Gospel Story Finder

An important by-product of a strong body should be self-confidence in using it. Many personal descriptions of the Prophet blend physical strength and a determined spirit, as does Parley P. Pratt’s in calling him “tall and well built, strong and active,” possessing “a noble boldness and independence of character” (The Autobiography of Parley P. Pratt, New York, 1888, p. 48). The Prophet led the way in physical and moral courage. It is well known that the morning after being tarred and feathered, he preached to a congregation that included his enemies. Not so well known is a similar episode in returning from a Canadian mission in the fall of 1837. At the time, Mary Fielding was close to the Prophet’s family and wrote to her sister about the Prophet and Sidney Rigdon making their way back to Kirtland through the swamps at night. They had been unjustly arrested and escaped about 10 P.M. with a mob of men trying to get them by fanning out from the roads with lighted torches. Joseph took his older counselor by the hand, and they “covenanted to live and die together.” When the blazing torches came their way, they lay on wet ground behind logs, choking back hard breathing for fear of discovery. The mud-drenched men reached home about 3 A.M., sick with fatigue, but after a short sleep Joseph appeared in the temple to speak “in a very powerful manner and blessed the congregation in the name of the Lord.”

I remember when I was assigned to give my first talk in church. I was given the liberty to choose my subject. I’ve always liked birds, so I thought of the Seagull Monument. In preparation, I went to Temple Square and looked at the monument. First I was attracted to all the coins in the water surrounding the monument. I wondered how they would be retrieved and who would retrieve them. Then I looked upward at the seagulls atop that monument. I tried in my boyish mind to imagine what it would be like to be a pioneer watching the first year’s growth of precious grain being devoured by crickets and then seeing those seagulls, with their lofty wings, descending upon the fields and eating the crickets. I loved the account. I sat down with a pencil in hand and wrote out a two-and-one-half-minute talk. I’ve never forgotten the seagulls. I’ve never forgotten the crickets. I’ve never forgotten my knees knocking together as I gave that talk. I’ve never forgotten the experience of letting some of my innermost feelings be expressed verbally at the pulpit.

Grisell was very excited to join the Church and loved learning about the gospel, but as we continued teaching Grisell, many challenges came up, as they usually do when someone commits to baptism. Her family opposed her attending church, and she was becoming distressed. I decided to share the same scripture with her that I had shared with Hugo many months prior. Grisell’s downcast face changed to the expression of joy and excitement she had shown when we first met as I read her the promise that she would be able to do anything that was the Lord’s will.

Suddenly I realized that this scripture was not only true for Hugo and Grisell. Just weeks before I had doubted my own ability to do what God had commanded me. As I reflected back on my recent discouragement and my mission up to that point, I knew that the Lord’s promise was true for me as well.

