Gospel Story Finder

As an example, I share an experience related by Sister Lanett Ho Ching, currently serving with her husband, President Francis Ho Ching, who presides over the Samoa Apia Mission. Sister Ho Ching relates:
“Years ago, our young family moved to a tiny home in Laie, Hawaii. The carport of our home had been converted into a studio apartment, where a man named Jonathan lived. Jonathan had been our neighbor in another place. Feeling it wasn’t a coincidence that the Lord had put us together, we decided to be more open about our activities and membership in the Church. Jonathan enjoyed our friendship and loved spending time with our family. He liked learning about the gospel, but he was not interested in committing to the Church.
“In time, Jonathan earned the nickname ‘Uncle Jonathan’ with our children. As our family continued to grow, so did Jonathan’s interest in our happenings. Our invitations to holiday parties, birthdays, school events, and Church activities extended to family home evenings and the children’s baptisms.
“One day I received a phone call from Jonathan. He needed help. He suffered from diabetes and had developed a severe foot infection that required an amputation. Our family and neighboring ward members walked him through that time of trial. We took turns at the hospital, and priesthood blessings were offered. While Jonathan was in rehab, with the help of Relief Society sisters, we cleaned his apartment. The priesthood brethren built a ramp to his doorway and hand railings in the bathroom. When Jonathan returned home, he was overcome with emotion.
“Jonathan began taking the missionary lessons again. The week before New Year’s, he called me and asked, ‘What are you doing on New Year’s Eve?’ I reminded him about our annual party. But instead, he replied, ‘I want you to come to my baptism! I want to start this new year right.’ After 20 years of ‘come and see,’ ‘come and help,’ and ‘come and stay,’ this precious soul was ready to be baptized.
“In 2018, when we were called to be mission president and companion, Jonathan’s health was declining. We begged him to stay strong awaiting our return. He carried on for almost a year, but the Lord was preparing him to come home. He passed away peacefully in April 2019. My daughters attended their ‘Uncle Jonathan’s’ funeral and sang the same song we sang at his baptism.”

From 1856 to 1860, thousands of Latter-day Saint pioneers pulled their belongings in handcarts for over 1,000 miles (1,600 km) as they traveled to the Salt Lake Valley. One hundred sixty-seven years ago this very week, on October 4, 1856, President Brigham Young was surprised to learn that two handcart companies, led by Edward Martin and James Willie, were still hundreds of miles from Salt Lake, with winter fast approaching. The very next day, not far from where we meet today, President Young stood before the Saints and declared: “Many of our brethren and sisters are on the plains with hand-carts, and they must be brought here. … Go and bring in those people now on the plains.”
Just two days later, the first rescue parties departed in search of the handcart pioneers.
A member of the Willie company described the desperate situation prior to the arrival of the main rescue team. He shared: “[Just] when it seemed all would be lost, … and there seemed little left to live for, like a thunderbolt out of the clear sky, God answered our prayers. A rescue party, bringing food and supplies … , came into sight. … How we thanked God for our rescue.”

Sister Kristie Wilson
I am one of eight sisters working as a welfare missionary in a Vietnamese refugee camp. Since most of the people in camp have never heard of Jesus Christ or Heavenly Father and to help them better appreciate the Savior’s birth, we held a special activity just before Christmas. The Primary children reenacted the manger scene and story as told in Luke. They were as delighted to do it as we were to watch.
Christmas Eve we went caroling through the camp. It was a neat experience to roam through the billets and share the news of the Savior’s birth through song. The Spirit overcame language barriers, and we were avle to celebrate the Savior’s birth with one heart and mind. I have never been so exhausted. I have never been so at peace.

