Gospel Story Finder

A few years ago, I created a video to go along with the Light the World Christmas campaign that received over 2.5 million views. I thought, “Should I put a scripture at the end? Or give people a challenge to be baptized? Is it my duty to dedicate my YouTube channel to missionary work?”
I really wrestled with that last question. I’m able to reach more people right now than the early missionaries and early pioneers could have even dreamed of! So I went to the temple with this question, ready and willing for whatever answer I would get.
And the answer that came was, “Do your ministering, and do your calling.”
I realized that Jesus Christ didn’t need me to baptize every one of my subscribers. He needed me to focus on serving the people around me.

As I approached my 18th birthday and prepared to enter military service in World War II, I was recommended to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood. Mine was the task to telephone President Paul C. Child, my stake president, for an interview. He was one who loved and understood the holy scriptures, and it was his intent that all others should similarly love and understand them. As I knew from others of his rather detailed and searching interviews, our telephone conversation went something like this:
“Hello, President Child. This is Brother Monson. I have been asked by the bishop to visit with you relative to being ordained an elder.”
“Fine, Brother Monson. When can you see me?”
Knowing that his sacrament meeting time was 4:00 and desiring minimum exposure of my scriptural knowledge to his review, I suggested, “How would 3:00 be?”
His response: “Oh, Brother Monson, that would not provide us sufficient time to peruse the scriptures. Could you please come at 2:00 and bring with you your personally marked set of scriptures?”
Sunday finally arrived, and I visited President Child’s home. I was greeted warmly, and then the interview began. He said, “Brother Monson, you hold the Aaronic Priesthood.” Of course, I knew that. He continued, “Have you ever had an angel minister to you?”
My reply, “I’m not sure.”
“Do you know,” said he, “that you are entitled to such?”
Came my response: “No.”
Then he instructed, “Brother Monson, repeat from memory the 13th section of the Doctrine and Covenants.”
I began, “Upon you my fellow servants, in the name of Messiah I confer the Priesthood of Aaron, which holds the keys of the ministering of angels …”
“Stop,” President Child directed. Then in a calm, kindly tone, he counseled, “Brother Monson, never forget that as a holder of the Aaronic Priesthood you are entitled to the ministering of angels. Now continue the passage.”
I recited from memory the remainder of the section. President Child said, “Splendid.” He then discussed with me several other sections of the Doctrine and Covenants pertaining to the priesthood. It was a long interview, but I have never forgotten it. At the conclusion, President Child put his arm around my shoulder and said, “You are now ready to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood. Remember that the Lord blesses the person who serves Him.”

Laurie learned this by trying to be more Christlike in her relationship with her husband. She had a need for order; her husband did not. She shed many tears after she repeatedly criticized her husband for his casual and not very tidy ways. However, Laurie realized that her feelings and actions were not in line with the Savior’s example. Rather than condemning her husband, she determined to work on her own attitude. She thought of how Christ would have handled such situations, and planned how she would react to her husband’s next offense. With a Christlike attitude, she found there was no room for fault-finding. She ceased to react unpleasantly. Though it took weeks before her husband’s untidiness no longer bothered her, she found that while she waited for her husband to come home each day, she found herself planning to listen to him, to join him in a few quiet moments, and to help him relax from the tensions of the day.

These actions did not decrease her need for order. But as she learned to deal with the problem cheerfully, this approach became second nature. As much as she wanted it, her husband never did improve enough to be considered tidy. But after a while it did not matter much, because she found that her ability to control her temper was enormously satisfying, far more than having all his socks in the dresser drawer. She had, in fact, come a long way toward achieving emotional integrity.

During World War II, a friend of mine was serving in the South Pacific when his plane was shot down over the ocean. He and the other crew members successfully parachuted from the burning plane, inflated their life rafts, and clung to those rafts for three days.

On the third day they spotted what they knew to be a rescue vessel. It passed them by. The next morning it passed them by again. They began to despair as they realized that this was the last day the rescue vessel would be in the area.

Then the Holy Spirit spoke to my friend: “You have the priesthood. Command the rescuers to pick you up.”

He did as prompted: “In the name of Jesus Christ and by the power of the priesthood, turn about and pick us up.”

