Gospel Story Finder

On the afternoon of Wednesday, September 30, 1998, a Little League football team in Inkom, Idaho, was on the field for its midweek practice. The team had completed its warm-ups and was starting to run a few plays from scrimmage. Dark clouds were gathering, as they sometimes do in the fall, and it began to rain lightly, but that was of no concern to a group of boys who loved playing football.
Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, a deafening crack of thunder split the air, inseparable from the flash of lightning that illuminated, literally electrified, the entire scene.
At that very moment a young friend of mine, A. J. Edwards, then a deacon in the Portneuf Ward of the McCammon Idaho Stake, was ready for the ball on a handoff that was sure to be a touchdown in this little intersquad bit of horseplay. But the lightning that had illuminated earth and sky struck A. J. Edwards from the crown of his football helmet to the soles of his shoes.
The impact of the strike stunned all the players, knocking a few to the ground, leaving one player temporarily without his sight and virtually all the rest of the players dazed and shaken. Instinctively they started running for the concrete pavilion adjacent to the park. Some of the boys began to cry. Many of them fell to their knees and began to pray. Through it all, A. J. Edwards lay motionless on the field.
Brother David Johnson of the Rapid Creek Ward, McCammon Idaho Stake, rushed to the player’s side. He shouted to coach and fellow ward member Rex Shaffer, “I can’t get a pulse. He’s in cardiac arrest.” These two men, rather miraculously both trained emergency medical technicians, started a life-against-death effort in CPR.
Cradling A. J.’s head as the men worked was the young defensive coach of the team, 18-year-old Bryce Reynolds, a member of the Mountain View Ward, McCammon Idaho Stake. As he watched Brother Johnson and Brother Shaffer urgently applying CPR, he had an impression. I am confident it was a revelation from heaven in every sense of the word. He remembered vividly a priesthood blessing that the bishop had once given his grandfather following an equally tragic and equally life-threatening accident years earlier. Now, as he held this young deacon in his arms, he realized that for the first time in his life he needed to use his newly conferred Melchizedek Priesthood in a similar way. In anticipation of his 19th birthday and forthcoming call to serve a mission, young Bryce Reynolds had been ordained an elder just 39 days earlier.
Whether he audibly spoke the words or only uttered them under his breath, Elder Reynolds said: “A. J. Edwards, in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the power and authority of the Melchizedek Priesthood which I hold, I bless you that you will be okay. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.” As Bryce Reynolds closed that brief but fervent blessing offered in the language of an 18-year-old, A. J. Edwards drew his first renewed breath.
The ongoing prayers, miracles, and additional priesthood blessings of that entire experience—including a high-speed ambulance drive to Pocatello and a near-hopeless LifeFlight to the burn center at the University of Utah—brings to us today a very healthy and robust A. J. Edwards. I also talked on the telephone with Elder Bryce Reynolds, who was serving faithfully in the Texas Dallas Mission. I love these two wonderful young men.

I am a convert to the Church. My conversion began in a bakery where I noticed a young man who seemed to stand out from those around him. I was curious to know what made him different, and I asked him what church he belonged to. As he responded to my question, his missionary companion joined us. When I asked them how I could know more about their church, they scheduled an appointment to visit with me in my apartment.
On the day of their visit, I sensed a calmness and serenity about the two young men, Elder Eric Dorr Hansen and Elder Paulo Alves da Silva. Through the promptings of the Holy Ghost, I felt their message was inspired and true, and I accepted it.
The Holy Ghost recently helped me to reach out to a sister who was experiencing a difficult phase in her life. I shared with her the talk given by President Elaine L. Jack, Relief Society general president, at the September 1990 General Women’s Meeting. (See “These Things Are Manifested unto Us Plainly,” Ensign, November 1990, page 88.) In her talk, President Jack referred to the story of the Savior offering the woman at the well the waters of “everlasting life.” (See John 4:14.)
How grateful I am for the Holy Ghost. That divine link with Deity has not only helped me personally, but it has also helped me bring courage and comfort to someone in need.

I remember the story of one young woman who was put in a similar situation. She was out on a date with a young man. He went out to a remote area, parked the car, turned the key off, and began to move over to the passenger side.

She said, “Stop where you are. I am not that kind of a girl. You take me home, or I will walk.” She was seven or eight miles away from her home. Later, she said, “I was never more frightened in my life when I made the decision, as well as when he took me home, because we were going 90 miles an hour down that country road.” And yet she had already made her decision.

During his last Pan-American karate championship, Felipe wasn’t feeling very confident. But then his dad gave him a priesthood blessing. “After that my mind was better, and that helped me win the championship that day. The last two matches I won, I had only one second left. Everyone thought it was impossible. I did an unexpected move that helped me win, and for me, it was all because of my dad’s blessing.”

