Gospel Story Finder

For example, the Sydney Australia Hebersham Stake Young Men and Young Women take a turn each month with other churches in the area driving a van in a citywide project called Night Patrol. Two adults and two young people take food and offer comfort to those living on the streets. The teens who have had a chance to work in the Night Patrol van quickly found it was interesting work and are the first to volunteer to go again.

The summer I turned 16, I moved in with an aunt in Driggs who needed a live-in babysitter. Mom agreed and I lived with my aunt until my high school graduation. It was the long-awaited answer to prayers! My aunt welcomed me with love. I learned life lessons there; how to choose my own clothes, how to make cookies, how to interact with family, how to welcome friends as they came to visit and how to enjoy life. I even learned how to walk barefoot in the grass and dirt. Sometimes I made foolish decisions, but soon realized it was much easier holding on to what I knew was right. The Lord tells us "I, the Lord, am merciful and gracious unto those who fear me, and delight to honor those who serve me in righteousness and in truth unto the end."

My grades earned me a scholarship to Ricks College. I lived with a long-time friend and her brother returned from his mission. And believe me, I noticed him from the start! He's a people person, service oriented, witty, fun, and faithful. I saw how he treated his sweet mother and loving sisters with kindness and respect. That won him extra points! I watched how his family functioned. I knew that his five brothers had or would be serving missions and the gospel was important to their family. More points! I determined early on that I wanted him and his family. Later we married in the Ogden Temple and I got both!

Vance is my best friend and has offered me great support on my path of healing. We have raised three beautiful daughters who are in turn raising righteous families. They are our greatest accomplishment and we have been blessed with a dozen incredible grandchildren who bring us great joy!

I have that home I hoped for as a child. I don't have the braided rug or round table, but I do have a home where family prayers are said and love and faith reside. Do we have challenges? Yes, everyday! We know the Lord may not remove all our trials, but we have faith that through His enabling power, we'll have strength to endure.

Soon after I left the basement, Mom left Idaho Falls. She transferred from her position at the Post Register to the Idaho Statesman in Boise. I'm happy to report that both my parents, inactive most of their lives, received their temple endowments within their lifetime. In Mom's later years, she suffered a stroke, became immobile and required full-time care. We moved her to eastern Idaho and we insisted that she receive psychological treatment. She reluctantly agreed to medication. We worked closely with her and her caregivers to meet her needs. I was able to have loving exchanges with Mom before her death. I'm grateful for the blessing of the resurrection and I'm waiting in awe to meet her someday with a clear, healthy mind.

Several years ago a severe storm hit the area in which we were living. It began with a torrential downpour, followed by a devastating easterly wind. When the storm was over, damages were assessed—power lines were down, property had been damaged, and many of the beautiful trees that grew in the area had been uprooted. A few days later I was talking to a friend who had lost several of the trees in his yard. The trees on one side of his home were standing straight and tall. They had weathered the storm well, while the trees that were in what I considered the prime spot on his property had not been able to withstand the heavy winds. He pointed out to me that the trees that survived the storm were planted on firm ground; their roots had to sink deep into the soil to receive nourishment. The trees he had lost were planted near a small stream, where nourishment was readily available. The roots were shallow. They were not anchored deeply enough to protect them from the storm.

When one asks people about their Christmas traditions, most respond with a description of how they celebrate it by having family gatherings, giving gifts (including money), eating traditional meals or comfort foods of the season, putting up decorations, etc. I remember one year when I was a child, I told my father that that Christmas had been the best one in my life. He asked why I had said that. My foolish response was, “Because I have received so many great toys that my friends will envy me.” He did not respond with words, but my father’s wise lesson was given the following years. That was the last Christmas I received that many toys and no more expensive gifts did I get thereafter. The lesson remains with me, as over time I’ve come to realize that prominently absent in my thoughts and in my foolish response was the mention of our Savior and Redeemer’s birth, His life, and His mission.

The final story is one that I felt I could relate only if I was able to verify that it was more than a faith-promoting rumor. My inquiry made it as far as a senior Church officer who heard the young woman tell the story, and who confirmed the details I’ll share with you. That gives me sufficient confidence to tell the story to you.
A few years ago, a young woman in Guatemala had been taught by the missionaries, but decided not to continue with the lessons. One day as she was riding a local bus, several young men climbed aboard. She said that she and everyone else on the bus immediately recognized them as gang members by their appearance, including the evidence of handguns under their shirts. This was an all-too-common occurrence in that place. They knew they were about to be robbed. The gang members separated, some going to the front of the bus, some to the back, according to their standard procedure.
The bus came to the next stop and a group of young Mormon elders came aboard. They, too, separated, one standing up front, and the others going back into the bus to sit next to the passengers. The one in front got up and began to teach, sharing with the passengers a message about the Gospel of Jesus Christ. The young woman said that he spoke with great power. The bus came to the next stop. The gang members all arose and exited the bus.
My guess is that those missionaries had no idea what had just happened. Of course I cannot say what went through the minds of the gang members, but it seems quite possible that they were repelled by the spiritual light and power the elders had brought with them, and that they wanted to be away from it. If I am right, a spiritual power and light not only had touched the heart of one who gave heed to it, but had driven darkness away. After the bus ride, the young woman sought out the missionaries, resumed her study of the Gospel, and related this story at her baptism.

