Gospel Story Finder

Many students in the United States recite the Pledge of Allegiance out of habit, but Daniel Harmer took it seriously when his school in Idaho did not recite the pledge or observe a moment of silence; his previous school in Texas had done this every day. He wrote a letter to his student council, a local newspaper, and his principal. He suggested the pledge and a moment of quiet reflection every morning could create an atmosphere in which students would respect each other and their country more. Daniel’s high school has put his suggestion into practice, and his efforts were even recognized by Idaho’s governor.

It was impossible to cheer up Aunt Mabel. I’d been with her all day, and she hadn’t even come close to smiling. I handed the mail to her and said, “A magazine and a letter from Cousin Ellen.”
“But no surprise package from anyone,” Aunt Mabel said. “What a bad day.” She set the mail on the table in the dark hall and turned to me. “Shall we go for a little walk, Judy?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said, happy to get out of her gloomy house. When we stepped outside, I smiled up at the blue sky. “What a bright, sunny day,” I said.
Aunt Mabel glared at the sky. “It’s too bright. It makes me squint. Now I’ll get more wrinkles. What a bad day.”
I looked down and saw something shiny on the sidewalk. “Look! A penny,” I said, stooping to pick it up.
“Too bad it’s not a dime or a quarter,” Aunt Mabel said.
We walked to the park and Aunt Mabel sat on a bench under a big, leafy tree. “Isn’t it nice here in the shade?” I asked.
Aunt Mabel shook her head, gazing uneasily at the branches.
“Those leaves are probably full of caterpillars, and one might fall on me. What a bad day.”
I sighed and sat next to Aunt Mabel, but no caterpillars fell from the tree. After a few minutes, Aunt Mabel stood up. “Let’s be on our way,” she said.
We walked beside a garden that was filled with big yellow and orange flowers. “Mmmm,” I said. “Don’t those flowers smell sweet!”
Aunt Mabel rubbed her nose. “Makes my nose twitch,” she said, hurrying past the garden. “What a bad day.”
I slowed down and breathed in the sweet fragrance. My nose wasn’t twitching. I watched Aunt Mabel walk along the path and wondered how I could cheer her up. Skipping along, I caught up with her. “At least the sun’s not in our eyes, now,” I said, watching our shadows stretch before us.
Aunt Mabel buttoned her sweater. “Now the sun is hot on my back, but I’m cold in front. What a bad day.”
“We’re almost home,” I said as we turned the corner and Aunt Mabel’s house came into view. “You have a pretty house.”
Aunt Mabel looked up at her house. “It’s old,” she said. “The floor boards creak and groan.”
We climbed the steps and sat on the porch swing. “Shall I get us some lemonade?” I asked. Aunt Mabel nodded.
I carried two glasses of lemonade out to the porch. I knew what Aunt Mabel would say, and sure enough, after one sip she said it: “This lemonade is too sour. What a bad day.”
I was thirsty and drank mine right down. I thought it tasted pretty good. At last Mom’s car pulled up in front of the house, and I jumped up to leave.
“Did you have a nice visit?” she asked. I just shrugged. I didn’t want to lie and say I’d had a great time.
Aunt Mabel stood up and kissed Mom on the cheek. Then she gave me a hug. I hugged her, too, and she said, “Ouch! Watch out for these old bones!” I backed away.
“Did you have a good day visiting with your niece?” Mom asked her.
I waited for Aunt Mabel to tell Mom what a bad day she’d had.
“I had a very good day,” Aunt Mabel said. “It was nice to have someone to tell my troubles to.”
Mom and I got in the car, and before we drove away, I waved to Aunt Mabel. She waved back, and I was sure she actually smiled at me.
“You certainly cheered Aunt Mabel up,” Mom said.
“Yes,” I said. “What a bad-good day we had.”

