Gospel Story Finder

Approximately five years ago I learned a great lesson while laboring as the new managing director of the Welfare Services Department of the Church. We were at a critical stage in the history of welfare. It was time to go through an agonizing reappraisal of the program in light of current world conditions. The specifics are irrelevant to this discussion except to say I was beside myself with worry and concern.

After praying for a solution, I had a terrific thought: “Glenn, you have access to the Quorum of the Twelve and to a member of the First Presidency.” What a resource! I called for appointments and met one-on-one with these great men. I poured out my concerns and added my feelings that we were at a stage where further revelation on the subject was necessary. Then I sat back with my yellow notepad and Cross pen and waited for pearls of wisdom.

I received a total of one pearl from all of those interviews: “Brother Pace, I commend you for your concern and conscientiousness in finding solutions to these weighty matters. I, too, have some deep concerns and anxieties, and you are absolutely right, we do need revelation. Now, go get it!”

Who, me? I was an employee of the Church, not a General Authority, but I had the responsibility to bring forth well thought-out recommendations to the Brethren that could be confirmed, modified, or rejected in the appropriate forums. It was my obligation and right to receive inspiration, but it came with intense, agonizing study, research, and meditation.

Several years ago, I had prayed for specific help, but the answer didn’t come, so one day, I decided to go to the temple and seek the Lord’s help. I cried my heart out to our Heavenly Father for help. I remembered complaining as I asked, “Why hast thou turned away from me when I need Thy help? After all, I’m a Bishop, I paid a full tithing, I’m worthy, and I’m here at Thy holy temple, and Thou has promised that if we ask, it shall be given.”

Then I received my answer. It was more than an answer; it was a spiritual experience. To my mind came the still and small voice that seemed to say, “What are you talking about? When have I forsaken you? Was I not there when you received your testimony? Was I not there when you made the best decision in your life to marry your wife? What about when your son was critically ill? What about when your daughter had her surgery? I was there and I carried you.” Then I remembered the many, many times in my life when I had received the Lord’s help and felt of His great love for me. I felt so bad, so I asked for forgiveness. Then I realized that it was I who had not always remembered the Lord. It was me. I was the problem. I do not always remember my Heavenly Father.

After an operation, a young man was wheeling Spencer W. Kimball back to his hospital room. The strong medicine used during the operation had left the prophet barely conscious.
The young man got angry at something. He swore, using the Lord’s name.
Spencer W. Kimball struggled to speak. “Please … don’t say that. I love Him … more than anything in this world. Please.”
At first, the young man was silent. Then he apologized.
“I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

“Okay, give me a big smile,” the photographer said to Natalie Omer of West Valley City, Utah, as he snapped her senior picture.
Natalie had no idea that would be her last big smile for some time. Three hours later, her face would be destroyed.
That afternoon, the energetic redhead went about her duties as track team manager, measuring shot put distances. Perhaps the senior prom was on her mind—she’d been asked the week before. All she knows is that it was between heats, and no one was supposed to be throwing. So when she heard the call, “Heads up!” the last thing she expected was to see a 12-pound ball of iron hurtling toward her.
A thrower had tried to get in one last practice throw. His shot smashed into Natalie’s face, crushing bones, blackening eyes, knocking out teeth. Blood was everywhere. Fortunately, Natalie’s memory fled, and she doesn’t remember a thing.
She does remember, however, waking in the hospital more than 24 hours later. Her pain was intense, but she had a question she wanted answered immediately. “Who did this?” were her first cognizant words through bruised and swollen lips. “Find out who did this!”
Her mother said she’d find out. She’d been so concerned over her daughter she hadn’t thought about whoever was responsible for the terrible accident, but now knew she’d better.
“Mom,” Natalie murmured. “Find out who did it, and tell him that I’m okay. He doesn’t have to worry. I’m not mad. It was an accident. I forgive him.”
Natalie’s mother was stunned. “Those wouldn’t have been my first words or reactions,” she admitted.
Several months later, Natalie, smiling again, talks about the accident. Her jaw is no longer wired, and she hardly notices the metal plates embedded in her face, or her permanent false teeth. “The doctor said I could have gone to the prom afterwards,” she says. “But my face was purple and my teeth were gone, so I decided not to. I did graduate with my class though,” she laughs.
“I really think I had help in forgiving the one who did it,” she reflects. “I never felt any anger, but I worried that he thought I might. My injuries were physical and could heal. But his injuries were emotional, and he might have to carry them for life. I don’t want him to be miserable. These things happen.”
Just to make sure, Natalie wrote him a note as soon as she got home from the hospital, telling him she didn’t hold him responsible. Since he was from another school, she told him she’d even like to meet him in person—after she healed, of course. She knew it would make him feel worse to see just how bad her injuries were.
“I learned so much from this,” Natalie says. “I learned how supportive my family, friends, and ward could be. I learned a lot about the power of prayers and blessings. And I learned about the power of forgiveness. It would have been pointless to have to heal bad feelings on the inside while I was trying to heal on the outside. Forgiving quickly was just as good for me as it was for him.
“So I guess you could say I learned a lot about Christ, too,” she added. More than many of us ever do.