For example, when I was younger, I really wanted to play school basketball. I practiced and practiced. One day the coach pointed to our 6-foot-4-inch (1.93 m) all-state center and our 6-foot-2-inch (1.88 m) all-star forward and said to me, “I can put you on the team, but you’ll likely never play.” I remember how kindly he then encouraged, “Why not try out for soccer? You’d be good.” My family cheered when I scored my first goal.

Many teens who live close to Nauvoo remember what it was like before the new Nauvoo Illinois Temple was built. Brianne Bokish of the Quincy Ward says, “I remember when the temple wasn’t there. There were stones marking where the corners and walls had been. My brother and I would run around, stepping on all the rocks around the whole thing. My parents took pictures of us standing in the very center where the font had been. It doesn’t seem like so long ago, but the temple is here today.”

Whenever we seek for true testimony we come, finally, to ordinary men and women and children.
Let me quote from the diary of Joseph Millett, a little-known missionary of an earlier time. Called on a mission to Canada, he went alone and on foot. In Canada, during the wintertime, he said:
“I felt my weakness. A poor, ill-clothed, ignorant boy in my teens, thousands of miles from home among strangers.
“The promise in my blessing and the encouraging words of President Young to me, with the faith I had in the gospel, kept me up.
“Many times I would turn into the woods … in some desolate place with a heart full, wet eyes, to call on my master for strength or aid.
“I believed the Gospel of Christ. I had never preached it. I knew not where to find it in the scriptures.”
That didn’t matter so much, for, “I had to give my Bible to the boatman at Digby for passage across the sound.”
Years later, Joseph Millett, with his large family, was suffering through very, very difficult times. He wrote in his journal:
“One of my children came in and said that Brother Newton Hall’s folks was out of bread, had none that day.
“I divided our flour in a sack to send up to Brother Hall. Just then Brother Hall came.
“Says I, ‘Brother Hall, are you out of flour?’
“‘Brother Millett, we have none.’
“‘Well, Brother Hall, there is some in that sack. I have divided and was going to send it to you. Your children told mine that you was out.’
“Brother Hall began to cry. He said he had tried others, but could not get any. He went to the cedars and prayed to the Lord, and the Lord told him to go to Joseph Millett.
“‘Well Brother Hall, you needn’t bring this back. If the Lord sent you for it you don’t owe me for it.’”
That night Joseph Millett recorded a remarkable sentence in his journal:
“You can’t tell me how good it made me feel to know that the Lord knew there was such a person as Joseph Millett” (Diary of Joseph Millett, holograph, Archives of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Salt Lake City).

