst difficult choices.

Moving? Tomorrow? It can’t be time already, thought eleven-year-old Sarah as she folded the last of her mother’s dish towels and put them into a barrel. The family had been planning for the past few weeks to leave Kirtland, Ohio, for Missouri with some of the other Saints, but they didn’t know exactly what day they would leave. This morning Sarah’s father had come into the kitchen and told his family that tomorrow was moving day.
Sarah wasn’t really surprised that they had to move. For the past year people who were against the Church and its members had caused the Saints a lot of problems. How vividly she remembered the day when her family had been sitting in the Kirtland Temple for their Sunday meeting and several ruffians had come into the room carrying knives and guns. Brandishing their weapons and shouting, they had disrupted the services. Sarah could still remember how frightened she had been that day. Joseph Smith’s father had been conducting the meeting. He’d sent for the police, and the intruders had been ushered out of the temple. After that, the meeting had gone on without interruption.
Just a month ago, when spring was in its glory throughout the Kirtland area, Father had told Sarah that she must do all that she could to help Mother get ready to move. However, Sarah had tried to convince herself that they wouldn’t have to do it. How can I leave Kirtland? she’d wondered. We’ve never lived anywhere else.
Kirtland was the place where Sarah and her brother John and sister, Laura, had all been born. Another brother, two years younger than Sarah, had even been buried in Kirtland shortly after he was born. It was the place where Sarah and her parents had been taught and baptized by Brother Sidney Rigdon. Brother Rigdon had been their minister when they had all belonged to the Campbellite Church, and the whole family had loved him. They had been glad to read the Book of Mormon when he had brought it to their home. It was only right that Brother Rigdon had baptized them when they were sure that the gospel was true.
Sarah had been excited about turning twelve in the fall and going with her best friend, Mary, to Sister Eliza Snow’s school for girls. But Sister Snow’s family and Mary’s family had already moved to Missouri, so there would be no school. She had hoped that someone else would teach the school once things settled down a little. But things hadn’t settled down.
The rest of that day and night went quickly. Suddenly it was daybreak and time to leave their home. When the wagon was packed, the whole family climbed aboard, with Father sitting on the front seat to drive the oxen he had bought only last week. John, looking very big for a seven-year-old, sat next to Father. Five-year-old Laura and Sarah sat in the back of the wagon with Mother. They all watched Kirtland grow smaller as they joined the other wagons leaving the city.
The first few weeks of the trip seemed especially long because of the slow pace of the oxen. John and Laura had been excited about the trek at first, but even they calmed down as time passed. One night Sarah was awakened by the low voice of her father. There was something in the sound of his voice that frightened her. She crawled out from under her blanket and drew back the wagon flap.
The worried look on Father’s face eased a little when he saw her. “Sarah, I need your help. Your mother has a high fever. Can you go to the river and fill the bucket with some water?”
Sarah was afraid. Mother had never been sick! She had always been the one to take care of others when they were ill. Quickly Sarah filled the bucket and returned to the wagon. All night long she and Father took turns wiping her mother’s face with damp cloths to keep her cool. Mother was too sick to say a word, and this really upset Sarah. By morning Sarah realized that she must take care of her brother and sister and fix whatever breakfast she could put together. She knew that she must remain calm so that John and Laura would not be frightened by Mother’s illness. Quietly she woke the children and told them what had happened.
“Will you go and get some small pieces of wood to start the fire, Laura?” she asked. “You’re really good at finding wood.” Turning to her little brother, she said, “John, if you can get some larger pieces, we can build a fire together.”
John crawled out from under his blanket and began to work without complaining. Sarah was amazed at how helpful her sister and brother were. They seemed to know exactly what to do.
Sarah cooked breakfast and quickly cleaned everything up. Mother didn’t seem much better, so Sarah stayed in the back of the wagon and put soothing, damp cloths on her mother’s face. Father had been able to fix a lid on a bucket so that the water didn’t spill with the wagon’s movement. Because the children helped so much, the family was able to keep up with the company.
Sarah spent every spare minute planning and cooking meals, keeping their clothes washed, and tending Mother. Laura and John gathered wood each night for cooking, and they helped in any other way they could. John found some empty wooden spools, and he and Laura were busy making a surprise for the family.
One morning Sarah awoke and realized that her family had been gone from Kirtland for six weeks! Mother was almost well, but she still let the children take care of things together. How proud she was of Sarah’s cooking and John and Laura’s fires.
“Do you know what’s happened to us, Sarah?” Mother said softly. “With the Lord’s help, we are relying on each other now. This is what we’re supposed to do. If I hadn’t been sick, you children would never have been able to show your father and me the many things you can do for our family.”
Before Sarah could reply, John and Laura climbed into the wagon holding something under a cloth. Father climbed in behind them and said, “I don’t know what these two are up to, but they made me stop everything to come and see what they’ve made.”
The children uncovered a checkerboard made from a weathered board, and a set of tiny checkers made from the spools John had found. Laura beamed and said, “John rubbed charcoal on some spools to make the black pieces, and I colored the other ones with some berries we found along the way. We thought everyone could take turns playing checkers.”
Sarah felt tears come to her eyes. She would miss Kirtland and its happy memories, but she was taking with her the best part of those memories—her family.

