Gospel Story Finder

My youngest daughter loves her birthday. She begins planning her next birthday about 51 weeks in advance. So, it was wonderful to celebrate her 13 th birthday a few weeks ago. As part of the celebration, I took her to lunch. During our visit, we discussed the past and the future and, as part of the conversation, I asked her to share some of her earliest memories. With virtually no hesitation, she said, “Dressing up.” I thought you might like to see a few of the photos we’ve captured of her dress-ups over the years. Maybe you can see why dressing up is one of the things she remembers. These pictures provide wonderful memories for my wife and me when we see them and think about the brief time our children were small.

When I was a student at Brigham Young University, I lived in a house with several young men. My roommate, Bruce, was the most optimistic person I have ever known. We never once heard him say anything negative about any person or any circumstance, and it was impossible not to feel buoyed up in his presence. His good cheer flowed from an abiding trust in the Savior and in His gospel.

One cold, wintry day, another friend of mine, Tom, was walking across the university campus. It was only 7:00 in the morning, and the campus was deserted and dark. Heavy snow was falling, with a brisk wind. “What miserable weather,” Tom thought. He walked farther, and out in the darkness and snow, he heard someone singing.

Sure enough, through the driving snow came our ever-optimistic friend, Bruce. With his arms outstretched to the sky, he was singing a number from the Broadway musical Oklahoma: “Oh, what a beautiful morning! Oh, what a beautiful day! I’ve got a beautiful feeling, everything’s going my way” (see Richard Rodgers and Oscar Hammerstein II, “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’” [1943]).

In the intervening years, that bright voice in a dark storm has become for me a symbol of what faith and hope are all about. Even in a darkening world, we as Latter-day Saints may sing with joy, knowing that the powers of heaven are with God’s Church and people. We may rejoice in the knowledge that a beautiful morning lies ahead—the dawn of the millennial day, when the Son of God shall rise in the East and reign again on the earth.

I was at the lowest point in my life. My wife had asked for a divorce after leaving me for another man. I was 30 years old and living with my mother. I was also close to losing my job.
The senior editor of the newspaper where I worked warned me, “If you come to work intoxicated again, you will be immediately dismissed.” On my way home, I wondered how I could stop drinking.
Just then, two missionaries stopped and talked to me about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I told them I was not interested. But being a journalist, I felt compelled to give them my card.
Several days later, my mother told me that two Americans were there to see me.
“They have one of your cards,” she said.
They were the same missionaries from a few days before. One of them handed me a pamphlet and talked about the Prophet Joseph Smith. Then his companion handed me a Book of Mormon. He asked if I would read several chapters from it. When I agreed to do so, he looked at me closely and asked if I would read 150 pages.
“Impossible!” I said.
“Well, we’ll come back on Thursday,” he said. That was several days away. I didn’t think I could read those pages in that time.
After work the next day, I felt a strong urge to find my friends and go drinking. Then I remembered the senior editor’s warning and the 150 pages I had been asked to read. I went home and began reading the Book of Mormon. I also read the pamphlet about Joseph Smith.
The Spirit touched my heart as I read about Joseph Smith. I also felt the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon as I read and learned more about the Savior. Soon I had read 150 pages. On Thursday, the missionaries returned and asked if I had read.
“Yes!” I said. “All 150 pages!”
I wanted to know more. When they taught me about the Word of Wisdom, I told them I was ready to give up alcohol.
The next Sunday, I went to my first fast and testimony meeting. I shared my newfound testimony of Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon. A short time later, I was baptized and confirmed a member of the Church.
In the 48 years since my baptism, I have tried to keep the commandments and stay close to the Church. I remarried and served a mission with my wife. Over the years, I accepted many callings. I now serve in the temple. Every time I’m there, I thank the Lord for pulling me from the darkness and bringing me into the light.

