Gospel Story Finder

My name is Kathryn Fifield, and I live in Moscow, Idaho. I’m eleven years old, and I think temples are wonderful! I know a little bit about them because when I was eight, I got to go inside the Portland Oregon Temple.
When the Church leaders announced that a new temple would be built nearby, everyone was very excited. My parents were especially happy because they knew that they could go to the temple more often.
We drove to Portland when the temple was being built. It was standing in the middle of a grove of fir trees. The trees were so tall that I had to lean way back to see the tops. But the temple spires were just as tall! The spires were only metal cages then, but to me they looked like arms reaching to heaven, and I knew that this temple would be a holy place.
Finally the workers finished putting marble on the outside, and it really looked like a temple. My mom and dad said that when it was all finished, we would get to go inside. There would be an open house so that anyone who wanted to could see the inside of the temple. After that, there would be a special meeting called a dedication that worthy members were invited to. After the dedication, only members of the Church who had recommends from their bishop/branch president and stake/district president could go inside.
I felt really special to be able to go to the open house. My family drove to the temple on Saturday morning. When we arrived there, we had to stand in a long line that went halfway around the building! I guess a lot of people wanted to see the temple. I know that most of those people in line didn’t know what a temple was, because I heard them asking each other questions. Some of them thought that we went to church every Sunday at the temple.
It wasn’t too hard to wait in line, because all along the way there were television screens set up for us to see. A program on them told about what temples are and how we use them. I guess those people learned that we don’t use the temple for our Sunday meetings.
When we finally reached the door, some helpers put white paper booties over our shoes. That was to keep the new carpets clean and to show respect.
Inside the temple it was very quiet. Nobody talked or even whispered. There were special guides to show us where to go, but they didn’t talk to us. They just smiled as we walked by. We looked, and we read the information on the signs that explained what each room was, but we didn’t say anything.
When we walked through the big chapel, we heard soft music being played on the organ. The tour included the baptismal font with the sculpture of twelve white oxen holding it up (that was my favorite). We also saw the sealing rooms, where people get married for eternity. Inside the sealing rooms were mirrors on opposite walls. When I looked in one mirror, I could see my family going on forever.
The most beautiful room was the celestial room. It was all white and gold, with pretty couches and chairs. In the middle of the ceiling was a huge, sparkling gold chandelier. It had gold “arms” with tiny light bulbs surrounded by pieces of crystal. I thought it looked like sunshine sparkling through icicles.
The thing I remember most about the inside of the temple is how reverent I felt. I didn’t want to go back outside, because it felt so nice to be in that beautiful, quiet place. It made me feel warm and happy to walk through the rooms of the temple. After we were outside again, I heard a man say it made him feel like he was already in heaven. I felt that way too.
A few weeks after the temple open house, Mom and Dad and I went to the dedication. I was eight years old, and I had been baptized, so I was old enough to go.
We sat on chairs in the hall right by the celestial room. There were people in nearly every room in the temple. Television screens were put in them so that the people could watch the meeting—we wouldn’t have all fit into the celestial room, where the prophet was seated. The choir sat in front of us, and when it was time for them to sing, they walked around a little wall and went into the celestial room, where President Benson was. It was exciting to think that President Benson was just on the other side of the wall from me!
I watched the meeting on the video screen and listened carefully to the talks. When the choir sang, the music made me happy all over. When President Benson talked, he told us that he loved all of us. I wanted to tell him that I loved him, too, but I didn’t say anything. I just smiled all over.
During this meeting, I felt even more reverent than I’d felt at the open house. After the special prayer, the temple was God’s house and not just a building anymore. I felt that Jesus and Heavenly Father were right there with us.
When I’m twelve, I’ll be able to go to the temple to do baptisms for the dead. I can hardly wait until then! But if I try really hard, I have that special reverent feeling in other places too. If I find a quiet place to pray and really think about Jesus and Heavenly Father, I feel that way. In church, when I try my hardest to listen to the speakers or to my teacher, I feel that way. I can even feel reverent when I walk in the forest or sit under the tree in my backyard. I’m practicing being reverent now so that when I go to the temple again, I’ll know just what to do.