More than once I have repeated an experience I had in getting my portrait painted.
In the temple on the fourth floor is the room of the Council of the Twelve Apostles with large chairs in a semicircle. Here important meetings of that body are held. Around its walls are portraits of the Brethren. When I came to this service, I looked upon them with admiration and affection, for these were truly great men with whom I was associated.
Sometime later authorization was given by the First Presidency of the Church for my portrait to be added to the others.
Lee Greene Richards was selected as the artist, and we began immediately. I sat on a chair on an elevated platform in his studio and tried very hard to look handsome, like some of the other brethren. With paints, brushes, and palette ready, the artist scrutinized my features and daubed on the canvas alternately. I returned many times to the studio. After weeks the portrait was exhibited to the First Presidency and later to my wife and daughter.
It did not pass, and I was to submit to a redoing.
The angle was changed, the hours—many of them—were spent, and finally the portrait was near completion. This particular day was a busy one like most others. I suppose I was daydreaming, and quite detached from this world. Apparently he had difficulty translating my faraway gaze onto the canvas. I saw the artist lay down his palette and paints, fold his arms, and look straight at me, and I was shocked out of my dreaming by the abrupt question: “Brother Kimball, have you ever been to heaven?”
My answer seemed to be a shock of equal magnitude to him as I said without hesitation: “Why, yes, Brother Richards, certainly. I had a glimpse of heaven just before coming to your studio.” I saw him assume a relaxed position and look intently at me, with wonder in his eyes. I continued:
“Yes. Just an hour ago. It was in the holy temple across the way. The sealing room was shut off from the noisy world by its thick, white-painted walls; the drapes, light and warm; the furniture, neat and dignified; the mirrors on two opposite walls seeming to take one in continuous likenesses on and on into infinity; and the beautiful stained-glass window in front of me giving such a peaceful glow. All the people in the room were dressed in white. Here were peace and harmony and eager anticipation. A well-groomed young man and an exquisitely gowned young woman, lovely beyond description, knelt across the altar. Authoritatively, I pronounced the heavenly ceremony which married and sealed them for eternity on earth and in the celestial worlds. The pure in heart were there. Heaven was there.
“When the eternal marriage was solemnized, and as the subdued congratulations were extended, a happy father, radiant in his joy, offered his hand and said, ‘Brother Kimball, my wife and I are common people and have never been successful, but we are immensely proud of our family.’ He continued, ‘This is the last of our eight children to come into this holy house for temple marriage. They, with their companions, are here to participate in the marriage of this, the youngest. This is our supremely happy day, with all of our eight children married properly. They are faithful to the Lord in church service, and the older ones are already rearing families in righteousness.’
“I looked at his calloused hands, his rough exterior, and thought to myself, ‘Here is a real son of God fulfilling his destiny.’
“‘Success?’ I said, as I grasped his hand. ‘That is the greatest success story I have heard. You might have accumulated millions in stocks and bonds, bank accounts, lands, industries, and still be quite a failure. You are fulfilling the purpose for which you were sent into this world by keeping your own lives righteous, bearing and rearing this great posterity, and training them in faith and works. Why, my dear folks, you are eminently successful. God bless you.’”
My story was finished. I looked up at the portrait artist. He stood motionless in deep thought, so I continued: “Yes, my brother, I have had many glimpses of heaven.
“Once we were in a distant stake for conference. We came to the unpretentious home of the stake president at mid-day Saturday. We knocked at the door, and it was opened by a sweet mother with a child in her arms. She was the type of mother who did not know there were maids and servants. She was not an artist’s model, nor a society woman. Her hair was dressed neatly; her clothes were modest, tastefully selected; her face was smiling; and though young, she showed the rare combination of maturity of experience and the joys of purposeful living.
“The house was small. The all-purpose room into which we were welcomed was crowded and in its center were a long table and many chairs. We freshened up in the small bedroom assigned to us, made available by ‘farming out’ to the neighbors some of the children, and we returned to this living room. She had been very busy in the kitchen. Her husband, the stake president, soon returned from his day’s labors and made us welcome and proudly introduced us to all of the children as they returned from their chores and play.
“Almost like magic the supper was ready, for ‘many hands make light work,’ and these numerous hands were deft and experienced ones. Every child gave evidence of having been taught responsibility. Each had certain duties. One child had quickly spread a tablecloth; another placed the knives and forks and spoons; and another covered them with the large plates turned upside down. (The dishes were inexpensive.) Next came large pitchers of creamy milk, high piles of sliced homemade bread, a bowl at each place, a dish of fruit from storage, and a plate of cheese.
“One child placed the chairs with backs to the table, and without confusion, we all knelt at the chairs facing the table. One young son was called on to lead in family prayer. It was extemporaneous, and he pleaded with the Lord to bless the family and their schoolwork, and the missionaries, and the bishop. He prayed for us who had come to hold conference that we would ‘preach good,’ for his father in his church responsibilities, for all the children that ‘they would be good, and kind to each other,’ and for the little cold shivering lambs being born in the lambing sheds on the hill this wintry night.
“A very little one said the blessing on the food, and thirteen plates were turned up and thirteen bowls filled, and supper proceeded. No apologies were offered for the meal, the home, the children, or the general situation. The conversation was constructive and pleasant. The children were well-behaved. These parents met every situation with calm dignity and poise.
“In these days of limited families, or childless ones, when homes often have only one or two selfish and often pampered children, homes of luxury with servants, broken homes where life moves outside the home, it was most refreshing to sit with a large family where interdependence and love and harmony were visible and where children were growing up in unselfishness. So content and comfortable were we in the heart of this sweet simplicity and wholesomeness that we gave no thought to the unmatched chairs, the worn rug, the inexpensive curtains, the numbers of souls that were to occupy the few rooms available.”
I paused. “Yes, Brother Richards, I glimpsed heaven that day and many days, in many places.” He seemed uninterested in his painting. He stood listening, seemingly eager for more, and almost involuntarily I was telling him of another flight into heavenly situations.
“This time it was on the Indian reservation. While most Navajo women seem to be prolific, this sweet Lamanite wife in their several years of marriage had not been blessed with children of her own. Her husband was well employed. These new converts to the Church were buying their weekend groceries. As we glanced at the purchases in the large, well-filled basket, it was evident that only wholesome food was there—no beer, no coffee, no cigarettes. ‘You like Postum, do you?’ we asked them, and their reply touched our hearts: ‘Yes, we have had coffee and beer all our lives, but since the Mormon missionaries told us about the Word of Wisdom we use Postum, and we know it is better for the children and they like it.’
“‘Children?’ we asked. ‘We thought you were a childless couple.’ This brought from them the explanation that they had filled their home with eighteen Navajo orphans of all ages. Their hogan was large but their hearts even larger. Unselfishness—the milk of human kindness! Love unfeigned! These good Indians could shame many of their contemporaries who live lives of selfishness and smugness.”
I said to the artist: “Heaven can be in a hogan or a tent, Brother Richards, for heaven is of our own making.” I was ready to return to the picture but apparently he was not so inclined. He stood and listened intently.
“This time I was in Hawaii in the beautiful little temple at Laie. It was a missionary group. The spirit was there; the proselyters could hardly wait their turns to bear testimony of the Lord’s gospel. Finally, the little Japanese missionary gained the floor. By the pulpit in her stocking feet she knelt reverently, and with a heart near bursting with gratitude for the gospel and its opportunities, she poured out her soul to heaven.
“Heaven was there, my brother, in that little room, in that sacred spot, in that paradise of the Pacific with those sweet, consecrated young soldiers for Christ.”
I continued: “Heaven was in my own home, too, Dr. Richards, when home evening was held. Through the years the room was filled with our children, when each, eager for a turn, sang a song, led a game, recited an Article of Faith, told a story, and listened to faith-promoting incidents and gospel teaching from parents who loved them.
“Again, I found heaven in Europe:
“Elder Vogel was a local convert German boy of great faith. His parents refused to assist him in the mission which he so desired to fill. A kind American member helped with a monthly check to assist with the mission expenses. He enjoyed his work and all went well for a year and a half. One day a letter came from the wife of his sponsor, advising that her husband had been killed in an auto accident and it would be impossible to send any more money.
“Elder Vogel kept his disappointment hidden and prayed earnestly for a solution. As he and his American companion, Elder Smith, passed a hospital one day, a solution to his financial problem was born in his mind. The next day he made an excuse and was gone for a time. When he came back he said little but went to bed early. When asked the reason, he said he was a little extra weary. A few days later Elder Smith noted a small bandage on the arm of the German brother, but his question was passed off lightly.
“Time passed and Elder Smith became suspicious of the periodical bandages until one day, unable to keep his secret longer, Elder Vogel told him: ‘You see, my friend in America is dead and can no longer give support to my mission. My parents are still unwilling to help me, so I visit the blood bank at the hospital so I can finish my mission.’ Selling his precious blood to save souls! Well, isn’t that what the Master did when he gave his every drop in the supreme sacrifice?
“Do you believe in heaven, Brother Artist?” I asked. “Yes, that is it. Heaven is a place, but also a condition; it is home and family. It is understanding and kindness. It is interdependence and selfless activity. It is quiet, sane living; personal sacrifice, genuine hospitality, wholesome concern for others. It is living the commandments of God without ostentation or hypocrisy. It is selflessness. It is all about us. We need only to be able to recognize it as we find it and enjoy it. Yes, my dear brother, I’ve had many glimpses of heaven.”
I straightened up in my chair and posed again. The artist picked up his palette and brushes and paints, did some touching up of the portrait, and sighed contentedly as he said, “It is completed.”
In due time it was placed with those of others of the Brethren in the Council of the Twelve room on the fourth floor of the Salt Lake Temple, where it hangs to this day.