When I was 16, most of my friends at school weren’t members, but they knew that I was a member of the Church. They started to smoke and do other things I wouldn’t do. So things began to change between us; our types of conversation were very different, and our thinking and activities weren’t compatible.
One day my father asked me, “Why aren’t you thinking about your friends’ effect on you?” He counseled me to be careful and think about the necessity of changing my friends.
When I started at the university, I became very busy and didn’t spend a lot of time with my friends, but one time when we were together, they decided to do something bad. We were in a car, and they drove really fast. A policeman pulled us over, and I was scared. I remembered the words of my father about taking care of the future. That experience helped me make a decision about the kinds of friends I wanted to have.
I became very involved in Church activities. Attending Mutual was wonderful because I decided to have those kinds of friends. I learned that my father was right—that I should take care of my relationship with good friends. I needed friends who would help me prepare for a mission.

My mother once told me of an experience she had one winter morning as she drove down to check the cattle in the lower pasture. She noticed a car off the side of the road. Inside she recognized a young mother and three children. When my mother asked if they needed help, the woman tearfully reminded her that this was the place of the accident two weeks earlier that had killed her husband. She answered, “We are just here to feel the hurt.”

On that first day as a nurse, I assumed cure, care, and healing to be synonymous. I have learned they are not the same. Healing is not cure. Cure is clean, quick, and done—often under anesthesia. The antibiotic kills the pathogen; the scalpel cuts out the malignancy; the medication resolves the distorted chemistry. Healing, however, is often a lifelong process of recovery and growth in spite of, maybe because of, enduring physical, emotional, or spiritual assault. It requires time. We may pray for cure when we really need healing. Whether for cell reconstruction, for nerve and muscle rehabilitation, for emotional recovery, or for spiritual forgiveness, healing needs work and time and energy.

Leslie Williams, Jr. of Tallahassee, Florida, received the Disabled Citizens’ Community Service Award and was honored at their annual banquet.
In completing his Eagle project, Leslie surveyed Tallahassee restaurants to determine how accessible they were to wheelchair patrons and nonsighted or partially sighted customers. Leslie wrote letters and sent questionnaires to the restaurant managers and organized teams to visit restaurants. The completed report of his survey is on file with several government agencies and has been printed and distributed in chart form to the city’s handicapped citizens.
As a result of his efforts, the local food editor now reports on restaurant accessibility in the newspaper’s weekly restaurant review.
Leslie is a member of the Tallahassee Second Ward.

I am interested in free throw records because I believe I also set a free throw record in high school—unrecorded, but a record that I believe would stand even today. It was in a game between my alma mater, Preston High, and Malad High in Idaho. It was played in the old Malad High School gymnasium in 1954.
Early in the game I was fouled in the act of shooting and was awarded two foul shots. I calmly stepped to the free throw line, set my toe about one-eighth of an inch from the line, and did my best imitation of my then basketball idol, Bob Cousy, by bouncing the ball twice, spinning it in my hands, taking a deep breath, and shooting. It was a pretty good imitation—until I released the ball. I missed both shots.
A few moments later I was again at the foul line going through the same established routine. To my despair I missed again—twice. As fortune would have it, we were into the game only six or seven minutes, and I was at the line missing my sixth and seventh foul shots. As I approached my ninth and tenth shots, I noticed that the basket, which was regulation size at the beginning of the game, was in some magical way beginning to shrink. Each time I came to the line, it got smaller and smaller.
My confidence wasn’t bolstered much as I saw images of distress in the faces of my teammates and expressions of calm glee and a twinkle in the eyes of my opponents each time I came to the line. By my fifteenth miss, my arms and legs were frozen stiff, and I could see the basket getting so small that even a softball couldn’t pass through it. When I approached the line to miss my eighteenth consecutive free throw, the basket seemed about the size of a golf hole, and I knew that even Bob Cousy would not stand a chance. I was not shooting with much confidence.
Thankfully, the final buzzer sounded and my record ceased at eighteen consecutive misses—a record not easily achievable and one I doubt any of you sports enthusiasts have ever witnessed. As I left the court, my confidence was devastated, and ahead of me remained the frightening task of getting ready to face the foul line again in upcoming games. My challenge was not so much related to foul shooting as it was to confidence.