Mark J. Messick, president of the Vanuatu Port Vila Mission, got a phone call from the district president on Tanna Island asking that missionaries be sent there. They had 80 people waiting to be interviewed so that they could come unto Jesus Christ and His restored Church through baptism!
President Messick tried to send his assistants to conduct the interviews. They needed to travel from Éfaté Island, where the mission office is located, to Tanna, more than 130 miles (209 kilometers) away. But several serious challenges got in their way.
First, Tanna’s active volcano became more active. Then a small cyclone damaged much of Tanna. Finally, COVID-19 came to Vanuatu in 2022, and everything shut down. No one was allowed in or out of Éfaté or Tanna.
Months later, after things calmed down, Elders Brian Moses Nalin and Silas Toa arrived in Tanna, ready to interview people. President Messick feared that the number of people wanting to be baptized might have dropped since they had to wait so long.
When Elder Nalin, a native of Tanna, and Elder Toa arrived, there weren’t 80 people waiting—there were now 114.
To get to a remote branch in Saetsiwi on Tanna Island, Elders Nalin and Toa drove to and then hiked up a mountain for three hours, eating nothing but the coconuts they found along the way. But when they arrived at Saetsiwi, they couldn’t find the branch president. And then the rainstorm started.
Rain filled the rivers, which Elder Nalin knew would soon be impassable and dangerous. The elders got back to their truck as quickly as possible, knowing that they had to get off the mountain. The two missionaries crossed the first river safely, but at the second river, the truck got stuck. They pushed and even got others to help push, but the truck didn’t move.
Elder Nalin noticed another river flowing into theirs and just how much bigger it was. He later said, “Our river was still small, like it was waiting for us to get out.” But that wouldn’t last forever.
Both elders grew up in Vanuatu, where vehicles are usually rare and extremely expensive. So, for them, abandoning the truck didn’t seem like an option. But the water level was up to the door handles.
They called President Messick and asked what they should do.
President Messick replied, “Thank you for giving me a call. It’s OK! Leave the truck where it is and find a safe place now!”
Elder Toa and Elder Nalin faced challenges as they tried to reach the people on the island of Tanna who wanted to be baptized—including a sudden rainstorm that flooded the rivers they were crossing.
Elder Toa, the last one out of the truck, later said, “I looked in the back seat for my scriptures and the baptismal forms, and there was nothing. And I thought maybe Elder Nalin already took them.” If the forms were lost, the missionaries would have to go back to Éfaté to get new ones.
Then one of the people who had come to help started shouting. Elder Toa did not understand what he was saying. But Elder Nalin did since it was his native language. He yelled to his companion, “Get out of the truck, something is coming!”
Elder Toa climbed out the back door because the water had already reached the window in the front. The moment he got out, the river swept the truck downstream. As they watched the truck flow downhill, they could see the scriptures and baptismal forms in the back seat.
Elder Toa later said, “While we were still in the river, we called on the power of God to protect our scriptures and baptismal forms. We had faith that He could save them according to His will.”
“After our prayer, we knew everything was going to be fine,” Elder Toa later said.
The district president called and told Elders Toa and Nalin that the Saetsiwi branch president, the same man they couldn’t find earlier, had found their truck. The river had pushed it 820 feet (250 meters) from the main road, but while the engine was wet and the truck had to be towed for other repairs, the outside of the truck wasn’t dented or scratched. However, their lesson books, notebooks, and pamphlets were drenched and destroyed. “You could not read some of the words,” Elder Toa said.
But sitting on top of everything else, their scriptures and the interview forms were somehow dry and undamaged.
Though Elder Toa and Elder Nalin had abandoned the truck in the flooded river, it was later found. Though the engine needed repairs, the truck wasn’t dented or scratched. But most miraculous of all, the most important things they carried inside were undamaged.
The elders traveled to all eight branches where they needed to conduct interviews on Tanna. Since the truck’s engine was damaged, they often walked. One of them later said to his fellow missionaries, “When your legs get tired of walking, you walk with your heart.”
“When your legs get tired of walking, you walk with your heart.”
In one branch alone, 48 people had faithfully waited to be baptized. Elder Nalin interviewed those who spoke the native languages of Tanna, and Elder Toa interviewed the Bislama speakers. When they finished, they were surprised to see the sun setting. The interviews had taken the entire day.
Elder Toa and Elder Nalin went all across Tanna to baptize the people who had accepted the restored gospel of Jesus Christ.
They baptized people across the island, many of them families, in rivers and the sea. There wasn’t enough baptismal clothing, so some new members handed their wet clothes to another person until all were baptized.
The elders baptized people, many of them families, wherever they were, no matter how remote. Both the people and the elders showed great faith.

As a junior in high school, I had just entered the hardest year of my academic career. I was swamped with classes and other activities. One Thursday, I had a swim meet that took all day. I not only missed school, but I didn’t get home until seven o’clock at night.
As I tried to prepare for the busy Friday ahead of me, I found myself burdened by the amount of homework I had to do and several tests I had to study for. I was worn out from my swim meet and felt stressed about everything I had to get done.
In desperation, I said a prayer to my Heavenly Father. I told Him of my troubles and all the deadlines I had to meet. Despite my prayer, I could not avoid a sense of doubt. I thought to myself, “How can the Lord help me if what I’ve done just isn’t enough?” Mentally and physically exhausted, I fell asleep before I had finished preparing for the next day.
On Friday, I was amazed at how everything I needed fell into place. I didn’t miss any deadlines, and I had been able to complete all my homework. Some of my teachers allowed me to take my tests on Monday, enabling me to study for other tests and finish other homework. After doing all I could do, things had somehow worked out.
But in the consuming events of the day, I had completely forgotten my prayer from the night before. It wasn’t until later that night, as I remembered the words of my prayer and reflected on what had happened, that I recognized the Lord’s hand in my life. I am grateful the Lord heard and answered my prayer, even when I wasn’t sure it was possible.

