Gospel Story Finder

A discussion of the travels of Paul through the old part of the world is interesting; yet names such as Cyprus, Galatia, Macedonia, Ephesus, or Thessalonica are often unlocated places in our minds. Picture a teacher with a group of enthusiastic students around a large colored map. As the story is being told, they place pins at the points in Paul’s travels, then stretch different colored yarns from pin to pin to show his different missionary travels and his last journey to Rome. Now the lesson becomes fascinating. A picture is worth a thousand words. Advertisers know this, merchants know this, but no one knows it better than the teacher who is anxious about his or her students.

I recently received the priesthood, and during the blessing I had a warm feeling. Now every week I get to pass the sacrament. It makes me feel great.
Henry R., age 11, Utah, USA

This story happened in New Zealand.
Hi, Emily! It’s nice out, isn’t it?
Yeah! Can I try? I want to help!
The spade might be too big for you. Why don’t you help me weed the garden?
OK!
Let’s be careful not to pull out any flowers. I’ll show you which ones are weeds.
Do we have to pull all the weeds out? There are so many!
We do if we want the garden to look nice.
Looking after a garden is hard.
You’re right. But the work still needs to be done.
Why did we plant so many flowers? That’s just more work!
Why do you think Heavenly Father made roses so pretty?
I don’t know.
Because He wants us to have joy when we see them.
It’s like that song! “I’m glad that I live in this beautiful world Heavenly Father created for me.”*
That’s why I don’t mind the hard work. The flowers make me happy.
They remind us of Heavenly Father’s love!
“We should care for the earth, be wise stewards over it, and preserve it for future generations.”
President Russell M. Nelson, “The Creation,” Liahona, July 2000, 84.
Illustrations by Alyssa M. Gonzalez

One of the participants in the dance festival who went through the pavilion remarked, “I especially liked the way they handled the introduction to the Book of Mormon. Because they spoke about other records on metal plates that have been found by archaeologists, people in my group had much less difficulty accepting the truth of the Book of Mormon story.
“At the end, instead of asking the elders if they really believed all that, several wanted to know where the plates are now and if copies of the translation are available to nonmembers. The elders sure answered those questions, especially the second one, in a hurry!”

In moving toward this pulpit to assume this awesome responsibility, it is strengthening to feel a meaningful squeeze of the hand by a prophet of God: “Marvin, I love you. Marvin, I sustain you.” How do I know President Kimball’s feelings? Because he takes the time to tell me. When was the last time, you might ask? Only yesterday.

This particular Sunday was different. He had been looking forward to this day for months, the day he would receive the Aaronic Priesthood. I had often shared stories of how the priesthood had blessed our family. One experience in particular stood out: When young King Benjamin had been gravely ill, the stake president and I had united in faith to administer a priesthood blessing. Miraculously, he recovered.

We stopped at a pizza parlor on the way home from the priesthood session of general conference when I was 15 years old, and as a result I learned a lesson about tithing that I will never forget.
My father, my two brothers, and I were hungry. As we waited for our order, I saw one of my friends working as a busboy. I asked him how he got the job, and he told me they still needed extra help. A few minutes later he came back and told me that the manager would interview me immediately. Perhaps it was because I was wearing a dress shirt and a tie, but the employer seemed impressed. The interview went well. I expressed my wish not to work on Sundays, and he said there would be no problem—plenty of people would cover for me. I was hired to begin work as soon as I could.
During the next two years, I gradually worked my way up to the position of pizza cook. Then one evening as I began my shift, I noticed one of my scheduled days had been taken off the calendar. My boss told me that if I wanted to work the regular number of hours, Sunday was open. I worked one Sunday and felt rotten about it, so I declined to work on the Sabbath from then on. My relations with my employer started to deteriorate, and I began to look for another job.
It was interesting that although I was fairly adamant about keeping the Sabbath day holy, I was lax in obeying another commandment—the law of tithing. I didn’t pay tithing at all, unless my parents prompted me. Then I’d say, “Sure, sure,” and put something in the envelope the next week. I just couldn’t see the sense in giving away one-tenth of my hard-earned money.
I kept searching for a job but with no results. I prayed to my Father in Heaven sincerely, confident that he would help me find employment. One evening while praying, a thought came to me. Why should the Lord help me find another job if I wasn’t paying tithing on the income from my current job?
I studied a couple of scriptures:
“And prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it” (Mal. 3:10).
“I, the Lord, am bound when ye do what I say; but when ye do not what I say, ye have no promise” (D&C 82:10).
I decided to obey the commandment. I went to the bank and secured a large sum of money from my savings account to catch up on the tithing I had missed. I took it over to the bishop’s house that very evening.
In my pursuit of better employment, I had applied for work in a muffler shop. This was in January, and they said they wouldn’t need any additional help until the following December. Two days after I paid my tithing, someone from the shop telephoned with an offer for me to start work the next day. By the time I left on my mission, I was making three times as much money as I had made cooking pizza, plus a handsome commission. I was able to finance half of the expense of my mission by myself. Furthermore, after I had been in the mission field about a year, my employer from the muffler shop called my parents and asked if he could help pay the rest of my mission expenses.
Some might say that all these things happened coincidentally. I would be inclined to say that I was blessed because I finally started living a gospel principle. Tithing opens a door to blessings from the Lord.