A small river runs through the field near Cooper House, a farm a little more than four miles outside of Barnard Castle in northeast England. Normally the setting is quite tranquil, and it seemed like the perfect spot for our annual camp.
When we parked the cars, however, we realized that we would have some chores to do before we could enjoy our fun. Due to the location of the site, all the equipment had to be carried down a steep, dusty hill. Most of the 38 young men felt an inclination to slide rather than walk, but somehow everything and everyone arrived intact.
The next challenge was pitching our tents. Those who had brought their own tents were familiar with them and seemed to have no problems. But others, like our stake president, Craig Marshall, had borrowed tents. The owner of the tent had told President Marshall that it was a cinch to put up, but despite lots of head scratching and lightning suggestions from the great brains of the group, he had trouble getting the frame to fit together.
While President Marshall struggled, the rest of us put up the food tent (the most important camp item), collected firewood, constructed a rack for the canoes and paddles, and prepared cocoa and biscuits to eat around the fire in the true tradition of camp. Eventually even President Marshall got his tent erected, with some friendly help from the rest of the group.
The next morning some poor, unfortunate boys had to go to the girls’ camp seven miles away in Middleton Teesdale to collect the canoes. The girls were heading for home that day, and it was our turn for the boats. It may have been hard work shifting the canoes, but the volunteers were glad to accept the girls’ offer of fish and chips before returning to camp.
Back at Cooper House, young men clad in shorts or wet suits formed human chains out into the river, passing rocks and boulders to each other to build dams to create a section of fast-running water for the canoes. After slipping and splashing, most of us ended up soaked. Soon canoes and inner tubes were set to water, and we were all delighting in maneuvering ourselves along in the current.
After tea (that’s what we call our evening meal, even though Mormons don’t drink tea), we organized a game of T-mac (sort of like group hide-and-seek) with one team seeking and one team hiding. The game lasted until it was too dark to recognize anyone anymore, so once again we slipped back to the campfire, then to bed.
During the next few days there were special moments at camp like singing “Onward Christian Soldiers” as a group, loud even though it was off-key. And we played a puzzle game which could not be done without all of us sharing our pieces. That taught us charity and selflessness. We also read our scriptures and retraced some of the journeys made by the ancient prophets.
Some of us went on a 30-mile hike that took two days. Some of us just stayed at Cooper House and floated in the stream. One day we made a raft from the inner tubes, but it had a tendency to throw its passengers. Another day we tried to use inner tubes, plastic bags, and ropes to walk across the river on top of the water. Paul Anderson of Billingham Ward walked the farthest. He had inner tubes tied to his hands and knees.
Brian Jones, the camp leader, spent time one day leading a rope course to prepare us for rock climbing and absailing (rappeling). Brian gained his knowledge from several expeditions in the Antarctic. Later on we tried our skills at a nearby quarry.
Thursday was one of those rainy English days when there is nothing you can do but play games or read in your tents. Hot meals and an opportunity to catch up on sleep were the only relief from the downpour. But during the afternoon, the two counselors in the stake presidency, Alex Stewart and Geoff Mawlam, arrived with some of their family members to join us overnight. It was President Stewart who persuaded some of the braver souls to go canoeing in the rain. It didn’t matter to him about the rain, since he capsized every time he went down the rapids anyway.
The first thing we wanted to do Friday was to dry out. The rain had stopped, but some of the sleeping bags and clothes were wet. We hung things out to dry. Then we built an obstacle course. The course consisted of various tasks—pushing the canoe trailer around some tyres (that’s the English spelling for tires); running the rapids on inner tubes; crossing over the river by rope and then wading back; climbing a rope; and monkey climbs (climbing over and through logs fashioned together like a jungle gym). Not surprisingly, most of us finished wet and dirty. Prizes were awarded for the fastest group time and the fastest individual time according to age.
Like any camp, we also had our cleanup time. The tents were dismantled, the dams broken down, the turf replaced where the fire had been. For our last meal, Brother John Dale, our chef de cuisine treated us to fish and chips from Barnard Castle.
We picked up our tents and equipment and climbed the hill for the last time. Looking back, the field seemed bare, except for yellowed patches of grass where the tents had been. All that we have now are the memories.