David Oman McKay’s parents taught him at a very young age that he was a child of God and that his Heavenly Father loved him. They also taught him that he could always talk to his Heavenly Father.
In addition to having his own daily prayers, David knelt in daily prayer with his family.
One dark night there was a terrible thunderstorm. David was in bed, and he became very frightened. He knew that if he prayed, he would feel better, but he was afraid to get out of bed and kneel in prayer.
Finally, he gathered enough courage to kneel on the cold floor and pray for protection for himself and his family. As he was praying, David heard a voice say, “Don’t be afraid; nothing will hurt you.”
When he had finished praying, he was able to sleep because he knew that Heavenly Father would protect him and his family.
Many years later David O. McKay became the ninth President of the Church, and his strong testimony of the power of prayer was a good example for all the world.

Taukolo Langi also made a journey that required great faith, while serving a mission with his wife, Temalisi, in Ha‘apai. Asked to extend their mission in order for Brother Langi to serve as branch president in Felemea, the couple began working with the less-active Saints there.
One Saturday in 1958, Brother Langi and his five-year-old son, Taniela, found themselves unable to return to Sunday meetings in Felemea after attending district meetings in Pangai. While the low tide allowed them to cross the reef to Uoleva, their friend, Sione Moala Havili, discouraged them from even thinking about crossing the channel to Felemea. The ocean was so treacherous that no vessels were either coming or going. But brother Langi had only one thing in mind to get back to preside over Sunday services in Felemea and to see his wife, who was eight months pregnant with their second child:
I was determined to attempt the crossing and felt that since I was on the Lord’s errand, we would be protected. I asked Taniela to kneel with me by Sione Moala’s outrigger canoe and beg Heavenly Father to bless our crossing. We offered the prayer as huge waves crashed and rolled into shore.
I shoved off in the ocean with little Taniela seated just in front of me. Although my faith was strong, I was not expecting a smooth journey over these, the roughest waters in Tonga, especially in a Tongan outrigger that sat so low in the water.
But we might just as well have been skimming across a becalmed surface. We hardly got wet. Nor did we have to bail water. We landed easily through the surf and were pressed with questions by people astounded at our appearance. No one had left the shores of Felemea for three days because the sea had been so rough. I felt deep gratitude for the obvious blessing from the Lord.

I had an interesting experience years ago as we were returning from South America on a ship. Three ministers were on board, and soon each one came to me and asked if there might be an opportunity to talk together to learn what the Mormons believed. One was a Methodist, one a Presbyterian, and one a Disciple of Christ.

We arranged a visit together and spent a pleasant hour, they asking questions and I giving answers. Our visit was warm, friendly, and congenial. After about the first ten minutes, they began to look at each other and say: “Isn’t it interesting—he has an answer for every question.” And they repeated this comment over and over.

A day or two later the Methodist brother stopped to talk with me, saying, “I have been thinking of what you told us the other day. I think you know too much. I wonder if God wants us to know everything.” I could tell that he was offended at my knowledge of the revelations.
Other people are simply not interested, having been carried away by selfish interests and material possessions.
Elder ElRay Christiansen told of a wealthy man in Denmark who was converted to the gospel and had migrated to Utah. His commitment caused the loss of much of his fortune, but, after settling here, he again had the ability to amass riches and, in the process, lost his faith and testimony. As his brethren tried to counsel him about his eternal purpose, he would not listen. Finally one of them said to him, “Lars, it is not good to think only of money. You cannot take it with you, you know.”
Lars answered, “Vat is that you say?” and he was told again, “I say you cannot take it with you.”
Lars responded, “Vell, den, I vill not go.”
Elder Christiansen’s report was that he had gone anyway. And we will go as well.
Joseph Smith tells us that “happiness is the object and design of our existence; and will be the end thereof, if we pursue the path which leads to it.” (Teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith, sel. Joseph Fielding Smith, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1938, p. 255.)

It was after the couple’s marriage, in the late 1970s, that Elder Bednar received a long-hoped-for phone call. It was his father asking him to come home to California to perform a baptism—his own.
“I honestly believe that’s why I was born. Not to teach [my father], but to assist him in learning about the restored gospel,” Elder Bednar says.
His father was an honest, straightforward man. He attended church with young David all his life, coached the softball team, and took Scouts on trips. He supported Elder Bednar’s decision to serve a mission to Germany. He told his young son, “I’ll join this Church when I know it’s the right thing to do” (see Summit, 1997, 9–10).
The years since then have held many unforgettable moments, many from his experiences with Church callings. At age 30, Elder Bednar was called as a member of a stake presidency in Arkansas. He then served as a bishop, twice as a stake president, and later as a regional representative, Area Authority, and Area Authority Seventy.
On 1 October, President Gordon B. Hinckley extended an apostolic call to Elder Bednar, less than 24 hours before he was sustained by Church members throughout the world.
“I think I know better than anyone that within The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints there are literally hundreds and thousands of men better qualified, more able than I,” he says, “but I do know from whence the call has come. And so I’m honored to respond. I look forward to serving, and I’m anxious for the opportunity to be able to learn.”

