Gospel Story Finder

Another who expressed his gratitude for President Spencer W. Kimball’s area conference visit last year was Wong Kar-syew, who joined the Church four years ago.
“I was surprised, but I was also really happy.” Kar-syew first became acquainted with the Church through a friend who was investigating. At first she didn’t want to listen, but eventually “what had seemed so strange became so special.” She joined the Church and was called as a Sunday School secretary within a month. She spent her first summer in the Church working as a district missionary, but she and her companion met with little success. After that experience Kar-syew realized that she would have to keep all the commandments to be able to teach others. She knew she should begin paying her tithing. When called to do missionary work again the next summer, the work went well: “I knew I was receiving the blessings of tithing in being able to reach investigators.”
As a missionary Kar-syew found about two-thirds of her contacts were from mainland China. They were attracted to the street displays and stopped to inquire. “These people have never heard the gospel, and I had the opportunity to tell them about Jesus Christ. I feel the prophecies of the scriptures are being fulfilled—our message will go to every people, in every land, and they will hear it in their own tongue.”

Brothers and sisters, six months ago as we met together in our general conference, my sweet wife, Frances, lay in the hospital, having suffered a devastating fall just a few days earlier. In May, after weeks of valiantly struggling to overcome her injuries, she slipped into eternity. Her loss has been profound. She and I were married in the Salt Lake Temple on October 7, 1948. Tomorrow would have been our 65th wedding anniversary. She was the love of my life, my trusted confidant, and my closest friend. To say that I miss her does not begin to convey the depth of my feelings.
This conference marks 50 years since I was called to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles by President David O. McKay. Through all these years I have felt nothing but the full and complete support of my sweet companion. Countless are the sacrifices she made so that I could fulfill my calling. Never did I hear a word of complaint from her as I was often required to spend days and sometimes weeks away from her and from our children. She was an angel, indeed.
I wish to express my thanks, as well as those of my family, for the tremendous outpouring of love which has come to us since Frances’s passing. Hundreds of cards and letters were sent from around the world expressing admiration for her and condolences to our family. We received dozens of beautiful floral arrangements. We are grateful for the numerous contributions which have been offered in her name to the General Missionary Fund of the Church. On behalf of those of us whom she left behind, I express deep gratitude for your kind and heartfelt expressions.
Of utmost comfort to me during this tender time of parting have been my testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ and the knowledge I have that my dear Frances lives still. I know that our separation is temporary. We were sealed in the house of God by one having authority to bind on earth and in heaven. I know that we will be reunited one day and will never again be separated. This is the knowledge that sustains me.