“When is your uncle Tanolo going to take you into the kiva?” Little Brown Bear asked. “I am four moons younger than you, yet I was taken into our kiva this day.”
Acuma pulled his rabbit robe closer around his shoulders and sat huddled by the fire, watching the smoke curl upward to add more blackness to the sooty ceiling of the big cave.
“I don’t know,” he said sadly. “I have done everything I am supposed to do.”
“A boy must prove he is now a man before he can enter a kiva,” Little Brown Bear continued. “Have you gone on a hunt?”
“Oh, yes. We stalked the deer through snow and drove him to the edge of our flat mountain. It was my arrow that brought meat to our fire.”
Little Brown Bear shook his head. “I cannot understand. Surely Tanolo is not so cruel that he would tease you.”
Acuma shrugged but did not answer. He had done everything that was required. He knew the legends, his arrow points were well made, he could make fiber from the yucca plant and weave it into heavy sandals, and he could shoot a straight arrow. All these things his cousin from the big cave village had done too, and this day he had been taken into the kiva.
This was an honor for which every Indian boy lived. Yet Acuma could not go. His father said he was well prepared, but Tanolo would not take him. An Indian boy could not be taken to the kiva by his father. At birth an uncle is chosen to be his teacher, and it is this uncle who must take him to the kiva, where he will go through the rituals to become a man.
Acuma glanced at his cousin, wishing Little Brown Bear could tell him what had happened down in the kiva in his own village. But of course, it was a secret.
When Little Brown Bear left for his own cave village, Acuma jumped up and called his brown dog. He threw off the rabbit blanket. He would be running and his body would warm on this winter day.
“I will not shed tears like that foolish Popeta,” he exclaimed, and he dashed off to chase rabbits. Maybe he would kill one with his throwing stick and show his uncle how skilled he was. Acuma’s dog romped along beside him as they scrambled down the side of the canyon to the creek below.
Then he stopped in surprise. Popeta was filling a water jug to carry back up the steep canyon wall to the cave. She seemed small although she was his own age. Her father could not till his cornfield properly because of a lame leg, so the family did not have enough to eat. And because the father could not run fast, he could not kill enough rabbits to make new blankets. The one over Popeta’s shivering shoulders was badly worn.
“You wear no blanket,” Popeta said in surprise, her teeth chattering. “It is cold.”
Acuma squared his brown shoulders. “I am a man, and I do not feel the cold,” he boasted. “I shall run and catch a rabbit for our dinner.” He started off.
Popeta lifted the heavy water jug. As she did so, the blanket fell from her shoulders. Immediately the brown dog grabbed it in his teeth and raced off, dragging it through the thorny bushes.
“Come back, come back!” Popeta cried out. “It is my only blanket.” She spun angrily on Acuma. “Your horrible dog has stolen my blanket. Go get it.”
Then her shivering grew worse and she began to cry as she climbed the canyon wall with the water jug on her head.
Acuma tried to find the dog, but it had raced down the canyon, dragging the blanket. He could see torn scraps hanging on bushes.
“It is no good now anyhow,” he said as he raced along, feeling warm. Soon he threw his curved stick at a rabbit and proudly carried the dead animal home.
“We already have meat for stew, my son,” his mother said while she stirred something in a clay pot over the fire. “You are a great hunter, and my heart is proud. But why not give it to one who has none?”
Acuma strolled over to Popeta’s fire. “Here you will have meat.”
She thanked him, then asked, “Did you find my blanket? Without it I will have nothing to warm me tonight.”
Acuma shrugged. “No I could not find it.”
He forgot about Popeta as he ate his hearty stew that night and sat huddled by the fire, his own warm blanket over his shoulders.
During the night he awoke feeling cold and pulled the rabbit fur blanket up closer. Somewhere he could hear crying.
It is probably that foolish Popeta, he thought. She always cries.
The next day he could not see her by her fire.
“She is not well,” his mother said. “She needs food and warm blankets. But I have none to spare.”
Too bad, Acuma though carelessly and ran off. But every now and then he remembered her crying.
“It is the fault of my dog,” he grumbled to himself. And the more he thought about it, the less he enjoyed the games he played with his friends.
That night he could not sleep. Finally he got up and went to the small dark room behind the cave where Popeta slept.
“Here is my blanket,” he said. “Use it.”
“But it is not yours to give,” she said in surprise.
“I will lend it,” Acuma said, and he hurried back to his room. He was shivering. How cold it was! He found an old feather blanket that was so worn it could not cover him well. But if he curled up in a tight ball in the very corner of his room the blanket kept out a little of the cold. Popeta had been right—he could not give away his blanket, since all things in the family belonged to the mother. Though he used it, the blanket was his mother’s property.
Then I must make Popeta one, he decided.
For many days his friends called him to play games, but he could not because he was hunting rabbits. He had no idea it took so many to make a blanket. He gave the meat either to his mother or to Popeta, and he sat late into the night cleaning and tanning the skins. He sighed wearily. There was so much work and no fun. At times he was tempted to stop, but remembering Popeta’s tears during that cold night kept him going.
And the few hours he slept, he was always cold. He longed for his own rabbit fur blanket again.
After he had collected enough skins, he had to make many, many arrow points—the very best he could. Then he hurried to his cousin’s village, to the Blanket Maker.
“I will give you these fine arrow points if you will make me a blanket,” he said. “But I must have it quickly. The nights get colder and snow is now on the ground.”
Soon the blanket was finished and Acuma took it to Popeta. “This is yours. It should keep you warm.”
Popeta handed him back his own. “You are kind and it is a beautiful blanket. You have brought us so much meat that I am well. My mother and father do not feel hunger either.”
“I shall see that you have meat in your pot,” Acuma said in embarrassment, then hurried to his own campfire.
That night his uncle came to him.
“When the morning sun rises, you will come with me. It is time for you to enter the kiva to learn the things that will make you a man.”
Acuma’s heart leaped with joy. “I am pleased, my uncle. But tell me, why have you chosen the time as now? For these many moons I have been ready—knowing the making of arrow points, yucca fiber, and the hunt.”
“But the one thing you did not know, my son, you have learned,” Tanolo replied. “A boy plays and gives no thought to others. A man gives up his playing when there is work to be done. Because your dog caused misery to another, you did what was you duty to do, and you did it without complaint. I have watched you and my heart is proud. You shall be known as Acuma, the one who has the heart of a man, though his body is still that of a boy.”