When Elder Richard G. Scott was young, his father was not a member of the Church. His mother was a member, but she didn’t go to church very often. When Richard turned eight years old, he didn’t get baptized. Then his Grandma Whittle came to visit.
Grandma Whittle was a very good example. She helped Richard and his brothers learn how important it is to be baptized and go to church. Soon Richard and his older brother were baptized.

We see this promise fulfilled in the lives of faithful people. It was a little over a year ago that I was privileged to meet Travis and Kacie. They were married civilly in 2007. At the time, Travis was not a member of the Church. Kacie, though raised in an active Latter-day Saint home, had drifted from her faith in her teens and had strayed from her foundation.

In 2018, Travis met the missionaries, and he was baptized in 2019. Travis became a missionary to Kacie, who also experienced a life-changing conversion. They were sealed in the temple in September 2020. About two years after his baptism, Travis was called to serve in the bishopric.

Travis has a rare disease that continuously forms clusters of tumors in his internal organs. He has undergone many surgeries to remove the recurring tumors, but the disease is incurable. Several years ago, Travis was given fewer than 10 years to live.

Kacie has retinitis pigmentosa, a rare genetic disease that causes irreversible narrowing of the field of vision until complete blindness sets in.

Kacie spoke to me of her future. She anticipated the time, not far distant, when she would be widowed, blind, without financial support, and left alone to raise four growing children. I asked Kacie how she could handle such a bleak future. She smiled peacefully and said, “I have never been happier or more hopeful in my life. We hold to the promises we received in the temple.”

Travis is now the bishop. Two months ago he had another major surgery. But he is optimistic and peaceful. Kacie’s vision has worsened. She now has a guide dog and is unable to drive. But she is content, raising her children and serving as a counselor in the Young Women presidency.

Travis and Kacie are building their house on the rock. Travis and Kacie trust the doctrine of Christ and the promise that God “shall consecrate [their] afflictions for [their] gain.” In God’s perfect plan, suffering with faith in Christ is linked to our becoming perfected in Christ. Like the wise man in the parable who built his house upon a rock, when the rain descends and the floods come and the winds blow and beat upon the house Travis and Kacie are building, it will fall not, for it will be founded upon a rock.

“He had spent another forty-five minutes that day talking to my friend Arthur Sperry, and ten years later, when I was in that same office as bishop, Arthur was serving as my counselor. He became the bishop when I was released, and he became a mission president and a temple president about the same times that I did. I have counted twenty-nine bishops, eleven mission presidents, and three temple presidents who grew up in the Fourth Ward while Bishop Perschon served there as bishop. Elder Theodore M. Burton, whose life was also influenced positively by Bishop Perschon, grew up in that ward too.”

These scripture readers have also encouraged each other in additional ways. For example, they challenged themselves to make fast Sundays more meaningful by fasting with a purpose. “Last fast Sunday we thought about specific people who are less active and fasted and prayed that they might return to full activity in the Church,” Yves explains.

Well before his 19th birthday, Elder Duncan happened to meet a General Authority serving in the Missionary Department who challenged him to memorize the missionary discussions. He met that challenge and was later called to the Chile Santiago South Mission. His time as a missionary reconfirmed his love for serving the Lord. “I knew I wanted to be a missionary every day of the rest of my life,” says Elder Duncan.