Many years ago in Boise, Idaho, I attended a testimony meeting with Emily. We were young and newly married and I remember a somewhat shriveled old man, a revered and respected long-time member of the ward, got up to speak. He was hunched over the podium, but he spoke slowly and clearly. He said, “Brothers and sisters, when I was young I used to think I knew quite a bit. I thought that by the time I got to be the age I am now, I’d probably know pretty much everything. Well, now I’m old, and I feel like I know even less. But one thing I do know, more than I ever have, is that God loves us and we cannot be separated from that love.”

He sat down, and I remember feeling kind of strange. A little uneasy. Looking back now, I think it was the feeling of paradox. How could this old man who had seen so much claim to know so little? Wasn’t a benefit of growing old becoming more confident in your knowledge, more certain of everything? Nowadays, I am beginning to understand more what this old man meant. In the days of our probation, as we seek to answer life’s questions, often what we find on the other side of those answers are more questions. Some questions seem to have no answers. Some questions we get wrong when we’re sure we’re right. And sometimes other people are right when we’re sure they’re wrong. At times like this, when answers seem to be missing or beyond reach, it is worth remembering that life is not only a test, but a gift. And the most important thing about a gift is that it is given with love.

I first became overtly aware of the profound influence of BYU in my life as a young high school student in our small, isolated, predominantly Latter-day Saint community in northern Arizona. Most of our graduates attended Arizona colleges, and indeed, as a result of winning a statewide public speaking contest, I was offered a scholarship to the University of Arizona, no mean inducement to an impoverished farm boy with few other prospects. Scholarships were very scarce in those days. Some of my teachers, and even my bishop, who was one of them and a University of Utah graduate, incidentally, counseled me to go to the University of Arizona. But the teachers who had the greatest influence upon me were BYU ­graduates, [they were] my science and my agricultural teachers, who had been students, respectively, of two of BYU’s greatest teachers, Joseph K. Nicholes and Thomas L. Martin. My consuming passion since the seventh grade had been the study of chemistry, and they arranged for me to acquire a full-year’s credit in college chemistry at BYU by examination and demonstration before I ever left home. Thus it transpired in due time that I arrived in the back of a pickup truck at the steps of the old Education Building, green and scared, nearly penniless, but eager to begin my college education. I endured the trauma of poverty and homesickness, but I have never regretted my decision to attend BYU.

When I left with my baccalaureate degree to begin graduate study elsewhere, it was with no thought that I might ever return. Consequently, it was a considerable surprise when on the eve of receiving my Ph.D. degree I received a telephone call offering me a position on the BYU faculty. I had already accepted an appointment as a Milton Fund post-doctoral research fellow at Harvard University, and I had several very tempting offers designed to take effect at the end of that appointment, one to the faculty of my graduate alma matter. All of them by any standard of the world offered far more than BYU—more than twice as much. I was ambitious and prospects for professional achievement at BYU seemed dim; yet we knew fellow Mormons on faculties of eastern universities who had lost their entire families from the Church, partly at least, we felt, due to lack of sufficient LDS influence in their lives. Other factors were involved, of course, but one could not lightly dismiss any major positive influence on a growing family. My wife was supportive, as she has always been, of whatever major decision of this kind I should make. I was torn. My graduate professors regarded returning to BYU as professional suicide. On the other hand, it seemed to me, none of my undergraduate college, high school, and public school mentors, to whom I owed so much, had chosen their place of employment primarily for personal advantage. In retrospect, I think, I never wavered in my emotional commitment to BYU, but I could not escape the nagging feeling that rational analysis dictated otherwise. In any event we did finally choose to return to share the fortunes of a BYU just emerging from the rigors of the World War II years, and here we have remained to make a career and to rear our family in spite of renewed offers to go elsewhere. We will be eternally grateful for having made those decisions. . . .