Several years ago, while serving as a bishop, an individual came to me one night who wanted to talk. I could tell his heart was very heavy. Essentially, he wanted to get something off his chest, and it was something that had occurred many years before, while he was married with a young family. When he told me about it, he also indicated that he had thought about confessing the issue to previous bishops, but he had always worried about what they would think of him. He explained that it was bothering him more than ever before. You see, he had known it was wrong at the time he had done it, but minimized it, convincing himself that because it was not a widespread, ongoing thing that he had done, it could be "brushed off." This brother had served faithfully in the Church and was a wonderful husband and father. However, over the years, he had never forgotten his actions, and his recollection of it was like a ball and chain that he had carried around all those years. Are we more concerned about what others might think of us when making decisions in our lives, and does it impact our ability to choose the right? Are we considerate enough to ourselves to be honest with ourselves? Are there things in our life that we justify because it is a "little thing" but, if we are to be completely honest with ourselves, we may need to forsake them, confess, and apply the Atonement so that we truthfully can say we are honest and possess integrity? In the case of this good man, he had justified his actions, but in fact he knew it was wrong and sought to deny what he already knew to be true.

May I underscore this call to action by discussing a concept I was reminded of recently while watching a basketball game.

In that game, the first half was a seesaw battle, back and forth. Then, during the last five seconds of the first half, a guard on one team made a beautiful three-point shot. With only one second left, his teammate stole the inbound pass and made another basket at the buzzer! So that team went into the locker room four points ahead with a palpable surge of momentum. They were able to carry that momentum into the second half and win the game.

Well, I’m the eighth child in a family of nine, and I wonder if I gave my older brothers and sisters such a hard time. Oh, I’m sure that I did things like spill food on their clothes as they were heading out the door for a date, but it seemed that no matter how badly I embarrassed them, they still treated me kindly. I admired them a lot.
I especially looked up to my older sister Lynette. I started second grade when she entered college. We both had a love for music. She was majoring in music composition and spent many hours at the piano. When she practiced, I often sat on the couch next to the piano and listened to her play. I watched as her fingers glided over the keys and wondered if I would ever be able to play like that. I liked to think that by keeping her company, I was helping her out in some way.
One day as I listened to her practice, I noticed she was playing something new. “Hey, Lynette! That sounds like wind chimes!” I said.
She explained to me that she was composing a piece for her class. She then decided to name the song “Wind Chimes.” She even let me help her with it. She showed me which two notes to play on the organ pedals while she played the rest of the song on the piano. I tried in vain to keep the right rhythm, and she just smiled and said, “Try to keep it even, Rebecca.”
By then I was feeling pretty special. I couldn’t believe that she was letting me, a second grader, help her with her college homework.
A few days later Lynette told me that her composition had been graded. She said that “we” got an A! I was on cloud nine. I was happy for her, and at the same time I felt like a princess because she had let me be a part of it.
Now I’m a freshman in college and going through the struggles of being a music major myself. I even have some of the same teachers that she had. There are times when I have difficult questions, and I know just who to go to for help. Although Lynette is now married and lives miles away, I call her and she patiently explains the theory of music to me. For those few moments, it feels like we are once again a team. Nothing makes me happier than to be able to phone her again a few days later and say, “Hey, Lynette! We got another A!”
As the years come and go, I’ll always remember the time my big sister shared with me. She took the time to make me feel special—to let me know she cared. It’s a great lesson I learned about sisterhood.

I gazed upon the many rows of black marble stones standing in haunting stillness among the beautiful gardens of the Okinawa Peace Memorial Park in Itoman, Okinawa, Japan. Engraved with over 200,000 names, these stones commemorate those who lost their lives during the Battle of Okinawa during World War II.
Walking toward the parking lot at the conclusion of our visit, my wife and I noticed that our toddler no longer held his favorite yellow truck. When we asked him where it was, he led us back to the main monument. He had neatly placed his truck by a bouquet of flowers donated by other visitors. With shining eyes and a huge smile, our son showed us his own contribution to the memorial.
Driving home, we pondered his selfless choice. Did he recognize the special spirit of that place and feel compelled to give his most prized possession? What worth could a plastic truck add to the honor and memorial of those who had lost their lives here?