Katy, Yolanda, and Marcia sat on the couch, looking through the new Christmas catalog.
“Oh, look at that dollhouse!” Katy exclaimed.
“Santa will never get that thing in his sleigh,” said Yolanda. “It’s too big.”
“Santa can do anything,” insisted Marcia, the youngest.
At the supper table that night, Katy mentioned the dollhouse. Dad and Mom looked at each other. “I think things are going to be a bit different this year,” Dad said. “Santa has some extra kids on his list, so we’re going to ask him for fewer things than usual.”
“But Santa can do anything,” Marcia objected. “Who are these kids, anyway?”
Mom answered with a question: “Have you met the girls who moved into the Jones’s house?”
“The Jones’s house?” Katy exclaimed. “They must really be poor!”
“They are poor, Katy. Santa and our family are going to help them. That’s why there will be fewer presents under our own tree this year.”
There was silence around the table as the three sisters thought this over.
Dad sighed. “I can see that this won’t be easy for you, but we have so much, and your mother and I feel that it’s important to share.”
“Santa will still bring you a few things,” Mother reminded them before adding, “but the best gift that we’ll all get is a wonderful feeling.”
Katy was unconvinced. “You can’t open a feeling on Christmas morning.”
Dad looked disappointed. “If you each share just one of your toys, that’s all we’ll ask.”
“Except that I could use some help with the Christmas cookies,” Mom added. “We’ll put some in a big basket for them.”
“What about us?” Yolanda whined. “Don’t we get any?”
“I think that’s just about enough,” Dad said sternly. “You’ll meet the Smith girls tomorrow at church. We expect you to be polite and show them around.”
The meal ended in gloom and silence.
The next day the three sisters kept looking around the chapel to see if they could spot the Smith girls. “There! On the third row, next to the door,” whispered Yolanda. Her sisters slowly turned around and stared at the two strangers.
“They’re wearing braids,” Katy said. “Nobody wears braids anymore.”
“Hush and turn around,” said Mom. “It’s rude to stare.”
On the way to Primary, Dad introduced the new family. “Girls, this is Sister Smith and Susan and Beverly.”
“Hi,” everyone mumbled.
“Where are you from?” asked Katy.
“From Grafton,” said Susan.
“That’s a long way from here. Why did you move?”
Before Susan could answer, the Primary president poked her head out the door. “Time to get started, girls.”
At lunch the next Saturday Marcia asked, “Why did the Smiths move here?”
“Well,” Mom said slowly, “they lost their father last summer. Sister Smith was able to get a good job with the telephone company, but she had to move here to take it.”
“If she has a good job, how come we have to give up our Christmas to them?” asked Yolanda.
“Because she doesn’t have any money yet,” Mom said. “And you’re not giving up your Christmas—just a few things. Try to remember that these girls have lost their father.”
“I still don’t like it,” said Marcia.
Just then the telephone rang. Dad answered. “Yes,” they heard him say, “I’m sure that they’d like to come.”
“Who was that?” asked Katy.
“It was Sister Smith inviting you to spend the afternoon with her daughters.”
“No way! They didn’t say three words to us at church. Please, Dad!”
Dad was wearing his stubborn look. “Look, girls, I know this is hard. But sometimes we do things just because they’re right.”
Mom helped them into their coats and herded them out the door. It seemed like too short a walk through the fast-falling snow. A soft knock brought Sister Smith to the front door. Her daughters stood silently behind her.
“Come in, girls. We’re happy that you could come over.”
Katy, Yolanda, and Marcia entered the living room. There was no furniture, just a big pile of moving boxes against one wall. They followed Susan and Beverly into the big, old-fashioned kitchen and were greeted with the smell of gingerbread. In the middle of the room was a large oak dining table. On it were candies, bowls of frosting, and a sheet of baked gingerbread.
“Bev and Susan thought it would be fun to make gingerbread houses,” said Sister Smith.
“Wow! All right!” Yolanda exclaimed. “I didn’t think we would—” Katy pinched her before she could say “have any fun.”
“Come on,” said Beverly. “Let’s get started!”
“Yeah,” said Susan. “We do this every year with our friends. We’re glad we have you to share this with.”
The five girls started on the gingerbread houses and were soon laughing at each other because of the frosting on their faces.
Later, while they were waiting for more gingerbread to cool, Katy said, “Let’s go play in your bedroom.”
“We can’t,” said Beverly. “It’s too cold in there. We only go there at bedtime.”
“Oh.”
Beverly jumped up. “I know—let’s make paper chains for our windows! Mom, don’t we have colored paper somewhere?”
Soon the girls were absorbed in their project, scattering bright paper scraps like confetti on the floor.
“Let’s make some for your tree, too,” Yolanda said.
Susan and Beverly exchanged glances. Finally Beverly said, “We might not get a tree this year. They’re pretty expensive.”
The three sisters looked at each other. After a while, Katy said, “I’m tired of making chains. Let’s make something else.”
“I know,” Susan said. “Let’s make foil stars and hang them from the light fixtures.” Soon they were scattering silver foil and cardboard among the bright scraps of paper already on the floor.
Before long, the setting sun appeared through the clouds, filling the room with light. Later, just as the clock on the wall chimed five times, a knock sounded at the kitchen door.
“Look, it’s Dad,” Yolanda said. “What does he have?”
“It’s a tree!” cried Beverly as Sister Smith opened the door.
“A little offering from our family to yours,” said Dad with a grin. “Do you have a big bucket or something else we can put this in?”
“Bev, run to the shed and get that old gray bucket. Brother Harris, how can we ever thank you?”
“Well, we all wanted to do something fun.” He winked at his daughters.
Beverly burst into the kitchen, carrying a large gray bucket. The next few minutes were filled with happy, noisy confusion as everyone tried to help Dad put up the tree. Satisfied at last that it was secure and well watered, he stood up, sniffing appreciatively.
“Mmmm, pine trees and gingerbread—it sure smells like Christmas! Bring out the ornaments, and we’ll finish the job.”
“Well, I’m afraid all I have is a string of lights,” Sister Smith said.
“We have something!” cried the girls. They scampered off and brought back armfuls of paper chains and foil stars.
“Now, that’s the ticket! Sister Smith, you go get those lights. Girls, get that stuff untangled, and we’re in business. Hey, got any gingerbread men?”
As everyone got busy, they filled the old kitchen with laughter. Finally they all stepped back to admire their handiwork.
A soft knock sounded at the door. It was Mom carrying a large casserole dish. “A little something for your dinner,” she said. “My, that’s a fine tree! It looks like you girls have had a busy afternoon.” She set the steaming dish on the counter.
There were tears in Sister Smith’s eyes. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for remembering my family. This is a Christmas we will always remember.”
Katy, Yolanda, and Marcia didn’t know what to say. Mom did. “Thank you for letting us share. We need you too.” She gave Sister Smith a hug. “Come on, girls, let’s go before their dinner gets cold. Ours too.”
As the Harris family walked home, Yolanda turned and looked at the Smith kitchen window. The Christmas tree lights blinked brightly. “Mom, what did you mean when you told Sister Smith that we needed her?”
Mom took Yolanda’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Do you remember how you felt when you went to the Smith’s this afternoon?”
“Yeah—pretty awful.”
“Well, how do you feel now?”
“I feel wonderful. Is that what you meant? I understand now—we needed to give so we could feel good again.”
“And we’re not done yet!” Katy and Marcia chimed in.

