Gospel Story Finder

I was born in The Hague, the fourth son and the youngest child in my family. My father always wanted me to read, write, and speak perfect Dutch. When I had been disobedient or had done something that was not to his liking, I had to copy in my best handwriting the whole front page of the local newspaper. He said, “Here is paper, and here is a pencil. Copy every line and every headline on the front page of the newspaper, and then I will see how you are doing.” If I made ten mistakes in the spelling of words, I had to do it all over again. If I made five mistakes, I had to do half the page. If I had made no mistakes, he would reward me with a Dutch chocolate bar. That’s the type of man he was. If you performed well, he said, “You’ve earned a reward.”
How grateful I still am for this useful way of correcting wrong behavior in my youth. Now I know how to spell words not only in the Dutch language, but also in the English language because I have sought the same perfection in other languages as I have in my native tongue. My father instilled in me the belief that when one communicates, one must be word perfect.

Jake loved Sundays! He loved learning about Jesus. He loved singing in Primary.
And he loved pizza.
Every Sunday, Jake’s family stopped at a pizza place on their way home from church. Thinking about the gooey cheese and warm tomato sauce always made his mouth water.
One Sunday, Jake’s class was talking about keeping the Sabbath day holy.
“What can we do on Sunday to show that it’s a special day?” Sister Chi asked.
“Help other people?” Raul said.
“Go to church!” Tamara said.
“Spend time with our family,” Jake said.
“Those are all great answers,” Sister Chi said, writing them on the board. “Anything else?”
“We don’t go shopping on Sunday unless it’s an emergency,” Liam said.
“That’s right,” Sister Chi said, nodding. “Then we can think about Heavenly Father instead of thinking about buying things. Also, that helps other people keep the Sabbath day holy instead of having to work.”
Sister Chi and the other kids kept talking, but suddenly Jake found it hard to listen. His family never went to the mall or the grocery store on Sunday. But they did go out for pizza. Were they keeping the Sabbath day holy?
When class ended, Jake went to find his parents. For the first time, he wasn’t very excited to eat pizza.
Mom met him in the hallway with his little brother, Daniel. She led them outside to the car, where Dad was waiting.
“How was church?” she asked once they were all buckled in.
“Great! I learned a new song in Primary,” Daniel said, singing what he could remember. Jake stayed quiet, looking down at his shoes.
“What about you, Jake?” Dad said.
“It was OK,” Jake mumbled without looking up.
“What did you learn about?” Mom asked.
“The Sabbath day,” Jake said.
“We learned about that too,” Dad said, glancing over at Mom. “Actually, we wanted to talk with you guys about—”
“Should we be buying pizza on Sunday?” Jake blurted out. He didn’t want to ruin their family tradition. But he wanted them to keep the Sabbath day holy too.
Mom looked back at him, surprised.
“That’s exactly what we wanted to talk about,” Mom said. “We realized that eating at the pizza place probably isn’t the best thing to do on the Sabbath.”
“But can we still have pizza on Sundays?” Daniel asked.
“Sure. We’ll eat something else today,” Dad said. “From now on I’ll buy a frozen pizza on Saturday. Then we can bake it at home on Sunday.”
“Can we try different toppings on it?” Jake said. “Like olives and peppers shaped in a smiley face?”
“Yeah! With a pineapple nose?” Daniel added.
“Ha! You got it,” Mom said.
Jake felt a big grin spread across his face. The warm feeling he had inside was worth all the pizza in the world.