Clemmie chuckled. “I remember one time when I was about sixteen. I had a beau, one of the hired hands from a neighboring farm, who had invited me to a barn dance. Shortly before the dance my father noticed that the chicken coop hadn’t been cleaned and reminded me that it was my turn to clean it. I had completely forgotten! He said I couldn’t go out that night until the job was done.”
“What did you do, Clemmie? Did you have to stay home?”
Clemmie smiled as she continued: “No, I talked my brother into doing it for me. I had to promise to take his turn the next three times. If you knew what a hated job it was, you’d know how much I wanted to go to that dance!”

In my own family there is a story of a young woman who had the courage to start to teach doctrine when she was only a new convert with little education. And the fact that the effects of her teaching haven’t ended gives me patience to wait for the fruits of my own efforts.
Mary Bommeli was my great-grandmother. I never met her. Her granddaughter heard her tell her story and wrote it down.
Mary was born in 1830. The missionaries taught her family in Switzerland when she was 24. She was still living at home, weaving and selling cloth to help support her family on their small farm. When the family heard the doctrine of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, they knew it was true. They were baptized. Mary’s brothers were called on missions, going without purse or scrip. The rest of the family sold their possessions to go to America to gather with the Saints.
There was not enough money for all to go. Mary volunteered to stay behind because she felt she could earn enough from her weaving to support herself and save for her passage. She found her way to Berlin and to the home of a woman who hired her to weave cloth for the family’s clothing. She lived in a servant’s room and set up her loom in the living area of the home.
It was against the law then to teach the doctrine of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Berlin. But Mary could not keep the good news to herself. The woman of the house and her friends would gather around the loom to hear the Swiss girl teach. She talked about the appearance of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ to Joseph Smith, of the visitation of angels, and of the Book of Mormon. When she came to the accounts of Alma, she taught the doctrine of the Resurrection.
That caused some problems with her weaving. In those days many children died very young. The women around the loom had lost children in death, some of them several children. When Mary taught the truth that little children were heirs of the celestial kingdom and that those women might again be with them and with the Savior and our Heavenly Father, tears rolled down the faces of the women. Mary cried too. All those tears falling got the cloth wet that Mary had woven.
Mary’s teaching created a more serious problem. Even though Mary begged the women not to talk about what she told them, they did. They shared the joyous doctrine with their friends. So one night there was a knock at the door. It was the police. They took Mary off to jail. On the way she asked the policeman for the name of the judge she was to appear before the next morning. She asked if he had a family. She asked if he was a good father and a good husband. The policeman smiled as he described the judge as a man of the world.
At the jail Mary asked for a pencil and some paper. She wrote a letter to the judge. She wrote about the Resurrection of Jesus Christ as described in the Book of Mormon, about the spirit world, and about how long the judge would have to think and to consider his life before facing the final judgment. She wrote that she knew he had much to repent of which would break his family’s heart and bring him great sorrow. She wrote through the night. In the morning she asked the policeman to take her letter to the judge. He did.
Later, the policeman was summoned by the judge to his office. The letter Mary had written was irrefutable evidence that she was teaching the gospel and so breaking the law. Nevertheless, it wasn’t long until the policeman came back to Mary’s cell. He told her that all charges were dismissed and that she was free to go, on the conditions she had stated in her letter. Her teaching the doctrine of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ had opened eyes and hearts enough to get her cast into jail. And her declaring the doctrine of repentance to the judge got her cast out of jail. (See Theresa Snow Hill, Life and Times of Henry Eyring and Mary Bommeli [1997], 15–22.)

I was having a difficult time in school one year. I was shy and didn’t make friends easily. One evening, I decided to go for a walk to find some relief.
I found a secluded corner and spent some time pondering and praying about what I wanted. Feeling as if no one understood me, I desperately longed to have someone in my life who could see me for what I was inside, for what I could be. I wanted someone who knew all my faults yet still loved me. I wanted someone who realized that I was (and still am) trying so hard to be better. I didn’t want to feel so alone all the time.
I don’t know how long I was there, but I poured my heart and soul out to Heavenly Father. I cried until I didn’t think I could cry anymore. Then I stood up and started walking back home. As I was walking, I looked down at my shadow. Instead of the usual one shadow, I had two. It wasn’t a miracle or anything; it was just the effect of multiple streetlamps. But when I saw those two shadows, the thought came into my head: “You are never alone. You’ll never walk alone.” I know now that this thought came from the Holy Ghost and that this experience was a blessing to comfort me. That one simple thought reminded me that things would work out and that Heavenly Father knows me perfectly.