When he was four years old, a series of tests disclosed that Stephen Farrance had a type of muscle disease, which, if it progressed as it had been doing, would kill him by the time he was 12.
“The impact and finality of the doctor’s verdict didn’t really register with us,” recalled his mother. “Stephen could do so many things. We just encouraged him to be independent. He had his regular chores to do just like his brother and sister. Then later, when the tendons pulled his feet up and he had to walk on his toes, we withdrew some of his responsibilities but gave him others. He went to a regular school and made a niche for himself.
“I remember one teacher telling me that she called Stephen and a new boy up to her desk at the same time. When Stephen arrived, he braced his feet and placed a hand on her desk. The newcomer said, ‘Are you okay?’, and Stephen said, ‘My feet don’t like to stop walking, and it takes me a minute or two to convince them. But, thanks, I’m fine now.’”

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.”

People I’ve counseled who seem to have the first problem—they can’t stop feeling guilty even after repenting from a transgression—usually have another problem: that of very low self-esteem. They feel that there’s nothing they can do to gain control over their lives because they’re such worthless people. For instance, one woman I know made an unsuccessful suicide attempt after months of feeling desperately lonely and isolated from her family. She blamed herself for this isolation (“If I were a better mother, we’d be a closer family”) and after her attempted suicide simply switched the blame to another aspect (“How could I have committed such a terrible sin?”). Even though her husband, her bishop, and her stake president worked with her in a sustained and loving way to assure her of the Lord’s love for her, she refused to stop feeling guilty because she really didn’t believe she was worthy of forgiveness. In a way, feeling guilty was her reason for living because it enabled her to keep on punishing the “worthless” person she had become.
The solution for both the sister and this brother was basically the same. They started making plans and carrying them through. As they saw that they could make decisions, their self-esteem rose, their guilt decreased, and they were able to see their guilt in perspective.

I still have a small set of scriptures that my mom and dad gave me when I turned seventeen. I will always remember one time as a young woman when I read the Book of Mormon. I had read it before, but this time it was different. Perhaps I was more in tune with the Spirit, or maybe I had studied more diligently or prayed more fervently. This time I wanted to know for myself if the Book of Mormon was true.
As I finished Alma chapter thirty-two, with that wonderful passage about faith, I had a feeling that I recognized as a witness from the Holy Ghost. I knew the Book of Mormon was true. I wanted to tell the whole world how I felt, but I was alone. So with tears of joy streaming down my face, I wrote a big red star at the top of the page and wrote, “May 31, 7:30 A.M. This I know, as if written to me.” Then in the margin on one side, “I have received a confirmation. I know the Book of Mormon is true!” In the other margin I wrote, “One month ago I began fasting each Tuesday for a more sure knowledge. This I know.”

One by one tiny droplets hit the windshield of the bus. Soon a silver mist formed on the glass. The driver reached over and turned a knob. Carlos watched the rhythm of the slim wipers as they flung the droplets into the wind.

Carlos brushed away the tears that had formed in the corners of his dark eyes. It will be lonesome this Christmas without Papa, he thought. He remembered last Christmas, with Papa laughing and bouncing little Maria on his knee. Now Mama worked, Carlos went to school, and Maria stayed with a baby-sitter.