by Marilyn Bathern as told to Crystal Schneider
Elliot, my hometown of 600 people, is just a speck in the vast scrub and eucalyptus tree landscape of Australia’s Northern Territory. I was 13 years old when I walked over to the tiny LDS chapel there.
The elders asked me if I was interested in going to church. Every night the missionary couple, the Grays, cooked up some popcorn or treats. Occasionally they’d have a big barbie (barbecue). There were heaps of fun and games. I liked being with these people, and I liked the warm friendship I felt.
A few months later, I boarded the bus for Alice Springs, ten hours’ drive south. My new home would be St. Phillip’s College during years seven through twelve of my education. Before I left, Sister Gray gave me a note with the branch president’s address on it.
In Alice, I found the branch president’s home—a roomy, pine cottage with five kids scurrying around the front yard. I handed the note to the branch president’s wife, Sister Marriot. Over the next few weeks, I again felt warm and wonderful as the Marriots became my home away from home. And I liked the warmth of the other Latter-day Saints who surrounded me, like my best friend Jeni Lee; the St. Phillip’s house parent, Sister Williams; and the Webster family.
I knew the Church was right. At age 15, with my parents’ permission, I was baptized. Now I’m 20, and I’m back in Elliot finishing up my training as a health worker. I’d like to get into Uni (Northern Territory University).
The warmth of members brought me into the gospel. Their example lighted my way to the truth. But now I know it’s my responsibility to strengthen my own testimony and get close to Jesus.

Before the temple near their home was dedicated, Olivia invited her grandma to come with her to the temple open house.
I’m happy you came with us to the open house, Grandma.
Thank you for inviting me. I’ve been a little lonely since Grandpa passed away.
I miss him too.
Mom told me that when she and Dad come to the temple, they wear white clothes.
That’s right.
When you turn 12, you’ll get to come here and do baptisms for the dead.
I’m so excited!
Sealings will be performed in this room. Stand in front of this mirror and look at the mirror across the room. What do you see?
It’s as if we go on and on forever.
Just like our family, right? We’ll even see Grandpa again someday.
You’re right. If we keep the commandments, we can be with Grandpa and all of our family because we’ve been sealed in the temple.
Olivia and Grandma followed the tour guide into the temple’s celestial room.
I like how it feels in here. I feel happy.
I do too.
I love the temple, Grandma. Someday, when I’m older, I’ll come back and be married here. I’m happy that our whole family can be together forever—even Grandpa.
That’s right. I’m very thankful for the temple, for the open house, and for you.

I know of an instance where a young Latter-day Saint father, following a tradition in the United States, bought a box of cigars to give away to announce the birth of his first child. Naively he offered a cigar to the bishop. The bishop crumpled up the cigar and threw it into the trash in front of the father. This thoughtless act so offended the new father that he never came back to church. In fact, he has raised his entire family of children and grandchildren outside the Church.
In my opinion, the bishop was partially responsible for the loss of this soul and should have searched until he had found this “coin” and returned it. If he had immediately apologized for his thoughtless act, the new father probably would have returned and could have even been made stronger than before.

I share just one tender experience. While President Monson was serving as a bishop, he learned that a member of his ward, Mary Watson, was in the hospital. As he went to visit her, he learned that she was staying in a large room with several other patients. When he approached Sister Watson, he noticed that the patient in a neighboring bed quickly covered her head.
After President Monson had visited with Sister Watson and given her a priesthood blessing, he shook her hand, said good-bye, and prepared to leave. Then a simple but amazing thing happened. I quote now from President Monson’s own recollection of this experience:
“I could not leave her side. It was as though an unseen hand [was] resting on my shoulder, and I felt within my soul that I was hearing these words: ‘Go over to the next bed where the little lady covered her face when you came in.’ I did so. …
“I approached the bedside of the other patient, gently tapped her shoulder and carefully pulled back the sheet which had covered her face. Lo and behold! She, too, was a member of my ward. I had not known she was a patient in the hospital. Her name was Kathleen McKee. When her eyes met mine, she exclaimed through her tears, ‘Oh, Bishop, when you entered that door, I felt you had come to see me and bless me in response to my prayers. I was rejoicing inside to think that you would know I was here, but when you stopped at the other bed, my heart sank, and I knew that you had not come to see me.’
“I said to [Sister] McKee: ‘It does not matter that I didn’t know you were here. It is important, however, that our Heavenly Father knew and that you had prayed silently for a priesthood blessing. It was He who prompted me to intrude on your privacy.’”