Illustration by Loni Harris
Sometimes when I’m reading scriptures, my brain likes to skip away to someplace else. It isn’t that I don’t want to read—it’s just that when I try, my mind wants to wander.
For example, when I read in 1 Nephi about Lehi dwelling in a tent, my mind wanders away to Young Women camp. Then that reminds me of when Boy Scout camp was accidentally scheduled at the same place and at the same time, and how they had to load the boys back up and move them. Then that reminds me of when I moved to another town, the car ride there, that hitchhiker we bought food for on the way, and so on and so on.
The next thing I know, I’ve read a full page but don’t remember anything. So I move on to read about Lehi’s dream, and it begins all over again.
I have read the first pages of 1 Nephi, Genesis, Matthew, the Doctrine and Covenants, and the Pearl of Great Price so many times, but I would usually forget what I read and just check it off my to-do list and then distract myself from doing it again for a while. My heart does have good intentions, but it can be hard to jump in and truly feast on the scriptures. I’ve always wondered if I would ever be able to, you know … do it.
But then I found a way.
My way.
A way that actually works—for me.
I am a doodler and have been for a long time. I basically doodle whenever I have a pen and paper in front of me. I’m not a great artist; I just simply like to doodle. Repeated swirls, silly fonts, lines, patterns, zigzags, stick figures, circles—I love to do it, and I do it everywhere. It helps me concentrate and relax.
OK, so what’s this got to do with scripture study?
Here is what I did.
I bought a big black art notebook and a thin black marker, and I found a quiet place where I could spread out my supplies and read out loud.
Once I was all set up, I opened my notebook and created a title page that said, “Doodling through the Scriptures,” which I decorated with different fonts and squiggly lines. After I finished that, I opened the Book of Mormon to the first page of 1 Nephi, with the opening lines that I’ve read dozens of times: “I, Nephi, having been born …” I worked hard to concentrate and keep reading.
As I read, I paid attention to words that would jump out or pictures that were in my head. I took the time to draw what stuck out to me. Sometimes, it was a border around the entire page using Nephi’s name. Or I would put several different pictures and words in circles. Or I would write down one verse I particularly loved or even just one word.
This method allowed me to be free and play with the words. No one was timing me, grading me, or judging my drawings. I just tried to have fun, relax, and concentrate.
But wait, didn’t it take forever to get through the Book of Mormon this way?
Well, yes. Some days, I wouldn’t even get through a page. But it was worth the time.
As I read and doodled, I found things that relate to me personally. For example, why didn’t Laman and Lemuel just turn around and go back to Jerusalem and quit whining? (I doodled this with stick figures looking mad and pointing at Nephi, who looked happy.) While drawing this, I thought about this question. Laman and Lemuel came along but were crabby. I thought about when my parents ask me to do things I don’t want to do. I go along, but I sure make everyone else miserable along the way. I thought, “Do I sometimes act like Laman and Lemuel?” I wrote that question and my answer on the page, along with more doodles.
While I sat and pondered and read, I had feelings of calm, warmth, and safety come over me repeatedly, and I knew the book was inspired and true. And now, I have this art journal that I can use as a reference forever to help me remember that I received this witness that the Book of Mormon is true.
Taking the time to make lines, scrolls, or boxes around words and stick figures while reading would stop me in the moment and allow me to think, ask questions, and feel closer to the people in the scriptures. My mind would still wander, but it usually wandered to think about the messages, the people, or the Spirit that I felt while I quietly doodled.
I discovered how to make my study meaningful, and now I can’t wait for scripture study each day. For the first time in my life, the scriptures feel personal. Who knew that doodling could help me receive a testimony that the scriptures are true!
The author lives in Connecticut, USA.

How grateful I am that you are an example for my granddaughter. She can look up to you as someone who cares about everyone and goes out of her way to show loving concern. She told me that one day when you didn’t have a car, you walked more than a mile to her house with your small children to bring cookies.
“I was thinking of you and your mom and wanted to do something nice for you—just because,” you told her.

It sometimes happens that the happiness we seek in many ways and in many places is to be found where we least expect it. So it was with me. I had happiness within my grasp all the time, but for years I did not recognize it.
I was 24 years old in 1981 when I was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My husband was baptized with me. At the time, our daughter, Juliana, was two years old. Our branch in Tucuruvi, Brazil, was so small that we met in a home on Avenida Nova Cantareira. For some reason, after attending meetings for less than a year, we left the Church.
By the time we moved to Guarulhos in 1983, we had no desire to return to the Church and had lost complete contact with Church members. This was a time of great difficulty for us. One day while I was sweeping the house, my husband and I decided to throw all of our old Church books in the garbage. Among the books was a copy of the Book of Mormon.
In all the time I had owned the book, I had never opened it. I considered the book of no value. But as I went to place it in the trash, Juliana, who was four years old at the time caught sight of the figure of the angel Moroni on the cover and said, “No, Mama, don’t throw that book away!” I thought of throwing it away anyway, but I looked at my husband and he looked at me. We decided to honor our daughter’s request.
And so the book remained in our home.
In 1987 I gave birth to our third child and experienced some difficult health problems. I began seeking the truth, trying to find some answers to why I was so unhappy. In despair, I began to believe there was no salvation for me.
One day in 1989, the Lord prompted me to pick up the Book of Mormon. I started to read it—and found I could hardly stop. Each day I waited eagerly for the dawn so I could continue reading. The Spirit was so strong within me that I cried. I finally understood how much I had lost by leaving the path of the Lord I had once been on.
I resolved to find the Church. Searching our telephone book, I found the Church’s name and called the number listed. We started attending meetings again and have remained active ever since. My husband and I have now been to the temple, and we are sealed as a family for eternity.
I know that the Book of Mormon is true and that if we study it constantly, we will find the strength to overcome any obstacle. I thank Heavenly Father both for my blessings and for my trials—and for prompting our daughter to keep us from throwing the Book of Mormon away. I know that had I thrown the book away, with it I would have thrown away my happiness.