I was born in Port Moresby, Papua, New Guinea, the third child in my family. Ours was a poor family. During my childhood, Christmas and birthdays were not the happy occasions that many children remember as they grow up. In fact, it was at these times that we were the most unhappy, knowing and seeing how other children were given gifts and treats.
We were poor for the most part because my father spent his small paycheck drinking on weekends. We were always hungry. When my mother tried to make Father see how we were suffering, he would become violently angry and would strike her until she was hurt and sobbing. How hard she tried to defend us children and care for us!
Christmases came and went. It was always the same for us. There was no money for presents and goodies. My sister and I would wake early on Christmas morning to the shouts of excitement from the neighborhood children who had found Christmas presents waiting for them.
Sometimes we children went off to the city dump to find something we could use or play with to comfort us. I longed for something new and shiny, a special gift meant just for me at Christmas.
One Sunday, my little sister returned home from a new church where she had gone with her cousin several times. She brought with her a missionary couple to meet the family. Elder and Sister Call were so very kind and humble. They began to teach us about the gospel of Jesus Christ and his true church. After hearing the discussions and praying much for the Spirit to guide us, we agreed to be baptized.
Our lives began to change spiritually, but financially we were still poor. So my childish longing for a real Christmas with presents meant just for me never materialized.
However, because of our conversion, my father changed and gave up his bad habits. He quit drinking, smoking, and leaving his family hungry on weekends. I was so happy and wanted to tell my father that I loved him, but I was afraid to. I also wished my father would express his love for me. I never heard him say how he felt about me as I was growing up.