Lily S. of Utah, USA, had a busy ninth grade year. As a cheerleader, she participated in parades, football games, basketball games, and cheer camps and clinics. But the path to Lily’s cheerleading career was not an easy one.
As soon as Lily found out about her junior high school’s cheerleading tryouts, she knew she wanted to be a part of the team. For three weeks, Lily practiced with a former cheerleader to learn cheers and dance routines. She also spent hours making up her own cheer. After weeks of practice and a tough audition process, Lily made the team—and the Young Women Personal Progress program had helped.
Because of Personal Progress, Lily has participated in many activities where she learned to set goals and work hard to achieve them—skills that definitely helped her reach her cheerleading goals.

Photograph by Shaun Stahle
Elder Brandon Burton served as a proselyting missionary in the Philippines Cabanatuan Mission for eight months. “I loved teaching in Tagalog and felt that I had adjusted to the culture,” he said.
Unfortunately, he started to experience unexpected challenges.
“I felt like my life was slowly losing its color, and it was difficult to see the joy of the work,” he said. “Eventually, after I was diagnosed with depression, my mission leaders and I concluded that I should go home to navigate my new health challenges.”
Elder Burton was disappointed. He said, “I thought I was ruining God’s plan by coming home.” But he worked with his stake president to transfer to a service mission.
Through a series of miracles that took place before Elder Burton even boarded the plane home, his parents met individuals at Church headquarters who gave him the opportunity to serve the Lord with his unique skills and abilities.
The rest of his mission included teaching the gospel in the evenings, helping with articles for the Liahona magazine, working with horses, and serving in the Bountiful Utah Temple.
“God clearly showed that this was His plan and that He would provide for me,” he said.
“God clearly showed that this was His plan and that He would provide for me.”
Elder Dale G. Renlund of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles has said that “service missionaries bring great blessings to themselves, but more importantly, as they are doing this work, they’re blessing Heavenly Father’s children in unique ways.”
Elder Burton concluded, “I thought I came home because I was broken, but I learned that is not true. I transferred to a service mission because that is where God needed me, and He provided a way.”

Illustration by Roger Motzkus
I stared out the window as I washed my hands in the kitchen sink. It was a very warm summer day and the birds were singing. The sun was bright and the grass was green. I could see the little dirt road that ran down the hill past our house to the fields, which were flooded again. This happened all the time when the water was let into the canal so the farmers could water.
I was just about to return to my afternoon hideout in my room when I got a sudden feeling that I should go play with my brothers. And even though I couldn’t hear them and I hadn’t seen them for hours, somehow I knew they were outside playing in the water.
Now, I really like my brothers. Blake was 5, and Morgan was almost 4. And even though I enjoyed spending time with them, I didn’t usually seek them out to play. But this time, I knew I needed to.
As I left the house, heading toward the flooded road and the ditch beyond, my main concern was that I didn’t want to get wet. A small children’s tricycle was sitting next to the road, so I used it like a scooter to begin my journey through the water.
The dirt road that led to the neighbor’s field ran on top of a culvert, a drainage pipe that carried water underneath the road and let the water out into the ditch on the other side. As I was making my way toward the culvert, I heard yelling and instantly knew I had to get there fast! Abandoning the tricycle, I ran through the water to the ditch. As the water drained through the culvert, it made a whirlpool. It was an impressive sight. But when I saw my brothers, I gasped.
Morgan had been sucked in! Blake was standing on one side of the culvert’s opening and Travis, our cousin who was the same age as Blake, was standing on the other side. The water was swirling around their legs and each of them was grasping one of Morgan’s hands. Only Morgan’s head and arms were above water. Only the desperate grips of two small boys were keeping him from being swept into the culvert.
Morgan went under the water. Blake and Travis pulled with all their might and were able to bring him up just far enough that his head came out of the water again. Thoughts of confusion and panic were rushing through my head. The one thing I remember thinking was that it was going to be hard to pull Morgan out of the water, like pulling your foot out of mud that’s halfway to your knees. But when I grabbed him and pulled, it was more like pulling a hot knife out of butter. He just slid out of the water.
The current from the whirlpool was so strong that it had pulled off Morgan’s shoes and socks. I bundled him up in the other boys’ shirts and laid him in a wagon and took him home.
After we got home and told Mom what happened, I went back down to the ditch to get Morgan’s stuff. What I saw there made my heart stop. On the other end of the culvert was a grate that had been welded on. It was there to keep anything other than water from leaving the culvert. The grate was full of garbage, and nothing bigger than a leaf was getting through. Had Morgan been pulled into the culvert, he wouldn’t have come out. He would have been stopped by that grate and drowned.
I know it was the Holy Ghost who gave me the impression to go play with my brothers that day, and it was because of the Holy Ghost that I knew where my brothers were. I’m thankful I have the Holy Ghost with me to help protect me and those I love. And I’m thankful I listened when I was inspired to go play with my brothers.