Many years ago while serving as a branch president in Fiji, I took Mickey, my wife, with me in visiting less active members of the Church in our branch. In searching out one less active sister, we came across a young lady, Ateca. As we were visiting with her, an almost audible voice kept telling me to invite her to receive the missionaries and be taught the missionary lessons along with Inoke, her boyfriend, who was not present at the time. We had just met her so at first I was reluctant to do so. My heart was literally pounding and the voice kept repeating itself urging me to ask her. I then extended the invitation for Ateca and her companion, Inoke, to receive the missionaries. They did and as a branch president I had the marvelous blessing of performing their civil marriage. Then they were baptized and shortly thereafter became the young men and young women presidents in our branch. The next blessing was to witness their sealing in the Laie HI Temple as a together forever family. They, Inoke and Ateca Suguturaga, have remained dear friends over these many years. We gave to our son Aaron the middle name Inoke and their daughter Siki's middle name is Michele after Sister Bauer. There is indeed no greater joy than to see those who embrace the Gospel, enter the waters of baptism, receive the crowning ordinance of sealing in the Temple and then stay committed to the Lord throughout their lives. Inoke now is the Fiji Islands Manager at the Polynesian Cultural Center and Ateca works as the senior accountant for Hawaii Reserve Incorporated both here in Laie.

The baby boy born to John Anderson Widtsoe and Anna Karine Gaarden Widtsoe came into this world with his wrist attached to the side of his head. He was their first child, and there was some doubt that he would live. But after a crude surgical operation to release the arm, the boy survived. They named him John Andreas Widtsoe, and thus began the life of a remarkable man whose warmth and generosity as a master teacher influenced the lives of countless people for good throughout the world.
When young John was about two, his family moved from storm-lashed Froya, the outermost island off the coast of Norway, to Namos on the mainland. Their new home was about 80 miles (128 km) north of Trondheim, the ancient capital of Norway. Here John’s father could expand his opportunities as a schoolmaster. A second son, Aasbjorn (later Osborne) Johannes Peder Widtsoe, was born in Namos. But within weeks of this birth, disaster struck—the boys’ father died suddenly, the result of a knotted intestine.
Anna and her two boys moved to Trondheim to be near her in-laws. However, she maintained her independence by living in a rented apartment, where she eked out a living as a seamstress. Anna was anxious that John should follow in his father’s footsteps, and one of her husband’s schoolfellows offered to tutor the bright seven-year-old, launching the lad on his astounding career as a scholar/teacher.
One day when John’s shoes were delivered from the shoemaker, Anna found a Latter-day Saint missionary tract tucked inside each shoe. The tracts sparked her curiosity, and when another pair of shoes needed repairing, she took them to the shoemaker herself to find out the meaning of the tracts. After finishing her business with the shoemaker’s wife, Anna was told that the shoemaker would explain what the tracts meant.
“You may be surprised to hear me say that I can give you something of more value than soles for your child’s shoes,” (John A. Widtsoe, In the Gospel Net, page 54) the shoemaker boldly declared to Anna.
She was perplexed and told the man that he spoke in riddles. But he pleaded with her to listen and said that he could teach her about the Lord’s true plan of salvation for His children.
Anna couldn’t forget her conversation with the humble, courageous shoemaker. And as other tracts came from the shoemaker, she struggled mightily, for she knew her Bible well. She worried about the new concepts and certain points of doctrine. But after attending meetings with the missionaries and other Saints over the next two years, she accepted the gospel and was baptized.
When Anna’s joy over her conversion wasn’t shared by friends and relatives and when she couldn’t persuade them to accept the gospel, she decided to emigrate to the United States with a group of Norwegian Saints intent on going to Zion. It was 1883, and in the fall of that year she arrived in Logan, Utah. She was determined that her family’s first obligation should be to Heavenly Father because of His many blessings to them. Her next obligation was to see that her boys received the best education possible.
John, then eleven, was extremely bright and a quick learner. Soon he was fluent in the new language. The little family’s plans suffered a setback one day soon after their arrival, when John was attacked by a rabid dog and confined to his bed for six weeks. After his recovery, he continued his education and worked part-time. His mother worked at her dressmaking, and she helped support the boys’ schooling with her sewing and with small earnings from some property that she had managed to buy.