I would like to share a few details of one of these stories to illustrate how remembering the experiences of others can strengthen us.
When the Saints arrived in Utah, there was a need for doctors. Brigham Young called many women to be midwives or nurses. At least two of my ancestors received this call—talk about an intimidating calling! One of them, Ellen Clegg, recounted feeling she was not capable when she was first called. However, after Brigham Young told her she had been called of God in a vision, she accepted the calling and served admirably. A biographical sketch of Grandma Clegg provides these details:

“Sometimes she would go to the sick bed of a mother on horseback or on a mule or sleigh. Other times she had to walk and hold to the horse’s tail as she plowed through the deep snow and blizzards, many times arriving at the home of the sick, her shoes and stockings frozen to her, but these were minor troubles and her greatest desire was to help those who were suffering and in need. One time she was sick and was called to take care of a confinement case. A man came for her on a mule and grandma, although very sick, got behind the man on the mule and, on the way to the sick bed of the woman, the mule threw them off, breaking grandma’s arm, but she attended her patient in this condition and brought happiness to them.”
I get emotional thinking about the army of good women who accepted callings as nurses and midwives despite limited training. They dedicated their lives to quietly serving and caring for their fellow Saints. For any of us who feel unprepared or not good enough to accept a calling, this story can give us confidence that the calling is from God and He will qualify us for the work.

Once when Ryan was giving a talk at an elementary school, one student asked him how it feels to be handicapped. Ryan answered by asking, “Well, how does it feel to be human?” What Ryan couldn’t say in that particular situation was that the Church has really helped him. “I think a lot of disabled people get preoccupied thinking, ‘I can’t do this, and my life is just going to be a waste.’ Isn’t it 1 Samuel 16:7 that says the Lord looks not on the outer appearance, but on the heart? That’s rather important to me.” [1 Sam. 16:7]

“Going to church isn’t always a picnic,” I thought to myself as I studied the congregation. There must have been 200 people in the room, but I felt painfully alone.
All around me families sat snuggled cozily together on the benches, and Bishop Campbell was up at the pulpit talking about the joys of eternal families. “Right,” I thought sadly. “Sometimes that seems like a fairy tale.” My parents were divorced; my sister, the only other member in my family, was away at school; and I had no one to sit with in sacrament meeting. I felt warm tears forming in the corners of my eyes. Once again, the depression inside me began to swell and completely overwhelm the messages that were being taught from the stand.
There are probably a lot of you who feel the same way at times. More teens than ever are joining the Church on their own, without having other family members join them in the waters of baptism. Or maybe your parents stop coming and you continue to attend. You wish your family were with you—you wish they were feeling the same spirit, learning the same things, receiving the same blessings. You wish you had someone to lean on, to talk to, to discuss the talks with after the meeting. I know. I’ve sat through countless meetings alone because I didn’t think my friends and their families wanted an intruder to squish in with them on their bench.
Now, for those of you who have always had loving, supportive families to sit with and can’t understand the loneliness your friends are experiencing, you might take a look around and see just how many of them there are. They come in all shapes, sizes, colors, and ages. Consider going out of your way to invite them to sit with you, even if it means your family will have to sit on two rows. You have no idea how grateful your friends will be.
But for those of you who are going it on your own, here are a few suggestions:
1. Avoid sitting by yourself. Find someone else who is sitting alone, and ask if you can join them. They’ll probably be just as grateful to have a friend by them as you are.
2. Try not to let self-pity get the best of you. It’s easy to think, “I put a lot of effort into coming to church—no one’s dragging me here. I’m here because I want to be. Yet sitting alone reminds me that these people are way ahead of me in the blessing department. They’ve got celestial families, and I’m by myself.” When these thoughts come into your head, concentrate extra hard on the speaker. Pull out the hymnbook and start singing something to yourself (maybe not “Love at Home”). Say a quiet prayer. Read your favorite scripture. Think about the blessings you do have. Do anything to get your mind off the loneliness.
3. Realize that you, and only you, are responsible for your attitudes about church. Don’t try to blame your negative feelings on the actions of others. It’s how you react to those other people that counts. And try not to expect ward members or the Church in general to solve all your problems. That responsibility lies with you.
4. Whatever you do, don’t start resenting those who do have families, and are happily seated with them. They’re not purposely trying to hurt or ignore you, and they’re probably not aware that you’re in so much pain. Be happy for them, and use them as good examples. Vow that one day your children will be able to sit cozily with their family and will never have to suffer the same ordeal that you’re going through.
5. Make a commitment that you’ll always come back. Don’t even consider neglecting church because of the loneliness you sometimes feel there. As you sit in church alone, you might feel bad about your family situation, but at least you can feel good about yourself because you’re doing what you know the Lord wants you to do. If you stay home, you won’t feel good about anyone. Besides, many times the Lord reaches out to you and answers prayers through speakers and through your fellow ward members. Why deprive yourself by missing out on important learning, inspiration, and fellowship?
6. Know that you’re not completely alone. The Lord is with you and is very mindful of you. He’ll bless you for your diligence. He knows that it’s not easy for you to sit there by yourself, and he shares your sorrow. But he also knows that in the long run, the experience can prove useful to you.
7. Realize that you can benefit from the experience. You have to stand on your own two feet when you don’t have anyone to lean on, and this can help you develop inner strength and endurance. You’ll build your own testimony, and not be dependent on anyone else for your devotion. If your mind is open and your heart is pure, the Lord will supply you with the understanding you miss by not having someone there to discuss the meeting with. You’ll develop a strong relationship with Heavenly Father, because there aren’t a lot of other places to turn. And you’ll develop compassion for others in similar circumstances.
Maybe these pointers sound a little idealistic, but I can tell you they work. Every now and then, I still have to sit alone in Church, and it’s still not fun. But these days, I try to relax and count the blessings I’ve received from the experience. I’ve become more aware of other’s needs. While serving a mission, I was able to successfully battle the loneliness a missionary feels when there is no one familiar around. I gained a bit of spiritual self-confidence, because I knew I could do something difficult that the Lord asked of me. But best of all, I developed a very strong relationship with Heavenly Father.