Carlos sighed. Two days till Christmas, he mused. I haven’t a present for Mama or Maria, and I’ve spent my last quarter for the bus.

Carlos had wanted to buy the flowered scarf he’d seen his mother admire. And for Maria he’d seen a fuzzy white lamb in a toy shop window.

The boy felt inside his pocket one more time. There was the strange-looking button he had found on the sidewalk today. And, of course, the silver dollar. The dollar had been a tenth birthday present from Papa. But Carlos couldn’t spend that. It was the last thing his father had given him before his death. Whenever Carlos felt the coin, he thought about Papa.

The bus hissed to a stop, the front doors snapped open, and a man wearing a mud-spattered raincoat got on.

What a mess! Carlos thought. Mr. Raincoat’s hat is squashed too. Maybe the car that spattered mud on his coat ran over his hat. And he looks tired.

As Mr. Raincoat paused to shake the water from his coat, the bus lurched, and he plopped into the seat next to Carlos. The man settled into his seat, and Carlos heard him mumbling to himself: “Why did my car have to break down on a rainy Sunday when the garages are closed? I enjoy walking in the rain, but not pushing a car on a busy street.”

Then, relaxing a little, Mr. Raincoat looked at Carlos and smiled.

Carlos watched the water spray up from the passing cars, then glanced at Mr. Raincoat’s window reflection. The man has the same smile Papa had, he thought. As he gazed at the shimmering lights through the wet window, Carlos breathed a long, shaky sigh.

“What a deep sigh,” Mr. Raincoat ventured. “With Christmas only two days away, I suppose you’ll have a big family celebration.”

“Yes,” Carlos said, folding his arms. Every time the man spoke, Carlos felt more lonesome for Papa. He felt relieved when he saw his stop coming up. Carlos reached up and pulled the signal cord. “Excuse me,” he said.

Mr. Raincoat stood up and said, “I’m getting off here too.”

Several people stepped off with Carlos and Mr. Raincoat. A cold wind ruffled Carlos’s thick hair. He turned up his jacket collar, shoved his hands into his pants pockets, and fingered the silver dollar as he started down the street. Something made him stop when he heard someone say to Mr. Raincoat, “Mister, did you know you have a button missing from your raincoat?”

“Yes, thanks, I do,” Mr. Raincoat answered. “I’ve looked all over for it. After church I even stopped at my office. I thought I might have lost it there. I often walk this way, so I’ll look for it again as I walk home.”

Carlos paused for a moment to tie his shoelace. He heard their fellow passenger continue: “I hope you find it. Your coat buttons are very unusual. It would be a shame not to have a complete set.”

“Yes, it would. They’re antique silver. My wife gave them to me last year,” Mr. Raincoat responded.

Carlos retied his other shoe and waited until the two men strolled closer. He raised his eyes so he could see Mr. Raincoat’s buttons. Then he stood up and pushed his hand deep into his pocket. His fingers found the button. Carlos knew it matched the buttons on the man’s raincoat. It must be valuable if it’s an antique, he decided. It’s silver, too, so that means I could get a lot of money for it.

Carlos imagined how pleased Mama would be when she unwrapped her scarf and how Maria’s eyes would sparkle when she buried her face in the fuzzy lamb’s wool.

In the middle of his happy thoughts he heard Mr. Raincoat saying, “My wife bought these buttons when we were in Spain last year. As a surprise last Christmas, she sewed them on my favorite coat. Every time I button my coat I think of her. She died shortly after Christmas last year. Because of these buttons, I’ve had some interesting conversations and made many new friends. Her gift has helped me in my loneliness.”

Carlos’s throat tightened. Pulling the silver button out of his pocket, he strode toward the two men. He handed the button to Mr. Raincoat. “Merry Christmas, sir,” he said. Then he hurried down the street toward home.

Like Jared Carter and Stephen Burnett (see Doctrine and Covenants 79 and 80), modern missionaries also need a witness that they are called of the Lord.
Thousands of missionaries had their mission calls changed because of the coronavirus. For example, Curtis and Ramona Miller were reassigned to a different mission because of the virus. They testified: “We have a strong testimony that it does not matter where we serve but that we are willing to serve. As we allow the Savior’s hand to guide our life, He qualifies us for this work.”
Jared Carter (1801–49)
Baptized by Hyrum Smith in 1831 in Colesville, New York.
Preached in Ohio, Pennsylvania, New York, and Vermont in 1831 and 1832.
Went to Hiram, Ohio, to ask Joseph Smith what the will of the Lord was for him.
Joseph Smith received a revelation directing him to preach again in the eastern United States (see Doctrine and Covenants 79).
Stephen Burnett (1813–85)
Baptized by John Murdock in 1830 in Warrensville, Ohio.
Ordained a high priest at age 17.
Appointed to preach with Eden Smith (see Doctrine and Covenants 80:2), but Eden became ill.
Began his mission instead with Eden’s father, John Smith.
Curtis and Ramona Miller
Looking at options on the Church’s senior missionary website, the Millers selected eight possible locations—most of which were in Polynesia and Europe.
Their call came to serve in the Democratic Republic of the Congo.
They would need to learn French.
After three and a half months in Africa, the Millers were reassigned to serve in Georgia, USA, because of COVID-19.