The churches, castles, and inns of thirteenth-century England are the setting for this dramatic story of Robin. Robin’s father, a great lord, was off to the wars, and his mother, a lady, was called to help care for the Queen, as there was a plague raging in the city of London. Robin is to go to a castle in the north of the land to begin serving as a page in preparation for knighthood. The plague overcomes the household staff. Robin becomes ill and is left unattended. How Robin eventually gets to his castle and how he learns there are different ways in which to serve make for exciting reading.

I was 13 when I found myself faced with what I felt was a no-win scenario. I had been friends with this girl for a few months. She was not a member of the Church, nor did she share all of our values of always striving to be Christlike. She preferred to settle her disagreements with her fists.

During lunch that day, I had been sitting quietly, listening to the conversation around me. Then my friend suddenly started bad-mouthing another friend of mine. This other friend I knew to be a nice, polite girl, who always tried to treat everyone kindly. My heart started to pound, sounding in my ears. I knew it wasn’t right for me to sit there and say nothing; so I spoke.

“Please don’t talk about her like that.”

My friend glared at me. “I can talk about her if I want,” she responded.

“I’m asking you not to,” I said a little louder.

That’s when she stood—face flushed and eyes wide. “You want to take this outside?” she snarled.

There I sat, unsure of how to keep one friend while defending another, who I knew didn’t deserve to have her reputation slandered.

I stood up to meet my friend’s eyes, praying that Heavenly Father would help me be a peacemaker.

I spoke calmly but sincerely. “You’re my friend,” I told her, “and it hurts me to hear you talk badly about another friend I care about.”

That was all it took. The wrinkles between her brows disappeared and her eyes softened. She shrugged, “Fine.” Then, she sat back down.

That may not have been our last disagreement, but that was the last time she ever wanted to fight me. I learned then that treating others as friends and fellow sons and daughters of our Heavenly Father is the right thing to do, no matter the situation. And I’m grateful for the example that our Savior, Jesus Christ, and the Prophet Joseph Smith set for me so that I could learn this for myself.