Ítalo was excited for the ward temple trip. They were going to the Recife Brazil Temple. It was 15 hours away!
Ítalo, his older brother Henrique, and their parents left early in the morning. As they rode along, Ítalo kept thinking about something Mom had told him. “This year, you can see how beautiful the temple is from the outside,” she said. “Next year, you’ll be old enough to see how beautiful it is on the inside.”
Ítalo hadn’t been to any temple before. But he had been watching the new temple being built in Fortaleza, where his family lived. It was amazing!
They stopped for lunch. Ítalo had his favorite, feijoada, black bean stew served with rice and oranges. While he ate, he kept thinking about the temple. When the temple in Fortaleza was finally dedicated, it would be a temple his family could visit over and over again. They wouldn’t have to drive so far.
The sun was setting when Ítalo and his family arrived at the temple in Recife. “Que bonito!” Ítalo said. “How beautiful!” He couldn’t stop smiling.
The next morning, Mom took Ítalo to the children’s waiting area. “Even though you can’t go inside the temple yet,” she said, “see if you feel a special spirit while you’re on the temple grounds.” Then the rest of Ítalo’s family went inside the temple.
Nice temple workers watched Ítalo and the other children as they waited at the temple. They read stories from the Livro de Mórmon (Book of Mormon). “Reading scriptures is a good way to get ready for the temple,” Ítalo thought. He felt calm and safe. Mom’s right, he thought. It’s peaceful here.
Then the temple workers took Ítalo and the other children for a walk around the temple grounds. That’s when Ítalo noticed the words over the entrance to the temple. “Santidade ao Senhor. A casa do Senhor,” they said. “Holiness to the Lord: the House of the Lord.”
No wonder I feel so peaceful here, he thought. This is God’s house.
When the temple trip was over, Ítalo and his family returned home. He wanted to remember how he had felt at the temple. What could he do?
Sometimes Ítalo felt he could draw his feelings better than he could write about them. So he drew a picture of the temple. Then he showed it to Mom and Dad.
“This will remind me of where I want to go,” he said. He kept the picture in his room where he could look at it each day.
“I want to be ready,” he said. “Because I want to go inside someday!”

My great-grandmother was a Scottish lass named Margaret McNeil, who came to Utah with her parents at the age of 13. She walked across the plains and drove a cow, carrying her younger brother James much of the way on her back. She and her family camped on the outskirts of Ogden, and she later recorded this in her autobiography:

“Across the field from where we were was a little house, and out in the yard was a big pile of squash. We were all nearly starved to death. My mother sent me over to this place to beg a squash, for we did not have a cent of money, and some of the children were very weak for the want of food. I knocked at the door, and an old lady came and said, ‘Come in, come in, I knew you were coming and have been told to give you food.’ She gave me a large loaf of fresh bread and said to tell my mother that she would come over soon. It was not long until she came and brought us a nice cooked dinner, something we had not had for a long time.”8