Like my parents, I needed courage to live the gospel. I spent one year as a soldier in the German army. Most of the soldiers used bad language, smoked, and did other things I knew I should not do. Sometimes I felt alone, but I always tried to keep Heavenly Father’s standards. My officers respected my commitment and allowed me time off to participate in Church activities.
On the last night of a soldier’s service, the soldier and his friends would drink a lot of alcohol and have a rowdy party. I thought and prayed about what I should do when my last night came. When it did, I told the group of soldiers serving with me, “Let’s do something that has never been done before.” We dressed in our best suits and went to say a quiet good-bye to our army leaders. Our major couldn’t believe it. I felt that Heavenly Father had guided me to find an answer to my problem. Looking back, I can see that the greatest blessings in my life have come by following the counsel of prophets and keeping God’s commandments.

By Mckenzi Ham
Growing up, I never felt any pressure to serve a mission. When I got to college, though, all of that changed. Suddenly I was in a whirlwind of young men and women whose entire futures revolved around serving a mission. Rather than a question of if, serving a mission became a when—even for me.
I wanted a mission to be right for me. I prayed. I talked to my bishop. I counseled with my parents. I read my scriptures. I received a father’s blessing. But I continued to feel anxious and overwhelmed about serving a mission. It wasn’t until I finally made the decision not to serve a mission that I found the peaceful feeling I had been searching for.
I had to just ignore all the voices and opinions around me trying to tell me what was best for me. The decision to serve or not was between me and Heavenly Father. Prayer was my greatest help in keeping the pressure off. As I turned to Him, all those voices seemed to fade away. Initially, I thought that my parents were pressuring me to serve, but when I really opened up and counseled with them, I realized that their love for me would always come first. They became one of my greatest supports.
At first, I absolutely felt judged for not serving a mission. But then I realized that a lot of that judgment was self-inflicted. As I prayed for peace and learned to be patient with myself, those insecurities slowly—so, so, so slowly—began to disappear. As I drew closer to Heavenly Father, I began to understand who I am and how much I’m worth in His eyes.
God put a lot of people in my path to help me grow. I started working and became really close with my coworkers. Most of them were a few years younger than me and were going through hard stuff at school and at home. I was able to be a friend to them, help them understand how much they mattered, and even uplift them spiritually. Even though I didn’t think I was doing much at the time—giving rides home, bringing treats to share—I see now how serving and loving them healed me spiritually.
The specifics of what Heavenly Father wanted me to do were fuzzy at first. But I knew that He loves me and wants me to be happy—to find joy and peace in life. I struggled for months with my decision because I didn’t want to decide. I wanted God to tell me what to do. But He loves me enough to let me choose for myself. To serve as a full-time missionary or continue serving right where I was were both righteous choices. Peace came after I prayerfully made my decision and presented it to Him.
The temple became my greatest source of comfort and peace. Eventually I even received my endowment. My temple experience brought me closer to my Savior and helped me to understand my divine self-worth. My temple covenants have blessed my life and made me feel His love even more. Ever since I received my endowment, I haven’t had any insecurities or felt any pressure about not having served a full-time mission.