I was so excited to know if Heavenly Father wanted me to be a member of the Church or not and to know if the Book of Mormon was true. But I was confused about how to get an answer. My mom told me to stop and feel when I pray. She told me that if you feel the same, you should keep praying. If you feel bad, the answer is no. And if you feel happy, then the answer is yes. That night I prayed and said, “Heavenly Father, thank you for my day. Please tell me if the Book of Mormon is true. I want to be a member of the Church, and is that what I should do?” I waited, and then I felt joy. I said, “Thank you for answering me. Amen.” Heavenly Father said yes, and I know that Heavenly Father loves me.
James H., age 8, Arizona, USA

My father was a farmer and put in long hard days of labor, much of it with animals. If any earthly trial I know of can drive a man to profanity, it is working with animals, and there are many men on whom it has had exactly that effect. My father wasn’t one of them. I’ll never forget a lesson he taught me one day while he was milking a cow that was sick with milk fever. Father had cracked his ribs not long before, and they were excruciatingly painful, but as if that weren’t enough, the cow in her sickness suddenly collapsed and fell right on top of him. It would have been a funny sight, him lying there in the spilled milk with a cow on top of him, if it hadn’t been for his white-faced agony as he struggled to rise. Although he was sick with pain, he didn’t call the cow any bad names. He got out from under her and onto his feet with difficulty and then helped the cow up. Then he ran his hand gently along her side and said, “You poor dear, I’m sorry you’re so sick.”

That may sound absurd to anyone accustomed to salving all wounds with violent words, but it seemed to me an expression of reason, kindness, and self-control far better than the string of oaths he could have spit out at a poor, dumb animal. I really don’t believe his ribs would have felt any better had he sworn, nor would he have felt any better about the experience. I don’t believe it anymore when someone tells me there are times when a person can’t help swearing.

When your faith is questioned every day, you have to decide pretty quickly which side of the line you’re on. Allison McEwen of Houston High School says, “When I was younger and my peers questioned things, I doubted too. But by going to the Lord in prayer, I found the answers that made me stronger. After I found out for myself that the Church was true, their questions didn’t bother me anymore.”
As the student body president, Allison gets a lot of questions about Church. “I like to be different,” she says. “The Church is something positive that definitely puts me aside from the rest.” Even in the face of difficult questions from friends, she knows that the Lord is aware of her and is willing to help her find the answers, and that has been a great blessing.

The prophet Micah declared: “He hath showed thee, O man, what is good; and what doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?” (Micah 6:8). There is enough for a long sermon in that one command. Let me talk about one point only: “To love mercy.” As an example, may I read a paragraph from a letter I received from a young woman who is engaged in this kind of activity as president of the Relief Society.
Yesterday [she writes] I spent most of the day picking up welfare groceries and delivering them. One of the two cases I called on was tragic. She is a woman who, years ago, was in a fire and her head was badly injured. For years she has undergone constructive surgery and has a number of pins holding her scalp together. She is divorced, and in order to support herself and her four-year-old girl, she works doing any small job she can find, until she is through surgery and can return to school to complete her training as a dietician. She has no car and relies solely on her bicycle for transportation in this great and busy city. She has ridden that bike all winter, with her little girl on the back, sometimes going as many as 48 kilometers in a day to get to and from a small job.
A week ago she slid on a patch of ice while riding her bicycle, fell, struck her head, and suffered a concussion. She refused to go to the hospital because she had no money to pay medical bills, so she remained in her apartment, suffering from pain until her sister found her and got medical help. Her mother was able to assist her just a little. Her home teacher happened to call and discovered her plight. When I, as the Relief Society president, called her, I discovered she had no food in the house, no medication for her diabetes, and no money. So yesterday I went to deliver the groceries and take her some medication. What an opportunity to serve someone so desperately in need!

I will never forget an experience I had with a friend in central Utah a few years ago. He had for his hobby mountain lion hunting. One day when I visited his place of business, he had a full-grown hunting dog tied to one of his sheds.

“Isn’t he a beauty?” I commented.

He responded with, “He’s got to go. I can’t be bothered with him.”

“What’s the problem?” I continued.