Jason could almost feel the pebbly surface of the new basketball that would soon be in his hands. Just a few more cans and I can buy it, he thought as he turned the corner into the alley.
The sight of a short, skinny, bearded man looking through the trash bins behind the courthouse startled him back to reality. He didn’t want the man to see him, so he crouched behind a parked car. He had been collecting aluminum cans for the last three months and was going to turn them in to the recycling center to get the money for the basketball. Each day, Mr. Remington, the courthouse custodian, put a box of pop cans out in the alley for him.
The skinny man wore a lightweight jacket with a broken zipper. Underneath the jacket was a stained, hooded sweatshirt. There were holes in his tennis shoes, and he wasn’t wearing socks. Jason shivered when he thought about how cold the man must be.
The man continued sorting through the trash bins, pulling out bottles, newspapers, and old magazines and putting them in separate piles. He took a stack of magazines to an old bicycle that was leaning against the courthouse wall. The bike had high, V-shaped handlebars and a large wire basket on the front. The back tire rim was bent, and the two old tires didn’t match.
When the man was ready to go, he put the newspapers and bottles into a large garbage sack. As he got on his bike, Jason heard pop cans rattling inside the sack too. Jumping up, he yelled, “Hey! You can’t take those cans—they’re mine! Mr. Remington left them for me!”
The skinny man turned and stared at Jason. His lips were bluish gray, and his hands were shaking from the cold. “Finders, keepers, kid,” he said in a gruff voice, then rode out the other end of the alley.
Jason stared at the empty alley for a minute, wondering what to do. Then he ran around the courthouse and up the steps to the lobby, where it was warm. His dad was the county sheriff, and on days when he wasn’t busy, he met Jason in the lobby after school and drove him home in the police car. As Jason waited now, he thought about the man in the alley. Why was he going through the trash bins? Why wasn’t he wearing warm clothes? And why was he riding a bicycle in the middle of winter?
“Ready to go?” Jason turned to see his father standing behind him. He was a tall man who didn’t talk much.
“Somebody just stole the cans Mr. Remington put in the box for me,” Jason blurted out as they walked to the car. As they drove toward home, he told his father about the man in the alley.
“How many cans have you collected?”
“I have two big, green trash bags full of smashed ones, and with the cans I collect from the courthouse Christmas party next week, I’ll have enough to pay for my new basketball.”
“Well,” his father said, “you can get enough somewhere else—please don’t collect any more cans from the courthouse.”
“What? Those are my cans! Mr. Remington leaves them there for me!”
His father looked hurt. “Think about that poor man, Jason. If you can’t get cans somewhere else, you can earn money another way.” His father looked very serious as he repeated, “Think about it.”
Jason knew it was useless to argue. Hot tears began to well up in his eyes. He turned and stared out the police car window.
It was getting dark. The long shadows on the gray snow looked like strange dark animals playing tag with each other. I’ll think about it, all right, Jason thought to himself. Finders, keepers! He started to plan a way to get even with the man who had taken his cans.
They were almost home when the police radio came on. “This is County One,” his father said into the microphone. Jason was too upset to listen to what was being said. “Son,” his father said when he was through talking on the radio, “I have some business to take care of. Do you want to come with me?”
Jason kept staring out the window. “I guess so,” he said flatly.
The car turned sharply and headed toward the south side of town. Jason didn’t like this area; it made him nervous. Most of the houses were old and rundown. The stores didn’t have Christmas lights, and their parking lots were littered with trash. Cars had been left on the side of the road with their hoods up and their windshields broken. Jason began to wish that he hadn’t come along.
After going under a freeway overpass, they pulled into the driveway of an abandoned house. In the front yard two men stood warming their hands over a fire in an old steel drum. The strong wind whipped the fire, and the light danced across the police car. The men’s shadows stretched across the house like grotesque giants. “Jason, I have to talk to some men. Stay in the car and keep the doors locked.”
As his father walked over to the two men and began talking, Jason wondered idly why the men were out on such a cold night. After a while, his father turned on a flashlight and went toward the house. Most of the windows had been broken out, and there were no lights on. Jason’s eyes followed the beam of light as it searched the house. Suddenly it lit up something familiar: On the front porch was the bike with the V-shaped handlebars! Jason sat up in his seat and pressed his face against the car window to see better.
Three men came out of the house and began talking to his father. Jason tried to see if the skinny man was in the group, but it was too dark to see their faces.
The icy wind began to blow harder. Gusts shook the car and drove snow into the house. Jason’s father talked a little while longer, then came back to the car. When the car door opened, a gust of cold air blasted Jason’s face with tiny, sharp snow crystals. He shivered as his father started the car.
“Dad, did you see him, the guy who took my cans?”
At first his father didn’t answer. They drove for about a mile before he said, “Jason, the man who took the cans is not as fortunate as we are. He doesn’t have a job and lives in that abandoned house. He buys food with the money he gets from selling what old newspapers and cans he’s able to collect. Do you understand?”
Jason looked up slowly and nodded. “I understand that you’re going to let him steal my cans.”
As soon as they pulled into their driveway, Jason opened the door. Before he could jump out, though, his father put a hand on his shoulder. “Listen,” his father said quietly, “I think that he needs the cans more than you do. But you’re a good boy, and you’re old enough to make some of your own choices. If you feel right about taking those cans, go ahead. It’s your decision.”
The day of the courthouse Christmas party, Jason got out of school early. “Finders, keepers, finders, keepers,” he said over and over as he ran to the courthouse. He thought about all the cans that Mr. Remington would put in the box and about how much they would be worth. He thought about the new basketball and about his father’s words. Then he thought about how surprised the skinny man was going to be when he found that Jason had arrived at the alley first.
He had never done anything like this before. His heart was pounding, and his stomach was in knots. “Finders, keepers,” he repeated as he looked over his shoulder to make sure that no one was watching. He turned the corner and went into the courthouse alley.
Twenty minutes later the skinny man wheeled his bike into the alley. Jason was hiding in a doorway, his feet and hands aching from the cold. The man went to where the box of cans was kept. He stood quietly for a moment when he saw that the box was empty. Then he reached down and picked up two large green trash bags with red Christmas bows on them.
As the man opened the first bag, Jason heard the unmistakable clink of smashed pop cans. The sound sent a warm rush through his body, and he felt wonderful. Finders, keepers, Jason thought. Finders, keepers!