I recently learned a valuable lesson about seeing deeply from a young woman named Rozlyn.
The story was shared with me by my friend who was devastated when her husband of 20 years moved out. With her children splitting time between parents, the prospect of attending church alone seemed daunting. She recounts:
“In a church where the family is of paramount importance, sitting solo can be painful. That first Sunday I walked in praying no one would speak to me. I was barely holding it together, and tears were on the brink. I sat in my typical spot, hoping no one would notice how empty the bench seemed.
“A young woman in our ward turned and looked at me. I pretended to smile. She smiled back. I could see the concern in her face. I silently pleaded that she wouldn’t come to talk to me—I had nothing positive to say and knew I would cry. I looked back down at my lap and avoided eye contact.
“During the next hour, I noticed her looking back at me occasionally. As soon as the meeting ended, she made a beeline for me. ‘Hi, Rozlyn,’ I whispered. She wrapped me in her arms and said, ‘Sister Smith, I can tell today is a bad day for you. I’m so sorry. I love you.’ As predicted, the tears came as she hugged me again. But as I walked away, I thought to myself, ‘Maybe I can do this after all.’
“That sweet 16-year-old young woman, less than half my age, found me every Sunday for the rest of that year to give me a hug and ask, ‘How are you?’ It made such a difference in how I felt about coming to church. The truth is I started to rely on those hugs. Someone noticed me. Someone knew I was there. Someone cared.”
As with all gifts the Father so willingly offers, seeing deeply requires us to ask Him—and then act. Ask to see others as He does—as His true sons and daughters with infinite and divine potential. Then act by loving, serving, and affirming their worth and potential as prompted. As this becomes the pattern of our lives, we will find ourselves becoming “true followers of … Jesus Christ.” Others will be able to trust our hearts with theirs. And in this pattern we will also discover our own true identity and purpose.
My friend recalled another experience while sitting in that same empty pew, alone, wondering if 20 years of effort to live the gospel in her home was all for naught. She needed more than calming reassurance; she needed vision. She felt a question pierce her heart: “Why did you do those things? Did you do them for the reward, the praise of others, or the desired outcome?” She hesitated for a moment, searched her heart, and was then able to answer confidently, “I did them because I love the Savior. And I love His gospel.” The Lord opened her eyes to help her see. This simple but powerful change of vision helped her continue to press on with faith in Christ, despite her circumstances.

It was an uncommonly warm spring evening in Port Alberni, the small mill town in British Columbia, Canada, where I lived. I was looking forward to attending Mutual and spending time with my Latter-day Saint friends. I was friendly by nature but was nevertheless struggling socially both at school and at church.
As was our habit, a group of us gathered in the foyer of our meetinghouse and began chatting. I spent little time on center stage in these conversations, and from my outside vantage point I spotted two sister missionaries coming in the front doors with a boy beside them. I recognized him from my neighborhood.
While her companion stood off to the side speaking to the boy, Sister Eaton approached us and said, “Look, you guys. We’re really excited about this. We’ve been working with this boy and his family for months, and this is the first time he’s agreed to come. Would you make him feel welcome?”
We nodded halfheartedly, said our hellos, and made a small opening for him to stand with us. He looked awkward and uncomfortable and mostly stared at the floor. In comparison to most of us, he was poorly dressed and unkempt. We talked for a few more minutes until the adult traffic became too intrusive. Then we slipped away to the rest room for more privacy.
All of us, that is—except the new boy. We were so caught up in our discussion we didn’t notice him turn and walk out the door alone. Nor did we miss him in the rest room.
A few minutes later the bell rang for the start of opening exercises. We filed out of the rest room, joking among ourselves. Just outside the door, however, Sister Eaton was waiting for us, tears pouring down her face.
“What’s the matter with you?” she cried out, more in disbelief than anger. “All you had to do was be friendly to him, to include him. Was that too much to ask?”
“Where’d he go?” I stupidly asked.
“What do you care?” she snapped back. “You won’t have to worry about him again. He won’t be back.” With that, she turned, joined her companion, and left the building to look for the boy. It was a five-kilometer walk back to our neighborhood.
Stung by her chastisement, we filed quietly and sheepishly into the chapel. Even when the others began to revive their spirits, my conscience burned. I was deeply disturbed by what we had done. Later that evening after I returned home, I talked to Laurence, my older brother, about it. He had returned from college and would soon go on his mission. I respected his advice on spiritual matters.
“What do you think you should do about it?” he asked me after I had blurted out the whole story.
“I don’t know,” I answered glumly. “What can I do now? Sister Eaton says it’s too late.”
By now Laurence sensed how upset I was.
“Maybe not,” he said with a tinge of hope in his voice. “The sisters should be home by now. I’ll call over there.”
Within five minutes Laurence had the boy’s address, and we began walking there together. Although it wasn’t far, it was getting dark as we walked into the poorly lit part of town where the boy lived. I was glad my brother was with me. I didn’t know what kind of reception awaited us, and I was nervous.
We approached an old house that needed a coat of paint. Laurence checked the number under a streetlight and pointed toward it.
“That’s it,” he announced. Taking a deep breath, I headed toward the front door with Laurence at my side. I knocked quickly before my courage failed. My heart was pounding. A few moments later, a woman I assumed to be his mother answered the door. She looked older than I had expected and seemed tired.
“Hi, is your son here?” I asked.
“What do you want with him?” she asked suspiciously.
“He came to our church tonight, and we kind of ignored him,” I stammered. “I want to apologize and invite him back.”
She folded her arms and looked directly at us. I saw in her eyes a look of disgust at the way we had treated her son.
Ignoring me, she looked over at Laurence and said, “Thank you for coming by, but I don’t think he’ll want to come back.”
As she began to close the door, Laurence made a last attempt to reassure her of our repentance. “The boys made a mistake, and I know they’re sorry. I know them. It won’t happen again.”
But the door had closed before he could finish. For the second time that night, I felt stung by my actions.
“Do you think he’ll ever come back?” I asked apprehensively.
“I doubt it,” Laurence replied bluntly.
We said very little the rest of the way home. I had done wrong, and I knew it. I had felt deep remorse, and I had even tried to make restitution. But I had failed. I wondered why, after I had followed all the steps I had been taught, the Lord hadn’t recognized my repentance and lifted my burden of guilt. I felt awful.
The answer finally came from my heart: I hadn’t done enough. But I was too afraid to go back and try again. So I never did.
For me, this was a complete failure, one I’m still deeply ashamed of. Yet in a curious way I learned an important lesson from it—one that still humbles me and reminds me of what it takes to be a true disciple of Jesus Christ.