“Since he was a pup, I have trained him to track lions. He knows what I expect. The last time we were out on a three-day hunt he took off after a deer, then a coyote, and finally some rabbits, and was gone the best part of a full day. He knows he must stay on the trail of the lion. Our business is mountain lions. He’s for sale pretty cheap.”

How often are we led from the right track by distractions that cross our paths? Do we sometimes seek the available “rabbit” when the big game is available up the path?

June pushed as Grandpa pulled the old red wagon up and down the long rows of vegetables. Grandpa stopped to inspect a knee-high, leafy green plant. “June, here are some nice big green peppers. Do you think that they are ready to pick?”
June stooped down to look, just as Grandpa had. “Yup.” She carefully picked one and held it up to Grandpa for final approval.
“Yup,” said Grandpa with a serious look. “Just right.”
June smiled and picked two more. She carefully placed them next to the corn in the wagon. The wagon was almost full, but there were still cucumbers, green beans, and squash to pick. June beamed as she looked at the beautiful fresh vegetables in the wagon. There were big red tomatoes, ears of yellow corn, orange carrots, leafy green lettuce, red radishes, and now big green peppers.
Grandpa and June had planted the big garden in the spring. First they got the soil ready. Next, June helped Grandpa plant seeds in little holes. Then they carefully covered them with dirt. After the seeds were covered, she helped Grandpa sprinkle the rich, dark soil with water. Up and down the long rows they had gone, digging, planting, and watering.
They had also planted small bedding plants. “If we plant these instead of seeds, we’ll get vegetables sooner,” Grandpa had explained. “I just can’t wait to pop a big ripe tomato into my mouth!” Grandpa loved tomatoes!
Together June and Grandpa watered their garden almost every day. Grandpa put on his big black irrigating boots, and June tugged on her little blue rubber puddle hoppers. It was fun walking up and down the long rows, getting their boots muddy while they made sure each plant got enough to drink.
Grandpa and June spent a lot of time weeding the long rows of vegetables too. “Weeds drink up all the water,” Grandpa explained. “Now, what is this I see?” he would ask. June would squat down next to Grandpa to have a look. “Does it look like the plants around it?” Grandpa would ask.
June would compare the green plant to those near it. “Nope.”
“Weed or vegetable?” Grandpa would ask next.
“Weed,” June would state firmly, and she would pull it out with a hard jerk.
“Yup,” Grandpa would say with a big smile, “you sure are a good gardener.”
As June looked up at Grandpa now, she said, “Wow, Grandpa, we sure have lots of vegetables!”
“Yup—with lots more to come!” He unloaded the last acorn squash from the wagon onto the back porch. He sat down and wiped his forehead with his big red handkerchief. June sat down next to Grandpa and wiped her forehead with her little red handkerchief.
“Well, June, do you think we can eat all those vegetables ourselves?”
“Nope,” said June. “We couldn’t eat that many in a hundred years.”
“You’re right,” replied Grandpa with a chuckle. “Well then, what do you think we should do with them all? I would hate to waste any of our hard work.”
June thought a moment. She was proud of the vegetables, and she didn’t want to waste any, either. “I know—let’s share them!”
“Now, that’s what I call a good idea. But who do you think would want some?”
June didn’t have to think very hard before she said, “Sister Rencher doesn’t have a garden since she can’t bend down to pull the weeds anymore. I bet she would like some.”
“Yup,” said Grandpa thoughtfully.
June’s mind was working fast. “Sister Rice works all day. She doesn’t have time for a garden.”
“Good thinking, June. The Sorensons next door don’t have room in their yard for a garden. I bet they would like some.”
“Can we give some vegetables to my Primary teacher, Sister Johnson?” asked June. “I know she would like them.”
“Yup,” said Grandpa. “Now how many people is that?”
June counted on her fingers: “Sister Rencher is one, Sister Rice is two, the Sorensons are three, and Sister Johnson makes four.”
Grandpa scratched his gray head and asked, “How can we get all these vegetables to all those people?”
June rested her head on her hand and thought for a moment. “I know! I know!” She jumped up and went into the house. Soon she was back, carrying four big brown grocery sacks. “We can put vegetables in each sack for each person!”
“That’s a great idea,” said Grandpa.
Together June and Grandpa thoughtfully chose vegetables for each person and carefully put them into the sacks. “How can we get the sacks of vegetables to the people?” asked Grandpa.
“Can we take them in our wagon?”
“Yup, I think that will work,” Grandpa said. “You always have such good ideas. Now whom should we visit first?”
June thought about this for a minute or two. “The Sorensons—they’re the closest.”
Later, June was holding Grandpa’s big hand as they pulled the empty wagon home. They had delivered all their vegetables. June’s small hand felt warm and secure inside Grandpa’s big one. She felt good inside. “Grandpa, it’s sure fun to plant a garden. It’s even more fun to weed and water it. But do you know what’s the most fun of all?”
“What?”
“Sharing the vegetables!”
“Yup,” said Grandpa with a big smile.