President Kasue immediately obtained a copy of the registration document and took it to the assistant chief of Chyulu Village to assure the rights of the Church to operate legally. The Saints could now meet without fear, and their membership soon increased to about 40. They needed a place to meet, but a mission had not yet been established and no meetinghouse was provided. The members built a small bower on President Kasue’s land.
In July 1991 the Kenya Nairobi Mission was organized with Larry Brown as president. Soon he and Sister Brown made a visit to Chyulu. “Although the trip was grueling, it was worth it!” says President Brown. “I remember that the sacrament meeting was held in the bower, but it was raining and the ground inside was wet. Before the priesthood holders knelt down to bless the sacrament, they threw an old sack on the mud. The next time we went, I happened to look in the sacrament trays, and there were only two small pieces of crackers. … They broke those crackers up. There were 63 people there, and I didn’t think those crackers would ever go around, but they did. It was like feeding the 5,000.”7

One special experience I remember was when I was going through a little rebellious period. It felt like I could see so many of my parents’ flaws, and I felt that they had no right to counsel me how to live my life. Although I lived worthy to go to the temple, I was questioning my father’s role as the head of our family. But when we went to the temple together to do baptisms and confirmations, I felt the presence of a sweet spirit. As my father laid his hands on my head to confirm me on behalf of people who had passed away, I felt the Spirit confirm to me that he was acting by the true authority of the priesthood. This made me realize that although my father was not perfect, he was still a good father and I was blessed to be his son. I felt I needed to repent of my rebelliousness and try to see the wisdom and love of his admonitions.

When I was 12 years old, I took my new hatchet on a camping trip. I arrived after dark and volunteered to chop some firewood. I expected it to be easy since the hatchet’s blade was sharp and the handle was strong. But the hatchet didn’t work well at all. I had to chop hard and long to cut the logs. I finished the job feeling very frustrated.
Then I got closer to the campfire and saw the problem—I had left the hatchet cover on! In that moment, I learned that when things seem hard, it is important to look more carefully at what’s going on, instead of just getting frustrated.

Christopher found his job using another technique he learned in the workshops at the fair. He applied for a job, but at the time there were no openings. When he followed up a few days later he said, “I know that it costs you something to train new employees. I will volunteer to come in and learn whatever you would like me to learn on my own time and then if you think I can do the job to your satisfaction I will be trained and ready to go to work when you have an opening.” This initiative impressed his employer enough that he interviewed him and hired him on the spot. Although the restaurant is open on Sunday, Christopher’s employer respects his beliefs and has not required that he come in and work on that day.

Relief Society sisters in Billingham Stake came together to sort items for the Somewhere Else charity in Stockton. Assisted by missionaries, Elder Bevan and Elder Landers, the sisters enthusiastically transported bags of pasta, washing-up liquid, flour, stock cubes, and other items to fill care packages. A group of members and missionaries went to the Somewhere Else premises to complete and finish off the care packages ready for distribution. Carole Le Darcy, a member of Billingham Ward, founder and CEO of the charity Somewhere Else, recalls: “I was delighted with the offer of help to purchase much-needed items for our beneficiaries and overwhelmed with the response from church members who came together to sort and package in preparation for distribution. ...It was wonderful to have the missionaries and church members come to our building, and with a little help from some of our beneficiaries, the project was complete. We are so grateful for all the church has done to support our charity, I only wish that you could see the joy and gratitude in the faces of the recipients.”

Álvaro Emiro and Maritza Ariza recently took their five children, ages one through ten, to the temple. They first walked 40 minutes to catch a bus. Then after a two-hour bus ride, they arrived in Barbosa, where they joined a busload of members led by Ismael Carreño, president of the Barbosa Branch, Duitama Colombia District. After another bus ride of nearly five hours, they reached the temple and were sealed as a family.

This question tasted especially bitter during the tougher seasons of life. Like when I experienced medical problems and hospital visits instead of the good health I prayed for. Or when I struggled with feelings of loneliness while watching friends and siblings find companionship. Even though I had plenty to be grateful for, questions about absent blessings remained heavy in my heart. Where was the simple “ask and receive” relationship the scriptures promised? During one period of time in particular, I felt especially betrayed by God. I found myself questioning if the scriptures were true, and if it was worth it to keep going to church and remain temple worthy.

I realized that I had a decision to make.