Jane Manning James was tired of walking, but she refused to stop.
Her eldest son, Sylvester, was big enough to walk next to the wagon. But baby Silas, who had been born along the trail, still needed to be carried. It was 1847, and the James family would soon be among the first pioneers to arrive in the valley of the Great Salt Lake.
Jane was no stranger to long journeys.
Four years earlier, her family had left their home in an eastern city to join the Saints in Nauvoo, on the edge of the western frontier. The trip should have taken just a few days by river. But because many Black people were slaves in the United States at the time, Jane’s family frequently had to show papers proving their freedom. And some places had strict laws preventing people of color from traveling through the area—including charging up to $500 per person for passage.
Perhaps because of this outrageous fee or perhaps because of other prejudices, the riverboat crew refused to take Jane and her family members any farther. Undeterred, they left behind many of their possessions and set out on foot with whatever they could carry.
Jane’s family walked for more than 800 miles (1,287 km). They walked through humid days and pitch-black nights. Once they trudged through a forest, sleeping under the open sky. When they awoke, their clothes were white with frost.
“We walked until our shoes were worn out, and our feet became sore and cracked open and bled,” Jane recollected. “… We asked God the Eternal Father to heal our feet and our prayers were answered.”1
While enduring this hard journey, Jane sang hymns with her parents and siblings, praising God. Finally, after nearly three months of walking, they arrived in Nauvoo. Years later, when faithful Saints left to cross the plains, Jane was among the first pioneers to start walking the trail.

For the next couple of months I was able to pay all of my expenses after paying my tithing. Then came another month when there was again not enough money to cover both rent and tithing. I paid my tithing. I knew that Sister Knight did not have any more trees to be cut, and I was concerned that I should pay the rent promptly. On the Friday evening before the rent was required, a local radio station in Provo announced a program called “Movie Merry-Go-Round” in which a prize would be offered to anyone who could answer questions regarding one of the movies then playing in Provo. I listened to the program and thought I might try to win the prize. That evening, the radio announcer offered $18 and two free movie tickets to the first person who could give the license number of a car that had been used in a brief scene in a recent movie. Miraculously, or at least so it seemed to me, I saw clearly in my mind’s eye the scene that the radio announcer referred to. I saw it with such clarity that I could read the license number. Once again I had sufficient funds to pay my rent.