Within a few minutes the vessel was beside them, helping them on deck. A faithful and worthy bearer of the priesthood, in his extremity, had exercised that priesthood, blessing his life and the lives of others.

One day while I was at a store with my mom I found a twenty-dollar bill on the floor. I showed it to my mom and she asked me what I thought I should do with it. I knew that the money did not belong to me, so I decided to give it to a store clerk. While we were checking out, the clerk told me that a little girl had called crying because she had lost her birthday money. Because I did the right thing, the little girl got her money back, and I got a big hug from my mom.

Illustration by Steve Kropp
I went with my family to visit my parents’ village for a New Year’s celebration. It had been three years since we had visited last, and we were looking forward to seeing friends and family members again. When we arrived we were happily welcomed.
When New Year’s Eve came, we gathered with others for a traditional ceremony to wish protection, long life, and prosperity to the oldest son of each family. I am the oldest son in my family. I learned that all those taking part would be expected to drink wine as part of the ceremony.
I was very worried. I knew that drinking the wine would be breaking the Word of Wisdom. But I also knew that if I did not drink the wine, I might be punished for being disrespectful—and my family might be punished too. Then I remembered what my mother had taught me: when you find yourself in a situation you cannot control, you should pray to Heavenly Father and ask Him to help you.
I prayed silently, Heavenly Father, let Thy Spirit guide me and help me to do what is right.
When it was my turn to drink the wine, I was nervous, but I spoke loudly and clearly. “My body is a temple. I will not break the Word of Wisdom,” I said.
The village elder was very surprised. He turned to me and said, “You seem very sure of what you are doing. Please, we would like to hear more of your views.”
My family and I were not punished, and our faith was strengthened. I know Heavenly Father helped me have the courage to choose the right.

Illustration by Stephanie Hock
Ever since I was baptized, I have been interested in family history and temple work. I loved the idea of being sealed to my family for eternity, but I didn’t think this would ever happen because many of my family members, including my father, struggled with alcohol addiction.
I grew up in that environment, but the good advice of my dear mother helped me decide not to follow that path. She got baptized a year after I did.
When I turned 18, I decided to serve a mission and received a call to serve in Arizona, USA. This was one of the best experiences of my life. When I returned home, I discovered that my father’s addiction was totally out of control. I remember questioning if my service had been of any worth if things were now so bad at home.
During the April 2018 general conference, I heard Elder Dale G. Renlund of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles say, “As you … discover, gather, and connect your family … you will find healing for that which needs healing.”1
My mother continued to pray, read the scriptures, and seek for inspiration to help my father. Eventually, she convinced him to get help. He entered a treatment home for nine months. We could visit him only once a month. It wasn’t easy, especially in the beginning, but month after month my mother and I continued to be faithful in the gospel and to seek for our ancestors. In doing so, we were greatly blessed in ways we couldn’t have imagined.
After my father’s treatment, he returned home and has been sober ever since. He met with the missionaries but was not yet ready to commit to the gospel. My mother suggested that we go to the temple grounds and feel the Spirit there.
A short time later, the missionaries felt inspired to stop by our home and visit my father. He shared with them his desire to be baptized. That evening, my father and mother shared the great news with me.
The Lord had fulfilled His promise. That which needed healing was healed. My father was healed from his addiction, and my doubts were healed with renewed faith. Our family is now preparing to be sealed.