Ken was nervous as he started to school. This was the day of the Middle School marching band tryouts. More than anything else in the world, Ken wanted to be in the marching band.
Cradling his trumpet case in his right arm, Ken imagined himself marching down the street dressed in a blue and gold band uniform. The drum major would strut along in front, and the drums would beat out the cadence. It gave Ken goose bumps just thinking about it.
As he passed the house two doors from his own, he saw a boy about his own age sitting on a porch swing. He must be part of the family that is moving in today, Ken thought. He wished he had time to get acquainted. But he had to hurry to the tryouts.
Ken was the first person to get to the band room, except for the music teacher, Mr. Walker.
“Ready, Ken?” Mr. Walker asked. Ken’s hands felt damp, and his knees trembled. “Ready,” he said. He fumbled as he lifted his trumpet out of its case. To calm himself, he thought again about marching down the street. The band would start playing. Ken would lift his trumpet, ready to blast out a heart-thumping march. … That’s where his dream always ended—just before heads started turning to see where the sour notes were coming from. Maybe he should just forget the whole thing.
Mr. Walker tapped a pencil on his desk. “Try this tempo,” he said.
Ken looked at the music he’d chosen. Then he lifted his trumpet and blew.
The pitiful little blats that came out of his horn weren’t anything like the notes on the sheet of music.
“Try again,” Mr. Walker said. “Take your time, Ken.”
The second time wasn’t any better. Ken’s fingers just wouldn’t find the right notes, and his breathing was all wrong. “I’m just nervous this morning,” he stammered.
Mr. Walker stood up. “Ken, a lot of people have trouble playing musical instruments. Their coordination and sense of rhythm just aren’t quite developed.” He came over to put a hand on Ken’s shoulder. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s like not being good at basketball. Most people improve as they get older.”
“But I can march just fine,” Ken insisted. “I know I can march. And I can learn the music if I practice a lot.”
“Can you march and play the music at the same time?” Mr. Walker’s voice was kind.
Ken thought about it. He had a hard time even walking while he played.
“Ken,” Mr. Walker continued, “go home and practice tonight. You can try again tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Mr. Walker,” Ken said. But he knew that even if he practiced all night, he probably wouldn’t be good enough to march with the band.
The rest of the school day dragged by. On his way home, Ken heard somebody playing a trumpet. The notes were clear and true. Squarely on pitch.
The music was a march that made Ken’s heart thump. It came from the porch of the house where the new family had moved in. The boy blowing the trumpet was the one Ken had seen that morning. He was still sitting on the porch swing.
Ken walked up close and listened. “Wow!” he said when the boy stopped playing. “You’re some trumpet player.”
The boy grinned. “I get lots of practice, especially today, since Mom’s still busy unpacking and I won’t be starting school until next Monday.”
“Any chance of your giving me a few pointers?” Ken held up his trumpet case. “I’m trying out for the marching band tomorrow.”
“Sure.” The boy motioned for Ken to sit on a porch chair. “My name’s Eric,” he said.
“Mine’s Ken.”
Ken heard a crash inside the house and a tired voice saying something about hating moving days. “Are you sure you have time for me?” Ken asked. “Maybe they need you in there.”
Eric smiled a little. “I’d just be in the way.” He pointed to a wheelchair that sat in a shady corner of the porch. “I’m not a whole lot of help.”
Ken felt his face redden a little as he realized why Eric was always sitting. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“It’s OK.” Eric waved a hand. “I guess everybody has some kind of a handicap. Now, go ahead and play something.”
Handicap. Ken knew what his was. But he could try, couldn’t he? Thinking of the beautiful notes Eric had played, he put his horn to his lips and blew.
The trumpet screeched.
“I’m not too good yet.”
Eric didn’t deny it. “We’ll work on it.”
They worked on it for over two hours. Eric was nice. He didn’t even blink when Ken hit sour notes.
“It will sound better in the morning when you’re rested,” he said when Ken left.
But Eric was wrong. The next morning in the band room, Ken’s trumpet-playing sounded worse than ever. He knew even before Mr. Walker said anything that it was hopeless. His dream of marching along in a blue and gold uniform died.
When Ken got home after school, Eric was sitting on the porch swing again. He didn’t even ask what had happened. Ken guessed that it showed in his face.
“You wanted that a lot, didn’t you?” Eric said gently.
Ken nodded. “More than anything else in the world.”
Eric rubbed the trumpet that lay in his lap. “I used to dream about being in a marching band too. You know—with flags waving and people watching and me marching along playing music that almost makes your heart jump out of your chest.”
“Funny, isn’t it?” Ken said. “You’re really good at playing the trumpet, but you can’t march. I can march just fine, but I’m no good at playing.”
“Hey!” they shouted in unison, eyes shining.
Mr. Walker said later that the band that year was his best ever. He said that maybe it was because everyone tried to live up to the enthusiasm that Ken and Eric had brought to it.
Ken didn’t know about that. But he did know that there wasn’t anything wrong with his marching as he pushed Eric’s wheelchair through all the maneuvers. It was easy to do perfectly while those clear, sweet notes from Eric’s trumpet sounded in his ears.

I am grateful to my parents for their careful attention to detail in teaching me to live the principles of the gospel in relation to my fellowmen. My father was totally honest and set a great example for us children. When I was about seven years old, he sent me to the hardware store on an errand. He had given me five dollars, which in those days could buy a great deal. When I returned home, he counted the change I had and discovered that the store clerk had given me one dollar too much. The store was about a mile from our home, but he insisted that I walk back and return the money. This is typical of the lessons of honesty he taught us all during our childhood and teenage years.

Dad Knew Mormons—I brought a signed statement from my dad to the elders giving his approval for my baptism. He used to know some Latter-day Saints. He said you have to be a missionary if you join their church.
My Interview—I was interviewed tonight for baptism. It was a relief to find that the elders had only kidded me about taking a written test. I read the pamphlets a few extra times so I wouldn’t be tripped up. I told the district leader that the discussions were like the lifting of a veil, like I had heard the story before. The gospel contains many teachings that I have come to believe over the years, such as a literal, tangible, concerned Heavenly Father. I took the discussions so fast that I have to wait till my assigned baptismal date.
April 27—I was baptized tonight. My family attended the service, as did many of the branch members. This is the cleanest feeling I have known in my entire life. The warm, friendly attitude of the members here is still one of the amazing things about this church.