A good example of weathering this trial of faith is Yolanda Cantos of the Tolosa Branch, Tolosa Philippines District, on the island of Leyte. In 1985, when Yolanda was 22 years old, she visited relatives on Samar, a neighboring island. Her relatives invited her to listen to the missionary discussions. She agreed, but because she was a devout member of another church her real intention was to challenge the missionaries. “I knew they were wrong,” she says. She listened, though, and despite her intentions, she says, “the Spirit worked with me, and I couldn’t find any fault in their teachings.” Fearing that they were misleading her, she returned home to Tolosa. But when she prayed, she couldn’t forget what the missionaries had taught her, so she returned to Samar to continue the discussions.
“I was challenged twice to be baptized,” she says. “I knew the Church was true, but it was hard for me because of my family and friends. They belonged to another church, and I was a member of the choir. But when I went to witness the baptism of a friend, I heard a voice asking me why I had rejected Him so many times. And when I saw my friend immersed in the water, it was as if I saw myself being baptized. After that I told the missionaries that, no matter what happened, I wanted to be baptized.”
Her baptism took place a week later. When her mother learned of it, she wouldn’t allow Yolanda in her home anymore. She said if Yolanda would deny her new faith, then she would be welcome again. Yolanda assured her mother that someday she would understand her choice. Then she returned to Samar to live with her relatives and to fast and pray for her family. One month later her brother was baptized, and a year later her mother joined the Church. “It was through fasting and prayer,” explains Yolanda.
The path to the Lord’s Church wasn’t easy, but the rewards have been well worth the trial of faith Yolanda endured. She was married in the Manila Philippines Temple in 1993; her husband, Felix, a returned missionary, is president of the Tolosa Branch; and they have two sons, Jed Ephraim and Russell Jacob.

One Sunday, my Primary friends Rebecca and Crystal were going to another ward.
That would make me the oldest child in my Primary class. I was pleased, but two of the boys sometimes don’t respect me—maybe because I play with them too much. So I try to be a better person.
One of the two boys, Sammy,* doesn’t always pay attention in class. Sometimes he makes fun of me and makes me angry. But I decided to not get so angry. That’s how you become a better leader. Jesus Christ would not get angry if He was here. I know that Jesus is true and is our Savior. It’s hard to be a good leader, but it is good to be a leader like Jesus Christ.

Freda was glad to be home. It was good to be with her family again. She had been away to a special school for a while so she could learn how to read braille and take care of herself without bumping into things. She had also learned that the only way she was different from other people was that she could not see.
Still, Freda found it difficult to adjust to another school. She had books printed in braille so she could learn along with the other students. But she wanted to join in some of the other activities, particularly the art contest the teacher had announced at school today.
Freda couldn’t paint a picture. She didn’t even know what blue looked like, though people had tried to tell her. The sky could be blue, red, orange, or yellow, for all she knew.
After arriving home from school Freda went into her room, sat in her rocking chair, and tried to think of something she could make for the contest. Her cat Fluffy jumped onto her lap and cuddled down to have his ears rubbed. As Freda rocked and petted Fluffy, she began to feel sad because she couldn’t see to paint a picture.
Then an idea started running through Freda’s mind. Suddenly she stopped rocking and began to laugh.
Fluffy, who had been purring contentedly, sat up in alarm and nudged Freda with his paws to remind her to pet him some more. “Not now, Fluffy,” Freda said putting him on the floor and hurrying into the kitchen.
“Mother, could you buy me some clay so I can make a statue for the art show?” she asked excitedly.
“That’s great idea, dear. I’ll buy the clay tomorrow,” her mother promised.
The next afternoon Freda’s mother gave her a box and told her, “You add water to the clay until it’s the right consistency to mold, then you can model whatever you want. When you’re finished, we’ll put it in the oven so it will harden like stone.”
Freda covered the table with newspapers and started to work. When she had the basic shape completed, she called Fluffy, who hopped into her lap. She petted the cat, molded the clay, and then she petted him some more.
Fluffy loved it and purred happily. He didn’t remember when he had been petted so much.
Day after day, Freda went to her room after school and worked on her statute. At last she was satisfied. Freda picked Fluffy up, hugged him, and said, “Thank you for being such a good model.” Then she carried her statute into the kitchen and placed it on a cookie sheet so her mother could put it into the oven to bake.
“It’s beautiful,” her mother told her when she took the statue out of the oven.
“I can hardly wait till it’s cool so I can see it, too,” Freda commented.
Then they both laughed—to Freda, “seeing” meant touching.
The next morning she ran her fingers all over the statue before carefully wrapping her entry in tissue paper to carry to school.
The judges for the art show studied the entries and then placed ribbons on the winners. In each grade there was a red ribbon for first place, a blue one for second place, and a white one for third place. A red, white, and blue ribbon would be awarded for the best entry in the whole school.
Finally, it was time for Freda’s class to go to the auditorium to see the display. Freda was happy that she had been able to enter the contest.
Everyone agreed with the judges’ choice of Freda’s clay cat as the top award.
“That cat looks almost real,” one boy said, admiring Freda’s statue. “You want to reach out and pet him.”
Freda smiled. She was glad Fluffy looked to others the same way he looked to her fingertips.