The Empty Pot by Demi The Emperor had given each child a seed. “‘Whoever can show me their best in a year’s time,’ he said, ‘will succeed me to the throne.’” At the end of the year, all the other children had pretty flowers to show the Emperor. Only Ping had an empty pot. But Ping was chosen to be the next Emperor—because of his honesty! Truly beautiful art illustrates this truly beautiful Chinese tale.

I appreciate President Uchtdorf's words, and I know they are true. In 2009, I experienced them for myself as I had the opportunity to work at Walt Disney World as part of the Disney College Program.

When the opportunity first came up, I thought it sounded fun but did not expect to go. However, I was surprised at how direct of a prompting I received about accepting a position. I traveled down to Orlando, Florida, on my own and was assigned to work as a Jungle Cruise Skipper. For those of you who do not know what a Jungle Cruise Skipper is—I wore safari attire, drove boats, and told cheesy jokes. It was awesome!

Actually, it was not quite so awesome at the beginning. My name tag said Brigham Young University-Idaho, and the first few days at the Jungle Cruise, many of my coworkers asked if I was Mormon. I had no problems confirming the question, but it seemed that many of them were uncomfortable and didn't want to talk to me afterwards.

One moment in particular, I walked into the break room in time to hear a girl say, "I don't want to hear about their golden bible." With that, the room went silent, and people avoided eye contact with me. Needless to say, things were a little rocky.

A few days later, I was scheduled to work all day on a Sunday. It was a long, discouraging day, and at the end of my shift, I sat alone at the bus stop waiting to get home. I was confused as to why I had felt so strongly that I needed to come when it seemed like I would be missing church often and I felt like no one wanted me around because of my religion. What was I doing here?

In my moment of despair, I felt a flood of courage come into my heart, and I thought to myself, "This will not break you." I made a choice that I would do all that I could to feed my spirit each day. I would study my scriptures more intently, attend all the meetings I could, and be an active participant in my ward even though I would only be there for a few months. I also decided that regardless of how my coworkers treated me, I would choose to love them and pray for the gift of charity every day.

I did have to work on most Sundays, but I was blessed with late-night shifts that allowed me to attend all of my church meetings, for which I am grateful. I look back on that summer with great fondness. I saw the hand of the Lord in my life, and I made wonderful friends at work. Even though our beliefs and our choices differed, we had fun being together and I knew how much the Lord loved them. I hope they felt that love through my love for them.

I was also blessed to make wonderful friends from my ward with whom I shared many adventures. That summer was a spiritually enriching and fun experience for me. I am still grateful for the opportunity, mostly because I learned so much about how my personal choices for righteousness helped me overcome challenges and increase in happiness.

Winters in Europe can feel even colder than usual when you’re riding a bike. One day right after Christmas while I was serving in the Belgium Brussels Mission, my companion and I rode our bikes past a lady also on a bicycle.
I immediately noticed she wore no gloves. On impulse, I asked her if she would like my gloves because I had received a new pair for Christmas. She hesitated and then talked about other things.
Finally, I took off my gloves, put them in her hands, and said, “Merry Christmas.” Her eyes filled with tears, and she hugged me. At that moment I felt a portion of the love Heavenly Father has for her, and I told her God loved her very much. She said her husband was sick and she had left the house to run some errands. I asked if we could come and see her, but she declined because of her husband’s illness.
I will never forget what I felt as I watched her ride off. I felt the sting of cold on my hands, but my heart was warm with the love of God.

Prior to leaving for Vienna I was prompted to extend my stay in Europe by one week and fly to Berlin, Germany, to help my mother with some family history work. She was seeking out Karl’s grandparents. She had faithfully searched for many years with the hope of extending her family connections.

Before I left for Berlin I knew that I would be facing impossible odds in helping my mother find records of her ancestors. I again faced what I thought were insurmountable odds for success: I did not speak German, many of her ancestors came from small villages where records would not be easily accessible, and I had absolutely no idea where to go to find the records.

As I prayed and fasted, I told the Lord that He had chosen the weakest person possible to accomplish such a great task and that if anything came of it, it would be because of Him and not because of me.