President Heber J. Grant recognized the role of BYU in providing teachers for the Church educational system. In the depths of the 1930s depression, financial pressures caused the First Presidency to announce the closure of all Church schools, including Brigham Young University. In a meeting following the announcement, a key member of the Brigham Young University Board of Trustees asked President Grant who would provide teachers for the Church. After a moment of reflection, the president reversed his decision regarding this institution. Most other Church schools were closed or given to the public sector. From the beginning, the mandate was clear. Brigham Young University’s role was to build testimony, prepare students for their work in the world, and provide teachers and leaders for the Church.

In 1982, six years after receiving my patriarchal blessing, our son Christian was born. He was premature and delivered through cesarean section. He weighed only 800 grammes, and the doctors gave us very little hope. To their astonishment, Christian made great progress after receiving a priesthood blessing by my husband.
On the third day after his birth, I was to visit him. How I longed to see my son! I woke up at 2:30 A.M. With tears streaming down my cheeks, I pleaded with the Lord, “Heavenly Father, please don’t let him die! I want to keep him so much,” adding, “But if that is not according to Thy will, Father, I accept that.”
Later that same morning, my husband came and told me that our son had died at 2:45 A.M. It was a grievous loss, and we wept and prayed together. In answer to our prayers, we felt surrounded by a warmth and peace.

A dear friend shared how she gained her precious testimony of the Atonement of Jesus Christ. She grew up believing sin always brought great punishment, borne by us alone. She pleaded to God to understand the possibility of divine forgiveness. She prayed to understand and know how Jesus Christ can forgive those who repent, how mercy can satisfy justice.
One day her prayer was answered in a spiritually transforming experience. A desperate young man came running out of a grocery store carrying two bags of stolen food. He ran into a busy street, chased by the store manager, who caught him and began yelling and fighting. Instead of feeling judgment for the frightened young man as a thief, my friend was unexpectedly filled with great compassion for him. Without fear or concern for her own safety, she walked straight up to the two quarreling men. She found herself saying, “I will pay for the food. Please let him go. Please let me pay for the food.”
Prompted by the Holy Ghost and filled with a love she had never felt before, my friend said, “All I wanted to do was to help and save the young man.” My friend said she began to understand Jesus Christ and His Atonement—how and why with pure and perfect love Jesus Christ would willingly sacrifice to be her Savior and Redeemer, and why she wanted Him to be.

The river is a poem, a rune, a mystery. The water flows deep with rhythm and verse and beauty. But beneath the beauty, beneath the constant silk flow and tranquility, there are teeth.
“If you aren’t afraid of the river, if you don’t respect it, it will get you,” Bill Barnes said. But he reassured us that all of the guides are expert swimmers and are trained in lifesaving and first aid.
We started quietly, two to a boat, a zigzagging line of canoes desperately pursuing our guide’s course downstream. The current coaxed us away from the shore and slapped us back and forth in the choppy waves. We knew we had experts leading us, but a wariness gnawed at us just the same. The sheer power of the current increased rapidly, pulsing and coursing with a raw anger that could snap a tree trunk. Soon paddles seemed almost useless, but paddles were all we had.
“They had warned us not to run into trees,” David Black of Cottonwood said. “But we thought we could push against one. We tried to push away and it didn’t work. They had told us not to lean the wrong way, but we leaned the wrong way. We went under.”
Thanks to his life preserver, David popped to the surface, grabbed his paddle, and this time following instructions, clung to the canoe. A guide raced up alongside, made sure Dave and his partner were safe, righted their canoe, and coached them as they climbed back in. It was a scene repeated often, sometimes several times for the same partnership. “I’m wetter than a wet dog,” one frustrated Explorer yelped after he had swamped for the fourth time in a row.
“I tipped over nine or ten times,” said Steven Allred of Brigham City. “It demoralized me. But after a while you got used to cold water. And you figured out that if you didn’t want to spend all day swimming, you’d better pay attention.”
As the day wore on, confidence grew. We learned that there were difficult times and times to recover. At a smooth place in the river, everyone was relaxing.
“King Rapids is next,” one of the guides shouted. “Get ready!”
The guides had been talking about King Rapids for two days. It was the biggest, meanest, orneriest, most grizzly rapid on this stretch of the Snake. There were stories about it throwing canoes clean out of the water.
We were close to the base. We could stop and carry out our canoes if we wanted to and avoid King. But none of us did.
“I knew if I quit I’d regret it,” Doug said. “I’d look back later and say, ‘That would have been fun.’ I knew I could make it if I’d just keep trying. I’d already made it through a lot of tough things.”
The water sprayed. It pounded our canoes. We lost our breath, but this time from exhilaration. Even though many of us capsized, we didn’t panic. We glided on down to a smooth basin where the current eddied and fished ourselves and our boats out of the water. Then we all returned to the base to head for home.

Diane’s love of the spotlight was quickly matched by her gymnastic ability, and the two made a championship combination. She started training when she was 14 1/2, a late start by competitive standards, but within a year she was competing against the best in the country. She was the Junior Olympic National Champion in high school, and in college she led the University of Utah’s women’s gymnastics team to their first national collegiate title.

After her eligibility for college competition was up, she decided to go on a national professional tour. It was a tour that involved Kurt Thomas and other well-known gymnasts, and Diane would get paid $5,000 just to go. She says she knew her gymnastics career was mostly over, but she just wanted to hold on to the thrill of the spotlight and the fun of the sport for as long as she could.