Then there was a Sunday School teacher—never to be forgotten, ever to be remembered. We met for the first time on a Sunday morning. She accompanied the Sunday School president into the classroom and was presented to us as a teacher who actually requested the opportunity to teach us. We learned that she had been a missionary and loved young people. Her name was Lucy Gertsch. She was beautiful, soft-spoken, and interested in us. She asked each class member to introduce himself or herself, and then she asked questions that gave her an understanding and an insight into the background of each boy, each girl. She told us of her childhood in Midway, Utah; and as she described that beautiful valley, she made its beauty live, and we desired to visit the green fields she loved so much. She never raised her voice. Somehow rudeness and boisterousness were incompatible with the beauty of her lessons. She taught us that the present is here and that we must live in it. She made the scriptures actually come to life. We became personally acquainted with Samuel, David, Jacob, Nephi, and the Lord Jesus Christ. Our gospel scholarship grew. Our deportment improved. Our love for Lucy Gertsch knew no bounds.
We undertook a project to save nickels and dimes for what was to be a gigantic party. Sister Gertsch kept a careful record of our progress. As boys and girls with typical appetites, we converted in our minds the monetary totals to cakes, cookies, pies, and ice cream. This was to be a glorious occasion—the biggest party ever. Never before had any of our teachers even suggested a social event like this one was going to be.
The summer months faded into autumn; autumn turned to winter. Our party goal had been achieved. The class had grown. A good spirit prevailed.
None of us will forget that gray morning in January when our beloved teacher announced to us that the mother of one of our classmates had passed away. We thought of our own mothers and how much they meant to us. We felt sorrow for Billy Devenport in his great loss.
The lesson that Sunday was from the book of Acts, chapter 20, verse 35: “Remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how he said, It is more blessed to give than to receive.” At the conclusion of the presentation of a well-prepared lesson, Lucy Gertsch commented on the economic situation of Billy’s family. These were depression times; money was scarce. With a twinkle in her eyes, she asked, “How would you like to follow this teaching of the Lord? How would you feel about taking your party fund and, as a class, giving it to the Devenports as an expression of our love?” The decision was unanimous. We counted very carefully each penny and placed the total sum in a large envelope.
Ever shall I remember the tiny band walking those three city blocks, entering Billy’s home, greeting him, his brother, sisters, and father. Noticeably absent was his mother. Always I shall treasure the tears which glistened in the eyes of each one present as the white envelope containing our precious party fund passed from the delicate hand of our teacher to the needy hand of a grief-stricken father. We fairly skipped our way back to the chapel. Our hearts were lighter than they had ever been, our joy more full, our understanding more profound. This simple act of kindness welded us together as one. We learned through our own experience that indeed it is more blessed to give than to receive.
The years have flown. The old chapel is gone, a victim of industrialization. The boys and girls who learned, who laughed, who grew under the direction of that inspired teacher of truth have never forgotten her love or her lessons.
Even today when we sing that old favorite—
Thanks for the Sabbath School. Hail to the day
When evil and error are fleeing away.
Thanks for our teachers who labor with care
That we in the light of the gospel may share.5
—we think of Lucy Gertsch, our Sunday School teacher, for we loved Lucy, and Lucy loved us.

In January 1989 Elder David B. Haight (1906–2004) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles fell ill and was taken by ambulance to the hospital, where he had two abdominal surgeries. Before he was taken to the hospital, crushing pain drove him to his knees. He prayed that his life would be spared. As he prayed, he began to lose consciousness. The sound of the siren was the last thing he remembered. In his unconscious state, the pain ceased, and he found himself in a peaceful setting. He became aware of being in a holy presence.
In next month’s Liahona, look for Gospel Classics: “The Sacrament—and the Sacrifice,” Elder Haight’s testimony of the Savior and an account of what he learned while unconscious.

Rushing to scribble a message on the last Christmas card, I quickly licked the envelope and stuffed the cards into my bag. I arrived at church just in time to join the other young men and young women in a holiday service activity.
This particular Christmas season we had decided to go to a local nursing home to sing hymns and Christmas carols as we strolled up and down the halls. I had decided that I would also bring along Christmas cards to hand out and to visit with people as we sang. I was looking forward to that evening, mostly because I love to sing Christmas carols. And it was a lot better to sing indoors rather than outside in the bitter cold!
We gathered in the foyer and began with a few Christmas classics like “Jingle Bells” and “Frosty the Snowman.” Then we opened our hymnbooks and began to sing as we wandered up and down the halls. Our voices soared and filled the air with the beautiful spirit of Christmas. Each doorway was overflowing with smiling faces, “Merry Christmas” greetings, and even several hugs.
But there was one man in a wheelchair who followed our every move for two hours. When we were done singing, he motioned for me to come to him. I leaned down to hear his frail voice.
“Can you please sing ‘O Holy Night’?” he asked softly.
Looking into his warm and hopeful eyes, I knew that he felt the Spirit and that hearing this song would help him feel closer to the Savior.
“Sure,” I replied. “We would love to.”
This song was not in our hymnbook, and I did not know all of the words, but I was sure that with close to 75 people there, someone was bound to know the lyrics. But as I gathered everyone to sing this request, I could not find anyone who knew the lyrics.
Slightly discouraged, I stood there staring at that man in his chair, desperately wishing to sing his simple Christmas request. Then I heard a girl in our group begin the song. One by one we all began to sing. The words flowed from my mouth with such ease, it was as if I had written the song myself. Our voices created an angelic chorus and echoed through the lonely halls. I knew that Heavenly Father was using our group to bring His Spirit to this man and the others in the nursing home.
After the song, everyone in the group and in the foyer stood in silence for a few minutes with tears running down our faces, full of the spirit of Christmas. I looked in my hand and noticed that I had one Christmas card left. I knelt down by the man in his wheelchair and handed him the card. Before I could say anything, he flung his arms around my neck.
“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you so much.”
As we finished giving hugs and Christmas wishes, we decided to walk around the neighborhood to continue our caroling. We had all been messengers that night, sharing our feelings of the Savior and His love. We strolled through the cold night air singing hymns, warmed by our testimonies of the Savior, whose birth we celebrated.