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I joined the Church when I was 14 years old. My parents granted me permission to be baptized, but neither of them were interested in joining or even learning about the Church.
For more than 10 years, I yearned for my family to know the happiness I felt in the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. I invited the missionaries and members to come over for dinner. My family was taught the missionary lessons multiple times, but nothing changed. During that decade, I attended church, received my endowment, and served a full-time mission without any family support.
When I returned home to Mexico following my mission at Temple Square in Salt Lake City, Utah, USA, I lived with my mother. (My parents had divorced while I was in high school.) I started working at the Mexico Missionary Training Center, so I cleverly invited her to come meet the elders and sisters I was teaching. I subtly (and sometimes not so subtly) invited the missionaries serving in my ward to join my mother and me for dinner. I did everything I could to get her around missionaries, hoping that she might ask more about the gospel, but my efforts all seemed in vain.
I think she met every single set of missionaries I associated with during that three-year period, and still nothing happened.
In 2008, I moved to the United States to pursue a degree in nursing. Toward the end of the year, following extensive renovation, the Mexico City Mexico Temple held an open house. I urged my mother to go see what the temple was all about while she had this opportunity. After much prodding on my part, she agreed to make the 70-mile (113 km) drive to attend the open house.
When I spoke to her next, she gushed about what an amazing experience she had had. She talked about how, in the celestial room, she felt something beautiful but indescribable. She told me that she had plans to return again. In fact, she was able to go many more times during the remaining weeks of the open house. She even attended the cultural celebration prior to the temple’s rededication.*
The next time we talked on the phone, Mom told me she was going to invite the missionaries to teach her. Seemingly out of nowhere, she was asking questions and paying attention in ways that I had so long been hoping for. When I went home at Christmastime during my school break, I noticed that she was different. While she had always been kind and compassionate, there was a deep change in her—a conversion.
I returned to school amazed at what was taking place. A week later, Mom called and said, “Sonia, I just wanted to know when you’re coming back to Mexico, because I’m getting baptized.”
I was so excited, so happy! I flew home in February for her baptism. It was amazing to me to watch her attend church, to see her accept and serve in a calling, and to grow in the gospel. I knew that she knew it was true.
It was also powerful to hear her pray. I was especially touched to hear her pray for me and my safety just before I returned to the United States. There is nothing like a parent’s prayer for a child.
Why didn’t things happen sooner? I don’t know. Maybe my mother needed to have seeds planted in her life before she could accept the gospel. Maybe the temple touched her in a way and at a time that my earlier efforts couldn’t have. Seeing the Lord work in my mother’s life reminds me of times I have seen His hand in my own life, and it gives me great hope for what He can unfold in the lives of my other family members.
My mother is now endowed, and every time we go to the temple together, I can tell she feels inspired in the temple, just as she did when she attended the open house. I know that the Lord is aware of us and that He guides our lives. When I let Him lead my life, I end up in the right places. When I follow my own will, it takes longer and is generally harder. I prefer to let the Lord surprise me and show me what great things He has in store.