For concept #3, I’d like to tell you a personal story. This is a concept that I was relatively clueless about for a long time. Let me explain.

Early in my life I knew I would grow up to be an artist. By the time I left high school I was aware of the path I wanted to take. My heroes were artists who had been illustrators of books and magazines, and later transitioned into what we call “fine artists”—those who create paintings and sell them in galleries. So that was the path I embarked on.

I went to a year of art school at Utah State University before serving a mission to Chile. After my mission, I returned to Utah State, met my wife, Johnna, and convinced her to support me in my dream. It would be necessary for her to work for quite a few years while I climbed the proverbial art-world ladder.

As a side note: fortunately for me, Johnna is brilliant, so she had a career as a software developer and project manager for many years.

After we were married we moved to Los Angeles, where I studied at one of the best illustration schools in the country while Johnna worked for a well-known aerospace company. Jump ahead a few years and we moved to Connecticut, where I could be near New York City and the world’s major publishing houses. Over the next several years I was blessed to be a freelance Illustrator, doing drawings and paintings for hundreds of books and magazines.

As I mentioned, my heroes eventually became fine artists. By the early 2000s we had moved to Teton Valley, Idaho, to be near the Jackson Hole art scene, and my paintings were selling in galleries and hanging in collections. I thought that I would continue down this path the rest of my life. But the Lord had other plans for me.

I consider myself extremely blessed that He let me follow my dream far enough to be successful before he took me down HisHIS path. Starting about 2008, the floundering economy threw a huge wrench into the cogs of my plan. I always knew that if the economy took a turn for the worse, the last thing that people would need was a painting on the wall. I was right—but it was one of those things you don’t exactly want to be right about.

Fortunately, in 2002, I had started teaching as an adjunct faculty member at BYUI in the art department. To my surprise I found that I had an undiscovered love for teaching. I decided to take advantage of the lull in the economy as a chance to go back for a master’s degree.

I’ll skip a lot of details here of the next several years, but there is one important detail that needs to be pointed out. The Lord, knowing I was ready for an important lesson, allowed me to pass through a very difficult phase of life for a while. It included working at four different part-time jobs simultaneously, for several years, just to make ends meet. The struggle was very real and stressful. But that struggle brought me to the point that I was ready to completely give up my will and follow His will. I was willing to go anywhere He wanted me to go, and do anything He wanted me to do, if He would just let me provide for my family.

And that’s when He started opening doors.

In 2011 I moved from the art department to a full-time position in the online department, to work as a media developer. I hadn’t known it, but for years the Lord had been training me for this exact position at this exact time, because my career had taken some unusual twists and turns along the way, and I had become skilled in a lot of areas related to art.

I now have the daily opportunity to serve thousands of my brothers and sisters all around the world each and every day. I still paint pictures, and the economy has recovered, so they sell, but what I do here at BYU-Idaho is what I know the Lord wants me to be doing. What an honor it is for me to play a very small part in the gathering of Zion to prepare the world for the Savior’s Second Coming.

LeGrand Nonales Terceño, as he was playing “I Love to See The Temple” on the piano under the beautiful Acacia trees outside the temple, was amazed when one by one little children drew nearer to him and sang the words of the song. Some of them grabbed their parents’ hands and asked them to sing along.
Some visitors requested him to play their favorite hymns while waiting to enter the temple. One guest said, “You’re inviting the Spirit with your music.”
LeGrand shared, “That lifted me up. I felt that moment Heavenly Father was smiling over us.”