There is an example that expresses my meaning well. Some years ago a young lady missionary shared with me some of the circumstances of her call. Her humble father, a farmer, had willingly sacrificed much for the Lord and his kingdom. He was already sustaining two sons on missions when he talked with his daughter one day about her unexpressed desires to be a missionary and explained to her how the Lord had helped him to prepare to help her. He had gone to the fields to talk with the Lord, to tell him that he had no more material possessions to sell or sacrifice or to use as collateral for borrowing. He needed to know how he could help his daughter go on a mission. The Lord, he said, told him to plant onions. He thought he had misunderstood. Onions would not likely grow in this climate, others were not growing onions, he had no experience growing onions. After wrestling with the Lord for a time, he was again told to plant onions. So he borrowed money, purchased seeds, planted and nurtured and prayed. The elements were tempered, the onion crop prospered. He sold the crop, paid his debts to the bank and the government and the Lord, and put the remainder in an account under her name—enough to supply her wants on a mission.
I will not forget the story or the moment or the tears in her eyes or the sound of her voice or the feeling in me as she said, “Brother Hanks, I don’t have any trouble believing in a loving Heavenly Father who knows my needs and will help me according to his wisdom if I am humble enough. I have a father just like that.”

When I joined the Church in 1973, the doctrine of the redemption of the dead penetrated deep into my heart. As a new member of the Church, I made a commitment to do the vicarious work for my ancestors who had died without knowledge of the gospel.
At that time I lived in Madrid, Spain, about 500 kilometers from Asturias, the little place where I was born—and where, supposedly, the greater part of my ancestors’ records were located. I used many vacations and weekends looking for these records, traveling hundreds of kilometers. Sometimes I would lock myself up for entire days in the parish offices of Catholic churches, surrounded by old, and often illegible, records.
The love I felt for my ancestors helped me overcome these inconveniences. I brushed off the dirt, mended the torn books and pages, and learned to read the many, many books that came into my hands. With the help of these parish records, as well as civil records, family records, wills, newspapers, and photographs, I began to put together a picture of my ancestors’ lives. I came to know them to some extent and to rejoice in their happiness and mourn with them in their sorrows.
But the time came when it seemed I could do no more. Too many records had been destroyed. Asturias has been one of the most embattled areas in Spain’s history, and many records had been destroyed in its conflicts. I tried to go on using family sources but met with little success.
Sometimes I was discouraged when I thought of how easy it was for some people to do family history research. I read miraculous accounts in the Liahona of others finding needed information. Why couldn’t that happen to me? The records I needed had to be somewhere.
In 1994 I decided that I would vacation in a certain area and visit the parishes there one more time. As usual, after I had finished searching, I was in exactly the same place where I had begun. I felt quite discouraged. I had used up my vacations for 20 years, had traveled thousands of kilometers, had searched through mountains of books, had spoken with hundreds of people, and had spent a great deal of money. But for what?
My wife and I packed our suitcases to return to Madrid. Then at the last moment, I decided to make one more attempt. I returned again to one of the churches I had visited so many times before.
But this time, as I was looking in a certain record, the very names and dates that I needed suddenly appeared right before my eyes! My legs went weak, and a great cry of joy came out of my mouth. Tears rushed to my eyes, blinding me.
I hadn’t found the information on any of my previous attempts because the names were incorrectly registered. But once discovered, this precious record even referred me to other records that had not been destroyed in war—records that I never knew existed. Now the temple work could be done for these ancestors!
I was able to return to Madrid feeling extremely blessed. Like Nephi, I know that our Father in Heaven loves us and that he never gives us a commandment without preparing the way for us to carry it out.