After church was over, it seemed like everybody in the ward wanted to hang around and talk. The adults, in particular, kept coming up and congratulating Kitty. But all she wanted was to get away as fast as she could.
Without waiting for her mother, she slipped out the back door of the chapel and took the roundabout way home, so she wouldn’t run into any members walking in her direction.
She tried to get upstairs to her room without having her father hear, but just as she put her foot on the first step, he came out of the little room with the Sunday newspaper in his hand. Her mom called the room the “den,” but Kitty and her dad called it his “hideaway,” pretending he would hide out from home teachers and the bishopric and other Church members. Actually, Kitty had thought more than once that he was pretty good about all the people who came and went on Church business, and he was super-great to the missionaries. All the more reason she had to get away from him now before she exploded.
“Hey, Kitten!” he called. “How did things go? Your mother told me you were made Queen Bee or something today.”
“Oh, daddy! It was Beehive class president, not ‘Queen Bee’! Can’t you ever get anything right! Besides, I don’t want to hear any more about it!”
In her room, she flounced on her bed and let the hot tears come. But not more than a dozen had fallen when she heard a familiar voice on the front porch.
“Key? Hey, Ke-ey! Ke-ey!”
She went to her window, and sure enough, there was Tami, pushing herself in the porch swing and yelling for her.
“Tami, I can’t play now. Do you understand? Not now.” But her cousin continued to swing and smile and call, her large hands holding firmly to the arms of the swing, her stocky legs driving the swing back and forth. Exasperated, Kitty stamped downstairs and flung open the front door.
“Tami, I can’t play now. Go home. Go on home, and leave me alone, won’t you? Won’t anybody leave me alone?” The tears coming fast now, Kitty ran down the porch steps and into the yard. Turning, through the blur she saw Tami’s puzzled face. She ought to go back, but all she wanted was to get away. Then she saw her father come out onto the porch and put his arm around Tami, talking softly to her and patting her on the shoulder as he led her down the front walk and headed her home. Kitty turned and ran for the barn.
It was a barn in looks, at least from the outside. From the inside, it was clearly not a barn, and never had been. Her mother had a large studio on one end, with wonderful skylights, and along the west wall was a little gallery of paintings she was not ready to part with yet. Her dad had a neat workshop, smelling of cedar shavings and varnish. And best of all, Kitty had the Loft. She always thought of it like that, with a capital L: the Loft. Her Loft. Nobody ever had a better private place, a place to play house when she was little, or to read marvelous books like A Wrinkle in Time, which she read in a single day once, not even coming down for lunch, and her mom let her. A place to write in her journal and share secrets with her best friend. A place to be far away from everybody else and at the same time, at home.
Today, though, her Loft didn’t seem to welcome her. She looked over at the old desk her dad had refinished for her. There was her journal, neglected for who knew how long.
And there was that old copy of Don Quixote that she had made a solemn vow she would one day read—in Spanish. Ha! She walked up to one wall and squinted at a framed photograph. Four very skinny, grinny little girls, wet hair straggling down their necks, stood beside a swimming pool, all four holding a small trophy. Under the photo, written in ink were the words The Tadpoles’ First Victory.
Double ha!
Somebody had come into the barn, making a lot of noise by way of announcing his presence. Then Kitty heard the noise of a broom handle knocking politely on the door of the Loft. Her dad wouldn’t even put a foot on the Loft ladder without an invitation.
“Kitten, can I come up?”
“Dad, I can’t! I can’t talk to you about this. I’m … I’m sorry. Wish I could.” And she did, too. She had always been able to explain things to him, just as Jenny was able to talk about anything to their mother. But this was something she couldn’t—
His voice interrupted her thoughts.
“Listen, Kitten? You listening up there?” He waited for an answer.
“Well, of course!”
“Well, now, I don’t want to be a Mr. Buttinski or anything. Just tell me one thing.” He paused.
“What?”
“Well, is this … you know … women’s business?”
Kitty couldn’t help but giggle a little.
“Well? Is it?”
“No, daddy, it’s not women’s business.”
“Then we can talk about it. May I please come up?”
“We can’t talk about it. You don’t understand!”
“So make me understand. May I please come up?”
She knew he would stand there politely asking until the moon rose if she didn’t respond, so she jerked the Loft door open and said, “All right! But I don’t know what good it will do.” She went over to the daybed and sat down.
“Neither do I, Kitten.” He sat down in the old rickety rocker, folded his hands over his stomach, and sighed.
Nobody said anything for a while. One of the best things about Kitty and her dad was their silences. She figured they had the best silences any two people ever had, and she’d made up her mind years ago that she’d only marry a man with whom she could have those special silences.
Finally he spoke.
“It’s about church, isn’t it?”
She hesitated. “Well, not exact—”
“It’s about church, isn’t it?”
“YES!”
“And you don’t want to tell me because you don’t want to say anything bad about your church to your heretical old man, right?”
“Daddy, nobody thinks you’re a heretic. I’ve told—”
“Right?” He looked straight at her.
“Yes.” He rocked some more and smiled a little.
“Kitty, I’ve been married to your mother for 16 years. I’ve been your father for 13, and Jenny’s for 11. Your Uncle Ken and I have been as close as brothers, and he’s been a bishop twice. Don’t you think I know what fine things your church does for people? And don’t you think I also know that since people aren’t perfect, there will always be problems?”
There was another silence, not such a comfortable one this time, because Kitty knew it was up to her to break it.
“I just can’t do it all!” Her voice was louder than she meant it to be. “Dad, listen to this. I’m 13, and I’m supposed to get good grades, and practice my cello so I can be in orchestra, and stay on the swim team, and spend time with Tami and help her get ready for the Special Olympics plus work in the garden, ’cause we’re all supposed to have gardens, and keep up my journal, ’cause we’re all supposed to have journals—and I love all of it, don’t get me wrong—and we’ve been told to learn foreign languages so I’ve started Spanish this year, and I’m supposed to go to all my meetings and help needy people and support all the ward activities and stay close to my family—and now they make me Beehive class president, which will mean more meetings—
“Oh, daddy, I want to do it all! I really do. It all makes sense, and I know it’s all right. But 13’s too young to be booked solid for life. Because it’s just going to get worse. High school will just mean more work, plus a social life, if my body ever catches up with the rest of me and I look like something besides a tadpole at 16. Then there’s college and work and marriage and a family—dad, I don’t see any end to it till I’m an old, old woman sitting in that rocker between temple sessions!” Kitty flopped onto the pillow.
“The better job you do, the bigger job they give you the next time, hum?” said her father.
Kitty muffled something through the pillow.
“And the hurrieder you go, the behinder you get?”
The pillow grunted again.
“And even though you want to do everything just right, you never seem to do anything quite the way you want it?”
Kitty turned her head and stared at her father.
Kitty’s father had said more than once that he was like Henry David Thoreau: he needed a “wide margin” to his life. He worked very hard at his job and at taking care of their house and yard. But beyond that he was not, as he said, a “joiner.” He was not involved in the hundred and one things she and her mother and Jenny were. So how did he know?
They sat for a long time, saying nothing. Finally, Kitty said, “Mom?”
“Of course. That’s why you really ought to ask her how to solve this problem. She could—”
“Oh but dad, that’s just IT! She does everything! Everybody’s always telling me what a marvel she is. ‘How does your mother do it? How does your mother do it?’” Kitty’s voice mimicked her questioners. “I can never begin to be as organized and as capable as she is. I don’t even want to try! They ask me all the time, but I don’t know. I don’t know how she does it!”
“Have you ever asked her?”
“Oh, she’d just say, ‘Do your best,’ or ‘Make a schedule’ or something. It’s easy for her.”
“If it’s easy for her, how do you think I know about all the thoughts that are in your mind, all those things I told you just a minute ago?”
“Well, tell me, then. Tell me how to do it.” Kitty sat up on the bed and folded her arms across her chest. “Mom does it all. Tell me how to do it all.”
“She does it all, hum? She does, hum?” Suddenly her dad jumped out of the rocker, clattered down the ladder from the Loft, and was heard rummaging around in the storage room between his workshop and the studio.
“Daddy? Daddy, what are you doing? What’s going on?”
“Just a minute. Know it’s here someplace …” came the muffled answer. More rummaging and opening and closing of trunk lids. Then he was bounding up the ladder again, with something in his hand.
“Come here, over by the light.” Kitty joined him by the window. “Do you remember this?”
He held out to her a piece of white cloth. When she took it in her hand, she saw it was a dress, a tiny frothy dress, all white, with many tucks and flounces; and across the yoke in front were red and blue marching figures. It was beautiful, and somehow, she knew it had been hers.
“You looked like an angel,” her father said softly. “Your hair was blonde then, and you were all dolled up in this dress and little white shoes and white socks with—I’m almost certain—red and blue stripes matching the whatsit on the dress. It was a Primary thing, Easter, I think, and you stood right in the front row and sang every song without missing a word—three years old and you didn’t miss a word—and me sitting on the back row blubbering when you sang that one about ‘I Am a Child of God.’ I was embarrassed like the dickens until I noticed that both of the men beside me were sniffing and honking too. Oh, your mother was so proud of you, and that dress! I guess she took a whole roll of film of you in that dress. Still has ’em someplace.”
Kitty looked more closely at the dress. Tiny stitches, many of them handmade.
“Mother made this?” Her father nodded. “But she doesn’t sew.”
“She doesn’t now. Obviously, she couldn’t do it all. She loved sewing for you, Kitten. And for herself, and Jenny, and the house. But finally she said it took too much time from other things.” He took the dress from her and began folding it very carefully.
“But she didn’t give up painting.”
“Of course not. Didn’t give up breathing, either. Your mom’s like—well—like a well that people come to, to be refreshed. But she has to be filled herself, or she’ll have nothing to give. Her painting is one place she gets renewed. Those scriptures of yours are another place too. And have you ever heard your mother make an appointment for Saturday night?”
Kitty thought a long minute, then shook her head.
“Nope, because that’s our time, hers and mine. We go out, to a movie, or to dinner, or for a drive, or a walk, or sometimes she drags me to an art gallery and sometimes I drag her to a hockey game. But it’s strictly our time.”
“You think it’s okay for me to have some ‘me’ time, even though I’m not married?”
“Absolutely. You ought to be able to take off, oh, say after noon on Saturday, and not answer to anybody. Lie up here and watch the dust motes dance in the sunlight. Take your bike out in the rain. Spend the whole long afternoon getting acquainted with just what it feels like to be 13, so’s you’ll never forget. To kind of help you along with that, I hereby relieve you of your Saturday garden chores.”
“I guess mom gave up a lot of stuff besides sewing, didn’t she? I just never thought about it before.” Kitty looked again at the red and blue figures marching across the white dress.
“Sure. But she kept a lot, too. That’s what I’ve been saying. She never considered giving up painting, and you mustn’t ever consider giving up your music.”
How did he know, Kitty wondered. How did he know that of swimming and chorus and reading and all the other things, her cello was the one set apart, different, in its own special world?
“Look, Kitten, all your life you’ll be called on to do things because you have the brains and the talents and the unselfishness to do them. But you’ll have to use some of those brains to figure out how to give to others and still have something left for yourself. Now take Tami, for instance. You’ve been great with her. You’ve done things for her that her own parents didn’t seem able to do. But she takes a lot of your time. Still, she is your cousin, and she does need someone to love her and work with her, so she can be every bit as much as she possibly can be, whatever that is. Now what does that brain say about a solution to that?”
Kitty got up and walked over to the window. Down the street, she could see Tami’s house. She imagined Tami helping her mother set the table, and remembered how proud she’d been when, after hours of Kitty’s help, she’d managed to do it perfectly by herself. She didn’t want to desert Tami.
“Jenny!” she suddenly said. “Jenny’s old enough now, and she’s good with Tami. In fact, it would be good for her to get her nose out of that TV and start working with Tami. I could coach her in the things she’d need to know—”
“Sure you could,” her dad said. “She’s ready for that job now, just like you’re ready to take on a different leadership job.”
“The Beehive class?”
“Yep. That’s a totally different challenge—a whole bunch of girls your own age, instead of one retarded cousin. But you’ll handle it. Kitty, I really think you ought to talk with your mom. She can tell you a dozen hints about juggling these things. But never think it’s easy. It’s not, not for her, not for you. Some things you give up, some you keep, some you compromise. And sometimes you move from one thing to another because you’ve learned what you needed to learn, or given what was most important for you to give, like with Tami.”
Suddenly, from the house, Kitty heard her mom’s voice.
“Carlyle? Kitty? Where are you two? Dinner’s ready!”
“Come on, Kitten. Let’s not keep her waiting.”
“Sure thing, dad. And then after dinner, I’ve got to have a long talk with that woman. Oh, but wait—” She ran over to the window seat and picked up the neatly folded little white dress.
“I think I’ll just hang on to this for a while,” and she clambered down the stairs after her father, whistling softly “I Am a Child of God.”