While the girls were waiting for the volleyball to start, Carol Lindsay of the London North Ward talked about her conversion. “I read a book written by a Protestant minister about the trek west led by Brigham Young. I thought when I read that there must be something to this church if they would walk all those many miles for it. I walked into a chapel in Edinburgh and said, ‘Here I am, what are you going to do with me?’ I got impatient during the missionary discussions waiting for them to challenge me to baptism.”

Seppo paced restlessly up and down the small pier. One by one the lights in the old farmhouse winked out, and then a lantern bobbed along the path to the boat landing. It was early, this Saturday morning in December, and dark. Winter with its long nights would soon come to Finland.
Father, Mother, little sister Eila, and Seppo climbed into their boat and cast off. They were on their way to the market square by the harbor in Helsinki to sell their wares.
“What a load we have this morning,” said Mother above the sound of the chugging motor. “Potatoes, bunches of birch leaves, and cranberries that Eila and Seppo picked yesterday!”
“And Mother’s great bundle of weaving,” said Father as he guided the large motorboat over the dark waters and through the clusters of little islands toward Helsinki. “One more rug and one more tablecloth, and there would have been no room for Eila and Seppo!”
“Oh, but we had to come today,” insisted Seppo. “This is the day I buy my new skis.”
When the Gulf of Finland froze each winter, Seppo would ski over the ice to school on the mainland. Every February he entered the ski-day race. However, his skis had been broken, so all summer and through the fall Seppo had worked for neighboring farmers to earn the money to buy new skis in Helsinki. This year he felt sure that he would win the race.
“And this is the day I buy my special candle for Independence Day,” said Eila, who had saved all the money she had earned by gathering birch leaves for Father to sell. December sixth is Independence Day in Finland and candles glow in every window to mark this special day. Eila’s heart was set on having the most beautiful candle she could find in Stockmann’s Department Store.
Father steered the boat into the south harbor, past the piers for the large ships and ferryboats, and into their own spot by the harbor’s edge. When Father hopped out and began to tie up the boat, some men were already putting up the stalls and orange canopies in the marketplace. The dome of the big white cathedral gleamed through the early morning mist.
“Seppo, will you please carry this roll of rugs to my stall?” asked Mother. “You will have time before the stores open to help me set up.”
Seppo, his arms clasping the bulky bundle, waited for Eila to climb out of the boat and onto the stone steps at the harbor’s edge. The boat was bobbing up and down, for a brisk wind was making the water choppy. Eila moved slowly, holding her purse in one hand.
“Hurry up, Eila, these rugs are heavy!” Seppo said crossly.
Eila turned her head to answer, and almost lost her balance. She grabbed the edge of the boat to steady herself, and her purse flew out of her hand into the water.
“My money!” wailed Eila, as Father snatched an oar from the boat and poked it down through the water to see if he could rescue the purse.
“I’m afraid it’s gone,” he said finally. “I’m sorry, little girl.” Gently he helped Eila out of the boat and Seppo followed with the bundle of weaving. Seppo, Eila, and Mother trudged along in silence to the stall, while Father stayed in the boat with the cranberries, birch leaves, and potatoes.
Mother quickly arranged the rag rugs, tablecloths, and mats. She put on her special gloves that left her fingertips bare for handling small coins. Mrs. Salonen, who sold birchbark baskets in the stall next to Mother’s, also wore gloves this chilly morning.
After Seppo had brought his mother and Mrs. Salonen hot possu (doughnuts) from a nearby stall, he cleared his throat and said, “I think I’ll go now and buy my skis. Want to come along, Eila?”
Eila shook her head. “I can’t go now. Mrs. Salonen is paying me one mark to help her,” she said, sighing. “Then I can buy a tiny candle, and wait till next year for a special one. A year isn’t so long,” she added, trying to smile, but Seppo knew she was near tears.
He turned and walked rapidly out of the market square, hardly noticing the people he passed, who were bundled up in their fur hats and heavy coats. Instead, he kept seeing Eila’s horrified face as her carefully saved money sank out of sight. An uncomfortable thought began to nag Seppo: If I hadn’t tried to hurry Eila out of the boat …
In the store the clerk greeted him. “Aha, you are in luck. The skis that you have been admiring all fall are still here!”
Seppo touched the skis and looked at them for a long time. Their bright blue enameled surface gleamed in the electric light. He knew that Finland’s best skiers used skis exactly like these when they won their races.
Reaching into his pocket for his wallet, Seppo seemed to hear Eila saying, “A year isn’t so long.”
“Just a moment,” Seppo said as the clerk started to remove the championship skis from the rack. “I think … I think,” he said, pointing to a cheaper pair of hickory skis just like the ones he had broken, “I’ll take these other skis instead.”
Anyway, reasoned Seppo as he rushed back to the marketplace, if I’m going to win the race, it’s more important to use the right wax and to keep practicing than to worry about the kind of skis I have.
After he had carefully stored his new skis in Father’s boat, Seppo went to Mrs. Salonen’s stall. A sad-faced Eila was still stacking baskets.
“Could you spare Eila to go with me for a little while?” he asked the older woman. “We have an important errand to do at Stockmann’s.”
Mrs. Salonen nodded her assent.
“Stockmann’s, Seppo?” Eila asked as she hurried to catch up with her brother.
“Yes, come on,” Seppo encouraged, “before someone else buys your special candle!”
And this time Eila, her eyes shining, needed no urging.