We had an orchard where all kinds of fruit trees provided much of our living, but it also meant much hard work for little boys. The peaches were large and luscious, and when Ma had filled our pantry with bottles of fruit for the winter, Pa decided we could sell some. I was about twelve and Alice ten, and again we were in business.
I climbed to the tops of the trees and picked the largest, most colorful peaches; Alice put them in the boxes, I piled them neatly in the buggy and drove the long journey of about six miles to Pima, where many of the good women bought the fruit, and we soon headed home. As we counted our nickels and dimes and quarters, we found we had five dollars. It would be Christmas soon, so we excitedly talked about gifts for our large family.
When we got home and gleefully laid our money on the table, Pa reminded us again, “Have you counted out your tithing?” So, of course, we had to skimp a little on some of our planned Christmas gifts. As soon as the sweating mare was back in the pasture, the buggy in the shed, and the boxes stowed away, we went through the orchard and through the fence to the bishop again.
When I was in high school, I found it necessary to support myself. I suppose I was about sixteen, and I went to Globe, Arizona, the big mining camp, and there secured a job milking cows twice a day for a dairy. In those days we had no machines, and we milked with our hands. I milked between eighteen and twenty-eight cows twice a day, separated the cream, bottled the milk, washed the cans and bottles, fed the cattle, and cleaned the manure. For all of this, I received my meals, a cot in a bunkhouse, and $47.50 a month.
I was now on my own. No one was there to check up on me. When I received my first paycheck, I asked myself, “Should I or should I not pay my tithing?” I sent my dairy check home to the bank and received a receipt and a checkbook. I numbered the checks on the book and my first check was made out payable to the bishop.
The Lord has promised that if boys and girls and their parents are faithful in paying their tithing, he will pour out great blessings upon them. I know he keeps the promise.

Mister Biggins had to tie the yellow balloon around his wrist. It was the only yellow one in his whole bunch of balloons. There were red balloons and blue balloons and pink and green and white balloons, all bobbing and bumping together over his head. But the yellow balloon bucked like a bronco. It pulled straight up, harder than all the others, hunting the sky.
Mister Biggins was selling balloons. Other people were flying kites—a box kite, a dragon kite, and one like a bat. The wind was glad to have them all to play with. The wind was laughing, and Billy could hear him. “He’s whuffling,” Billy said. “May I fly a kite, Mommy?”
“When you’re older, Billy.”
“Older? I’ll be older tomorrow.”
“But not old enough,” said Mommy. “See how fast the big boys run to get their kites up? You’ll have to have longer legs like theirs to fly a kite.”
“When I’m in kindergarten?” asked Billy.
“Well, we’ll see.”
The March wind whuffled around a rock. Billy stretched out his arms. He ran and ran. “Maybe the wind will fly me,” he called to his mother. “What fun it would be!”
The wind flew kites and leaves and papers. But it didn’t fly Billy. It only whuffled.
“Mommy! Why won’t the wind fly me? It flies clouds and they’re bigger than I am.”
“The clouds are bigger, all right, but they’re lighter than air.”
“The papers aren’t.”
“The papers are flat and light enough to sail on the wind.”
Billy ran again. The box kite was flying. It wasn’t flat or lighter than air. A jet plane drew a streak like a chalk mark as it flew across the sky. Even the sun—round and yellow—seemed to be flying.
Only Billy wasn’t flying. He was jumping and jumping, but he wasn’t flying. Billy saw Mister Biggins with all the balloons jostling together over his head.
“Mommy, may I have a balloon?”
“All right, Billy. Which one?”
“A flying balloon. Mister balloon man, do you have a flying balloon?”
“I certainly do. And a nuisance it is! It’s that yellow one in the middle. But keep a tight hold on it. It wants to fly.”
“So do I! I want to fly!”
Billy danced excitedly while Mister Biggins untied the yellow balloon from his wrist. He was glad to be rid of the restless balloon. “Hold it tight or it’ll get away. They put too much helium in it,” Mister Biggins explained.
Billy held the yellow balloon’s string with both hands and felt it tugging and tugging. He jumped a little to see if the yellow balloon would fly him, but Billy was too heavy for the yellow balloon. He bounced back down the path to the park, jumping like a kangaroo with the yellow balloon. But being a kangaroo wasn’t flying.
The dragon kite dipped over his head. The March wind whuffled. Little clouds scooted in front of the sun. The sun was as yellow as the yellow balloon.
“It’s a flying balloon. Fly away, balloon!” And Billy let go of the string.
“You lost it,” said Mommy.
“It’s flying away! It’s Billy Balloon, and it’s flying away!”
The balloon went up and up, above the dragon kite, over the box kite, higher and higher to where the clouds scooted.
“See Mommy! See! It’s Billy Balloon. It’s chasing the clouds. Billy Balloon! Billy Balloon!”