As a 15-year-old boy, I needed a friend, especially when my family moved hundreds of miles away from my home community, my high school, my ward, and my best friend. Entering San Luis Obispo High School in California as a junior, without a friend, I found that friend. He wasn’t my age. There were no Latter-day Saint young men my age in the San Luis Obispo Branch. Looking back, I know that the friend who, perhaps more than any other, influenced my life for good, was a man the age of my parents.

Arthur Godfrey was president of the San Luis Obispo Branch of the Church and a teacher of agricultural science at the high school. Positive and sincerely interested in all of us, he became our friend. When I needed a job, he helped me find one in the community cannery. When I arrived late for work one afternoon, he forcefully taught me the absolute necessity of being on time, of how essential were duty and keeping promises.

A 15-year-old boy benefits when a friend believes in him. President Godfrey did that for me. He understood me, knew my weaknesses, yet believed that I could accomplish something with my life. Such trust imparted new confidence in me.

“What can I do to be more perfect?” was the question many people asked themselves that day. And for many the answer was found in St. Matthew 25:40. “Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” [Matt. 25:40]
James was one of those. He enjoys helping people, but sometimes they need your help at the most inopportune times. “It seems like your mother always wants you to do something when your favorite show is on television or when you are in the most exciting part of reading a book. Why don’t they ever ask you to take out the garbage when you are studying?”
His goal for Thursday was to do what he was asked, when he was asked to do it, and most importantly, to do it cheerfully. “It was a lot of work to remember that. Sometimes I had to stop and remind myself to do it now. But by the end of the day, I had conditioned myself to respond immediately. It just gave me a good feeling,” he concluded.

Getting up early on a Saturday morning to shingle roofs, paint houses, and mow lawns after being soaked in a mountain downpour the day before might deter some people, but not youth from the Alpine Utah Stake.
Nearly 400 youth and 100 leaders and adults joined forces on June 10, 2006, to work on a huge fix-up project as part of their stake’s three-day youth conference. The stake’s “Extreme Neighborhood Makeover” literally transformed a small neighborhood in Provo, Utah: 5 houses were reroofed, 15 were painted, and a few new lawns were put in. In all, 25 houses in the neighborhood had at least one type of repair performed.
“It’s a party,” “This is fabulous,” “It’s amazing,” and “I can’t believe how early they were here,” were some of the comments by residents as they watched the youth descend on their neighborhood with scrapers, paint, and ladders.
“It’s just been amazing to watch how hard these kids have worked,” said Joseph Nilson, stake president of the Alpine Utah Stake. “To me, you don’t have to go too far to find service opportunities, and it’s wonderful for them to get out and see their religion in action.”

My wife, Rhonda, and I have parents who are just regular people—probably a lot like your parents. But one thing I love about our parents is that they dedicated their lives to serving God, and they taught us to do the same.
When Rhonda’s parents had been married for just a couple of years, her 23-year-old dad was called to serve a full-time mission. He left behind his young wife and their 2-year-old daughter. Then his wife was called to serve with him during the last seven months of his mission—leaving their daughter in the care of relatives.
A few years later, now with four children, they moved to Missoula, Montana, so her dad could attend the university. However, they had been there only a few months when President Spencer W. Kimball and Elder Mark E. Petersen extended a call to my father-in-law to be the first president of the newly created Missoula stake. He was only 34. Thoughts of the university were left behind as he sought to do the Lord’s will—not his own.
My parents have served in the temple for more than 30 years—Dad as a sealer, Mom as an ordinance worker. They also served five full-time missions together—in Riverside, California; Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia; Nairobi, Kenya; the Nauvoo Illinois Temple; and the Monterrey Mexico Temple. In Mexico they worked hard to learn a new language, which wasn’t easy at 80 years of age. But they sought to do the will of the Lord rather than to pursue their own desires in life.
To them, and to all such dedicated Latter-day Saints throughout the world, I echo the words spoken by the Lord to the prophet Nephi, the son of Helaman: “Blessed art thou, … for those things which thou hast done … with unwearyingness … , [for thou] hast not sought thine own life, but hast sought my will, and to keep my commandments.”8
As we seek to do God’s will by faithfully serving Him and our fellowmen, we feel His approval and truly come to know Him.