Jeremy would return to his knees in heartfelt prayer years later as his wife, Amy, was in pre-term labor with their third child. “At that moment, I felt an overwhelming peace—a peace that can only be described as the loving arms of a Heavenly Father enveloping me with the warmth of the Holy Ghost,” he said.
That peace carried him through the brief time the baby lived and the months of grief that followed with another miscarriage. “We’re all tried in our way,” he said, “but we still ‘count it all joy’ [James 1:2] that the Savior has provided a way for us to have peace and happiness.”

71. Dec. 1, 1831 Ezra Booth had apostatized and wrote nine slanderous letters printed in the Ohio Star. The Prophet Joseph and Sidney Rigdon were commanded to go forth and preach to allay resulting unfriendly feelings against the Church.

When I was young, my family moved and joined a new ward. My dad was called as the bishop shortly after. It was a bit baffling from our limited perspective—there were other qualified men in the ward, and my dad didn’t feel like he knew the members or their individual needs as well as he would have liked.
But he did his best and served faithfully, working hard to get to know those he was serving. By the time his service ended, he felt great love for the members of our ward.
And right after his release, he was called to the nursery.
It was remarkable to watch the transition. He loved the nursery children and was thoughtful about planning lessons and activities that helped them develop a strong foundation in the gospel. Even though his calling in the ward had changed, he stayed close to the members of the ward that he’d come to know and love and continued to learn new ways to serve his brothers and sisters.
He also had more time to devote to our family; shortly after his release, my mom followed a prompting to go back to school and earn an advanced degree, so his responsibilities in our home increased as she spent more time studying. It was truly a blessing for our family to have his help at that time.
My dad’s responsibilities had changed, but the significance and impact of his responsibilities had not. The Lord knew what was best for both the ward and my family. As President Dallin H. Oaks, First Counselor in the First Presidency, explained: “We do not ‘step down’ when we are released, and we do not ‘step up’ when we are called. There is no ‘up or down’ in the service of the Lord. There is only ‘forward or backward,’ and that difference depends on how we accept and act upon our releases and our callings.”1

I recall visiting a college campus where I heard the usual, commonplace complaining of youth: complaints about the pressures of school—as if it were a burden rather than an opportunity to partake of the knowledge of the earth—complaints about housing and about food.
I counseled those youth that if the pressures of school were too heavy, if they felt to complain about their housing and their food, then I could suggest a cure for their problems. I suggested that they lay their books aside for a few hours, leave their rooms, and go visit someone who is old and lonely, or someone sick and discouraged. By and large, I have come to see that if we complain about life, it is because we are thinking only of ourselves.