One evening, years ago, my wife and I sat alone together. The children were all asleep in their beds, and we were waiting for the birth of a new little baby. My wife, big with child, was sitting by the table. We were talking softly together, knowing that the baby would arrive that night. The lights were dim, and there was a feeling of love for each other and for the baby that was to come. I remember looking at my wife—she was in a rocking chair, her eyes closed, her pale white hands spread across her full waist. The sweet feeling in the room grew and persisted. It was very powerful. I said to her, “Do you feel this all around us?” and she replied, “Yes.” It was lovely being with her there then. It was a sweet closeness, a unity I can hardly describe.

“Can you tell?” I said. “We shall have a son.”

“I know,” she replied. “It will be a boy.”

And then for me the veil parted, and I saw our son, standing, waiting, a few feet from the chair my wife was rocking in. He was tall and well formed, taller and larger, it seemed to me, than the room allowed. There was power about his person, great power and goodness and patience and love. I said, “Do you see him there standing beside you?”

Again there swelled that sweet feeling of closeness and unity. She looked at me, confident, a small smile on her lips. “I don’t need to,” she said. “I know he is there.”

As a small boy in grammar school, I had a teacher who made King Arthur and the knights of the Round Table come alive. She caused me to become so obsessed with stories of knights that I played and dreamed that I was one.
One evening I dreamed that I was a white knight on a white horse riding over the greens of England. Suddenly, without warning, a knight dressed in black armor and mounted on a black horse appeared at the edge of the forest. We measured each other carefully, lowered our lances, and charged at full gallop. The lances struck target and both of us were knocked off our steeds.
I scrambled to my feet knowing that swords would be drawn and that hand-to-hand combat was imminent. Fear gripped my heart as I saw my opponent rushing toward me flashing a long, gleaming sword. Instinctively, I reached to my side and drew forth from the scabbard my weapon. That is when the dream turned into a nightmare! For in my hand was a small, dinky dagger—not a long, gleaming sword. I woke up in a cold sweat screaming for help.

I learned something of how prophets feel about those who may be left on the outside looking in — or in other words excluded. It is a simple story, but one that for me conveyed a powerful message. Some years ago I had been asked to make a brief report to the Church Board of Education regarding some things that were being done here to allow more students to attend our school. (I notice from a recent press release that you continue working to make that happen.) I made my report with some emphasis on how many fewer had been denied admission during the current year than had been the case for the previous year. It was a significant number, in the thousands. In retrospect, I think I may have sounded more pleased with that progress than I wish I had. As the report was concluded, there seemed a momentary silence, and then President Hinckley asked: "What happened to the "few" who were still not admitted?" His thought was not about the many who were in, but rather about the few who were not. With prophets as with temples the point is the inclusion of all who wish it.

When I was a mission president in Australia, I once said to those of my missionaries in Tasmania: “Tomorrow we shall climb Mt. Wellington and hold our missionary meeting on the top. We shall there seek to commune with the Lord and partake of his Spirit.”

We made the climb, and while on top of the peak we visited a television broadcasting station. A bright young man explained to us in words I had never heard, and using principles I could not and do not understand, how the sounds and scenes of television were broadcast into the valley below.

That night, back in the city of Hobart, my two young sons and I sat before a television set that was tuned to the proper wave band, and we saw and heard and experienced what had been described to us in words.

Now I think this illustrates perfectly what is involved in the receipt of revelation and the seeing of visions. We can read about visions and revelations in the records of the past, we can study the inspired writings of people who had the fullness of the gospel in their day, but we cannot comprehend what is involved until we see and hear and experience for ourselves.

In just four days from now, on November 9, it will be 150 years since the ill-fated Willie Handcart Company pioneers struggled into the Salt Lake Valley. They had waded through much suffering and death. The storms and their weakened condition had claimed many—the rescuers had saved many more.

Levi Savage was among those arriving that day. History records his faithful and dogged labors to save the Saints and bring them safely to the valley. But his noble service did not begin on the snowbound plains of Wyoming. This was but another chapter, perhaps the crowning one, in a consecrated life of service.

Levi was baptized in June 1846 at 26 years of age. Answering the prophet’s call to move west, he noted that
we prepared as well as we could for a long journey into a strange and to us wholly unknown country. . . . We bid adieu to the old homestead . . . and directed our course westward, not knowing the place of destination, only we expected to locate somewhere in the western wilds of the Rocky Mountains.19
On July 16, 1846, he, with other valiant men, again responded to the prophet’s urging, enlisted in the Mormon Battalion, and marched approximately 2,000 miles from Council Bluffs, Iowa, to San Diego, California, and then on to Los Angeles. Here they were discharged from government service. Though they knew nothing of the whereabouts of their homes and families, they began their trek to the valley of the Great Salt Lake. The route Levi Savage traveled was an additional 1,300 miles over rugged and hostile terrain, but he finally arrived in the Salt Lake Valley.