Several biblical sites are within walking distance from Hebrew University in Jerusalem where I’m currently living as a student. I can visit the temple steps where Jesus may have taught or the Garden Tomb where some feel that His body was laid before His Resurrection. Living in the Holy Land is a blessing, and I’m grateful for every day I get to spend in this amazing place. But being here as a member of His Church isn’t easy.
Because of the non-proselyting policy in Israel, I’m not allowed to share my faith. I didn’t realize how hard this would be until one of my friends asked me for a copy of the Book of Mormon and I couldn’t give him one. It can feel a bit lonely and isolating to be a disciple of Christ at times.
But I’m also learning some strong lessons here; I can still share the light and love of Jesus Christ with anybody, and I can connect with the Spirit.
Although my education program is very secular, almost all the other students in my classes are believing Christians. We often sit after class and share opinions and insights on the lessons. These conversations have allowed me space where I can bear testimony of Jesus Christ.
As we speak with one another, I’m often reminded of Matthew 18:20: “For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.”
Although I can’t actively share the gospel in these conversations, this experience has taught me how talking with fellow disciples about Christ can invite the Spirit into our relationships and keep Him at the center of all we do.
I’ve realized that the only way I can really share the gospel of Jesus Christ here is through who I am. I can’t give people a Book of Mormon here, but I can pray with them, I can help them feel God’s love, and I can bear testimony that God does love them. As I simply strive to keep my covenants and follow the Lord’s commandments, I am testifying of my faith in the gospel of Jesus Christ.

One of the most meaningful things we can do as parents is teach our children the power of prayer, not just the routine of prayer. When I was about 17 years of age, I was kneeling by my bed, saying my evening prayers. Unbeknown to me, my mother was standing in the doorway. When I finished, she said, “Tad, are you asking the Lord to help you find a good wife?”
Her question caught me totally off guard. That was the furthest thing from my mind. I was thinking about basketball and school. And so, I replied, “No,” to which she responded, “Well, you should, Son; it will be the most important decision you will ever make.” Those words sunk deep into my heart, and so for the next six years, I prayed that God would help me find a good wife. And, oh, how He answered that prayer.

When Bob Dunton answered the door, there were two Mormon missionaries standing on his doorstep, and one of them had a Book of Mormon in his hand. “A friend of yours has asked us to give you this,” they said. “Please read it and call us if you want to know more.”
Inside the cover Bob found a photograph of his friend Marvin Hansen and a letter. In the letter Marvin testified that the Book of Mormon was true and explained how he gained his testimony through reading the book and praying about its contents. He had been telling Bob about the Church for several years and Bob had been to church a number of times and was good friends with many Mormons, but he had never received a testimony. Now he began reading a little doubtfully. A wonderful Baptist grandmother would be hurt if he accepted the Church. Marvin had called special attention to Moroni, chapter ten, verses four through five [Moro. 10:4–5], and as Bob read these verses, his imagination suddenly caught fire. Time after time he was drawn back to these verses, and to prayer. At his invitation, the missionaries began giving him the discussions, and within two months he accepted baptism into the Church.
Some 500 copies of the Book of Mormon were purchased under this program, and a number of people are being taught by the missionaries as a result. At the outset of the program, the council determined that if one person came to know that the Book of Mormon was true, the program would be a success. Bob’s conversion fulfilled that goal and caused some internal rejoicing in the hearts of seminary students as well as some very external whoops of joy in the seminary halls and classrooms. But Bob wasn’t really the only convert. A number of faithful young members of the Church gained a much stronger testimony of the Book of Mormon as they read through it in preparation for writing the letters to be placed in their gift copies.