During training for the tour Diane was practicing a vault she’d done thousands of times. She ran toward the vault just like she had done every other time. She jumped on the springboard like all the other times and flew into the air—just like all the other times. This time was different though. This time she rotated just a little too much. This time when she landed, she broke her neck. The accident put her in the hospital for almost half a year and in a wheelchair for the rest of her life.

That was on December 15, 1981. Diane spent that Christmas and the next five months in the hospital, trying to comprehend a life without gymnastics. After so many years of loving the sport, it was difficult for Diane to adjust.

“I hated being in the hospital, and I felt like I was in prison,” says Diane. For one month of the five she was in the hospital, she was in traction and couldn’t move at all except when the nurses came in and turned her a few inches every two hours. Diane had no idea she’d be in the hospital for so long. “In fact, when I was first injured I thought for sure that in a month I’d be back on the tour and back in shape. I thought, ‘If I have enough faith and believe in God and in myself, I’ll be okay.’ And I just knew it.”

Recovery wasn’t quite so easy though, and things seemed to get worse. “I was a horrible patient,” says Diane. “In the hospital I was really miserable because I was so stir-crazy. I was really impatient with people.” Finally Diane came to a turning point.

“Near the end of my traction one day I was in the depths of despair. I just felt like I couldn’t bear it anymore,” Diane says. She asked for a blessing. She knew the power to heal her was present, “but I only wanted that to happen if it was Heavenly Father’s will. I had this blessing and I felt the greatest sense of peace. It was like I knew that no matter what happened it would be okay. If I didn’t walk away from the hospital there would be a reason for it. I knew that I had always tried my best to live the gospel and do what I was supposed to do, so if anybody was worthy to have that blessing, I was. But from that point on I was a different person. I was totally comforted.”

Ironically, one of the biggest aids to her recovery was gymnastics. “I don’t know if I could’ve gotten up again if I hadn’t had that training in gymnastics,” she says. “I had a lot of chronic injuries when I was a gymnast that I just had to deal with. It was always down, up, down, up in gymnastics and this was just one more down I had to get up from. Gymnastics to a big degree made me so I could be a champion again.”

Being a champion is what Diane is all about. Marie says, “Her attitude’s always been, ‘If you want it, go for it.’ She decided when she was young that she would never give up.” And since Diane wanted to teach before her accident, she couldn’t just give that up, no matter what the odds.

Diane made the decision to return to school to finish her degree on the day she finally realized she would never walk again. She was lying on her bed amid scrapbooks filled with souvenirs and photos of her performances. Tears dripped down her face and splashed on the scrapbook pages. “I just realized right then that things weren’t going to get any better. As I lay there crying I thought, ‘I can either give up or get on with my life’ and that’s when I decided to go back to school and get my degree.”

Now she teaches a class full of third graders who are just the right height to look her in the eye. “The kids will do anything for her,” says Marie. “They just love her.”

Her students aren’t her only fans. Diane also gives fireside talks to teenagers who listen, captivated, as she tells her story. And her message is one of hope and perseverance, without bitterness for what has happened.

Her personality hasn’t changed at all, although she doesn’t wear her hair in a ponytail anymore. Just listen to her speak and you’ll see the exuberant, happy girl who used to charm arenas full of people. Now her charm is just aimed at another audience. Her voice seems to smile at every person in the room and her ready laugh frequently interrupts her stories.

“I think telling my gymnastics stories and sharing my experiences kind of breaks the wheelchair barrier. The kids can see that I’m just a regular person and we have a lot in common, even though I look a lot different than they do,” Diane says.

Her main message is one for potential champions: don’t give up, no matter what happens. “When I was a young gymnast I met a girl, an athlete named Nancy Thies. Nancy was a member of the U.S. Olympic team and one of the finest gymnasts in the country. I have never forgotten some very important things that Nancy taught me. I remember the first thing she said was, ‘Don’t be afraid to lose. She said, ‘If you fall down and you stay down, you’re a quitter and a loser and you will never win. But if you get back up and you try one more time, it will be your turn to be the champion, so just don’t give up.’” Diane says she made a promise to herself that she would remember that advice and never give up, no matter how many times she fell.

Once she faced the hardest fall of her life, not giving up was difficult, especially because of her wheelchair. The whole time she was in gymnastics, whether she was swinging high above the uneven parallel bars or just doing handstands for fun, she was only afraid of being blind or paralyzed. “I was so paranoid of wheelchairs that I would never talk to anybody in a wheelchair or go near a wheelchair. In stores, if somebody in a wheelchair was down an aisle, I’d never go down that aisle, no way. I was paranoid that I’d end up in one if I got too close. It was almost like having thought about it so much kind of prepared me,” she says.

It was probably Diane’s indomitable spirit that prepared her more than anything else. It’s a spirit that comes through in both her funny stories and her powerfully quiet testimony about the importance of an eternal perspective and God’s love for each of his children. It’s a spirit that Diane has always had. “I’ve never met anyone, except my father, who has a stronger testimony than she does,” says Marie. “There’s no doubt in her mind that what she’s doing is right and that the Church is true. She has always been a great example.”

The lights dim when she finishes her message, and a slide show featuring Diane, the ham and gymnast, flashes on the screen in time to some upbeat music. When it’s over, young people swarm around her, enveloping her tiny frame and wheelchair with their excitement.