A number of years ago I was in Atlanta, Georgia, as an attorney representing a man who was buying a business. After several days of negotiations we reached an agreement and signed the closing documents. That evening one of the sellers invited us to a dinner to celebrate the closing. When I arrived, he offered me an alcoholic drink, which I declined. He then said, “Are you a Saint?” I didn’t fully understand what he meant, and he repeated, “Are you a Latter-day Saint?” I responded, “Yes, I am,” and he said he had been observing my personal habits during our negotiations and had concluded that I was either LDS or had a stomach problem. We both chuckled. He then informed me that he had only known one member of the Church on a personal basis, David B. Haight (later a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles). They were both executives in Chicago with a large retail chain following World War II. He told me of the significant influence Elder Haight had been in his life and that he held him in the highest regard.
As I flew back home to San Francisco, I thought about what had occurred, especially in two respects: I was surprised at how it felt to be asked if I was a Saint, and I was impressed with the positive influence one outstanding example—Elder Haight—had on this good man.

One summer the Jacobsons—Dad, Mom (Barbara), Ginger, and sisters Kim (21), Melissa (19), Mary (17), Becky (15), Jessica (13), and Jackie (2)—were traveling home from a family vacation to Nauvoo, Illinois. When their car broke down, Ginger immediately suggested that they ask their Heavenly Father for help. They did, and just as they said, “Amen,” a man stopped and towed them first to his home and then to a junkyard where they found what they needed to repair their car.

I want to tell you how I started receiving the New Era. At the National Scout Jamboree last summer I met Dallen Fisher from Rupert, Idaho. I am not a Mormon, but he told me about the Church and invited me to a fireside service one Sunday evening. Ezra Taft Benson and Marion D. Hanks spoke at the fireside. Brother Hanks gave a marvelous sermon on love for our mothers. Since I do not know my natural parents, I was very emotional by the end of the talk. I started writing letters to Dallen Fisher, and he sent me a subscription to the New Era for my 18th birthday. Dallen Fisher means a great deal to me because if it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have been so open-minded about the Church.
Howard S. BurgmanRock Springs, Wyoming

In 1898, President Wilford Woodruff recounted an experience he had as a new member in 1834 at a priesthood meeting in Kirtland. He related: “The Prophet called on all who held the Priesthood to gather into the little log school house they had there. It was a small house, perhaps 14 feet [4.3 m] square. … When we got together the Prophet called upon the Elders of Israel … to bear testimony of this work. … When they got through the Prophet said, ‘Brethren I have been very much edified and instructed in your testimonies here tonight, but I want to say to you before the Lord, that you know no more concerning the destinies of this Church and kingdom than a babe upon its mother’s lap. You don’t comprehend it. … It is only a little handfull of Priesthood you see here tonight, but this Church will fill North and South America—it will fill the world.’”4

That desire to perform fit perfectly into gymnastics, another of Diane’s lifelong loves. It was tough to convince her parents that gymnastics was a good thing for her, and even then she had to do something more.
“Our family had seven kids and couldn’t afford to pay for Diane to have lessons. She went down to the gym herself and told the coach that she’d do anything for them. So after workouts she’d clean the gym—vacuuming mats, cleaning bathrooms, whatever, to pay for her lessons,” says Marie.
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.