After a few days of trying to figure out the public transportation system, I located a Family History Center in Berlin. A wonderful consultant in the center rescued me. She did not speak English, and my horrible German led us to some amusing charades as we tried to create a shared understanding of my need. In the end, she and a colleague directed me to an archive of records that was available in Berlin.

By the time I was able to access the records in the Berlin archive, I only had two days before I had to leave the country to return home. Again the Lord provided me with the knowledge and people I needed to accomplish the work. When I was lost, someone or something would guide me to the correct spot, and when I located the archive, I was blessed to have a librarian who spoke English and who was kind enough to allow me to enter the library without an appointment. His kindness and help were exactly what I needed at that time.

After locating the microfiche for the town in which my ancestors had lived, I had about six hours before the archive closed. As I scanned the records, I felt an indescribable joy the first time I recognized the family name. Still, it was not the exact record I needed. I left the archive that Monday discouraged because although I had found interesting information, I did not find the vital records we needed.

Getting into the archives for a second day seemed like an impossibility. I had already asked the librarian if I could make an appointment to come the next day, but he told me there were not any seats available. I prayed fervently, and even though there was technically no room for me in the archives, the librarian found an opening and let me into the archive to work on my last day in Berlin. That day I found the grandfather my mother had been searching for. I left with the knowledge that the Lord recognized my mother’s hard work and faith in trying to serve her ancestors. I was humbled when I realized that the Lord had taken the weakest person He could find and made me strong enough to accomplish His work.

I remember my Laurel teacher saying recently, “If you want to love someone, do something for him.” As she said that I was so touched by the Spirit that I knew it had to be true. I’d been struggling with a relative for quite a while, so I decided to experiment with this idea on her.

Well, to make a long story short, I now consider my sister my very best friend. The love I feel for her is inexpressible. I gave her all I could give, and the Lord, in turn, gave me the strength to forgive and the spirit to love.
Sharlene Weatherman, 18Roy, Utah

Isaac could tell that his Primary class was almost over, because he could hear people moving around outside the door. Sure enough, his teacher asked someone to say the prayer.
As soon as he said, “Amen,” Isaac stood up and hurried to the door. He liked his Primary class, but he was always eager to see his mom and dad and little brother, Luke. Before he could open the door, however, his teacher said, “Isaac, would you come here for a minute, please?”
“Sure,” Isaac answered as Sister Nelson called a few more children over to her chair. Sister Nelson held out some little pieces of paper to him and the others. “Will you please give a talk in opening exercises next week?” she asked him.
“Oh, OK.” Isaac was five now, so he could see that his name was written on the paper with a lot of other words. He didn’t try to read them—he was sure they just said stuff about his talk. He had said yes because he always tried to do what his teacher wanted him to do, but he was scared to talk to the whole Primary. He knew that even the youngest children took turns giving talks, scriptures, and prayers, but he couldn’t remember doing any of those before.
He thought about the talks other children had given. Sometimes children read stories for talks, but Isaac couldn’t read that well yet. Some of the other talks were so hard to understand that he forgot to even listen. He couldn’t imagine what kind of a talk he could give when he was only five!
“Oh well,” he said to himself, “maybe she’ll forget she asked me.” He stood in the doorway and soon saw his mom and Luke coming toward him from the nursery room. “Hi, Mom!” he said, giving her a big hug.
“What’s this?” Mom asked, taking the paper out of his hand. “Wow! You get to give a talk next week.”
Isaac tried to smile, and he nodded his head a little. Maybe Mom would forget too, he hoped.
On the way home, Mom told Dad about Isaac’s talk. “How exciting!” Dad said. “We’ll be sure to come hear you, Isaac. Do you want Mom or me to help you give your talk?”
Somebody could help him with his talk? He suddenly felt a lot better about it. “Mom, I guess,” he said.
“OK,” Mom answered. “We’ll start working on it soon.”
Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday went by, and Isaac forgot all about the talk. But on Wednesday, Mom said, “Isaac, let’s get your Primary talk ready!”
“Oh, no!” he said to himself. “She remembered.” He walked slowly over to where Mom sat holding a pen and notebook. His stomach felt funny. “I don’t really want to give a talk, Mom. I don’t know how, and I’m scared.”
“It will be all right. Let’s just talk about it for a minute.” Mom put her arm around his shoulders. “Your talk is supposed to be about faith in Jesus Christ. What do you think faith is?”
Isaac remembered his Primary teacher talking about faith, and Mom and Dad talking about it in family home evening. But he was pretty sure he didn’t know enough about it to give a whole talk. “Is it like praying and keeping the commandments?” he asked, his forehead wrinkled with worry.
Mom wrote something in the notebook. “Sure,” she said. “Why do we pray and keep the commandments?”
“Because Jesus and Heavenly Father want us to.” That was an easy question.
Mom wrote something else down in the notebook. “What happens to your faith when you pray and keep the commandments?”
“It grows.” He remembered his teacher saying that choosing the right helps your faith grow.
“How do you feel when it grows, Isaac? How do you feel when you pray and keep the commandments?”
“Happy!” Isaac wished it was as easy to give a talk about faith as it was to talk with his mom about it.
“Just a few more questions,” Mom said. “Do you believe in Jesus Christ?” When he nodded, Mom asked, “Why?”
“Because the scriptures say He lives.” Isaac had a nice feeling inside when he talked about Jesus. He could feel Jesus loving him. He smiled and leaned against his mom while she wrote.
Suddenly Mom surprised him by saying, “OK! You’ve finished writing your talk! Now let’s practice giving it.”
On Sunday morning, Isaac stepped carefully to the front of the Primary room. He unfolded the paper his mom had written on when she asked him questions. His answers were his talk! He had practiced giving it to Dad a few times. Now Mom moved to his side and began whispering the questions he had answered before. Isaac gave his talk in his very own words:
“Faith in Jesus Christ means praying and keeping the commandments. We pray and keep the commandments because Heavenly Father and Jesus want us to. When we do, our faith grows. I feel happy when I pray and keep the commandments, and my faith grows. I believe in Jesus Christ because the scriptures say He lives. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
He saw Dad smile at him from the back of the room, and everyone was quiet—they had been listening! When he walked past his teacher, he saw that she was happy. He felt really good inside. He had given a talk that was really his, and he was sure that Jesus was happy about it too!