Sumalee rested her head against the boat and watched the swallows fly over the stilt houses in the klong (canal). The rainy season was over for a few months and it was a beautiful day. But even that did not make Sumalee happy.
“Why are you so sad?” her brother, Pote, asked as he paddled down the klong. “I was very excited the first day I took the vegetables to market,” he said.
Sumalee did not answer.
“Smile, little one,” Pote encouraged.
“I cannot,” Sumalee stammered. “I am afraid.”
“Afraid!” Pote laughed.
“Do not shame me,” Sumalee whispered.
“I am sorry, little one. I did you dishonor. But why should you be afraid?”
“I do not like to talk to strangers. I cannot sell vegetables.”
“Is that all?” Pote asked. “Well, then I will teach you.”
Pote told Sumalee everything she must know, but hearing it all only made her more frightened.
“Please, my brother,” Sumalee interrupted, “could you not sell the vegetables today?”
“You already know I cannot. I have business to be about.”
Sumalee knew it was useless. She had tried everything, but still she was on her way to the market.
“Here we are!” Pote handed Sumalee the paddle. “I must get out here. It is only for one day. Just do as I told you. And remember, your family depends upon you.”
“Please, my brother. …” But Pote jumped from the boat.
“You will do fine, my sister,” he shouted over his shoulder and then disappeared into the crowds of people.
Sumalee wanted to cry. She stared at all the people and then at the children swimming under the stilt houses. More than anything Sumalee loved to swim. Then suddenly she had an idea. I will take the boat to the other shore and swim with the children until Pote is finished, she decided. I can tell him no one would buy and I could even eat a piece of the sugarcane myself!
Then she remembered Pote’s words, “Your family depends upon you.”
Sumalee’s frown returned. She knew they depended upon her. The family’s only money came from selling their vegetables.
Slowly Sumalee took the paddle and started down the river. There is no other way, she thought, I must sell the vegetables. Her heart pounded violently inside her as she maneuvered the small vegetable boat into the klong bank.
“Corn … vegetables … sugarcane,” Sumalee whispered. But of course no one heard.
“Vegetables … sugarcane … corn …” she said a little louder.
Still no one stopped. No one even looked at her.
“Please buy!” Sumalee tried again. “Vegetables! Corn! Good fresh vegetables!”
Her face felt hot, her hands were sweaty, and her voice was shaky. “Please buy! Vegetables, fresh vegetables. Buy my vegetables.”
A lady peered cautiously into the boat. Sumalee’s words froze inside her mouth.
“Fresh? You are sure?” the lady asked.
Sumalee could not speak. She nodded.
“I’ll take these.” The woman gave Sumalee the money and went on.
Sumalee breathed deeply, but before she could think about how frightened she was three other customers crowded close, feeling and smelling the vegetables.
“You are sure they are good?” they asked.
“My father is a man of honor. He makes sure they are good,” Sumalee answered slowly and with a shaky voice.
Each woman loaded her shopping bag and went on, and other customers came.
Sumalee’s heart still pounded, but she was too busy to notice. She kept on selling vegetables until they were all gone. Then she paddled back down the klong to get Pote.
“Here, Sumalee, over here!” Pote waved his arms. Sumalee steered the boat toward him.
“There now,” he said as he climbed aboard, “we will sell the rest of the vegetables to the houses along the klong as we go home.”
“But there are no more vegetables, my brother.”
“No more?” Pote glanced quickly around the boat and then frowned. “Sumalee, you did not throw the vegetables into the water?”
Sumalee didn’t answer. She just held up the money pouch.
Pote laughed. “You must not have been as frightened as you believed, little one! Even I do not sell all the vegetables at the marketplace!”
“But I was afraid! The women at the market just seemed to like our vegetables better than those of the others.”
“I think maybe they trust a little one more!” Pote said.
“Whatever, my brother. But I was afraid and I’m very glad it is over.”
“You did fine, little one,” Pote complimented her. “Our parents will be proud.”
For the first time Sumalee thought about how nice it was to have helped her family. She felt good inside, even better than when she went swimming under the stilt house or when she had a piece of sugarcane to munch on. She gave a big sigh of relief.
“Next time it will be easier and you will not be so frightened,” Pote told her.
“Next time?” Sumalee straightened up and stared at her brother.
“Don’t worry,” Pote laughed. “It will be awhile before you must do this daily.”
Sumalee smiled. “After I have learned how not to be frightened?” she asked, a little relieved.
“Yes, after awhile you will only remember the good, helpful feeling. Then you will be ready.”
Sumalee leaned against the boat. “Yes, I will concentrate on the good feeling,” she said and smiled up at the swallows.

I was born in Fiji. My parents were not members of the Church, but they went to another church.
When I grew up, I married my wife, Anita. She was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She kept inviting the missionaries over to meet me.
One day I told them they could come to dinner for the next three nights. I said they had to use only the Bible to answer my questions. Their answers were perfect. On the third night, they asked me a question.
“If you had a grocery store, what would you call it?”
“I would call it the Wakolo Family Grocery Store because it’s my store,” I answered.
“Whom should a church be named after?” they asked.
It was a great question. And I knew the answer with my heart and soul. The true Church would be named after Jesus because it’s His Church. And The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was named after Him!
I had just one more question: “When can I be baptized?” One week later, I was.
When I was baptized, I took upon myself Jesus Christ’s name. That means I became a member of His Church and promised to follow Him. I try my best every day to live as He did. I know that this is Jesus Christ’s true Church.

The father of my friend Vaiba Rome, Papua New Guinea’s first stake president, was also taught that he could turn to his Father in Heaven in times of need. He and his fellow villagers could survive only through the crops they grew. One day he lit a fire to clear his portion of the village farmland for planting. However, the fire had been preceded by a long hot period, and the vegetation was very dry. So his fire became of the President Thomas S. Monson variety, as our prophet himself described at the last general conference (see “Obedience Brings Blessings,” Ensign or Liahona, May 2013, 89–90). It began to spread to the grassland and bushes, and in the words of his son, “a big monster of fire” resulted. He feared for his fellow villagers and the possible loss of their crops. If they were destroyed, he would be subject to village justice. Being unable to extinguish the fire, he then remembered the Lord.
I now quote from his son, my friend: “He knelt on the hill in the bushes and started to pray to Heavenly Father to stop the fire. Suddenly there appeared a big black cloud above where he was praying, and it rained so hard—but only where the fire was burning. When he looked around, there was clear sky everywhere except where the flames burned. He couldn’t believe the Lord would answer a simple man like him, and he again knelt down and cried like a child. He said it was the sweetest feeling” (see Alma 36:3).

My mom and I went to my first day of high school. The parents had a meeting while the students went on a tour of the school building. I was walking alone in the back when some kids started asking me a lot of questions about the Church. I was silent and didn’t say anything, and so they started to cuss and mock me. They said that Joseph Smith was a false prophet who had stolen the gold plates. I was so angry and sad that, even though I was new and didn’t know any of them, I stood up and shared my testimony. I told them that the Book of Mormon is another testament of Jesus Christ.
When I finished, they all looked at me without speaking. One young woman was crying. After the tour she came to me and asked questions about the Church. I invited her to church, and we have been reading the Book of Mormon together. Since then, no one has mocked what I believe. That night I prayed and thanked my Heavenly Father for helping me to be strong and be able to have courage to share my testimony with my friends. In Joshua 1:9 it says, “Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersover thou goest.”