“Can I keep her, Mother? Please, can I keep her?” pleaded Karyn, cuddling the meowing bundle of matted white fur.
“She’s the sorriest-looking little kitten I’ve ever seen,” said Mother. “Are you sure she’s old enough to leave the mama cat?”
“Her mama’s gone,” Karyn answered. “That’s why Tammy wants to give her to me. And that’s why her fur is all stuck together—she kept falling in her pan of milk.”
“Maybe we could get a doll bottle for her to nurse,” suggested Mother. “What happened to the mama cat?”
“Nobody knows. Tammy’s mother found the three little kittens in their shed yesterday. They were almost dead from hunger.”
“You mean Tammy’s cat didn’t have the kittens?” asked Mother in surprise.
Karyn shook her head. “Tammy doesn’t have a cat.”
“Poor little baby,” crooned Mother, reaching for the crying and clawing kitten. “You really need a mama to lick you clean.”
“I bet Tie-Dye would be her mother,” Karyn said, her face brightening. “She’s going to have babies. Maybe she’d like one a little early.”
“If she had her kittens today, she could nurse this one, too,” mused Mother thoughtfully.
Soon Karyn had the big tortoiseshell mother cat resting comfortably in a towel-padded apple box in her room. Then she placed the little white kitten next to Tie-Dye and stepped back to watch. Tie-Dye opened her eyes wide, then gathered the kitten between her paws and began licking its matted fur.
“Look,” said Mother. “The baby is trying to nurse.” Mother rubbed her chin and said, “I wonder … Let’s leave them alone for a while to get acquainted.” And she and Karyn tiptoed out of the room.
Later when Karyn returned, she found Tie-Dye licking a new little black kitten while the white one slept peacefully in the corner.
“Mom,” Karyn squealed joyfully. “Tie-Dye had a baby.” Then she began to worry. “Maybe she won’t want the white one now.”
“I don’t think it will make any difference,” assured Mother, patting her shoulder. “She’s already adopted her.”
Several hours later, Karyn sat contentedly watching Tie-Dye nurse her four kittens. The white one looked like a giant next to the three newborn babies.
“She’s really a very pretty little kitten now that Tie-Dye has cleaned her up,” observed Mother, coming into the room.
“See how bright and fluffy her coat is.”
Tie-Dye began licking the white kitten again.
“She loves her just like the ones she had herself, doesn’t she, Mom?” said Karyn, leaning over the box adoringly. Then she jumped up and hugged her mother around the waist. “That’s the way it was when you adopted me, wasn’t it?” she asked.
“That’s exactly the way it was,” nodded Mother, hugging Karyn tightly. “Just exactly.”

The last speaker, an elderly gentleman from another stake, was introduced.
“May I share a short Christmas story with you?” he began. “It’s a true one. In fact, it involves someone I know in my ward across town. I am the home teacher of a young family who has suffered much these last few months. The father lost his job, and their baby has been terribly ill. Although the bishop worked with the family and ward members helped, too, it still wasn’t enough. The parents used all their savings just to keep their baby alive. I had gone to their home this past week with baked goods from my wife, hoping to help them through their holidays.
“As I talked with the father, he told me how they had gathered as a family to discuss a problem. It was tithing settlement last Sunday. They had to decide whether to pay tithing or to use their tithing money for groceries. That good father said that he told his children that they must first obey Heavenly Father. They decided to pay their tithing.
“How I worried about them! On Christmas morning, I hurried to their home. I was amazed at what I found! The children were playing with toys, and I could smell food cooking in the kitchen!
“As I entered, the children excitedly told me about their Christmas Eve. Santa had come early; he had left many presents.
“The mother then explained how they had gathered the papers and boxes after opening all their gifts on Christmas Eve. She had thrown most of the papers into the fireplace. As she crawled into bed, she worried about not having enough money to buy groceries. But she fell asleep knowing they had been given enough food for Christmas Day.
“Early the next morning, she noticed a red envelope on the floor.
“With tears in her eyes, she told me that when she opened it, there was money inside—and a note, which read: ‘Merry Christmas! You don’t know us. We don’t know you. We want you to have these gifts so you can celebrate with us the birth of our Savior.’”
The elderly man was so full of emotion that he could hardly finish his talk. “I guess we’ll never know who delivered those gifts on Christmas Eve, but they must be very special people who know what Christmas is all about.”