This year I was asked to be Santa in the school play. I was thrilled! I borrowed my papa’s Santa suit. All the little kids were excited when I walked into the gym all dressed up in the white beard and red suit. It was really fun being Santa. The best part was yet to come.
My papa dresses up like Santa every year and visits the nursing home in our town. It makes the older people there so happy. He told me that I should go to the nursing home dressed in the Santa suit and that it would probably be my favorite part of Christmas.
So after the play at school, my mom brought some oranges and we went to the nursing home. My little brother, Jaden, came along as Santa’s helper. I already knew a lot of the people there because our school class had visited the nursing home several times. I hoped that they wouldn’t recognize me!
When I walked in the door, I started ringing some Christmas bells that I had brought and shouting, “Merry Christmas!” A group of little grandmas was sitting at the end of the hall. When they heard the bells, they all looked at me and smiled. I gave them each an orange and visited with them. One lady asked, “Why have you come to see me?” I told her that I had come because it was Christmas and I wanted to make sure that she was being good. They all wanted their picture taken with Santa.
But the best part was when I went to visit Bill. He wasn’t in the hall. He was in his room with the door closed. That’s where Bill always is. He never speaks, and he usually doesn’t like visitors at all. I knew that because I had tried to make friends with him before but had never had any luck. The nurse was worried about me going into his room. I asked her if I could see him for just a minute. She opened the door, and I could see Bill lying with his back toward me, watching TV. I started to jingle the bells. As soon as Bill heard the bells, he slowly turned toward me. He sat up on his bed, and he got the biggest smile on his face. I wished him a merry Christmas and gave him a hug. He looked just like a little boy on Christmas morning. The nurse who was with me had a tear running down her cheek. She said that she had never seen Bill smile before.
My papa was right. I had the best feeling that night. I think that visiting the nursing home as Santa was one of my favorite parts of Christmas.

Brigham Young wrote in his journal:
“I started from Montrose on my mission to England. My health was so poor I was unable to go thirty rods to the river without assistance. After I had crossed the river I got Israel Barlow to carry me on his horse behind him to Heber C. Kimball’s, where I remained sick till the 18th. I left my wife sick with a babe only ten days old, and all my children sick and unable to wait upon each other. …”1
An economist could hardly condone the decision of Brigham Young to leave his family in such dire conditions to go off to England as a missionary. An economist learns to make decisions on the basis of what might be called a prudential value system, that is, a value system in which one counts the costs, compares them with the benefits, and follows that course of action for which the rewards are greatest. He makes a cost-benefit analysis and justifies his actions not by appeal to past authority or to previously formulated principles but by their expected future effects. The ethic is sensible and rational. We have come to respect it as a good system by which to make decisions.
By this ethic, though, Brigham Young’s action seems ill-considered, if not totally unjustifiable. Had he relied on the evidence of a cost-benefit analysis, he would likely not have gone on a mission at all: the cost in certain pain and possible death seemed to far outweigh the benefit in uncertain conversions in a far-off land.