A few years ago several friends from institute and I planned a two-day backpacking trip. We were experienced campers, quite familiar with the areas we would be traveling in and well equipped for most situations. We would soon learn, however, that without the guidance of the Holy Ghost our gear and knowledge would have been next to useless.
A few days before our trip the sky was clear and the temperatures were moderate. Our destination was Mount Chocorua in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. While it is true that the mountains of our region do not boast summits as high as those found in other parts of the world, the elevation gain from trailhead to summit is often quite substantial, and New England is known for its highly unpredictable weather.
The day before our departure it started to rain. Normally this would not concern me; it often rained as we hiked. This time, however, I felt a growing sense of unease. I checked the forecast—light showers, nothing more. Still, I felt very uncomfortable as the evening progressed. The feeling grew as I prepared for bed, read my scriptures, and said my prayers.
Finally I went to my pack and pulled out my guide map of the White Mountain National Forest. As I located Mount Chocorua on the map, my sense of unease doubled. It was so intense I considered calling off the trip, but that didn’t feel right either. I found another mountain we had on our list to climb and immediately felt better. After a prayer I felt good about this new destination. My only concern was possibly disappointing my friend Glenn, who had put much effort into planning this trip.
The next morning it was still raining lightly. After we all arrived at our departure point, I voiced my concerns and told my friends of my prayers and feelings. To my relief, two others had had the same feelings, and Glenn was more than willing to change mountains. We then prayed and asked the Lord to watch over us in our travels and to help us make the right decisions. We all felt comfortable with our new plans and departed.
Although the rain continued, our drive and climb passed without incident. After dinner the rain stopped and the clouds broke, revealing a beautiful sunset. Our spirits lifted, and we went to bed.
At midnight we were awakened by an intense electrical storm that lasted most of the night. While the rain, wind, and lightning were heavy where we were, we felt no impending danger. The lightning was far worse to the east where, from my vantage point, it was striking a particular area nearly every second and continued to do so for at least an hour. Glad that I was not there, I drifted back to sleep. The remainder of the trip was wet but passed safely and was very enjoyable.
A few days later I attended an institute cookout. All those who had gone on the backpacking trip were there. When Glenn arrived he had a curious look on his face. He showed us a section of a guidebook for the White Mountains. It stated that while Mount Chocorua is not as elevated as its neighbors, its bald face and position make it dangerous as one of the mountains in North America most frequently struck by lightning. We also confirmed that the area we saw bombarded by lightning was the Chocorua area.
How grateful we were that we were warned by the Holy Ghost not to go there at that time.

As a junior in high school, I worked away from my family in Washington, D.C., through a program whose schedule dictated that school start at 6:45 a.m. When school ended, work at the capitol continued until 5:30 p.m. at the earliest. Seminary started at 6:00 p.m. and took an hour and a half from my evening. I rarely had time to finish my homework before falling—exhausted—into bed. I didn’t have time, I told myself, to do everything, and I decided seminary was the only thing that could go.
So, I quit seminary. I was confident I would make up the credit somehow and that I would still be able to graduate, and I reasoned to myself that it wouldn’t affect my entrance into the celestial kingdom or cause me to lose my testimony if I didn’t go to seminary for a few months.
Everything seemed fine, except that my grades dropped. My math teacher put me in mandatory study hall for an hour every night for several weeks. After three months without seminary, my friend convinced me to go just one Friday night. I agreed reluctantly. Deep down, I truly did want to go, but I was too embarrassed to walk sheepishly into the classroom after my three-month absence.
However, my whole outlook changed the moment I entered the room. A feeling of peace and contentment flooded over me, wiping away my embarrassment and apprehension. I couldn’t believe that I had let myself remove a constant source of strength and peace from my life, especially at a time when I was away from my family and needed extra strength to stand as a witness of Christ. I wondered how I could have let myself leave the place that made me happy. That night I made a commitment to attend seminary consistently.
I followed through with that commitment, and I was never put in mandatory study hall again. Even though I still struggled with math, my grades came up and stayed up, and I passed with a good grade. I know that Heavenly Father provided a way for me to follow His commandments and that He blessed me so that I could do more in His hands than I could do by myself.