In 1878, President John Taylor called Saints to settle in the San Luis Valley of southern Colorado. Early in the twentieth century, Pa moved our family to that desolate land.
Our new farm was littered with rocks. Before we could till the ground, we had to clear them away. Using a wheelbarrow, Ma and I carted away the small rocks. There was only one way to remove the boulders—blow them up with dynamite.
Pa dug under each one as far as he could and placed the dynamite underneath. He was careful to set each charge in just the right place so that the blast would tear the boulder completely apart. Finally everything was ready for Pa to light the fuse. Mama herded us children out of danger.
Boom!
The first boulder exploded into hundreds of fragments and a cloud of dust. When the dust settled, the boulder had disappeared. I now had to pick up the pieces and fill the hole with dirt.
We repeated the process, Pa lighting the dynamite and I clearing away the shattered rock. By the end of the third explosion, I was growing tired of picking up rocks and wanted to be in on the “real” work—lighting the dynamite. I took a few steps toward Pa.
“Willard, stay back!” my mother called.
I scowled. At nine, I was the oldest and believed I was a man.
As I started back to the homestead, a sense of danger ran through me. A whispering in my heart warned me that something was wrong.
I didn’t understand. I wasn’t in any danger. I was well away from the blasting. Certain that I had imagined the voice, I concentrated on what Pa was doing. Maybe he’d see that I was nearly grown and ready to work alongside him.
The feeling of danger grew.
I recalled the promise my father had made at the time of my confirmation: “I bless you with the power of discernment. Listen to the Spirit. It will guide you and protect you from harm.”
I tried to ignore the voice, but it wouldn’t be still. I could no longer pretend that I didn’t hear the insistent whisper.
I bless you with the power of discernment.
The words were as clear now as they had been when Pa pronounced the blessing more than a year earlier. If I wasn’t in danger, maybe the voice was telling me that someone else was. Ma was hanging clothes on the line, my little sister pulling at her skirts. I grinned at the picture they made. My smile faded as I realized that I couldn’t see three-year-old Hyrum.
“Hyrum!” I shouted. “Hyrum!” Shading my eyes from the sun, I squinted into the distance. Then I saw him—heading straight toward the field, chubby legs churning.
I took off after him, running and praying and shouting all at the same time. “Pa!” I screamed, waving my arms to attract his attention.
His back turned to me, Pa couldn’t see my warning or Hyrum toddling toward disaster.
I reached Hyrum at the same moment the boulder exploded. Throwing my body over his, I shielded him the best I could. Sharp rock fragments rained down on me, pummeling my head, back, and legs.
Hyrum began to squirm. “Heavy,” he said. “Let me up.”
I rolled off. My body screamed with pain, but I scarcely noticed. Gently, I ran my hands over my little brother. “Are you all right?”
He wiggled away from me and stood. His chin wobbled, but he appeared unhurt. “Scared,” he said.
“I was scared, too.” I pulled Hyrum to me and hugged him.
By then Pa had reached us. Tears tracked through the dirt and grime on his face. His big arms circled us, squeezing tight. “How did you know that your brother was in danger?”
I hesitated, not sure how to explain. “A voice told me that something was wrong. I didn’t pay attention at first, but it kept poking at me until I had to listen.” I paused, then confessed the part that stung my conscience. “If I had listened the first time, Hyrum wouldn’t have wandered away. He’d never have been in danger.”
Pa laid his big hand on my shoulder. “But you did listen. That’s the important thing.” Pa took a deep breath. “That was a mighty brave thing you did, Willard.”
“I prayed, Pa. I was praying so hard the words nearly choked me.”
“So was I, Son. So was I.”
Ma and my little sister came running. Laughing and crying at the same time, Ma hugged me and Hyrum. Soon, all of us were hugging and crying.
A sweet feeling of peace settled around my heart as I knelt by my bed that night. My prayers took longer than usual as I thanked Heavenly Father for the whisperings of the Spirit in my heart.