In his responsibilities as chair of the publicity committee, James was tireless in confronting errors and falsehoods, often by directly speaking to editors.15 Of one occasion, James related the stubbornness of some of the agitators and his desires for them to be honest in their publications:
“We made a personal visit to this editor and spent considerable time in an effort … to clear away the prejudice he had toward our people; and to show him the untruthfulness of the statements made in his article, [which] we took with us [as] unimpeachable evidence for this purpose. He emphatically told us there was nothing we could do or say or adduce that would change his attitude; that his mind was made up and that he was against our religion on general principles. He defended what he insisted was his right to attack us in any way he wanted to, in order to protect his patrons and friends.”16

Before leaving Nauvoo in the winter of 1846, President Brigham Young had a dream in which he saw an angel standing on a cone-shaped hill somewhere in the West pointing to a valley below. When he entered the Salt Lake Valley some 18 months later, he saw just above the location where we are now gathered the same hillside prominence he had seen in vision.
As has often been told from this pulpit, Brother Brigham led a handful of leaders to the summit of that hill and proclaimed it Ensign Peak, a name filled with religious meaning for these modern Israelites. Twenty-five hundred years earlier the prophet Isaiah had declared that in the last days “the mountain of the Lord’s house shall be established in the top of the mountains,” and there “he shall set up an ensign for the nations.”
Seeing their moment in history as partial fulfillment of that prophecy, the Brethren wished to fly a banner of some kind to make the idea of “an ensign for the nations” literal. Elder Heber C. Kimball produced a yellow bandana. Brother Brigham tied it to a walking stick carried by Elder Willard Richards and then planted the makeshift flag, declaring the valley of the Great Salt Lake and the mountains surrounding it as that prophesied place from which the word of the Lord would go forth in the latter days.

Photograph of Manila Philippines Temple by Leo Camposano Imperial
Dignardino Espi, lead security officer at the Manila Philippines Temple, was apprehensive as he arrived for work on the evening of December 1, 1989. Earlier that day, armed men in Manila had staged a revolt, throwing the city into chaos. It was the seventh attempt to overthrow the Philippine government in four years.
Despite the political turmoil, the Church enjoyed a firm foundation in the Philippines. Over the past 30 years, its membership had grown from a small group of Filipino believers to more than 200,000 Saints. There were now 38 stakes in the country and nine missions. And since its dedication in September 1984, the Manila Philippines Temple had been a source of great joy and spiritual power.
At the temple guardhouse, Dignardino found his colleagues, Felipe Ramos and Remigio Julian. Although they were finishing their shifts, the two men were reluctant to go home. Across the street from the temple was Camp Aguinaldo, a large military base. Knowing the camp could become a target for the armed men, the guards worried about leaving their posts and being caught in the fighting. They preferred to stay and help preserve the sacredness of the house of the Lord and its grounds.
Around one o’clock in the morning, government troops set up a roadblock at an intersection near the temple. A few hours later, a tank plowed through the roadblock, damaging the wall around the temple.
As violence erupted in the street, Dignardino and the other security officers recruited the temple’s two custodians to help them keep the building and its grounds safe. Seeking shelter from government fire, a group of men soon broke open the temple gates. Dignardino tried to compel them to leave, but they refused.
Dignardino Espi
Later that afternoon, Dignardino spoke with temple president Floyd Hogan and area president George I. Cannon over the phone. President Cannon advised him and the staff to take shelter inside the temple. A short time later, the phone lines went dead.
The next morning was fast Sunday, and the staff began their fasts by asking God to spare the house of the Lord from being desecrated or harmed.
The day passed much like the one before it. Helicopters swooped overhead and sprayed the temple grounds with bullets. A plane dropped several bombs nearby, shattering the windows of the Church distribution store and damaging other buildings. At one point a fighter jet fired two rockets over the temple and caught a neighboring field on fire.
In the early afternoon, Dignardino found 10 armed men near the temple entrance. “What you will find inside the temple building is purely religious and sacred in nature,” he told them. He was nervous, but he kept speaking. “If you insist on entering the sanctity of the building, its sacred character will be gone,” he said. “Would you deprive us of these blessings?” The men were silent, and as they walked away, Dignardino knew his words had touched them.
That evening, Dignardino gathered his staff, and they again took shelter inside the temple. He offered a fervent prayer, putting his trust in the Lord to preserve His holy house.
All night, they waited for the bombs to fall, but the hours ticked away in silence. When dawn broke Monday morning, they cautiously emerged from the temple to survey the situation. The armed men were gone. Nothing remained but abandoned weapons, ammunition, and military uniforms.
Dignardino and the other men inspected the grounds and found some damage to a few of the outside buildings. But the temple itself was unharmed.
For notes and source citations related to this account, see chapter 25 of Saints, volume 4 (saints.ChurchofJesusChrist.org).

Thinking about her attitude, I remembered a lesson I learned many years ago when my father died. He died suddenly, leaving my mother a widow with fifteen children, ten of whom were dependent on her. This was a great tragedy in her life. Of course, the gospel, the fellowship of the Church, and our own testimonies gave us a solid base which comforted us and helped us to accept this loss with dignity. In spite of the fact that we never left her alone, it affected her deeply. Although she accepted the will of God, her soul did not find inner peace.
One morning as we were traveling downtown on a bus, she began to feel her loneliness. I noticed it, but also knew that I couldn’t give her the comfort she needed. She cried in silence, but with dignity. A lady passenger came up and said: “You seem to be very sad.” My mother answered, “I have just lost my husband.” Then the lady asked, “Do you have children?” and my mother answered, “I have fifteen children, and each one of them has some trait that reminds me of their father. So I am constantly reminded of him.”
When she heard this, the woman said: “You are truly blessed, because you only lost your husband. I lost my husband, too, and my two daughters in an automobile accident, and I am living alone. So I do understand your pain and sorrow.” Then she added, “Only God can help us overcome trials like this.”
Those who suffer great adversity and sorrow and go on to serve their fellowmen develop a great capacity to understand others. Like the prophets, they have acquired a higher understanding of the mind and will of Christ. To me, this woman was like an angel. She gave comfort and raised my mother’s thoughts toward God in a time of great trial. From that day on, each time my mother felt lonely or abandoned, she would say to me: “Son, pity the woman who lost all. I am grateful that the Lord has blessed me with fifteen children to be my companions in life.”