Chris had other disturbing questions that had come up in talks with his friends—questions that were also of concern to his parents. Though inactive, they wanted their son to be positive about the Church but they didn’t have all the answers he needed. Therefore, when the home teachers left, it was agreed that they would return once a week for some time to teach the family gospel principles selected from a list of topics they prepared. After each lesson the family members were invited to ask any questions they desired.
This arrangement worked very well. In a later visit, Chris asked another question that was troubling him: “Why does the Church build so many expensive buildings while there are so many people starving in the world?”
The home teachers approached this question much the same as they did the previous one. Analyzing his statement, they saw that it too was composed of two parts: (1) a feeling of concern for the needy people of the earth, and (2) an assertion about the amount of money spent on Church buildings.
Having divided the question into its positive and negative elements, they focused on the positive—for, as long as the focus was on concern for the needy, they could be in complete agreement. One of the home teachers said:
“Chris, when you mention the poor, you’ve hit on one of the most important areas of concern in the Church. I suppose there have been very few times when the Lord was really pleased with the people of the earth and the way they lived. But one good example is Enoch’s city of Zion.” He thumbed through his scriptures and handed the book to Chris. “Read verse 18 there,” he said.
Chris read, “‘And the Lord called his people ZION, because they were of one heart and one mind, and dwelt in righteousness; and there was no poor among them.’” (Moses 7:18.)
“In Zion there should be no poor,” said the home teacher, “and that’s a problem the Church is trying to do something about.” He mentioned the Church’s personal and family preparedness program, in which families are taught and encouraged to become literate and productive, to improve their employment, to be prepared through storage of necessary commodities, to look after their health, both physical and emotional. Then he added, “You mentioned Church buildings, Chris. Our meetinghouses are the places where we go to worship and to learn these important things.”
“That’s true,” said his companion. “I remember when I lived in the Northwest. It was a little town, and there weren’t many members there when we joined the Church. We were anxious to learn, and I can’t tell you how important it was to us to have a place to meet together and be taught. We built a chapel there. It was a real sacrifice, but we had no doubt that it was necessary and practical one. All building construction is expensive. We put into our chapel as much excellence and beauty as our limited funds would allow.”
“Where does the money come from?” asked Chris.
“From you and me,” the companion chuckled. “That’s why we watch the dollars carefully. Meetinghouses and temples are all well built but not extravagant. But I want to say that it’s hard to express the change that comes in the life of a new convert, even people as poor as we were. The Church has improved everything about us, I think—and I guess our standard of living too. That’s why I believe that ultimately the gospel is the solution to poverty and suffering of all kinds, spiritual and physical.”
In this instance again, these home teachers succeeded with Chris because they were able to move in the direction of his thoughts without contributing to the problem. Ignoring for a moment the hint of bitterness in his question, they reinforced his positive inclinations and thus turned a potentially negative experience into a fine teaching moment.

Every Sunday in a small town in Argentina, a group of people met under a tree to read the scriptures and learn about the gospel. Some of the people were members of the Church. But many of them hadn’t been baptized, and they really wanted to be!
They had a problem, though. They lived far away from other towns. No Church leaders had come to visit their town for some time.
Then they heard that some missionaries were in a town about four hours away. They all gave money so one man could buy a bus ticket to the town where the missionaries were. When he got there, he waited at the bus station. He thought that would be the best place to find the missionaries.
After a few hours, he saw two young men. They were the missionaries! He told them about the people in his town. So the missionaries and the mission president planned a trip to meet these people.
On the day that the mission president and the missionaries came, many people gathered together to meet them. Now those who hadn’t been baptized yet could get baptized. After teaching them the lessons, they were ready!
The closest river was very far away, so they pumped water from a well and filled up a portable swimming pool. It took three hours to fill the pool! In all, 27 women, men, and children got baptized that day. They were filled with joy!

Hello! dear brothers and sisters.
I’m very grateful that I have this Church and gospel in my life. Because of this Church, I was able to attend the YSA conference in Hyderabad. I learned so many things that help me to become self-reliant.
Now I’m working in a company that pays me a good salary. This happened because of the conference. I gave my interview without fear, I explained about myself in 30 seconds. I followed the “no preaching” concept and I was selected. Because of the conference, lots of people became my good friends, and now I’m also planning to go on mission. A mission is the place where you can learn so many things and I can become self-reliant. So many things are there which I can’t explain in words, but I’m glad that I was part of this conference. Those precious memories will stay forever.

Some years ago, as our youngest son, Clark, was approaching his 12th birthday, he and I were leaving the Church Administration Building when President Harold B. Lee greeted us. I mentioned to President Lee that Clark would soon be 12, whereupon President Lee asked him, “What happens to you, Clark, when you turn 12?” This was one of those times when a father prays that a son will be inspired to give a proper response. Without hesitation Clark said to President Lee, “I will be ordained a deacon.”

The answer was the one President Lee had sought. He then counseled our son, “Remember, it is a great blessing to hold the priesthood.”