When it seems like “Been there; done that” is the reaction to every suggestion made in planning youth activities, then you might try what members in the High Wycombe Ward in the Staines England Stake did. Think of something challenging and interesting, then see if it can be done.
The teens suggested that it might be great fun to record their own CD for their super activity. That meant writing the lyrics, performing the music, and, before anything else, making assignments.
What kind of song could they write? First, it had to include everyone, and some people readily admitted that singing was something they’d rather listen to than do. They agreed that to include everyone, they really needed something simple with some sections to pull in everyone. Lindsey Judd, a Mia Maid, agreed to write the lyrics. One of the Young Men leaders agreed to compose a background track.
Next came the practicing. The date for the recording came, and 19 youth and 5 leaders drove to a small recording studio for what turned out to be a three-hour recording session. The professional musicians who ran the studio were overwhelmed to have 19 teens crowding into the small studio. Some parts took many retakes to get right, and other parts made it in one take. Every teen participated; every voice was recorded. The musicians asked some meaningful questions about the young people, who asked if they could say a prayer after the session was over.
The best parts of the day didn’t end up on the recording. MaLanie Robison said, “I learned how important it is for everyone to work together as a team. When we were all singing together, all bunched up around the microphones, I kept thinking how cool it was that each person, with his own unique talents and differences, could become one and sing about our similar belief in the Savior.”
“I think our recording of a CD was great,” said Richard Holt. “It taught us the importance of teamwork, patience, and, most important of all, we proclaimed the gospel.”
With the CD finished, the young people discovered that words put to music really make them easier to remember. “I think it was good,” said Camilla Warren, “to give the song words that remind us of our standards.”
So, as their song says, “Whether you’re in Malibu or in Timbuktu, if you pray with faith, He’ll always be there. He’ll be there to guide you and to answer your prayer.”
And in the background, you’ll hear the High Wycombe Ward youth humming along.

As president of the Barquisimeto (Venezuela) District, I constantly encouraged the members to get involved in genealogical research. I was busy in the work myself, but I was frustrated because some of the records of my parents and grandparents were in my native country of Peru. I tried hard to get information from my relatives there, but because they were not members of the Church, they weren’t too motivated to help me. The greatest problem was that my ancestors originally came from Europe. Not only did I not have the money to travel to Europe, I wasn’t even sure of the region my ancestors came from.
Time passed, and my work called for me to travel to the city of Valencia. It was during a time when I was being strongly tested, not only with respect to my testimony of the Church but also by other trials. In Valencia I learned of an author, Kepa De Derteano y Basterra, who shared my family name. One of the local members, Bob Steelheart, offered to help me locate the author which we did through checking the many books Derteano had published. On our first visit to Derteano’s home, we were unlucky. He and his wife were out. However, his daughter suggested I return later that night.
When we returned, Derteano was home and we had a very special meeting. We soon began to talk of our ancestors. Although we shared the same name, he was a Basque from Spain, and I a Peruvian. He showed me his genealogical records, and I was amazed to see that they went back to the 1500s. Then he really astounded me by telling me what had caused him to gather the records.
I said that I could provide the answer for him. I told him about the Church and the purposes of the vicarious work for the dead in the temples. I read to him 1 Peter 3:18–20 [1 Pet. 3:18–20], which tells of the Savior preaching the gospel in the spirit world. Then I shared with him parts of Doctrine and Covenants 138 [D&C 138], emphasizing the joy the spirits feel when they receive the gospel and their hope that their descendents would remember them since they cannot progress without us.
Derteano was overjoyed at hearing the reason behind his search. Now, sixty-three years old, he finally felt free of his obligation to his granduncle.
He gave me copies of all the birth and marriage records he had and also the names and addresses of other Derteanos in other parts of the world. My joy and feelings overflowed when together we found a common ancestor in the records, and thus I was able to connect my family tree to his.
Derteano gave me one of his books in which he wrote, “To Luis Roberto Derteano and Rosa Liliana, relatives I had been seeking throughout my life. Without a doubt something brought us together. Kepa De Derteano y Basterra.”