Here Levi pioneered, fought crickets, married, had a son, and buried his wife some months following the child’s birth. Ten months after his wife’s death, in the October conference of 1852, he and several other faithful brethren were called by the prophet to open a gospel mission to Siam (today’s Thailand).

This time they journeyed by team and wagon back to lower California and the Pacific Ocean. In time, they sailed from San Francisco to Calcutta, bound for their mission to Siam. Levi’s journal entry of January 29, 1853, provides us a glimpse into the hearts of these early missionaries. He wrote:
Our gallant ship, propelled by a gentle breeze, steered her course across the boisterous deep for our places of destination; leaving behind us our much loved native land. . . . Each sought his own place for meditation, and there reflected upon the comforts of his home, the affections of his beloved wife and children or friends. . . . But now he was called to take up his abode in the remote parts of the earth, and for what? For the sake of heaping up gold and silver, or to secure for himself the honors, pomp and splendor of this world? No, verily no! But in obedience to the commands of the Lord to carry the message of truth and . . . salvation to the benighted and superstitious nations. Soon after, each retired to his cot for rest and repose. But whether asleep or awake, his mind continued to wander upon the realities of the past, and the prospects of the future.20

Following his mission, Levi sailed home by way of Boston, Massachusetts, made his way to his place of birth in Greenfield, Ohio, and noted upon his arrival there, “I have circled the globe.”21 He joined the Willie Handcart Company in Iowa City, Iowa, which began a saga of eternal importance to him, his family, and the entire Church. His works in that epic crowned a life of sacrifice and service. Of these pioneers, the benchmark shows: Their faith and works were a beacon in an unbelieving world, their service a pattern for each of us to follow.

Arriving home, we retired to a quiet room, just Devin and I. He said, “Father, there’s much to do. I need some special help as I get ready for my mission, and it’s only a few weeks away. Would you lay your hands upon my head and give me a special father’s blessing?”
There in the quiet of that room I had the privilege of blessing my son. After the blessing we stayed in the room for some time. We talked more of the future than of the past. During that choice time together, I knew that everyone who tries forever to do a “$5.00 job” and who puts his hand into the hand of his Heavenly Father is a winner. I still don’t know whether or not we should pray about the outcome of basketball games, but I do know that we should constantly pray about the game of life, for in that game there don’t have to be any losers, only winners, for that championship on high is available to everyone.

When I was a little girl, creating artwork was one of the only things in my life that came naturally to me. It was something I loved and wanted to do, not something my parents had to bribe me to practice.
However, as a child, I suffered abuse that led to mental health challenges, including obsessive-compulsive disorder, anxiety, and depression. After these traumatic experiences, painting and drawing became more than just a hobby—it was how I channeled my feelings and coped with my anxiety in a healthy way. Mixing colors and then painting how I was feeling was one of the only things that helped me focus on the present and find peace.
The older I get, the more I realize that my mental and spiritual health are very connected. When I’m struggling with my mental health, I often feel distant from Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.
But Heavenly Father has provided us with so many resources to cope with our struggles. When I take the time to slow down, I am better able to connect to the Spirit and share Christ’s light with others.
Whether we realize it or not, most of us have coping mechanisms that we turn to when we feel anxious or stressed. Some of these might be positive, like using our hobbies and talents for good, exercising, practicing gratitude, or journaling to process big emotions.
But other coping skills might not be so helpful, like eating too much junk food, binge-watching TV, becoming obsessed with fitness routines, or even diving into harmful habits that can lead us down spiritually dangerous paths.
None of us are perfect at seeking support in our struggles. However, through my own mental health challenges, I’ve learned that we can use positive coping skills to connect us to Christ rather than to the world. And sometimes those coping skills can be found through our own talents, hobbies, and spiritual gifts!
For example, I have painted my entire life, but it wasn’t until I began combining my faith with my painting that I started to comprehend how Jesus Christ can help me through my mental health challenges.
In moments when I’m feeling lonely, I try to connect with the Savior through temple attendance, prayer, and scripture study. In addition, when I use my talents to connect with the Savior, I better understand what He offers us: peace, solace, hope, love, comfort, and redemption.
Bishop Gérald Causse, Presiding Bishop, spoke about using our talents to bless ourselves and others:
“Our contributions may be expressed through the creation of works of art, architecture, music, literature, and culture, which embellish our planet, quicken our senses, and brighten our lives. …
“… The Lord expects us to work diligently, as moved upon by His Holy Spirit, to grow, enhance, and improve upon the resources He has entrusted to us—not for our benefit only but to bless others. …
“… We should recognize that all is spiritual to the Lord—including the most temporal aspects of our lives.”
Your righteous creative outlets can help you draw closer to God. And through the healing power of Jesus Christ, miracles can happen.
As hard as my mental health struggles are, I am grateful for how often they remind me of my need for my Savior and Heavenly Father in my life.
I know that using our talents won’t always fix everything, but when I turn to the Savior first, I am reminded that Heavenly Father knows how I feel. One way He does this is by inspiring me to use my talents to serve others who are also struggling to find His light.
Sister Reyna I. Aburto, former Second Counselor in the Relief Society General Presidency, taught that “your struggles do not define you, but they can refine you. … You may have the ability to feel more compassion toward others. As guided by the Holy Ghost, share your story in order to ‘succor the weak, lift up the hands which hang down, and strengthen the feeble knees’ [Doctrine and Covenants 81:5].”
I have found that when I look outside myself and try to use my talents to share light, I feel the Savior’s light brighten my life too.
I encourage you to seek Heavenly Father and the Savior through spiritual habits. Find what talents and gifts you have that help you feel stillness and peace. For me, it’s been art.
I know you can do the same with your talents too.