Just five years ago, in August 1975, thousands of Japanese Saints assembled in Tokyo for the first area conference in Asia of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The meetings were held in the Budokan, a large public assembly hall centrally located in the heart of the metropolis and capable of seating thousands of people. On this memorable date, President Spencer W. Kimball opened the conference with the building filled to capacity and announced that a temple of the Lord would be built in Japan. As President Kimball made this announcement, the audience gasped and an excited murmur filled the air. Many of the Saints wept as they were filled with the spirit. They were witnessing the culmination of prayer, faith and hope. They envisioned where instructions from the Most High will be received, and will be so constructed as to enable all of the functions of the Priesthood to be fully exercised. They were witnessing the development of events which are unfolding in these latter days of fulfillment of prophecy.
With President Kimball’s announcement, the necessary steps were taken for the temple construction. Servants of the Lord were sent out to find a plot of land to build the temple. Several sites were considered and after much deliberation and prayer, it was decided that the temple would be located on the site of the old Tokyo Mission Home. This building and land had been purchased by the Church shortly after the end of World War II and had since been used by thousands of missionaries. For many of these missionaries, the old home was the first place they stayed upon arrival in Japan. Most would testify that many sacred and spiritual experiences were manifested here.
Seemingly this sacred and hallowed ground was divinely chosen for the construction of the House of the Lord. The site borders a beautifully landscaped Arisugawa Memorial Park along the eastern frontage separated only by a road leading from the Hiroo Subway Station which is just a few minutes walking distance away.
With the construction site selected and approved, design drawings were prepared under the direction of the church architect, Brother Emil B. Fetzer. As these were being drawn, people in Tokyo were busy gearing up for the months and years of difficult negotiations which would be necessary to obtain construction permits to build the temple in the Minami Azabu district, which is an affluent area of Tokyo with neighboring foreign diplomatic missions and embassies. Negotiations with area residents to gain approval for building the temple went slowly. Many of the local people worried about the effects the new building would have on life in the area. One big problem was conforming to the “Sunshine Law” in Tokyo, which requires a certain amount of compensation for any amount of sunlight which is lost due to the shadow cast by multi-story construction.
The months passed following President Kimball’s announcement. Months turned to years and two of the close neighbors continued to put up road blocks to impede the construction of the temple. Time and again word was passed among the Saints that everything was cleared and construction would soon begin. But new problems would arise which prevented the work from commencing. As an example, the church architects learned that the Japanese construction requirements were much more stringent in many respects than anticipated. This was mainly due to the frequency of earthquakes and typhoons in the islands of Japan. These building codes were found to be quite different from the customary standard codes and considerable additional study and architectural review were necessary to make sure that their plans did not conflict with the building codes of Japan.
In the spring of 1978, the decision was made to commence with the construction of the Tokyo Temple, though there were still many problems to be resolved. There were pockets of resistance among some of the neighbors, but it was mandatory to have on record a “commencement of construction”. This phase of work though not fully designed was the only assurance that the temple could be constructed as designed by the Church architect. The structure included a full basement, four floors above ground and a 25 meter symbol tower built into the penthouse structure located on the temple roof to house the mechanical controls. The currently approved construction permit would expire if the design did not conform with any of the newly promulgated sunshine laws. We were concerned that all of our design plans would have to be abandoned and a completely new design of less stature would have to be drawn up. To realize benefits of time and effort expended in the past in planning and design, the decision of Brother McPhie, Director of Temples and Special Projects, to proceed was an answer to our prayers. Missionaries were vacated from the mission home to start preparation for the demolition work. Kajima Corporation was awarded the Tokyo Temple construction contract and the church issued a notice to proceed commencing March 10, 1978.

For example, when I was a teenager just learning to drive, my dad let me practice driving our green station wagon on a rural two-lane highway in Montana. After rounding a curve, I realized my right tires were on the edge of the ditch. Due to my inexperience, I pulled the steering wheel too sharply as I attempted to bring the car back within the lines. This resulted in us swerving back and forth several times until we went into a sideways skid for several yards. My dad later said that he did not know why the car stayed on its wheels instead of flipping and rolling down the highway.

After coming to a stop, Dad got out, opened my door, and told me to slide over. I did so and braced for a lecture. Instead, he simply said, “That kind of scares you, doesn’t it?” before he went in search of the hubcaps that had come off. I was shaking for a long time after and had little interest in driving again. However, my dad’s choice of words conveyed his understanding that I had not intentionally tried to wreck the car and harm us in the process, but that I was young, inexperienced, and had simply made a mistake. In that moment, his words comforted instead of condemned, helped instead of hurt.

Later that summer Leann came to my house and said that she was my visiting teacher. This seemed strange and wonderful at the same time, especially since I was not a member of the Church. Here she was taking time from her busy schedule to share a spiritual thought with me and to see if there was anything she could help me with. I knew from her spirit that she was sincere. I’ve never forgotten Leann and the messages she shared with me.

On another occasion, I was in New Zealand visiting the home of a single mother with three teenage children. The oldest son was 18 and had received the Melchizedek Priesthood just the previous Sunday. I asked if he had been able to exercise this priesthood yet. He said, “I’m not sure what that means.”
I told him he now had the authority to give a priesthood blessing of comfort or healing. I looked at his mother, who had not had a Melchizedek Priesthood holder by her side for many years. “I think it would be wonderful,” I said, “if you would give your mom a blessing.”
He replied, “I don’t know how.”
I explained that he could put his hands on his mother’s head, state her name, state that he is giving her a blessing by the authority of the Melchizedek Priesthood, say whatever the Spirit puts in his mind and heart, and close in the name of Jesus Christ.
The next day, I received an email from him. It read in part: “Tonight I blessed my mum. … I felt very, very nervous and inadequate, so I prayed continually to ensure I had the Spirit with me, because I could not give a blessing without it. As I started, I completely forgot myself and my weaknesses. … I [did not expect] the immense spiritual and emotional power I felt. … Afterwards the spirit of love hit me so hard I could not contain my emotions, so I hugged my mum and wept like a baby. … Even now as I write this, [I feel] the Spirit [so much that] I never want to sin again. … I love this gospel.”3
Isn’t it inspiring to see how a seemingly ordinary young man can accomplish great things through priesthood service, even when he feels inadequate? I recently learned that this young elder has received a mission call and will enter the missionary training center next month. I believe he will lead many souls to Christ because he has learned how to follow Christ in his priesthood service—beginning in his own home, where his example is having a profound influence on his 14-year-old brother.