On Thursday afternoon, my family and I were celebrating my child’s birthday at a rather loud and noisy gathering in our home when the phone rang. A woman’s voice said, “Brother Monte Brough, would you hold the phone a moment? President Hinckley would like to speak with you.”
I said, “President Hinckley!” in order to gain some attention from my rather raucous family. They quieted rather quickly, I can tell you.
President Hinckley came on the phone and said, “Brother Brough, would it be convenient for you to come and see me?”
In a rather stilted way, I responded for a moment or two to a couple of questions, then said, “President Hinckley, you have given me a rather frightening phone call.”
He said, “Oh, don’t worry about it. We’re just going to give you a new broom and let you sweep the steps in front of the office building.”
President Hinckley, I want you and these Brethren to know that I would be honored to take up that broom and sweep those steps where you have walked, where President Benson has walked, and where all these men whom I admire and love with all my heart have walked.

My younger sister and I received our endowment together, just a few days before she left on her mission. I was excited to attend the temple with her, and I was ready to take the next step on the covenant path.
But that day, my emotions were everywhere. It was the end of summer. A daunting school semester loomed before me. In anticipation of moving back to college, leaving my family, and saying goodbye to my sister, I felt suddenly inconsolable.
And although the endowment ceremony was beautiful, it was a lot to take in. I understood very little and was ready to leave the moment the session ended.
My sister had a different experience. In the celestial room, she calmly and curiously asked my parents questions about the endowment and seemed to have grasped much more than I had. Meanwhile, I sat in a stupor of silence. I remember holding back tears of frustration and embarrassment that my experience was playing out so differently from hers.
I was momentarily tempted to feel bitter that I hadn’t had the experience I’d hoped for. But then I remembered two specific things that my temple preparation teachers had told me:
I would likely not understand everything that happened during my first endowment session. They told me that instead of trying to make sense of it all in the moment, I should try to focus on the peaceful feeling inside the temple.
I might leave the temple feeling spiritually tired and overwhelmed. And that was OK.
Their wise words slowed my spiraling thoughts and have stuck with me over the years. I believe the same counsel can help us as we reckon with expectations we have about other spiritual experiences, both inside and outside the temple.
I’m happy to say that I enjoy attending the temple now, and my understanding of the endowment has grown over the past few years.
Comparing my temple experience to my sister’s was discouraging for me. Because I didn’t want that first experience to get in the way of my enjoying the blessings of temple worship, I had to consciously decide to move past the differences in what my sister and I felt and understood that day.