I would be lying if I said that I just decided to be faithful and that “gospel grit” alone got me through. The truth is that I was fortunate to have supportive friends and family members who encouraged my faith, even when they weren’t aware that I was struggling. I was lucky that my employment was a faith-tolerant atmosphere instead of a toxic one. And I was blessed with callings that helped me remain involved in my ward without being overwhelming. My heart aches for people who don’t have a similar combination of positive circumstances to help them get through periods of doubt. With all this help and a desire in my heart to understand the truth about God, I decided to remain active in the Church, even though it was painful at times.

Over time, I learned an important lesson: God had created me with two hands, each capable of holding something at the same time. Spiritually speaking, just because I had “picked up” a doubt or question in one hand didn’t mean that I had to let go of all the gospel truths I held in my other hand. It often felt like I was metaphorically holding on to the iron rod and pressing forward while dragging these questions behind me. But I didn’t really see an alternative. I didn’t want to ignore the questions I had, and I also couldn’t deny the spiritual truths I already knew. So, although it was exhausting, I found ways to honor both parts of my feelings.

For example, when Sunday Church meetings seemed incredibly draining, I decided to stay only long enough to take the sacrament, committing that I would always show up at least for that ordinance. When scripture study became a source of frustration, I decided to just read Psalms or other verses that were comforting to my soul. And please don’t get me wrong—I’m not suggesting that we adopt these as longtime habits or look for reasons to excuse ourselves from what prophets and apostles have recommended. But this allowed me, during that particular season, to remain close to God while exploring my questions with an open heart. The whole time, I pleaded in prayer for increased understanding.

Time passed. I got better at gripping the iron rod more tightly while holding my doubts more loosely. Church, scripture study, and prayer became easier to participate in once more. And eventually, a couple of specific life events helped lead me to the answer I was searching for.

The first event was an intense health challenge, including long periods where I struggled to digest meals, and food seemed like an enemy I was forced to live with each day. It was an extremely frustrating situation. Little did I know that this trial would help me recognize a precious truth. The second event that helped me discover my long-awaited answer was hearing a Church leader invite us to study the scriptures topically. As I thought about which topic to study, I felt impressed to study food in the scriptures.

As I used the Topical Guide to read every verse about food that I could find, I was led to Matthew 7—one of the chapters with the “ask and receive” promise that had always seemed so confusing. But this time, I was reading these verses with food and nutrition in mind. Verses 9–11 say:
“Or what man is there of you, whom if his son ask bread, will he give him a stone?
“Or if he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent?
“If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your Father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask him?”

I thought about how those verses describe God as a giver of nourishment. And then it dawned on me. All my life, I had read the “ask and receive” promise with a modern mindset. As I read about the child asking for a fish, I pictured my friend’s daughter begging for a pet puppy. But these verses aren’t talking about childish wants. They’re talking about essential nourishment—bread and fish, sources of food. These verses aren’t telling us that God will give us whatever we want and ask Him for. They are teaching us that God will give us whatever we need and ask Him for. He will always nourish His children, strengthening them enough to face the challenges that come their way.

Now I see that Matthew 7 describes God as a giver of nourishment. He will give us not what we want and ask for but what we need and ask for.

After I made that connection, Matthew 7 finally fit in perfectly with my understanding of God and His plan of happiness. I have come to see that when the scriptures invite us to knock and promise that a door will be opened, the doorway they are talking about is not a magical portal to an easier life. Instead, it’s more like a doorway to a roadside soup kitchen, which will appear wherever we are along our mortal journey. If we enter that doorway, we will find the Bread of Life and Living Water, He who provided fish for His disciples and promises us an eventual land of milk and honey.

Years ago, Matthew 7 was a source of pain and confusion. But today, those same verses are a source of joy. Not only do they remind me of what I’ve learned about the nourishment that God and Jesus offer, but they also remind me of what I’ve learned about grappling with gospel questions.

I still have unanswered gospel questions. And you know what? I bet I will throughout the rest of my life. But as I carry those questions, I will never give up holding on to what I know is true. I trust now more than ever that God will reveal His answers when we are prepared to receive them—either collectively as a Church or individually as His children. And most of all, I hope we can be compassionate to those around us who are struggling.

If you are struggling, don’t give up hope. Answers will come. One day, we will see all promises fulfilled. I look forward to the time described in Revelation 21:4, which says, “God shall wipe away all tears from [our] eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.”