Diane says, “It makes me feel really good when people tell me they’re going to try harder after they’ve heard my talk. One girl came to me once and told me she’d heard me speak four different times. The first time, she decided not to commit suicide. The second time, she decided that she didn’t have to flunk out of school. The third time, she made a goal to make the honor roll, and the last time she was on her way to that goal.” Another champion in the making, thanks to Diane.

Diane just shrugs and laughs a little when someone tells her she’s wonderful. She even looks a little embarrassed, which is rare for this experienced performer. “People always think, ‘You’re so amazing, you’re so incredible,’ but I’m not. People will say, ‘If that happened to me I could never cope with it,’ and the thing I have to say is, ‘Either you cope or you die.’ You have to take whatever life gives you and deal with it, even if you might not want to. You know, if somebody dies in your family, you have to live with it. If you break your neck you have to live with it, but you just learn and that’s what’s so great about time and the healing process. You don’t have to be miraculous.”

You just have to be as willing as Diane was to get up again, so that someday it will be your turn to be the champion. For Diane, the victory is especially sweet, because she has won back what she thought she’d lost.

She is a champion again.

I lay in bed after my mom tucked me in for the night. I thought about some secrets I was keeping. My mind was filled with guilt. Then I remembered to pray. As I did, the Holy Ghost told me to talk to my mom about what was on my mind.
For some reason, I was hesitant to talk to my mom about it. I knew Satan was trying to make me feel scared. I also knew through the Holy Ghost that talking to my mom was the right thing to do.
At last I got the courage to go ask my mom if we could talk. I told her all about what I had done and how I was feeling. To my surprise, she wasn’t upset at all. She told me how happy she was that I was brave enough to talk to her. We hugged, and I asked her to forgive me. I felt relieved and happy.
I prayed again to my Father in Heaven and asked Him to forgive me too. It felt so good to follow the Spirit and do what’s right. I’m grateful for Jesus, who made it so that I can repent when I make a mistake. I’m also grateful for the Holy Ghost, who helped me feel better. And I’m grateful for a loving mom who listens and understands me.