I stared at my crooked tie in the mirror. “Do I have to go to Primary, Dad?”
“I thought you liked Primary, Brandon.” Dad poked his head into my bedroom.
“I used to, but not anymore.” I sighed. “Not since Justin moved away. Now there isn’t anybody in my class except Tyson, Kenny, and Derek. Nobody wants to sit next to Tyson because he’s a troublemaker. And ever since Kenny and Derek started going to the same school, they don’t even bother talking to me. I don’t have any friends in Primary now.” I swallowed at the growing lump in my throat.
I waited for Dad to tell me that he understood how awful it could be to not have any friends in Primary, but he just straightened my tie and said, “So what are you going to do about it?”
“Me? What can I do? I can’t make Justin move back—his dad got a new job about a million miles away.”
“But isn’t there some way you could make friends with the other boys?”
Hadn’t Dad been listening? “I could never be friends with them,” I said, my voice wavering. “They don’t like me, and I don’t like them.”
“One of the reasons we go to church is to become more like Jesus Christ,” he said. “What do you think He would want you to do?”
I rolled my eyes. Dad was always saying stuff like that. But I glanced at the picture of Jesus above my bed. His kind, brown eyes seemed to look right at me. I knew that Jesus would love everyone. But then He’s never had Tyson, Kenny, and Derek in His Primary class, either, I thought stubbornly. “I don’t know, Dad. What would Jesus do?”
Dad opened my Bible to John 13:34 and asked me to read it out loud.
“‘A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another.’”
I was getting even more discouraged now. “How am I supposed to do that when I don’t even like them?”
“The same way the Savior showed His love and the way we show love in our own family,” Dad said. “By doing things for each other—love and service go together. Remember the stories I’ve told you about when I served a mission in Texas?”
“Sure, Dad.” I gave him a big smile. “You’ve always said how much you loved it.”
“That’s right.” Dad’s smile was just as big. “And there’s a reason why it’s called ‘serving’ a mission. I spent two years serving hundreds of people I didn’t even know. But the more I served, the more my love for the people in my mission grew. You could do the same thing in your class.”
“You mean do things for the boys in my class? Why would I want to do anything for them? Tyson tripped me last week, and the other two act as though I’m not even there.”
“But if you did,” Dad said, staring me straight in the eye, “their feelings would change—and so would yours. You could think of it as your mission to your own Valiant class if you want to.”
I gulped. I wanted to be a regular, full-time missionary when I was older, but “go on a mission” to my Primary class? “I don’t know, Dad,” I muttered. “It sounds more like a ‘mission impossible.’”
“Maybe.” He smiled again. “But would you think about it?”
I thought about it all the way to church. I finally figured that if I didn’t do something, I’d be miserable forever—or at least until another boy my age moved in. And in a small town like mine, who knew when that would be? But what exactly can a Primary missionary do? I wondered.
I got my first idea when I opened the big glass doors of the church and saw Elder Richards and Elder Martinez smiling and shaking hands with people in the foyer. If I was going to be a Primary missionary, I knew I’d have to try that, even though just the thought of it made my stomach leap as if I’d swallowed a dozen tree frogs.
I walked to the Primary room as slowly as I could, half hoping my entire class would be out of town. When I opened the door, Kenny and Derek were already huddled together at the end of the row, whispering and giggling. Tyson was tipping back in his chair, blocking the row with his feet.
Normally I would have plopped onto a chair by the wall and ignored everybody. But this time I couldn’t—not if I was going to be a missionary.
I took a deep breath and forced my legs to march to my row. “Er, … hi, Tyson,” I mumbled. Our eyes locked for a second, my mouth forming an awkward smile. “Can I sit down?”
He looked startled—like he’d never seen me before. Then, after a moment, he dropped his feet and chair to the floor. “Yeah, go ahead.”
I stepped around his feet, just in case he was thinking of tripping me again, and sat on a chair in the middle of the row. Then I turned toward the other two and waved. “Hi, Derek. Hi, Kenny.” You would have thought from their reaction that I’d just announced their name over the microphone or something.
But after a quick “Oh, hi” back, they were again hunched over a piece of paper Kenny had fished out of his pocket.
So much for being a missionary! I thought glumly. I couldn’t think of anything else to do until Sister Reynolds called for volunteers to read some scriptures she’d written on the board. I shot my hand into the air. Missionaries definitely read scriptures.
But just when I thought Sister Reynolds was going to pick me, she called on Tyson instead. He hadn’t even raised his hand.
“What?” he said, fumbling for the books under his chair.
Sister Reynolds frowned slightly. “Would anyone else like to read Alma 17:25?”
Then, just as I was going to shoot my hand into the air again, I got another idea. I pushed my own Book of Mormon onto Tyson’s lap and pointed to the verse. “It’s right there,” I whispered.
“It’s OK—I’ll read it,” he said, taking the book. He read about Ammon, a Book of Mormon missionary who served the Lord by becoming King Lamoni’s servant and watching his flocks.
When he finished, he slipped my Book of Mormon back on my lap. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m not very good at finding scriptures.”
“No problem.” I just shrugged. But inside, I was feeling as good as if I’d read the scripture myself. Suddenly Tyson didn’t seem like such a troublemaker. Was this what Dad had been talking about?
Later, in class, I sat by Tyson and Kenny. It was so fun listening to Brother Duncan’s lesson that I forgot I was even on my mission until he asked for volunteers to play a drawing guessing game. Kenny and I jumped to the edge of our seats, waving our hands. Then I remembered. “Go ahead, Kenny. You can go first.”
“Hey, thanks,” he said.
I found out that he could draw pictures better than anybody in the whole class. “Where’d you learn to draw like that?” I asked after the closing prayer.
“Oh, nowhere,” he said, his eyes shining. “I draw all the time—see?” He pulled out the piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded a picture he’d drawn of a really cool scooter with heavy duty shock absorbers.
“Wow!” I said. “It’s the same kind of scooter that I’ve been saving for.”
“I’m going to get one for my birthday,” Derek chimed in. “Except it’s still three months away.”
Kenny stuffed the picture back into his pocket and headed for the door. “Well, I better go, Brandon. See you next week.”
“Yeah, see you next week,” I said. Then I rushed down the hallway to find Dad. Making friends in my Valiant 10 class was not only possible—it was fun. Primary was going to be better than ever.