I wanted to share the light the gospel brought to my life, so exactly one year from the date of my baptism, I sent in my application to serve a full-time mission. Hoping that my father’s heart had softened, I told him about my decision. His reaction was unexpectedly angry. I sat quietly in my room all night, and after work the next day, I was too scared to come home. I was still working when my father came into my workplace. After a long silence he finally asked, “Do you really want to leave all of these things—your home, your friends, your education, your work—only to go someplace you don’t even know?” I said, “Yes.” After that, we did not talk until the day I left for my mission. That day came 10 short days after I received my call to serve in the Utah Salt Lake City Temple Square Mission.

On June 30, 2001, I was making a birthday cake for my daughter when the phone rang. It was my sister in Brazil, informing me that our grandmother had passed away.
The news was sad, but I was not sad. After all, my dear grandmother had lived to be nearly 102. I was happy that she was free of her aged, mortal body and had gone to the spirit world.
Then I started thinking about the coincidence of her death occurring on my daughter’s birthday, and I wondered if there was some significance in the timing. As the days passed, I discovered what it was: it would be easy for me to remember to be baptized for my grandmother a year after her passing. I assumed this responsibility, knowing that I had to wait just until my daughter’s next birthday.
The year passed quickly. I did not have the opportunity to go to the temple on the exact anniversary of my grandmother’s death, however, because I lived in Portugal and attended the Madrid Spain Temple. But hardly a day went by that I did not think about my responsibility to be baptized for Grandma Josefina.
It was not until October 2002 that we were able to go to the temple. My husband and I went along with our son, Mathew, who was going to receive his endowment in preparation for his mission. I was happy to be going to the temple, and I thought I might feel something special when I was baptized in behalf of my grandmother.
My husband performed the baptism, but I didn’t feel anything. My son performed the confirmation, but again, nothing. My anxiety over not feeling anything passed, and I was just glad that the ordinances had been performed for my grandmother.
After the endowment, we went to the sealing room to have Grandma sealed to her parents. When we knelt across the altar to perform the ordinance and the sealer began to speak, I felt as if a shock had started at my head and passed through my body. It is difficult to describe, but at that burning moment, I was certain that Grandma Josefina rejoiced in being sealed to her parents.