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

When I attended stake conference that morning in March 1993, I had no idea how much my life—and the lives of my ancestors—would be affected.
Along with other members of the Brazil Santos Stake, I was enjoying the conference. Then, near the end of the meeting, a sister’s talk especially stirred something within me. She spoke about family history work.
My friend, Silmara Peres, was also strongly moved by the Spirit. At the end of the meeting, we approached one of the people responsible for family history work in our stake and volunteered to help with the family records extraction program.
The following Tuesday, the two of us went to the stake building to begin our new assignment. After we received our training, we began the work of extracting names and dates from microfilmed records so that the saving ordinances of the gospel could be performed in the temple for the people listed in the records.
Someone else was there working on a roll of microfilm. He graciously let us continue the roll he was working on, so that we could get started immediately.
We had just begun—we had extracted only two names—when I found myself reading the names of my great-grandparents! At first I was doubtful. Could this be a coincidence? We asked the supervisor what city these microfilmed records had come from. Noticing our excitement, she returned the microfilm to the beginning, where it showed the name of the town: Itirapina.
Silmara and I looked at each other in amazement. During a recent vacation with our bishop and his family, we had visited Itirapina. I had wanted to see the town because it was the place my father had come from. Now, as we looked at the names and dates on the microfilm, we knew that we really had found my ancestors! I was overcome with emotion, gratitude, and testimony. Now temple work could be done for them.
Since then, Silmara and I have continued to make this work a part of our lives, and our testimonies have increased. Every week we go to the stake building and give this service. As we extract names from the microfilms, we know that we are serving the Lord, for now these people can also be baptized and receive temple ordinances.
We are finding that this is not only a service—it is a blessing.

I remember this was driven home to me as a young man when I heard of a visit made to the home of my grandfather, who was then bishop of a little country ward at Whitney, Idaho. In those days it was not uncommon to have stake conferences run for three days. And it was not uncommon for the visiting authority to take advantage of the opportunities to visit in the homes, not only of the stake presidency, but of some of the bishops. The story is told that Elder Joseph F. Smith—I think he was not then president (he may have been a member of the Twelve)—was visiting the old Oneida Stake of Zion, and true to custom, he had arranged to honor my grandfather and to take a meal at his home. In telling the story, Grandfather said that they were seated in the living room/dining room combination of the farm home. The table was laden with good things to eat. The family was gathered around—I don’t know how many (there were 13 children in that wonderful family and I presume some of them were away on missions as they usually were).