In the summer of 1998, as Namie returned home from her mission, I made plans with my 16-year-old daughter to go to the Philippines. We arrived in Manila and met with Ruth. We attended the Manila Philippines Temple together. Then we flew south to her family’s home in Tiwi. It’s impossible to describe the joy of seeing Romeo and his family again. The deep bond of brotherhood was instantly renewed. We talked and hugged and reminisced; we ate together and read scriptures with his family each night we were there. They were such strong rocks of testimony in their small branch. We attended sacrament meeting in the Tiwi Branch and listened to Namie report on her mission. It was amazing. It was nearly celestial. Truly this was missionary heaven.

To help us in our striving, God has given us role models and mentors. I want to share my feelings about one of mine, Elder Neal A. Maxwell. He constantly sought to submit his will to the will of the Father in his effort to become like God.
More than 20 years ago, he shared his feelings with me after he had just been diagnosed with cancer. He told me, “I want to be on the team, on this side [of the veil] or that side. I don’t want to sit on the sidelines. I want to play in the game.”13
Over the next few weeks, he was reluctant to ask God to heal him; he just wanted to do God’s will. His wife, Colleen, pointed out that Jesus’s first cry in the Garden of Gethsemane was “If it be possible, let this cup pass from me.” Only then did the Savior say, “Nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt.”14 She encouraged Elder Maxwell to follow the Savior’s example, to ask for relief and then submit his will to God’s will, which he did.15
After suffering through extensive, debilitating treatments for nearly a year, he was totally and completely back “in the game.” He served for seven more years.
I had several assignments with him during those subsequent years. I felt his kindness, compassion, and love. I witnessed his increased spiritual refinement through his ongoing suffering and his continued service as he strove to become like the Savior.

One day in my fourth-grade religion class in Jamaica, my teacher asked all the students to tell about their religious beliefs. Since I was the only Mormon in my prep school, I was chosen as the Mormon representative.
By the time it was my turn, my heart was beating a hundred miles a minute. I was never much of a public speaker anyway, and I didn’t have a loud voice. When I stood up, I just stared at the sea of eyes before me and tried to speak about some of our beliefs. I first spoke about the Word of Wisdom, then talked about the sacrament, about how we used bread and water to represent the Saviour’s body and blood when he died for us.
Before I could say another word, everyone started laughing at me. Tears stung my eyes as I wondered what I had said to make them laugh. I quickly wiped my eyes and went to my seat amidst the chants of “Bread and water, bread and water.” By the end of the day I was still being teased, so when it was time to go home I was overjoyed. I still don’t know why they decided to make fun of what I was saying.
When I got home, I took my mother’s huge Bible off the shelf and began looking at some of the pictures. As I was flipping a page, I glimpsed a scripture and quickly turned back to it. It was Matthew 10:32: “Whosoever therefore shall confess me before men, him will I confess also before my Father which is in heaven.” [Matt. 10:32] As I read the words over and over, a feeling of peace washed over me as I realised it didn’t matter who laughed at me as long as I was doing what was right.