It was 113 degrees at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, and some of the Scouts were starting to see that they would learn a lesson the hard way before the day was over. Our Scoutmaster had warned us to get up early, get organized, and be on our way before the sun got a head start on us. But we had lazed around, and so now we were struggling slowly upward in the hot sun. Many of the Scouts were guzzling their canteen water, too—another thing our Scoutmaster had warned us about. Before we climbed out of the canyon, some of those canteens would be bone dry.
I was pleased when I arrived at the top of the trail with water left to share. So was our leader. He turned to me and said, “I knew I could count on you, Kent.” I’d been through enough adventures with our Scoutmaster to learn to do what he suggests, things like “Drink plenty of water, but take it one swallow at a time,” or, “Always suck on something so your mouth won’t get so dry.”
With our Scoutmaster we have hiked the back country and the mountains. We have also discovered the hills in our own backyards. Every once in a while, I’ll look up at the mountains behind my house and say, “Wow! I was actually up there! I know what it looks like.”
That night at our usual chat around the campfire, he told us other stories from the mountains—stories about Enos wrestling before God, about Abraham preparing to sacrifice his son, about Nephi’s broken bow, about Christ teaching the Nephites in the tops of the hills. Then he talked about missions in life and missionary service, and he told each of us he expected us to go on a mission. (Every once in a while a returned missionary speaks in Church and thanks him for the same kind of encouragement he’s giving us now.)
On the trail, our Scoutmaster points things out to us—different kinds of plants and trees, how to avoid stinging nettle, how to judge geological formations to find spring water, how watersheds are organized, or which side of the mountain has more vegetation. Sometimes he stops us on a plateau or a knoll and says, “Look, guys. The Creator’s system works.” Things like that really help us see.
We went on a hike with our Scoutmaster last summer, and he reserved one night for each of us to be alone and talk to our Father in Heaven. He told us we could pray to him, just like Joseph Smith did, and get an answer. The next morning we were back on the trail again, with our Scoutmaster urging us over “just one more hill,” and “just around the next bend,” and repeating his slogans like, “When you see a man on a mountaintop, remember he didn’t fall there,” or, “Make your mind tell your body what to do. Don’t let your body tell your mind what to do.”
One of the best things about our Scoutmaster is that he’s not afraid to let us see him make a mistake or two. It lets us know he understands when we flub it. One time we lined two maps up crookedly and ended up climbing the mountain next to King’s Peak. We still laugh about that, and we named the mountain “Troop 112’s Mistake”.
But the thing I appreciate the most about our Scoutmaster is that he’s my dad. For more than 10 years now I’ve been sharing him with three older brothers, a younger sister, and a troop of Scouts. But that’s not hard to do because my dad has always saved part of himself for me. That’s why he’s the best Scoutmaster I know.