Nicole loves Suriname. So when she heard about a national contest to write an essay about her country, it seemed like a good thing to do. The contest rules said to describe what she would do if she were the Minister of Tourism. In her essay she suggested that historical buildings in Suriname should be cleaned up and beautified and that citizens of Suriname should be friendlier to visitors.
Nicole won the contest for her age group and traveled to Puerto Rico to compete with winners from other countries. Nicole really enjoyed her trip to Puerto Rico. “It is a beautiful country,” she says. “The people there are very kind, and I made lots of friends. But after all, home is home.” She was eager to be with her parents and her four older sisters again. And she was anxious to see her pet cat, Rosy!
At night Nicole likes to listen to the chirping crickets and the croaking frogs and the sounds of life in the woods around her house. She also likes to think of the city, with its government buildings and street signs, flower stalls and food markets. She is happy to be where she is. And she is grateful that, by writing down her thoughts, she was able to share her love for her country with people throughout the world.

For a couple of weeks I had been noticing a small tremor in my right hand. I persuaded myself it was only stress. Raising seven children can be a challenge, but when five of those children have multiple disabilities, life can be overwhelming at times. My schedule was filled with doctors’ appointments, therapies, daily medication routines, and the constant challenge of helping children struggle with seizures, mental retardation, bipolar disorder, and congenital heart disease.
My husband, Ron, had recently been called as bishop of our ward. We were grateful for his opportunity to serve and prayed daily that he would be able to bless the lives of those in our ward. Little did I realize that we would be the ones receiving the blessings.
Finally, I could ignore the tremor no more and sought medical help. As I left the doctor’s office that day, my life had changed forever. Parkinson’s disease was the diagnosis. Questions and fears flooded my mind. How would the disease progress? How would I care for my family? How would I continue to support Ron in his new calling? I longed for answers and desperately needed peace and comfort. The Savior’s words came to my mind: “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid” (John 14:27).
Over the years I had become comfortable with the idea that the Lord had given me my quota of trials; I thought my life would be spent caring for my children with their special needs. I did not resent this idea and even felt great peace and joy as I looked to my future. We had accepted the challenges and disabilities of both our sons, along with raising our two beautiful daughters. We even felt the strong desire to add to our family by adopting three more children with special needs. Each time we entered the adoption process, we experienced miracles as we were guided through each step of the way. There have been tremendous challenges but also tremendous blessings.
In the weeks following my diagnosis I often found myself on my knees, pleading with the Lord. I learned that Parkinson’s is a progressive disease and that I would continue to lose control of my muscles. The more I read, the more frightened I became. I spent many sleepless nights. I also felt an impression from the first words of the diagnosis that there would be no miracles to remove this trial from me and that I needed to learn something from this experience. I felt so alone and wondered if the Lord was displeased with me, if He still loved me.
Then one night, as Ron was getting ready to go to Mutual, there was a knock at our door. We opened the door and found a delicious meal left anonymously on our front porch. A loving note stated that every week on this night a dinner would arrive. As I tasted the goodness of this delicious meal, not only was my body fed, but my spirit also. I realized I am not alone and the Lord does love me. I tasted again of the sweet peace He has promised us. I was grateful for these dear secret angels who honored their baptismal covenants “to mourn with those that mourn” and “comfort those that stand in need of comfort” (Mosiah 18:9). I knew that through the ministering of these “earthly angels” I would find the strength to make it through each day.
It has now been more than three years since we found that first dinner. Every Mutual night since then we have received a wonderful meal, always left anonymously on our front porch. Ward boundaries have changed, and people have moved in and out of our ward. But the meals continue to come. Often I have struggled with a particularly difficult day, forgetting it is our “Secret Angels Day.” And then the doorbell rings, and I find another delicious gift of love.
My disease continues to progress, and there are still many unanswered questions. But I know I am not alone. I have felt the peace that comes from trusting the Lord and accepting His will. I know that many of the trials we encounter in this life are for our good and help turn our weaknesses into strengths. I also know that we do not have to bear our trials alone. The Lord always answers our prayers, but often the answers come through those who are willing to serve and be His “secret angels.”