Meet Mike Johnson and Curt Brinkman, two of the greatest wheelchair athletes. They’re breaking records and winning an impressive number of medals and trophies, not only in United States competitions, but at the Olympics as well. They were among the few undergraduates to see the “Y” lighted in their honor during a BYU halftime. But before chalking up their numerous awards, let’s get acquainted.
First, here’s Curt. Today he is 25, but he has no difficulty recalling his 16th summer. “I was six foot seven inches tall, and I loved to play ball, especially basketball. I lettered as a sophomore in high school and even had dreams of playing with the New York Knickerbockers.”
Curt grew up in Shelley, Idaho, where he could always find work on the neighboring farms. “I enjoyed working. I saved every penny as a kid, trying to get my missionary and college funds together,” he recalls. His wife, Bonnie, says that when they got married, Curt had saved six thousand dollars.
Curt’s accident happened one day during a break in his job. “You know, sometimes young kids try crazy things. I looked at an electrical pole and thought, ‘That looks like something challenging to climb.’ So I did.” Witnesses told him that three electrical shocks held him in midair before he fell 25 feet and landed in mud. “The doctor said the impact of falling that far started my heart again, so now I’m alive. I lay there in the mud and thought, ‘I’ll never play ball again.’”
Curt spent six painful months in the hospital. He recalls that his family and friends helped greatly during that time. His close friends visited him regularly. His father kindly insisted he learn to be independent. The town held fund-raising campaigns to help pay medical expenses. When he returned to school, his classmates encouraged him and helped him see the brighter side of life. Curt graduated with his class.
Curt’s testimony helped him, too. His hazel eyes sparkle when he says, “I’m grateful to be a Mormon. I know this life is just a small speck in eternity. Someday I’ll have my legs and run again.”
Curt majored in business at Ricks College for a couple of years. There he met Bonnie Hymas. They were married December 20, 1975, in the Idaho Falls Temple. By coincidence, Mike and Jan Cryer were married a day earlier in the Provo Temple. The two couples had not met at that time. Bonnie and Curt now have a son, Gregory Adam, two years old, and a daughter, Lorian, five months. Gregory likes to somersault over the back of Curt’s wheelchair into Bonnie’s arms.
Mike and Jan have two sons, Seth, 2 1/2, and Matt, 1 1/2, and a daughter, Rachel, eight months. Mike is a few years older than Curt. He just turned 31, and Jan kids him about that. But he isn’t too old for wheelchair competitions. Mike says a man in his 50s won the slalom for class two in California.
Mike grew up in West Virginia, where his parents are members of the Church. He came to BYU as a freshman and fell in love with the mountains. He spent many hours hiking and hunting. Now he makes up wildlife stories each night for his sons. “I’d rather do that,” says Mike, “than just read a story from a book.”
Jan says Seth will listen carefully and then when a story is finished, say, “I didn’t like that story. Tell me another one!”
After his freshman year at BYU, Mike joined the marines. In Vietnam he stepped on a booby trap. Both of his legs had to be amputated. Like Curt, Mike’s recovery was a rough time. He, too, is grateful for the support of his family. Mike recalls: “My folks helped a lot. Dad told me to do my best and not to quit. He helped me have a desire to live.”
Mike returned to BYU in 1971. It was there he first saw Curt. “I watched him get out of his car. He really handled himself well, and I thought he’d make a good player on our wheelchair basketball team. I left a note on his car inviting him to come play.” That invitation started a continuing friendship.
They became involved in other competitions after a man they played basketball with in Denver told them they ought to get involved in track. This man sent information about national wheelchair competitions, and the two started working out on the BYU track. That was in 1976.
That same year they went to Denver and placed first in some track events there. Then they went to San Jose and placed and on to the Nationals in New York and the Olympics in Toronto, Canada. Forty-six countries participated in the Olympics. Together, Mike and Curt brought home three gold, one silver, and three bronze medals. That’s quite a record for their first year of competition!
Mike and Curt do not compete against each other. Curt competes in class five, and Mike in class four. Each athlete is put in a class according to his disability. The classes span from one to five, with class one for the most disabled.
Now look at their accomplishments individually.
Mike shines in javelin. He holds the national record of 87 feet, 9 inches for class four. Mike is also the best wheelchair competitor in the United States in the slalom. The slalom is an obstacle course to test skill and quickness, and Mike is quick. Very quick. Jan loves to watch the slalom competition. She exclaims: “It’s so exciting! Everybody watching it just goes wild.”
Jan recalls that because she couldn’t attend the Olympics, Mike called her after each event, and he placed in each event! He took first place in lawn bowling, even though he’d never competed in that before. He placed first in table tennis, second in the 100-meter dash, and third in javelin. Mike also holds gold medals in the one-half mile, the 100-yard dash, and swimming.
At the Denver meet in 1976, Mike won five golds and one silver medal and the trophy for the Most Outstanding Male Athlete at the meet.
This year, Mike played 30 basketball games around the country. He is second in the nation for scoring. He also played tennis and has never been defeated in tennis in Utah in a singles match. How does he win at tennis? He says, “As soon as the ball leaves the other player’s racquet, I’ve got to know where it’s going. And I have quick reflexes.”
Mike didn’t travel to compete in track or field this year, even though he especially enjoys that area of competition. He says, “The games kept me away from home too much. I miss my track and field, but my family comes first.”
Jan adds, “Mike made the decision. He was the one who decided to stay home and be a husband, father, and gardener.”
Mike and Jan have a beautifully landscaped yard and garden. Jan sewed two pairs of Levis together for Mike to keep the burrs out while he works in the yard. His young sons and Jan work with him.
Curt’s record is impressive, too. He placed second in the wheelchair division in April 1977 and again in 1978 at the Boston Marathon in Massachusetts. He completed the 26-mile, 385-yard race in two hours, 34 minutes, and 15 seconds. That’s right! Over 26 miles!
The Boston Marathon is the biggest and oldest race in the U.S. This is it’s 83rd year, and only the top athletes are selected to participate. This year there were 20 wheelchair competitors racing in temperatures below 40° Fahrenheit. Five of the athletes had to be hospitalized for a brief period after the race for hypothermia. Curt says, “After the first mile of soaring downhill, each wheelchair contestant was covered with mud and water from the chairs in front.” He also explains that wheelchair marathoners have more problems than regular runners because their circulation is poorer.
The wheelchair winner of the Boston Marathon this year was Ken Archer, a Mormon from Akron, Ohio. Curt says: “Ken is one of the greatest fellows I’ll ever meet. When he won, he came across the finish line with his hands raised in triumph and his head bowed in humility.”
In 1977 Curt placed in every event in Denver, taking two first places in the 100-yard dash and the mile push. In San Diego he placed either second or third in five events. At San Jose, he took first in the 100 meters, breaking the world record. He also placed third in lawn bowling and discus and fourth in shotput.
The same year, Curt placed first in the wheelchair division at both the Deseret News Marathon in Salt Lake and the Pioneer Marathon in St. George, Utah. In 1978 he took first in the New York City Marathon and now holds the national record in the 1500-meter run.
Curt was voted Most Outstanding Athlete in 1978 and 1979 at the Denver Rocky Mountain Regional.
Both Mike and Curt are also involved in their careers. Mike has counseled at the State Hospital in Provo, worked as a draftsman for the Bureau of Reclamation, and is now majoring in health sciences at BYU. His goal is to coach college basketball.
Curt has gained experiences in various jobs. He was a resident assistant at Ricks College, an insurance salesman, a desk clerk at a motel, a switchboard operator, and an insurance clerk for a hospital. Now he works at Handicapped Awareness, Inc. in Provo. He graduated with a B.S. degree in psychology from BYU in 1978 and is in the process of getting his masters in rehabilitation administration.
Church activities form another part of their lives. Mike works with the Explorers in the Alpine Fourth Ward, Alpine Utah Stake. He and a couple of other members in the stake took the Explorers to the National Explorer Olympics at Fort Collins, Colorado, for a week in August 1978. Mike coached basketball and helped coach volleyball during the Olympics. Mike says some of the Explorers in his ward like to double date with Jan and him.
Curt and Bonnie are members of the Provo West Stake, Sunset Third Ward. Curt was the elders quorum president in a previous ward and is now the first counselor in the quorum presidency. Bonnie has served as a Relief Society president. Now she is the first counselor in the Young Women organization.
Service is another important part of their lives. To earn money for a specially equipped bus for the handicapped in Utah County, Mike and Curt earned pledges and then wheeled 115 miles around Utah Lake in 16 hours. As a sidelight they shattered the world record which was 108 miles in eight days.
In May of 1978, Curt wheeled 284 miles from Cedar City, Utah, to Salt Lake City in five days, raising nearly twelve thousand dollars in pledges for Easter Seals.
Both athletes have spoken to large groups on a number of occasions. Mike addressed the Orem High School student body during their Freedom Week. He told the students they could go as far up as they want to in life, or they could stand still and not progress at all. Mike says, “The choice is theirs. We live in a country with that freedom. The degree of excellence we attain depends mainly on how willing we are to work.”
Last July, Curt was the keynote speaker during the National Olympic Academy at BYU. He has spoken across the United States at meets and says: “I’ve really seen a lot of the country. If I’ve impressed just a few people the way that I’ve been impressed by others, then it’s been a blessing to be in a wheelchair.”
Curt says traveling has also provided an opportunity for missionary work. He was invited to a party in Boston for 50 top athletes. When asked why he wouldn’t drink, he had the opportunity to share the gospel.
Curt finds it interesting that people are so concerned about what to do and say when they meet a handicapped person. He says that usually it’s what people don’t say that hurts. For example, when a child runs up and asks why he doesn’t have any legs, Curt wishes the parents would let him answer the question rather than hushing the child and rushing off. He explains, “The child grows up feeling he shouldn’t associate with the handicapped, and that’s not good for either one.”
Mike has some advice of his own, and he says it applies to everyone, whether they’re handicapped or not. First, he says, he doesn’t like quitters. Then he adds: “Don’t be afraid to try things you think you might not be able to do. Whatever you want, go after it one hundred and ten percent. Whether your goals concern work, church, school, jobs, marriage, or whatever, just don’t, don’t, don’t ever quit!”