Visit the home of James Christensen and you will find that his walls are full of windows onto some other world. Go to a gallery where his paintings hang and you will find more windows. The worlds beyond those windows hold dragons and dwarves, wise fools and magic fish, homemade spaceships and angels.
Brother Christensen is a professor of art at Brigham Young University and enjoys a national reputation as a fantasy artist. His work has appeared in Time/Life Books’ series The Enchanted World, as well as on many book covers and in magazines. He has served as president of the National Academy of Fantastic Art. His paintings are exhibited in galleries throughout the United States.
First of all because it’s fun, and I love doing it. Also because I agree with Lloyd Alexander, the popular fantasy author, who feels that fantasy is an essential ingredient in a balanced intellectual and emotional diet. He warns of “spiritual malnutrition” if we limit ourselves to a strict diet of reality. He adds that fantasy, unfortunately, has come to be seen as dessert, whereas in a well-balanced life, it is one of the four basic food groups. Without it, we are in danger of believing that the world is so totally ordered and “figured out” that there aren’t any miracles left around the corner.
Madeline L’engle, another respected author, suggests that as we grow up we are taught to surrender our sense of wonder. When we were little we could see angels. We could walk on water. We knew that anything was possible, and yet we’re taught to repress that faith and openness, that willingness to accept things as possible, in order to become adults and deal with the “real” world.
Fantasy is one place where we can nurture our sense of wonder, where we can keep our intuition of the wonderful possibilities life affords.
As children, it was acceptable for us to use fantasy and play to experiment with various solutions to the problems of reality. We explored the possibilities in imaginary worlds where the right and wrong of things were easily identifiable, and the consequences of wrong choices—selfishness, ignorance, jealousy—could be examined, and felt, but tempered in the end by benign magical rules that allowed us to mend our ways and live happily ever after. Our fantasies were also a place for us to renew ourselves, to refresh our souls and give us strength to deal with the real world.
I believe that we still need that oasis of wonder at least as much as we did when we were children.
Not at all. It can be the means of expressing some very profound truths. Fantasy may not correspond to the surface reality of our day-to-day lives, but it often catches a glimpse of a better, deeper reality. As C. S. Lewis proved in the Chronicles of Narnia, it can sometimes capture the most profound truths of all.
Yes, by exercising it. Imagination muscles have to be developed the same as physical muscles. I believe very strongly that just as wagon wheels once carved ruts by traveling over the same road too many times, we make ruts in our minds and then lose the ability to leave them. Life gets to be a pattern, and it’s too easy to follow the old trails. There are familiar answers for everything, so we stay in those ruts, and we don’t ever strike out across the field to find out what’s behind those trees or beyond that mountain. We don’t even need to steer as long as we stay in the rut.
Children make new paths naturally and unself-consciously because their minds are so open. They don’t compare their thoughts to great people’s thoughts or say, “Is this idea as good as so-and-so’s?” or “Is this meaningful?”
As we get older, especially about the time we reach junior high school, we become more self-conscious, and peer pressure takes over. We jump into the rut so that nobody who’s in there already can point across the field at us and say, “What is that idiot doing?” So we stifle ourselves, and ultimately too many of us lose our ability to imagine. That’s a terrible loss because imagination is an intrinsic part of what makes us human.
The next thing to realize is that creativity is not making something from nothing. Creativity is taking information that we already have and putting it together in a new way. Our brain can be compared to a card catalog in a library. When we’re born we’ve got millions of blank cards. In mortality we fill in the cards. And every card is a single perception. Creativity is simply taking the cards and putting them together in a new order or new combination. In order to be creative we need to associate ideas freely and be willing to try unlikely combinations in the hope that something might come of it.
But first, we must have cards in our catalogs. If somebody only knows 50 words, his ability to write a great novel is seriously impaired. The more knowledge you have of as many things as possible, the more cards there are in your card catalog, the more worthwhile combinations you can make. Read books; look at pictures; study science and language and history. The more you know, the more creative you can be.
The source can be anything. I’ve always read voraciously. Lately, I’ve been listening to books on tape while I paint. Last year I listened to 50 books on tape—all kinds of things. I’m feeding my card catalog.
Many have. When I first read the Chronicles of Narnia by C. S. Lewis I said, “This person has imagination, whimsy, delight, wonder, exploration, and yet there’s the Savior right at the center of the book. There are metaphors for selfishness, for selflessness, for sacrifice and atonement. There is the gospel put in a nongospel context. And he’s not writing just for a religious audience. He’s accepted out there in the real world.” I found the same thing with J. R. R. Tolkien. This happened while I was in college. The fact that their fantasy was considered as a viable kind of expression gave me the courage to say, “Why don’t I try to do the same sort of thing visually and see what happens?”
Another great influence is the Book of Mormon. I know that it is real and true, but it is also a great epic adventure. There are ancestral swords and directional devices that work and don’t work according to our feelings and attitudes. There are natural disasters and divine interventions and quests and wars and miracles.
The best of my overtly religious painting may be the best things that I paint, but they’re very hard for me to paint because I don’t want to simply illustrate. I have no interest in doing things that are sentimental and one-dimensional. I want my paintings to have layers of meaning within them.