“Ira, take old Mac down to the back field,” Father said. “The hens are scratching out the new seed.”
Ira watched his father and two of his brothers start off for the mill with a wagonload of corn. Today he didn’t mind that they were going without him. He was needed here!
In the pen where Father kept his hunting dogs, Old Mac lay in the shade, his head resting on his front paws.
“We’ve got work to do today, boy,” Ira said as he fastened the homemade leather collar around Mac’s neck and tied a length of stout rope to it. He led Mac across the barn lot, through the stand of eight-year-old pines planted just before Ira was born, and finally into the newly seeded field. “Come on, Mac! Get those hens out of here!”
Mac came fully awake and jerked on the leash, almost pulling Ira down.
“Whoa, boy! We just want to scare them.”
But Mac wasn’t used to getting orders from Ira. He ran across the field, filling the air with his baying. Ira hung on to the leash with both hands and stumbled over the lumpy soil. The rope felt like a knife against his fingers.
When they finally reached the edge of the field where a few sturdy saplings grew, Ira quickly wrapped his end of the rope around one of them. Mac still strained to be free.
“Stop it, Mac. I can’t hang on to the end of this rope much longer. I’m going to leave you tied here for just a little while.”
Ira ran back to the barn lot, where Father’s matched team of mules were munching on the late summer grass. He fastened reins onto the brass rings of the nearest mule’s harness and led her back to the new field.
The chickens, not worried about a tied dog, had returned.
“Now, I know old Bess can hold you, Mac,” Ira said as he fastened Mac’s rope to the mule’s harness. Then he scrambled onto the mule and steered her around the edge of the field, Mac following. Ira was again enjoying his feeling of responsibility.
As they came closer to the chickens, Mac sniffed. Then he threw back his head, bayed deeply, and lunged toward the hens.
Bess’s ears shot forward, and her nostrils flared. She turned to run away from Mac, but the rope pulled him after her. Mac’s barking became angry.
“Whoa, Bess, whoa!” Ira shouted. But because the dog continued to bark near her, she circled again, and it was all Ira could do to hold on.
Soon Ira felt his legs slipping off the mule’s wet back. Then Bess’s flashing hooves were level with Ira’s eyes, and he lost his grip on the reins. He managed to push himself clear of the mule and land on the bare dirt.
At least I didn’t fall under Bess, Ira thought as he got up and brushed the dirt from his clothes.
The mule was dragging the dog through the field. Every time Bess would slow a little, Mac would start barking again and try to chase the chickens. The barking would send Bess off again through the field, dragging Mac behind her. The air was thick with dust. Ira wondered how many days it would have taken the chickens to do the damage Bess and Mac had done in fifteen minutes.
Ira worried even more as he noticed the heaving sides of both animals. “Whoa, Bess!” he shouted at the cloud of dust, but they wouldn’t let him near them.
Ira ran toward the house. His younger brother, Bert, was pulling weeds in the garden, and Ira shouted at him. “Bert, get Uncle Jesse! Bess is pulling Mac all over the field!”
The urgency in Ira’s voice sent Bert racing down the road. Soon he was back with Uncle Jesse, and all three hurried to the field.
All was quiet there. Bess and Mac had disappeared.
“If it weren’t for the trampled field, I’d think I dreamed it all,” said Ira.
“I bet Bess has headed for some water,” Uncle Jesse suggested.
They found the two animals in the pines. Bess was leaning against a tree, her sides heaving and sweat pouring off her. Mac lay nearby, panting. His tongue hung out one side of his mouth, and he rolled his eyes weakly.
“They’d better cool down before we let them near water,” Uncle Jesse cautioned.
After the animals were taken care of, Ira sat in the shade of the barn. All afternoon he sat there looking at the clouds, knowing the time when Father would get home was growing closer. He wished evening would never come.
Even when he heard the dinner bell, he still sat behind the barn.
“Mama said to bring you in to supper,” Bert said as he poked his head around the corner.
As Ira walked the length of the table, each face was turned toward the plate in front of it. None of the eleven people at the table spoke, not even Father. But eyes peeked quickly at him as he passed.
Ira put a small helping from each bowl onto his plate, and somehow managed to swallow all of it.
Finally the silent meal was over, and Mother and his sisters cleared the table. Father leaned his chair against the wall, and he and the two boys who had gone to the mill began to tell of the day’s adventures.
Each time the conversation slowed, Ira held his breath. But nothing was said about his misadventures.
Soon the kitchen was clean, and the evening had grown dark. It was bedtime, and Ira still hadn’t been punished. He slept fitfully all night, wondering what Father was thinking.
The next morning when Ira went to the barn to do his chores, Father was patiently currying Bess. “She seems to be OK. Do you want to tell me about it, Son.”
When Ira had finished, Father laid down the comb and went over to him. “Sounds like you set out to do what you had been told, but you took a wrong turn somewhere.”
Ira thought he saw a smile pull up one corner of Father’s mouth.
“I reckon those chickens have gone for good. But you and I will have to replant parts of that field. It looks like somebody held the county horse show there.”
Father’s hand was on Ira’s shoulder as they walked out of the dusky barn into the sunlight.