“But I don’t know anybody who wants to know about the Church,” I protested in family home evening. “My friends know that I’m a Latter-day Saint, and they don’t ever ask me to tell them anything.”
“But, Aaron, you need to ask them,” Dad pointed out with a smile. “Nobody expects you to go around knocking on people’s doors, but you meet people every day who might be interested in listening to the gospel message. You have to have courage to ask them, though.” Dad thought for a moment, then added, “Aaron, you’re named after two great missionaries.”
My full name is Aaron Ammon Anderson. Dad and Mom had named me after two of the missionary brothers in the Book of Mormon, and they didn’t want me to ever forget it.
“Aaron and Ammon were willing to do anything to share the gospel. Nobody else thought the Lamanites were interested in the gospel, but because Aaron and Ammon had the courage to try, they had wonderful success. Surely you can think of someone who might want to know about the Church?”
There were only a few Mormons in my school. Although I didn’t go around telling everybody that I was a Mormon, a lot of them knew. “I guess I could ask Bryan,” I muttered, figuring that he was the easiest guy in my whole class to ask.
“Oh, he’s the one you took to Cub Scouts last month,” Mom said, pleased.
I nodded, feeling that I was finally off the hook.
“What about your teacher, Mr. Santos?” my sister, Karen, asked.
“I’m not asking Mr. Santos anything,” I snapped. “He likes me. I don’t want to ruin anything. Besides, I already have my person.”
Mr. Santos was the best teacher at school. Everybody liked him, and he liked everybody. Everything he did in class was exciting and fun. The last thing I wanted to do was ask him if he wanted the missionaries to show up at his house. I didn’t want him to think I was weird.
“I think Mr. Santos would be a wonderful choice,” Mom spoke up. “Every time I’ve talked to him, I’ve been impressed by how kind and considerate he is. He has a wonderful wife and a darling little family. They need the gospel.”
“Mom,” I grumbled, “I’m asking Bryan. If you want to talk to Mr. Santos, then go ahead.” I hesitated. “But wait till I’m out of fourth grade.”
“Asking him about the Church won’t change how he feels about you, Aaron,” Dad said. “In fact, what you can do is give him a gift.” Dad handed me a Book of Mormon. “Take that to school with you. If everything is right and you feel prompted, give it to Mr. Santos and ask him to read it.”
I took the book because I wanted everybody in the family to stop bugging me. But the next morning when Mom slipped it inside my backpack, I complained, “I don’t want to haul a Book of Mormon to school. People will think I’m weird!”
“Take it. Just in case.”
I was in luck—Bryan was the first guy I ran into at school. “Did you see the game between San Francisco and Denver last night?” he asked excitedly.
I shook my head. “We were having family home evening.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s something the members of my church do every Monday night.” Then I figured that since I’d gone this far, I might as well take care of my home evening assignment and get it over with. “Are you interested in learning more about my church, Bryan?”
“Huh? Why would I want to know anything about your church? I’m a Baptist. You should’ve seen the game, though. Denver almost squeaked out a win. If they had made the field goal at the end, they would have won by two.”
I heaved a sigh of relief. That wasn’t as bad as I’d expected, and I was probably the first one in the family to complete my missionary assignment.
As I sat down in class, I opened my backpack and saw the Book of Mormon. I pushed it to the bottom of my backpack and took out my other books. As I did, I looked up at Mr. Santos. He was at the front of the class, smiling and calling the roll. I shook my head. There was no way that I was going to talk to Mr. Santos about the Church. Besides, I had already asked Bryan.
The rest of the day, I kept thinking of Mr. Santos and the Book of Mormon Mom had stuffed into my backpack. At the end of school that afternoon, I cleaned up after an art project. Before I knew it, I was alone with Mr. Santos. Gathering my things together, I started for the door. “See you tomorrow, Mr. Santos.”
He looked up from his desk and smiled. “You take care of yourself, Aaron. You got another hundred percent on your English quiz.” He winked at me. “Keep up the good work.”
As I pushed open the classroom door, I paused. “Do you need any help this afternoon, Mr. Santos?”
He leaned back in his chair. “You don’t want to hang around here any longer, do you?”
“I wouldn’t mind. I could run to the office and call Mom and let her know.”
Mr. Santos grinned. “Well, I don’t ever turn down good help.”
As I hurried down the hall, I thought about Aaron and Ammon in the Book of Mormon and about how their offering to help had led to the conversion of many Lamanites. I shook my head. All I was doing was giving Mr. Santos a hand, not preaching the gospel. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Ammon and Aaron.
Mr. Santos had me clean out and straighten some cupboards, then put the books on the racks in the reading center in order. He had received an order of new social studies workbooks, and he asked me to stamp the school’s name on the inside cover of each. Then boards needed to be wiped down and the art materials organized.
Mr. Santos was in the room only part of the time. When he returned, I was getting ready to leave. “Are you giving up on it?” he asked with a smile.
“I’m finished.”
“Finished?” He seemed surprised. “You’ve done everything?”
I nodded.
“You’re some worker, Aaron Anderson. I can go home before dark, thanks to you. I have a couple of boxes to carry out to the car; then I’m out of here.”
“I’ll give you a hand. I’m heading out that way.”
Mr. Santos grinned. “You’re going to spoil me, Aaron.”
We both grabbed a box, Mr. Santos locked the door, and we started down the hall. “Are you a fisherman, Aaron?” he asked me.
“Sure, I like to fish,” I answered, smiling. “Dad loves to fish, too, but we don’t get to go very often.”
“I have the same problem.” Mr. Santos thought a moment. “You know, Aaron, we ought to make the time. I know a great place to fish not far from here. You, your dad, and I ought to pick a day and just go. What do you think?”
“Sounds great! You name the time, and I’ll tell Dad that we just have to.”
“That sounds like a solid yes.” Mr. Santos opened the trunk, and we set the boxes inside. He thought a moment, then asked, “How about this Sunday? We can get up early and make a day of it.”
I looked away, suddenly feeling sick. Here I had a chance to go fishing with Dad and Mr. Santos, but I knew I could never do it on a Sunday. Would Mr. Santos ever ask me again? Strangely, I thought about when King Lamoni offered to give one of his daughters to Ammon for a wife.
Mr. Santos saw me duck my head and look away. “Sunday isn’t a good day?”
“I’d love to go with you, Mr. Santos. Honest. But Dad and I don’t fish on Sundays.”
A knowing smile touched his lips. “I bet you’re a Latter-day Saint, aren’t you?” His question sounded like a compliment! “You’re just like Andy Frazier!” He glanced across the parking lot with a far-off look in his eyes. “Andy and I were in the Marines together. The first time I met him was a Sunday morning. We talked and hit it right off. I asked him if he wanted to drive into town and catch a movie. He turned me down. He said that he was headed for church. That’s when I found out that he was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
Mr. Santos turned back to me. “We became good friends. He didn’t drink anything stronger than orange soda. He didn’t cuss. He didn’t smoke.” Mr. Santos smiled at me. “But there were a lot of things he did do. Nobody worked harder than Andy Frazier. And he could shoot!” Mr. Santos wagged his head. “Nobody in the whole battalion could shoot like him. I don’t think there was a better member of the entire Marine Corp. At first some of the guys kidded him about his religion, but he didn’t let it get to him.
“One day we were on parade, marching around the parade field. When we marched, we sang out different cadences. Some of them are pretty funny. Some of them are …” He paused and shook his head. “Well, some of them have some pretty bad words in them. They aren’t the approved cadences, but at times we used them. Well, Andy had complained to the sergeant a number of times, but he just said that Andy needed to toughen up a bit.
“One day we were using a cadence that was downright dirty. Andy broke ranks and headed right to the major, who was off to the side of the field. When I saw him go, I thought, Andy, you’re one dead duck. You’re going to get booted right out of the Marines.”
Mr. Santos smiled at the memory. “He didn’t get thrown out. He saluted the Major and told him that he was a Marine and proud of it but that he had been taught not to use filthy language and didn’t expect to have to use it or listen to it to be a good Marine.” Mr. Santos smiled again. “The major told the sergeant that from then on Andy was to choose the marching cadence. Now that took courage! I’ll never forget Andy Frazier. I think you’re like him.”
I thought of the Book of Mormon in my backpack that I hadn’t wanted anybody to see. “Maybe you’d like to know … well, … what made Andy the way he was,” I ventured. I pulled out the Book of Mormon. “Would you like to have this?”
Mr. Santos took the book. He brushed his hand across the cover. “I think I have one,” he said softly. “Andy gave it to me.”
“Did you ever read it?”
“I promised Andy that I’d read it, but I haven’t yet.” He handed back my Book of Mormon. “Thanks, Aaron, but I think I’ll look for Andy’s.”
As I headed home, I felt great. Even though Mr. Santos hadn’t accepted my Book of Mormon, I was glad that Mom had stuck it into my backpack.
The next day when the last bell rang, Mr. Santos called out to me. “Aaron, would you mind staying after school for a few minutes?”
“Do you need more help?” I asked as the last of the other students left the room.
“Not exactly. At least not the kind of help you gave me yesterday.” Mr. Santos opened one of the drawers, reached in, and pulled out a Book of Mormon. “I found Andy’s book. My wife and I read the first four chapters last night.”
“You did?” I gasped. “Did you understand it?”
He nodded slowly. “I think so. But if I get to something I don’t understand, do you think you can help me?”
“Sure. And if I can’t, I can find someone who can.” I grinned, thinking of Aaron and Ammon, suddenly glad that I had been named after them.