I love the joy of learning. For example, I have always enjoyed words. When I was a boy, and I would encounter a word I didn’t know, sometimes I would ask my father what it meant. He would often reply, “Look it up.” My father usually knew the answer, but he wanted me to learn how to look words up. So I would open the dictionary on the bookshelf and look the word up.

Later I wanted to learn more words. One summer a friend and I worked as groundskeepers at the Oakland California Temple. On some days we would each write five words and their definitions on a 3-by-5 card, and put the card in our shirt pocket. Then, we would share the words and use them in sentences during the day. My favorite word from that summer was “halcyon.” It means calm, peaceful, tranquil, or golden. As we pulled weeds and performed other physical labor, we would exclaim, “Oh, those halcyon days of youth.” Now, as I look back, I see that they really were halcyon days.

My family and I were roasting hot dogs around a campfire when I fell out of my chair and burned my arm. I got a third-degree burn on my elbow. It hurt so bad. My sisters hugged me and tried to make me laugh while my brother went to get my dad’s consecrated oil. My dad gave me a priesthood blessing. He blessed me to heal quickly and feel no more pain. The pain went away. When we went to the hospital, the doctors and nurses were surprised that I was cheerful and talkative. I made them all laugh. I know the blessing helped me to heal quickly. I am thankful my dad has the faith to use the power of the Lord to bless me.

My sister and I shared a room. People would ask me if it was hard, but I would tell them I loved it. Of course, we had arguments. We would sometimes go a few hours without talking to each other over some silly disagreement, but we still loved each other.
There came a time when Laura was struggling. She was having problems with friends and was struggling to keep up with her schoolwork. I didn’t realize just how unhappy she was until she confided in me and asked me for advice. I suggested that she should get a priesthood blessing. She agreed.
We asked a member of our ward to give my sister a priesthood blessing. I sat on the couch while Laura sat on a stool in the middle of the room. The words that were spoken were powerful. I’ll never forget when the person giving the blessing said that the Lord would always be there for my sister and that He had already sent angels to her. Then the blessing said that one of these angels was me, her sister.
I am so thankful for Laura. She’s been an angel for me just as I’ve tried to be an angel for her, and I know that when we’re there for each other, we’re helping the Lord in His work.

Many years back I had been assigned to name a patriarch for a stake in Logan, Utah. I found such a man, wrote his name on a slip of paper, and placed the note inside my scriptures. My further review revealed that another worthy patriarch had moved to this same area, making unnecessary the naming of a new patriarch. None was named.

Nine years later I was again assigned a stake conference in Logan. Once more a patriarch was needed for the stake I was to visit. I had been using a new set of scriptures for several years and had them in my briefcase. However, as I prepared to leave my home for the drive to Logan, I took from the bookcase shelf an older set of scriptures, leaving the new ones at home. During the conference I began my search for a patriarch: a worthy man, a blameless servant of God, one filled with faith, characterized by kindness. Pondering these requirements, I opened my scriptures and there discovered the slip of paper placed there long years before. I read the name written on the paper: Cecil B. Kenner. I asked the stake presidency if by chance Brother Kenner lived in this particular stake. I found he did. Cecil B. Kenner was that day ordained a patriarch.

When Arthur was 16, two six-foot-one Mormon elders in tailcoats and top hats came visiting. The Sadler children could see the tops of the elders’ hats coming way off down the lane in spite of the tall hedges, and the younger ones would call out, “Here come the poplar trees!” The tall, young Americans taught the family and the family was baptized. The Church was unpopular in England in those days, and the family suffered some harassment for their decision, but they stayed faithful, walking four miles each way to their meetings.