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.

This typical tendency of children to love became especially apparent to me on my first visit to Romania. I remember it vividly. Sister Choules and I went to various institutions with our humanitarian missionaries who were serving there. At an orphanage we saw a rather long, narrow, glass-enclosed room where twenty or so children were playing. They were about three years of age. Most of their daytime hours were spent entertaining themselves and each other, apparently with very little adult care. I asked the supervisor if I could open the door and take some pictures. She agreed. When I opened the door, many of the children rushed out. I was reminded of days in my youth, when in like manner I saw cattle and horses rush to freedom when a corral gate was opened. These children, however, were not rushing to be free. They hungered for love. Soon we had one or more grasping at each of our legs, reaching up for the love for which they were so starved. I’ll forever have in my mind the picture I took of Sister Choules holding one of these children with their arms tightly wrapped around each other. These children just wanted to be loved and to give love in return. These little ones and other children seem to be born with that unrestrained desire and capacity.

Ashley pulled her stuffed-animal elephant to her chest and closed her eyes. She pictured the notes of her song, “The Elephant and the Flea,” just as they were on her music. She took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and smiled. Her turn was next, and she was sure she would remember the music she had so carefully memorized.
This was her first piano recital, and Ashley was nervous. The small room was packed with people, and she hardly knew any of them. But her mom was there, and her piano teacher, Miss Stewart, sat smiling at the front of the room near the piano. The students had been asked to dress to represent their songs, so Ashley carried a stuffed-animal elephant with a flea on its nose.
A little boy finished his song and stood up. He bowed while everyone clapped loudly. He did well. He didn’t forget any notes in his song.
Ashley swallowed. What if she messed up? Would they still clap for her? What would her mom and her piano teacher think?
Mom reached over and put her hand on Ashley’s back. “It’s your turn,” she whispered. Then she saw the nervous look on Ashley’s face and added, “You’ll do fine.”
Ashley stood up and started to picture the notes in her head one last time. Then she walked slowly to the front of the room.
After announcing her name and the title of her song, she placed the elephant on the edge of the bench, sat down next to it, and stared at the piano keys. She knew she could remember the notes. She had practiced so hard; she had to remember. She started playing. Her fingers danced across the keys as she made it through the first part of the song perfectly. Then she got to the second part. This part had always been tricky. Ashley tried to play the right notes, but her fingers and her brain forgot what came next.
Everyone watched her sit silently at the piano. How could this be happening? Miss Stewart searched through a pile of music and pulled out Ashley’s piece. She stood up and began walking toward Ashley. How embarrassing if she had to use the actual written music when she was supposed to have it memorized! Just before Miss Stewart could put the music on the piano, Ashley started playing again. Instead of starting where she had stopped, she skipped the middle part and began to play the short ending, which she remembered.
Embarrassed, Ashley finished the song and hurried back to her seat. She didn’t bow, and she didn’t look at anyone. The audience clapped, but Ashley was sure it wasn’t as loud or as long as it had been for the little boy before her.
“It’s OK,” her mom said. She put her arm around Ashley and kissed the top of her head. “You did so well.”
But Ashley knew she hadn’t done well at all.
When the recital was over, Ashley walked quickly toward the door. She couldn’t stand the embarrassment. A lady stepped in front of the door, stopping her from escaping.
“You did so well up there. I just love that you can play the piano at such a young age,” she said.
A man joined in. “I really liked your song,” he said.
More people walked by and smiled or patted Ashley on the back. Then Miss Stewart put her arm around Ashley’s shoulder. “You did a wonderful job,” she said. She smiled, then moved on to talk to some other piano students.
Ashley felt much better on the ride home. She had messed up, but that didn’t matter so much anymore. Everyone seemed to understand. Ashley had tried her best, and that was enough.

Another Cooper family tradition: At least once a week everyone tries to do something nice for another family member as a surprise.
Thanks for making my bed! You know how much I hate doing that.
You’re welcome. It needed to be done, and you weren’t here, so …
Hmmm. Nobody’s done anything special for me yet, and the week’s almost over.
Later that morning …
Somebody pumped up my bike tire for me!
Now you know where I was while you were making my bed.