After coming home from work one evening, I saw two young men at my door. They announced themselves to be missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I shouted at them loudly, then took one of them by the back of the neck and ordered them off my property with the threat, “And don’t let me see you in this neighborhood again, or I’ll make you sorry you ever came here!” They left my property quickly.

The incident, typical of many of my days, was soon forgotten. The following week, as my wife and I were about to sit down for our evening meal, the doorbell rang. I answered it, and much to my surprise, there stood the same two young men I had ordered off the property a week ago! Before I had a chance to say a thing, one of them looked me straight in the eye and said very sincerely, “I know you don’t want to hear what we have to say, but we have a very important message for you from our Savior, Jesus Christ. He wants you to hear it.”

The confident, yet humble tone in his voice took me by surprise, and I listened. Then they listened as I expressed my anger and bitterness. They seemed to understand. They talked to me about “free agency.” My heart responded. And thus began my search for truth.

I was eager for each weekly visit. My soul hungered for the answers to the questions Who am I? Where did I come from? Why am I here? And after death, what? The missionaries helped open the eyes of my understanding through the scriptures. My longing, aching heart began to heal.

They explained my unanswered questions. I came to understand that although my little boys had died so early in life, they had had the privilege of earth life and had chosen to come here. They were not victims of a revengeful God who mercilessly let them drown, but were party to a great plan long before they became my David and my Boyd. This life was merely a step forward in their eternal progression. The magnitude of this idea made a great impact upon me.

Today tears still fill in my eyes when I think of my boys. But they are not tears of anger or hate. They are tears of love and understanding. This new knowledge of the plan of salvation has transformed my life, and I have joined the ranks of the believers.

Between 1856 and 1860 a few thousand Saints successfully made the 1,300-mile (2,090 km) journey by handcart. The success of their travel was marred only by two fateful trips, the Willie and Martin handcart companies, which left too late in the year to avoid the early winter snows. Again, notice the genius of President Young. At the October 1856 general conference, he devoted the entire conference to organizing the relief effort to assist those distressed Saints. And he instructed the brethren not to wait a week or a month before they went. He wanted several four-horse teams ready the following Monday to go and relieve the suffering of the Saints caught in the snows. And that’s exactly what happened.

The first relief parties were on their way the following Monday. The description of the Willie company’s joy upon receiving that first relief party brings emotions close to the surface. Captain Willie had left his small band and gone out with a single companion in search of the relief train.
History records: “On the evening of the third day after Captain Willie’s departure, just as the sun was sinking beautifully behind the distant hills, on an eminence, immediately west of our camp, several covered wagons, each drawn by four horses, were seen coming towards us. The news ran through the camp like wildfire, and all who were able to leave their beds turned out en masse to see them. A few minutes brought them sufficiently near to reveal our faithful captain slightly in advance of the train. Shouts of joy rent the air; strong men wept until tears ran freely down their furrowed and sunburnt cheeks, and little children partook of the joy which some of them hardly understood, and fairly danced around with gladness. Restraint was set aside in the general rejoicing, and as the brethren entered [the] camp the sisters fell upon them and deluged them with kisses. The brethren were so overcome that they could not for some time utter a word, but in choking silence repressed all demonstration of … emotions. … Soon, however, feeling was somewhat abated, and such a shaking of hands, such words of welcome, and such invocation of God’s blessing have seldom been witnessed!”2