Just before they were ready to start the meal, President Smith stretched his long arms over the table and turned to my grandfather and said, “Brother Benson, all this and the gospel too?” What did President Smith mean? All this and the gospel too? The food represented the good things of life—food, clothing, and all the rest—the material blessings of life. This family of children—home, family, loved ones—all that the world has and the gospel too. I think that’s what the Prophet Joseph had in mind.

Four-year-old Ann blinked her eyes in amazement as she watched the Christmas lights come on. She looked up and down the street and saw all the decorations. A chubby cardboard Santa was just getting out of his sleigh in the Wilsons’ front yard, and the Bakers had put up their lifesize Wise Men again. Ann especially liked to see the camels with their big humps. She wondered how the Wise Men could ever stay seated on them. Right next door to her house was a Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer whose nose flashed on and off!
“Oh, Mommy,” she said excitedly, “the best thing about Christmas is the beautiful street decorations.”
The next day, Ann helped her mother cut out Christmas cookies. She made stars and Christmas trees and Santa Clauses and bells. Then she helped frost the cookies and sprinkle glittering silver, red, and green sugar sparkles on top of each one. And sometimes Ann popped a cookie right into her mouth.
“Mmmmmm. I think making cookies is the best thing about Christmas,” she told her mother.
That night Ann sat at the kitchen table, stringing pieces of popcorn and cranberries on thread. First she put on four pieces of popcorn, because she was four years old. Then she put on one cranberry for baby Lisa who was one year old—four pieces of popcorn and a cranberry, four pieces of popcorn and a cranberry. Ann had to poke the needle through just the right place and be careful not to poke her finger!
“Mommy,” Ann said as she showed her how long the strand was, “I guess the best thing about Christmas is decorating the tree.”
The next morning, Ann and her mother went shopping downtown in a big department store. There were red and green ribbons with different sizes of gold balls all over the store and Ann could hear Christmas carols as she and her mother rode up the escalator to the toy department. Ann liked looking at all the exciting toys. She saw some colored blocks and a big pink ball and a blue and yellow Big Wheel with racing stripes and a doll with pretty black hair.
“May I help you with something?” a smiling salesclerk asked.
“Yes, I want to buy this big pink ball for my sister Lisa,” Ann replied.
On the way home Ann squeezed her mother’s hand. “The very best thing about Christmas is shopping for gifts to give,” she told her.
On Christmas morning, Ann was wide awake even before the sun came up. After she had eaten breakfast with Lisa and her parents, they all marched into the living room singing “Jingle Bells.” Shouting with excitement, Ann rushed over to a brand-new Big Wheel just her size. When she had ridden it once around the room she jumped off and ran over to give her mother and dad a big hug and kiss.
“Just what I wanted,” she told them. “Presents are the best thing about Christmas.”
As they sat down to unwrap their gifts, Ann watched eagerly as Lisa, her face shining with joy, pulled the paper and bows off the new ball Ann had wrapped for her. “The best thing about Christmas is seeing Lisa with her first Christmas gifts,” she told her mother and father.
Later that morning, Ann went to Sunday School with her family. For the Christmas program, she sang “Away in a Manger” and “Silent Night” with her class. She had also been chosen to give a little toy lamb to Mary for the Baby Jesus. Mary, who lovingly held her new baby, was really Sister Richards dressed in a blue robe. But as Ann presented the gift, she looked at the baby lying peacefully in Sister Richards’ arms and could almost imagine that it really was the Baby Jesus.
On the way home from Sunday School, Ann’s mother said, “We were all proud of you this morning, dear. I’m wondering if you think being in the program is the best thing about Christmas.”
Ann remembered the wonderfully happy feeling she had when she gave the toy lamb to Sister Richards and the feeling that she was almost giving it to the Baby Jesus. And then she said, “Oh, Mother, I thought I knew what the best thing about Christmas was. But now I know the very best thing about Christmas is that Jesus came to live on earth.”