Earlier this year, President Bryan Willets of the Philippines Quezon City Mission contacted the Philippines Area Presidency to inform them about a woman who claimed to be one of the first Filipino members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, after the commencement of missionary work in June 1961. The Area presidency in turn relayed the information to the Church History Department.
The woman, Mildred Rivera Wilcken, was based in the United States but was then visiting the Philippines with members of her family.
Sister Melanie Gapiz, the local Church History manager, was intrigued because the available historical information she possessed had never mentioned this woman. But after checking Church membership records, she discovered that Sister Wilcken was baptized on August 5, 1961—exactly two months after the first four Latter-day Saint missionaries arrived in Manila to begin proselyting work.
An appointment with Sister Wilcken was set at the hotel where she was staying, to find out more about her. During the meeting, Sister Wilcken, already 83, proceeded to share a wonderful and inspiring story, assisted by her daughter Cathy Ford, also a Church member.
Mildred Coloma Rivera was born on April 17, 1941, and grew up in rural San Manuel, Tarlac. She came from a large family, with her parents engaged in tedious farm work. “We were a poor family,” she recalls, “and we struggled economically, so I looked for opportunities to earn.”
In 1961, Mildred started working for an American family at Clark Air Base in Pampanga. The Apel family were Latter- day Saints and Mildred was intrigued by the family’s faith. She told the family head, Charles Apel, that she wanted to come to Church with them on Sunday, to which Brother Apel replied positively.
Mildred liked what she saw and felt. “I knew right away the Church was true,” she affirms, “and I was interested in the Church because of the friendliness of the Apel family and also the members.” She was taught gospel principles by members of the small Church unit in Clark, as there were no missionaries available in that area.
Mildred soon gained a testimony. “I want to be baptized,” she excitedly told the Apels. The Church was so new in the Philippines that the pioneering missionaries—who had been given authority to baptize converts—were too far away in Manila to know about Mildred and her request. Thus, unit leaders in Clark had to get special permission from Church headquarters in Salt Lake City to baptize her.
Mildred waited patiently and prayed for a positive response. Her prayers were answered when permission was granted to hold a baptismal service, which took place on August 5, 1961. On that day, Mildred Coloma Rivera was baptized by Brother Paul Sharp, becoming one of the very first members of the Church in the Philippines.
“I felt so elated that I kept thanking God for being baptized,” Mildred joyfully remembers. Sister Rivera became one of the pioneer members of the Angeles Branch and grew in her testimony of the restored gospel as she prayed, read the scriptures, and attended Church services.
By 1968, she was holding another job at Clark Air Base when she met another American military officer and Latter-day Saint, Willis Lane Wilcken. “When he shook hands with me, he wouldn’t let go of it,” Mildred humorously recalls. Brother Wilcken proposed to her and the two were married in a Church ceremony at Clark in November of the same year.
A few months after their marriage, Brother and Sister Wilcken left for the United States. The couple were later sealed in the Idaho Falls Temple and raised a family of seven children. Brother Wilcken managed a luxury vehicle service business until his death in 2012.
Sister Wilcken raised all her sons and daughters in the Church, sometimes hoping that those who would serve missions would be assigned to the land of her birth. While her wish did not come true immediately, she was happy when one son was called to serve in Hawaii, which had a large population of Filipino descent, and even more happy when her youngest son and two of her grandchildren were assigned to the Philippines. Also, another grandson recently completed a Tagalog-speaking mission in Alberta, Canada.
From the early days of her membership, Sister Mildred Rivera Wilcken continues to be strong in her testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ. “The only thing that I can ever give you is my testimony,” she affirms as her eyes turn moist. “The Church is true, and I forever cherish those days when I found out about the Church and developed my testimony.”