After the April 2022 general conference, hearing the prophet and apostles emphasized the importance of serving a full-time mission, I started considering this question.
Feelings of inadequacy and feelings of low self-esteem, among other obstacles, worried me about my ability to serve. One thing that bothered me the most was the thought of “will I be loved and appreciated by people?”
This was an obstacle for me. The adversary tried to distract me from what my real purpose as a missionary was. Nevertheless, I did overcome that fear by seeking to learn and to know what the Lord would think about me. I studied several resources. I listened to many general conference talks to feel that reassuring love of my Heavenly Father. I came to know these obstacles were part of my learning process.
After study and prayer, I received a reaffirming witness that my decision to serve a full-time mission was indeed divine. I will remain grateful to Heavenly Father for the day I made that decision. I received a call to serve in the Ghana Accra Mission.

Pat: In that same spirit may I just insert a very personal piece of counsel on a matter that has been a great blessing to us and I believe can be a great blessing to you. While working on his Ph.D. at Yale University, my husband got to know well one of the senior reference librarians who had given him valuable help researching for his dissertation.
On a whim one day, he said, “Ilene, I need to know how many books we have in either the Sterling Memorial or Beinike Rare Book Libraries that claim to have been delivered by an angel.”
The librarian gave him a peculiar look (but my husband has always received peculiar looks) and said, “I don’t know of any books that have been delivered by angels. Swords maybe. Or chariots. But I don’t know of any books.”
“Well, just run a check for me would you? It may take a little doing, but I really would like to know. It would help me with some religious writing I am doing.” (Now, please understand that Yale has the fourth-largest library in the nation, with nearly 9,000,000 volumes in its collection.)
Ilene dutifully did some checking. For several days she had nothing to report, but then one day was all smiles as my husband strolled by to his carrel.
“Mr. Holland, yoo hoo,” she said, very unlibrarianlike. “I have a book for you. I found one book which, it is claimed, was delivered by an angel. But it’s one from your people,” she said. (She always spoke of Latter-day Saints as my husband’s people, which probably meant she had him confused with Wilford Woodruff.)
“But it’s one from your people,” she said, and she held up a paperback copy of the Book of Mormon. “I’m told you can get them for a dollar.”
“My word,” she continued. “An angel’s book for a dollar. You would think angels would charge more, but then again, where would they spend it?”
Well, that’s a funny—and true—story, but I wonder if we have considered the majesty of our message to the world. Prophets are not just everyday people, and angels do not visit us often, but of all the books that will be at your disposal this year at the university, only one has been delivered by an angel.