Diane’s love of the spotlight was quickly matched by her gymnastic ability, and the two made a championship combination. She started training when she was fourteen and a half years old, a late start by competitive standards, but within a year she was competing against the best in the country. She was the Junior Olympic National Champion in high school, and in college she led the University of Utah’s women’s gymnastics team to their first national victory.
After she was no longer eligible for college competition, she decided to go on a national professional tour. Diane knew her gymnastics career was mostly over, but she just wanted to hold on to the thrill of the spotlight and the fun of the sport for as long as she could.
During training for the tour Diane was practicing a vault she’d done thousands of times. She ran toward the vault just like she had done every other time. She jumped on the springboard like all the other times and flew up and over the vault—just like all the other times. But this time was different. This time she turned her body just a little too far. This time when she landed, she broke her neck. The accident put her in the hospital for almost six months and in a wheelchair for the rest of her life.
That was on December 15, 1981. Diane spent that Christmas and the next five months in the hospital, trying to imagine her life without gymnastics. After so many years of loving the sport, it was difficult for Diane to adjust.
“I hated being in the hospital, and I felt like I was in prison,” says Diane. For one month of the five she was in the hospital, she was in traction and couldn’t move at all except when the nurses came in and turned her a few centimeters every two hours. Diane had no idea she’d be in the hospital for so long. “In fact, when I was first injured I thought for sure that in a month I’d be back on the tour. I thought, ‘If I have enough faith and believe in God and in myself, I’ll be okay.’ And I just knew it.”
Recovery wasn’t quite so easy though, and things seemed to get worse. “I was a horrible patient,” says Diane. “In the hospital I was really miserable because I was so restless. I was really impatient with people.” Finally Diane came to a turning point.
“One day I was in the depths of despair. I just felt like I couldn’t bear it anymore,” Diane says. She asked for a priesthood blessing. She knew the power to heal her was present, “but I only wanted that to happen if it was Heavenly Father’s will. I had this blessing and I felt the greatest sense of peace. It was like I knew that no matter what happened it would be okay. If I didn’t walk away from the hospital there would be a reason for it. I knew that I had always tried my best to live the gospel and do what I was supposed to do, so if anybody was worthy to have that blessing, I was. But from that point on I was a different person. I was totally comforted.”
Ironically, one of the biggest aids to her recovery was gymnastics. “I don’t know if I could’ve gotten up again if I hadn’t had that training in gymnastics,” she says. “I had a lot of serious injuries when I was a gymnast that I just had to deal with. It was always down, up, down, up in gymnastics and this was just one more down I had to get up from. Gymnastics taught me to get back up so I could be a champion again.”
On the day she finally realized she would never walk again, Diane made the decision to return to school to work for her degree. She was lying on her bed with all her scrapbooks filled with souvenirs and photos of her performances. Tears dripped down her face and splashed on the scrapbook pages. “I just realized right then that things weren’t going to get any better. As I lay there crying I thought, ‘I can either give up or get on with my life’ and that’s when I decided to go back to school and get my degree.”
Now Diane teaches a class full of seven-year-olds who are just the right height to look her in the eye. “The kids will do anything for her,” says Marie. “They just love her.”
Her students aren’t her only fans. Diane also gives fireside talks to teenagers who listen intently as she tells her story. And her message is one of hope and perseverance, without bitterness for what has happened.
Her personality hasn’t changed at all. Just listen to her speak and you’ll hear the exuberant, happy girl who used to charm arenas full of people. Now her charm is just aimed at another audience. Her voice seems to smile at every person in the room and her own laughter frequently interrupts her stories.
“I think telling my gymnastics stories and sharing my experiences opens up the communication between us. They soon forget that I’m in a wheelchair. When they do that, the youth can see that I’m just a regular person and we have a lot in common, even though, in a wheelchair, I look a lot different than they do,” Diane says.
Her main message is one for potential champions: don’t give up, no matter what happens. “When I was a young gymnast I met a girl, an athlete named Nancy Thies. Nancy was a member of the U.S. Olympic team and one of the finest gymnasts in the country. I have never forgotten some very important things that Nancy taught me. I remember the first thing she said was, ‘Don’t be afraid to lose.’ She said, ‘If you fall down and you stay down, you’re a quitter and a loser and you will never win. But if you get back up and you try one more time, it will be your turn to be the champion, so just don’t give up.’” Diane says she made a promise to herself that she would remember that advice and never give up, no matter how many times she fell.
Once she faced the hardest fall of her life, not giving up was difficult, especially because of her wheelchair. The entire time she was a gymnast, whether she was swinging high above the uneven parallel bars of just doing handstands for fun, her only fear was of being blind or paralyzed. “I had such uneasy feelings about wheelchairs that I would never talk to anybody in a wheelchair or go near a wheelchair. I would avoid people in wheelchairs. I was afraid that I’d end up in a wheelchair if I got too close to one. It was almost like having thought about it so much somehow prepared me for a wheelchair,” she says.
It was probably Diane’s unconquerable spirit that prepared her more than anything else. It’s a spirit that is evident in both her funny stories and her powerfully quiet testimony about the importance of an eternal perspective and God’s love for each of his children. It’s a spirit that Diane has always had. “I’ve never met anyone, except my father, who has a stronger testimony than she does,” says Marie. “There’s no doubt in her mind that what she’s doing is right and that the Church is true. She has always been a great example.”
The lights are turned down in the room as she finishes her message, and a slide show featuring Diane, the fun-lover and gymnast, lashes on the screen in time to some fast, contemporary music. When the presentation is over, young people surround her excitedly.
Diane says, “It makes me feel really good when people tell me they’re going to try harder after they’ve heard my talk. One girl came to me once and told me she’d heard me speak four different times. The first time, she decided not to commit suicide. The second time, she decided that she didn’t have to drop out of school. The third time, she made a goal to become one of the best students in her class, and the last time she was on her way to that goal.”
Diane just shrugs her shoulders and laughs a little when someone tells her she’s wonderful. She even looks a little embarrassed, which is rare for this experienced performer. “People always think, ‘You’re so amazing, you’re so incredible,’ but I’m not. People will say, ‘If that happened to me I could never handle the situation,’ and the thing I have to say is, ‘Either you handle the situation or you die.’ You have to take whatever life gives you and deal with it, even if you might not want to. You know, if somebody dies in your family, you have to live with it. If you break your neck you have to live with it, but you just learn and that’s what’s so great about time and the healing process. You don’t have to be miraculous.”
You just have to be as willing as Diane was to get up again, so that someday it will be your turn to be the champion. For Diane, the victory is especially sweet, because she has won back what she thought she’d lost.
She is a champion again.

Our influence is surely felt in our respective families. Sometimes we fathers forget that once we too were boys, and boys at times can be vexing to parents.
I recall how much, as a youngster, I liked dogs. One day I took my wagon and placed a wooden orange crate in it and went looking for dogs. At that time, dogs were everywhere to be found: at school, walking along the sidewalks, or exploring vacant lots, of which there were many. As I would find a dog and capture it, I placed it in the crate, took it home, locked it in the coal shed, and turned the latch on the door. That day I think I brought home six dogs of varying sizes and made them my prisoners after this fashion. I had no idea what I would do with all those dogs, so I didn’t reveal my deed to anyone.
Dad came home from work and, as was his custom, took the coal bucket and went to the coal shed to fill it. Can you imagine his shock and utter consternation as he opened the door and immediately faced six dogs, all attempting to escape at once? As I recall, Dad flushed a little bit, and then he calmed down and quietly told me, “Tommy, coal sheds are for coal. Other people’s dogs rightfully belong to them.” By observing him, I learned a lesson in patience and calmness.