Thirteen-year-old Florence Onyejekwe reached her usual spot in the crowded outdoor market in Onitsha, Nigeria. The street was packed with sellers calling out to busy shoppers. Women balanced bundles on their heads as they walked. School had just ended for the holiday, and Florence knew her friends were enjoying the break from class. But Florence spent her holidays selling bitterleaf here at the market. It was her only chance to earn money for her school fees.
Florence did not complain, though. After all, her mother spent long hours at the market every day selling yams to buy food for the family. Mama worked so hard. Her parents both did. But without much education, there was only so much they could do. Florence was almost finished with primary school. Perhaps if she could continue her schooling, she could get a good-paying job and help her family.
When she returned home, Florence found her parents and asked, “Do you think I could go to secondary school? And maybe university?”
Mama looked at Nnam (dad) and shook her head. “University costs so much more than we have,” said Nnam. Florence looked down at her shoes. She didn’t want Mama and Nnam to see how disappointed she was.
A few days later, Florence stopped at the hospital to pick up some medicine. The hospital was almost as busy as the market, though not as loud. Florence stared at the nurses in their crisp, white caps. She pictured herself in a uniform like that, helping the sick and taking care of babies in a big hospital. Perhaps she could become a nurse.
Florence knew her parents were right—getting an education would be hard. But Florence knew how to work hard. She decided to try.
No matter how many chores filled her day, Florence made time to study. She passed the tests for secondary school, and Nnam borrowed enough money for her to go. Later she found out that the government would help pay for nursing school. Her dream was within reach!
But when it came time to begin nursing school, Florence felt a little doubt. What if it was too hard? What if she was lonely? Florence bowed her head and prayed, “Dear God, please give me the strength to go to nursing school and work hard.”
At nursing school, Florence learned how to give medicine and keep tools clean from germs. Sometimes her patients got better, but sometimes they didn’t. Florence prayed often for courage. After three long years, Florence graduated with the award for best student in her class. Her dream had come true! She got to wear the white nurse’s cap, and she was able to earn enough to help her family.
Many years later, Florence visited a small branch in the Ghana Accra Mission. Her husband, Christopher Chukwurah, was the mission president there. Florence met some children in the branch who couldn’t always go to school. They weren’t sure what to do with their futures. They reminded Florence of herself as a child. “What can I say to help them?” Florence prayed silently.
Then she felt a clear prompting: Tell them about your life.
Florence thought about her life. She had worked in hospitals in Nigeria and the United States. She had married a good man, and together they had found The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She had become a mother. Now she was helping missionaries stay healthy and work hard. Heavenly Father had helped her become a nurse. He had helped her do so much more than she had imagined. He could do the same for these children.
Florence looked at the children and smiled. “You know those white caps that nurses wear? I saw a cap like that and decided to become a nurse …”

How well I remember the challenges confronting the youth in the ward over which I once presided.
One evening a lovely teenage girl came to the office with her boyfriend to talk things over with me. The two of them were very much in love, and temptation was beginning to make its inroad.
As we counseled together, my young friends each made a pledge to the other to resist temptation and keep uppermost in their minds the goal of a temple marriage. I suggested a course of action to follow and then felt impressed to say: “If you ever find yourselves in a position of compromise and need additional strength, you call me regardless of the hour.”
Early one morning at one o’clock, the telephone rang and a voice said: “Bishop, this is Nancy. Remember how you asked me to call if I found myself being tempted? Well, Bishop, I’m in that situation.” I asked where she was, and she described one of the more popular moon-watching spots in the Salt Lake Valley. She and her fiancé had walked to a nearby phone booth to make the call. The setting wasn’t ideal for providing counsel, but the need was great and the young couple was receptive.
Months later, when the mailman delivered her wedding announcement to our home and Sister Monson read, “Mr. and Mrs. __________ request the pleasure of your company at the wedding reception of their daughter, Nancy,” she sighed, “Thank heaven! No more 1:00 A.M. telephone calls.” When I noticed the small print at the bottom which read, “Married in the Salt Lake Temple,” I said silently, “Thank heaven for the strength of Latter-day Saint youth!”
Choose your friends with caution.