My sister was in the hospital after surgical complications.
My friend had a devastating miscarriage.
Another friend was facing limiting effects of an autoimmune disease.
Both my mom and mother-in-law were both facing recurring health challenges.
My parents’ beloved dog passed away.
Other loved ones were plagued with mental health issues.
A few more were undergoing taxing fertility treatments.
My cousin unexpectedly passed away.
And another person I care about was struggling with her faith.
All within a few weeks.
I was feeling my loved ones’ problems like they were my own. I felt the crushing weight of looming helplessness—because no matter how much I offered my love and support, I couldn’t fix their problems.
I am a helper. And believe it or not, this can be a toxic trait in some instances. By wanting to help everyone solve their problems, I sometimes stretch myself too far. I neglect my own needs. I measure my worth based on how much I have served others. Even after I offer support, I often feel like I still haven’t done enough.
As disciples of Jesus Christ, we are all encouraged to love our neighbors (see Matthew 22:39) and to “bear one another’s burdens” (Mosiah 18:8). But it can be difficult to know how to be empathetic without becoming too overwhelmed with other people’s problems and feeling helpless.
Thankfully, we also know “it is not requisite that a man should run faster than he has strength” (Mosiah 4:27). I’m learning a lot about how to offer Christlike empathy and support to those I love without feeling helpless and overwhelmed.
When someone shares their struggles with me, I try to put myself in their shoes and understand their point of view.
But the problems come when I (metaphorically) forget to take their shoes off. I often continue to dwell on the challenges of my loved ones to the point where I feel helpless and disheartened. At the time when everyone around me was struggling, I was wearing dozens of my loved ones’ figurative shoes and neglecting my needs as I scrambled to do everything I could to help them.
I’m learning that healthy empathy is, as social-science researcher Brené Brown teaches, “understanding what someone is feeling, not feeling it for them. If someone is feeling lonely, empathy doesn’t require us to feel lonely too, only to reach back into our own experience with loneliness so we can understand and connect.”1
Empathy isn’t about fixing others’ challenges—it is helping them realize they have support as they face them. Sister J. Anette Dennis, First Counselor in the Relief Society General Presidency, has taught, “When we seek to empathize with others who also experience challenges and imperfections, it can help them feel that they are not alone in their struggles.”2
I’m learning that I can listen to, support, and sit with someone in their struggle, but I do not have to take on their challenge as my constant companion. I can “mourn with those that mourn” (Mosiah 18:9), but I also need to step back into my own shoes and take charge of my own challenges and responsibilities. I have to take care of myself if I’m going to have any energy and compassion left to give others!
I’ve learned that offering support and compassion doesn’t require extravagant efforts to fix problems. Simply reminding others of your and Heavenly Father’s love can do wonders. Sister Susan H. Porter, Primary General President, taught, “When you know and understand how completely you are loved as a child of God, it changes everything.”3
For example, a few months ago, a loved one was struggling with her faith. One night she tearfully explained her feelings to me. I wanted her to believe in the gospel so badly and to fix every doubt she had.
In my preferred reality, I would answer every question perfectly, and we would both leave the conversation with a sense of renewed faith and joy, complete with sunshine and rainbows!
But I knew that wasn’t likely.
So I said a prayer in my heart to know how to help her. And I felt a distinct impression from the Spirit:
Just listen.
Through listening, I let go of my instinct to fix and instead saw that she simply needed to know that she is loved. I testified of the love I and Heavenly Father have for her. And although that conversation didn’t end with her renewed faith, it did end with a renewed sense of Heavenly Father’s perfect love—which is often the greatest help we can offer those who are struggling.
When I am feeling burnout from watching those I love suffer, I have to remind myself that while I can’t resolve the pain of everyone I care about, there is someone who can.
Jesus Christ “descended below all things” (Doctrine and Covenants 88:6)—meaning He suffered for and understands all the pains, afflictions, and unfairness we face—including all the specific challenges and accompanying emotions of my loved ones I mentioned above.
Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles once said: “Our best and most selfless services are often not adequate to comfort or encourage in the way people need. … But Christ can help. God the Father can help. The Holy Ghost can help, and we need to keep trying to be Their agents, helping when and where we can.”4
I am not the Savior.
I don’t have the capacity to be there for every person who needs a shoulder to cry on, a listening ear, or instant solutions to their challenges.
I am simply one of Christ’s disciples.
I can share inklings of His love and shed glimmers of His light in darkening corners of the world.
I can help others come unto Christ and can remind them of His atoning sacrifice when what I give isn’t sufficient, because “[His] grace is sufficient” (Ether 12:27).
I am grateful for my inherent desire to care deeply about Heavenly Father’s children. I am starting to see that it’s a strength that offers me just a glimpse of the perfect love the Savior and Heavenly Father have for each of us.
And trust me, if the love I feel is just a fragment of what They feel, then Their love truly is incomprehensible.
The Savior knows fully how to succor both my sorrows and the sorrows of those I love. He gives me strength to serve and support them.
I’m grateful for the infinite hope Jesus Christ offers us in “good things to come” (Hebrews 9:11)—for the day when all the seemingly unfixable parts of life will be resolved through Him.
I can’t wait for that day.
But until then, what I give, combined with what He gives, will always be enough.

Matt Bezzant learned about repentance during a service project at a nursery school. He would let the children clean the walls of the nursery as well as they could with the tools he gave them, and then he would come along afterwards to help them make the wall clean all the way. Cleaning the walls was like repentance, he said. “You do all you can to clean the wall, and God gives you the tools for that; then He does the rest.”

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.’”

Around the world literally hundreds of people are gaining this testimony daily. I heard one such person speak just a few days ago. He was a new convert to the Church. He was a young man and he had a young family. He told how his life had literally changed—how the life of his whole family had changed. For the first time he knew what his relationship to God was and what the Lord expected of him. Because of this, he said, he was a better husband and father. He knew where he was going and could lead his family in a better way. But mostly he was happy—happy with the quiet joy that fills the life of every truly converted person.