The other reason it’s difficult is that I have very tender feelings on the subject of religion. I have very deep feelings about the gospel and the Savior. What if I put those feelings on canvas and my ability doesn’t reach the level of my belief? Or what if it’s not read correctly by people? What if they say, “That’s not a very good painting?” They’re saying I don’t have a very good belief. It’s too personal to put on the block. It would be like bearing your testimony to somebody and having them say, “So?”
Both. I believe very much that art is for people. It is a communication medium. A painting is not complete until others have seen it and responded to it. My paintings are meant to excite the imagination and invite the viewer to become a participant in the creative process. And so while much of contemporary art repels and confronts the viewer, I try to entice him with detail, fantasy, and a lot of fun things that will make him want to stop and look. And then hopefully he keeps going down through the layers of the onion, and finds out that the more time and thought he’s willing to put in, the more is revealed. Some people just like to look at the designs and the doodahs and the costumes, and other people will pick their way down through it and get meaning. And the fantasy allows that to happen very easily because I’m not constrained by gravity or location or costume or anything real.
Once involved, the viewer not only discovers, but actually helps shape and create the meaning of a piece, making connections and discovering echoes of shared experience. If his interpretation goes beyond my original intention, I’m delighted. Not only has my work been the catalyst for a creative experience, but the painting itself is enlarged. I like the idea that art is a “trigger,” a point of departure for the viewer. I want to give him enough stimulation, enough “raw material” that he can take off on his own fantasy. I want to activate his imagination.
I think the most important thing is to believe in yourself, and then pay the price. It does not come easily. You have to work for it and not lose your vision, because nobody makes it right off. It’s only through dedication and persistence that you eventually prevail.
I also think it’s essential that our spiritual side be developed along with our craftsmanship. Fifteen years ago I had a conversation with Elder Boyd K. Packer. He said, “As an artist what is your concern?” and I said, “My problem is that I watch the non-LDS artists paint 50 paintings a year and I paint 25 because I have made a commitment that I will seek first the kingdom of heaven. I will be active in the Church, and so I’ll be Young Men president and take my kids around to collect fast offerings and go to Mutual and go home teaching and all those things that eat up one’s time, while other artists can paint twice as much as I do. And because the more you paint the better you get, they just keep on outdistancing me.”
He said, “Why do you fail to recognize that with the help of the Spirit, which is what you’re spending all that time being active in the Church attempting to obtain, you can accomplish more in 10 paintings than another painter can in 30 or 40? It’s not the quantity of paintings, but the quality of the spirit within you that will move you to do good work.” And his words just went right to my heart.
Of course, just being spiritual isn’t enough by itself either. It’s by growing in both areas, making our skills and our spirit grow side by side, that wonderful works of art in music or literature or painting or whatever medium will be created. I try to tell my students at BYU not to compartmentalize. We cannot separate our spiritual development from our artistic development. We must work at both.
I don’t think being a member of the Church inhibits anybody from getting out there and succeeding in the world. I’m pleased when somebody comes up to me—as they did recently when I was at a show in California—and says, “I don’t understand your work. I’m delighted by it, but I have a feeling that you’re keeping a secret, that there’s something going on that I don’t know about. You know something that I don’t—something good.” It pleased me to think that somehow a little of that showed through. Essentially the gospel is what makes the difference. People find it refreshing to meet somebody positive.
I think that every serious artist reaches a point in his career when the question is no longer, “Can I paint this thing? Do I have the skill and mastery of technique to accomplish this idea?” After years of study and experience one develops the ability to paint anything. Then the more difficult and frightening question arises: “Do I have anything to say? Am I just a highly skilled technician or do I have something significant within me to share?” I think that you have to believe that you do in order to keep working. Whether you really contribute anything will not be resolved until after checkout time.

Observing the clock, I fold the notes that I have prepared and place them in my inside pocket. But let me take just a moment to mention a little incident that made an impression upon me when I was a boy. This came to my mind when it was mentioned that there are with us this afternoon a large group of dedicated people who teach our youth.
It was on a summer day early in the morning. I was standing near the window. The curtains obstructed me from two little creatures out on the lawn. One was a large bird and the other a little bird, obviously just out of the nest. I saw the larger bird hop out on the lawn, then thump his feet and cock his head. He drew a big fat worm out of the lawn and came hopping back. The little bird opened its bill wide, but the big bird swallowed the worm.
Then I saw the big bird fly up into a tree. He pecked at the bark for a little while and came back with a big bug in his mouth. The little bird opened its beak wide, but the big bird swallowed the bug. There was squawking in protest.
The big bird flew away, and I didn’t see it again, but I watched the little bird. After a while, the little bird hopped out on the lawn, thumped its feet, cocked its head, and pulled a big worm out of the lawn.
God bless the good people who teach our children and our youth, I humbly pray, in Jesus’ name. Amen.