On the other side of town, in a fine, large home live the van Littens, a family that has preserved Christmas traditions from Holland for generations. Dirk is wistfully remembering the fun when Sinterklaas (Saint Nicholas) came to their house on December 5.
Dirk had put his shoes on the hearth and filled them with sugar and hay for Sinterklaas’s white horse. The next morning the sugar and hay were gone, and in their places were a fine set of paints and new skates for Dirk.
Dirk sighs. The saintly old bishop in his red robe is gone, along with the gay parties and nonsense of Saint Nicholas’s Eve. Christmas Day is for going to church and eating a great dinner. Dirk wishes that Sinterklaas would come again instead.

Many years ago, my family happily awaited the birth of our son, Randolph “Ray” Gibson. But a routine ultrasound produced a sledgehammer to our hearts.

Ray was diagnosed with hypoplastic left heart syndrome (HLHS), which is a condition where the left side of the heart does not develop properly. Blood cannot circulate for the heart to function, and it is often fatal for the infant.

As our family processed this diagnosis, our friends and family offered prayers for us, family fasts, and outpourings of love and concern. We remained hopeful. Nevertheless, a follow-up test brought more discouraging news: Ray’s HLHS was extremely severe.

Compassionate medical professionals discussed our options with us. To terminate the pregnancy was not a decision we would consider. But we had to balance a wish for our son to live—however faint the odds—against pain he would suffer from attempts to repair his heart. Efforts to keep Ray alive would likely lead to a lifetime of suffering and to death at a very young age.

My wife, Kati, and I prayerfully made a very hard decision. We would greet our son into this world, keep him comfortable, and allow him to die peacefully. Our commitment to the gospel of Jesus Christ and our belief in the plan of salvation helped us make this choice. It was not easy watching our son grow in the womb, knowing his death would occur after birth. We also worried how our two-year-old would deal with meeting a baby brother and then attending his funeral a week later.

We were strengthened by the Lord’s declaration that “little children are holy, being sanctified through the atonement of Jesus Christ” (Doctrine and Covenants 74:7).

Kati and I can attest that the year in which we awaited Ray’s arrival helped us understand the true meaning of a husband and wife cleaving to each other (see Genesis 2:24 and Doctrine and Covenants 42:22). We clung to one another, allowing our love and trust to help us endure. We poured our hearts out to God, asking for strength to go on and to bless our family through this ordeal. Our marriage grew stronger.

Before Ray was born, we found out he was breech. The doctors worried that he would not survive the strain of normal birth, so they performed a C-section delivery. Minutes after the birth, I, along with my bishop and several others, gave Ray a priesthood blessing outside the operating room. During this chaotic, traumatic situation, I uttered several sentences and finished “in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.” Ray was then washed, bundled, and taken to his family in the hospital room.

Ray lived for 24 hours and 16 minutes. Family and friends filled the hospital room during the day, holding Ray and loving him. It was a surreal experience—the only day we would have with our son. I treasured holding him, kissing him, and changing his diapers.

The next morning our son died. We held him and loved him fiercely in his final hour.

I went to seminary and later to institute, I attended Church activities, and I even started my own Personal Progress. I couldn’t wait to go to Young Women activities. I will never forget the hours we spent cooking, making postcards or bookmarks, decorating our classroom, or playing games, as well as the wonderful spirit of friendship between us. Each activity helped me understand my divine nature and role in life.