The Irish wind moaned outside the cottage and whipped the cold rain against the windowpanes. Inside, Patrick McEntree was warm. The branch members were gathered for sacrament meeting around the flickering peat fire on the hearth. Yet Patrick was warmed not only by the fire but also by the words of the tall, young missionary with the American accent. “I know the gospel is true,” he said, “and I’m grateful to serve the Lord here in western Ireland.”
Patrick knew the gospel was true too. Suddenly he couldn’t wait until he was nineteen to be a missionary. He had to tell his friends now about the wonderful Book of Mormon he was reading. He clutched his copy tightly. The beautiful, leather-bound book had been sent to him personally from Salt Lake City by the missionary who had taught his family the gospel.
Patrick’s donkey, Flopps, stood waiting outside the cottage as she did every Sunday. Even the typically blustery Irish weather did not keep her away.
The meeting over, Patrick’s father donned his cap and hurried out with the rest of the family.
Patrick strolled home more slowly beside Flopps. “You know, Flopps, I want to be a missionary,” he said. “How am I going to tell Tom and my other friends about the gospel?”
Flopps only flopped her ears and blinked at Patrick.
“No answers for me, Flopps? Well, you’re a good friend anyway, even if you don’t understand.”
A few days later, Patrick weaved his way through the mooing cattle, bleating sheep, and squawking chickens on the village street. Flopps trotted close at his heels. It was fair day in the village, and everyone had come from miles around to barter their goods. Patrick wanted to find his friend Tom and tell him about the branch activity that evening. Everyone from the youngest child to the oldest grandfather would gather to dance the traditional Irish jigs and reels. It might be a first step in telling Tom about the gospel, he thought.
Patrick saw Tom at the open fruit market, but his way was suddenly blocked by Michael O’Brien with a huge creel of seaweed strapped to his back. Patrick ducked around Michael and his seaweed only to find that Tom had disappeared. Patrick grimaced and looked back at Michael. Even in school Michael smelled vaguely of seaweed. Most villagers gathered seaweed in the early springtime to fertilize their rocky potato ridges; Michael gathered it year round to dry and to sell to the factories.
A strange feeling came over Patrick, but he pushed it aside. No! He definitely did not want to invite Michael to the branch activity. They weren’t friends. In fact, he didn’t even like Michael. Michael often played pranks on the teachers at school and laughed when they asked him questions.
Stubbornly, Patrick looked straight ahead. “Come on, Flopps, there are other people who deserve to hear the gospel more than Michael.”
But Patrick couldn’t get Michael off his mind. The next morning he hardly remembered hitching Flopps to the cart and going to the bog with his father to cut peat to dry for fuel.
“Ah, my boy, you have been quiet today. Where are your thoughts?” questioned Patrick’s father as they unloaded the last of the peat beside their cottage.
“Father,” Patrick asked slowly, “do you think Heavenly Father sometimes asks us to do things we don’t want to do?”
His father raised his eyebrows. “Why, yes, I think He sometimes does.”
“I think He’s been telling me to be a missionary to Michael O’Brien. But I don’t like Michael. Sometimes he’s mean.”
“Mmm, well now,” mused Patrick’s father, “I suppose if God waited until His children were always good to love them, He would love very few of us on this earth. In fact,” he said winking at Patrick, “He might not love you all the time—I’ve known you to be naughty on occasion. But since we know God loves all His children, I’m sure he wants Michael to have the gospel too.”
“Do you think praying would help me to like Michael?”
“Yes.” His father nodded toward the lane. “But you’d better do it fast.”
Patrick turned around. Trudging up the lane was Michael, on his way to gather seaweed while the tide was down.
Patrick looked at his father for courage.
“You can do it, my boy.”
Patrick swallowed hard and, with a prayer in his heart, called out, “Michael, would you like some help gathering seaweed? I could help you cut it, and Flopps is all hitched up to the cart, so you wouldn’t have to carry it yourself.”
Patrick and Michael sliced their knives through the strands of wet seaweed draped around the slippery rocks, while Flopps waited patiently for them to carry the dripping bundles to her cart. Hour after hour they crouched over the rocks, unaware that the raindrops splashed ever harder and that the wind drowned out the sound of the sea. Only when Flopps began braying did Patrick notice the wind and the chilling rain. The night and the tide were creeping in.
Patrick shouted above the gale, “Michael! I think we’d better stop.” He saw Michael suddenly teeter on a slippery rock and fall. Patrick scrambled to help him.
Michael gasped, “My foot’s caught between these rocks!”
Patrick took hold of a slimy rock and heaved. It didn’t budge. “Can you move your leg at all?”
Michael tried, and his face twisted with pain.
The tide was now lapping around the boys’ legs. What can I do? Patrick agonized. Abruptly, he blurted out, “I think we should pray!”
“Pray?” repeated Michael incredulously through his chattering teeth. The jeering laugh that Patrick disliked so much started out of Michael’s throat, then stopped short. “OK,” he agreed quietly.
Patrick prayed until his fears were gone and he knew exactly what to do. He unhitched Flopps from the cart and coaxed the reluctant donkey out onto the slippery rocks. He tied a rope around the rock and attached it to her harness. At first Flopps didn’t want to pull. She pawed at the water rising around her legs and switched her tail in annoyance.
“Come on, Flopps, you’ve always been my friend,” Patrick urged her.
Flopps pricked up her ears and moved forward. The rock moved too.
All the way back to Patrick’s cottage, Michael kept saying, “I can’t believe it. When you said that prayer, I had such a calm feeling. I just knew everything was going to be all right.”
Patrick’s mother served the two shivering boys steaming bowls of oxtail soup.
“Flopps and I will make sure you get home safely, Michael,” said Patrick’s father.
Michael was hobbling out the door when Patrick noticed his Book of Mormon lying on the table. Impulsively he grabbed it and called after Michael, “Here. Take this. You might want to read it.”
It had been two weeks since Patrick had gathered seaweed with Michael. Patrick fiddled with Flopps’s harness and wondered why he had given his precious Book of Mormon away.
“Hurry up, Patrick,” called his father. “We’ve lots of hay to rake and pile today.”
As Patrick led Flopps along the rock fence toward the hayfield, he saw a woman with a baby coming up the road. Stopping on the other side of the fence, she shyly said, “I’m looking for Patrick McEntree.”
“I’m Patrick.”
“Oh. I wanted to thank you for giving my son that book—the Book of Mormon. Ever since my husband died last year, I have been looking for it. Someone gave me a copy many years ago, and I just laid it aside then. But when my husband died right before the baby came, I had to put most of the work on Michael. My whole world seemed to fall apart. For some reason, I just knew I had to find that book again and read it. Now that I have, I feel much better. Thank you so much.”
Patrick could only stand with his mouth open.
The woman paused and hoisted the baby farther up in her arms. “Could I ask for one more favor? Would you teach me more about your church?”
The next Sunday Patrick went with the two missionaries to Michael O’Brien’s home. When he walked into the cottage, Patrick gulped in astonishment. The room was packed with people! He sat down beside Michael and whispered, “Where did all these people come from?”
“They’re my cousins from Dublin. They come every year at haying time. They want to hear about your church too.”
Patrick watched Michael smile as the missionaries talked about the gospel of Jesus Christ. He was beginning to understand why God loved Michael so much.
Patrick noticed his leather-bound Book of Mormon on a table near the glowing fireplace. Someday, he thought, I’ll get another leather-bound Book of Mormon. He was glad now that he had given his first one away.

At school we were given an assignment to find different words in magazines. My friend and I were looking through a magazine and came across an advertisement that showed a woman dressed immodestly. I knew I should tell our teacher, but my friend wanted to leave it in the magazine and ignore it. I decided to tell our teacher that the magazine she had given us had a bad picture in it. She said thank you, and put the advertisement in the trash. I’m glad I did the right thing, and that no one else had to see the bad picture.

Elder Ballard relates as an example an experience he shared with a returned-missionary grandson who wanted to hang some things on the cinder-block walls of his apartment. Elder Ballard went to his grandson’s apartment to show him how to drill holes and put in anchors.

“I did one and then asked him where he wanted to put the next one. He showed me, and I said, ‘OK, put it there. You saw me do it. Now you do it. Here’s the drill.’ So he did it. And he did the rest of them too. He went slowly because he was nervous. I could have done it twice as fast. But now he knows how. It built his confidence. If he wants to hang something else, he’ll just come borrow the tool. I hope he brings it back!”