Gospel Story Finder

When I was young, my friends and I often played ball in an alley behind our home. A woman named Mrs. Shinas rented a tiny house nearby, and she used to watch us play from her window. She rarely came out of her house, and when she did, she never smiled. We all thought that she was mean. She had a big dog, an English setter, and whenever one of our baseballs rolled in its direction—which happened often—Mrs. Shinas would send the dog to fetch it. We wouldn’t see the ball again. Soon we ran out of baseballs.

In those days, we didn’t have lawn sprinklers, and so each day I watered our lawn by hand with a hose. One day as I stood watering our little stretch of grass, I noticed that Mrs. Shinas’s lawn looked a little shabby. It took only a few more minutes to water it, too, and soon I was watering her lawn each day.

When autumn came that year, one of my tasks was to clear our yard of leaves. I sprayed the ground with a hose, pushing the leaves into a pile with the force of the water. I decided to gather up the leaves on Mrs. Shinas’s yard as well, and as I was doing this one day, she came to her door and beckoned for me to come inside. I turned off the hose and went into her house.

She invited me to sit in her living room, and she gave me a cookie and a glass of milk. As I sat there eating my cookie, she showed me her collection of little china dogs. I could tell that they were her most prized possession. Then she thanked me for taking care of her lawn. It was the first conversation I had ever had with her.

Mrs. Shinas then went into her kitchen and returned with a box. In it were all the baseballs that her dog had taken. She handed me the box, said thank you—and smiled! It was the first time I’d ever seen her smile.

My beloved brothers and sisters of the great Church of Jesus Christ, I would like you to know how humble I am at this great opportunity. I kind of like Ed Gardner’s story. His wife is hard of hearing and she wore a hearing aid; as they sat one evening in the living room, and she was knitting and looking down, he looked out over his newspaper and, speaking about his wife, he said, “You know, I am just kind of proud of you.” And she looked up and said, “You know, I am getting tired of you, too.”

My parents exemplified this love in so many ways. They had a large family, with many grandchildren, some of whom chose to step away from the Church or follow paths that diverged from its teachings. Yet, to my knowledge, my parents never criticized, coerced, or tried to change their grandchildren in an effort to “save” them. They left judging and saving to the Savior and simply loved them. Their home was a place where everyone felt welcomed and safe, regardless of their religious beliefs, sexual orientation, or political or world views.
Grandchildren could tell them about anything and be themselves around them without fear of rejection. My parents spent time with them, listened to them, and built relationships with them.
In the days leading up to my mother’s passing, I witnessed her grandchildren—most now in their 20s and 30s—weeping as they gathered around the bed of their cherished grandmother. This small white-haired woman, along with my father, had ministered to them, valued them, welcomed them, and loved them without conditions. My parents were faithful Latter-day Saints who understood that loving others, even when their beliefs or choices differ from our own, doesn’t diminish our faith or change our beliefs. We lose nothing by loving all of God’s children.

Nothing is more inspiring than to see youth praise God by honoring him on his holy day. Let me recount the story of one of them to you. Eric Liddell had been raised in China by missionary parents. When he returned to Scotland for his education, he discovered while playing rugby that he was fast on his feet. Those who watched him run called it sheer artistry. He was a wild runner, technically imperfect, but with exultant, liquid speed.
As Liddell continued to run, he began to receive honors. Friends pushed him to train for the Olympics, but his devoutly religious sister, Jennie, thought it would turn his attention from God. She knew he couldn’t be half-hearted about anything and she said, “Be honest with me. How much time will you have left for God?”
But Liddell’s father advised him differently. “Run in His name … and let the world stand back in wonder.”
And wonder it did. Liddell became known as the “Flying Scotsman,” making the 1924 British Olympic team with ease. On the way to Paris for the games, however, a reporter tossed him a question that startled Liddell. “What about Sunday? Do you think you can beat the Yanks?”
Liddell had not known that the heat for the 100-meter race he was scheduled to run in was on Sunday. The news made him a quiet passenger, and his sister’s words echoed in his mind: “Your mind’s not with us anymore, Eric.” It was heartbreakingly clear to him what he had to do. He could not run in the race, even if it meant undoing all the years of training, even if it meant disappointing his teammates.
They took the news badly, and Lord Birkenhead, who was leading the group, took it worse. “Won’t run?” he bellowed and turned red. He simply couldn’t understand.
Liddell responded, “I’m not sure that I understand. … I’ve run, driven myself, and run and run again for three whole years just to be on this ship. I gave up rugby, my work has suffered, I’ve even deeply hurt someone I hold very dear. Because, I told myself, if I won, I would win for God—it was his will. And now I find myself sitting here destroying it all, with a couple of words. But I have to. To run would be against God’s law.”
The pressure on Liddell didn’t end there. In Paris, he was called into a special meeting with Lord Birkenhead and the Prince of Wales himself. Had he no allegiance to king and country? “There are times,” said the Prince, “when we are asked to make sacrifices in the name of that loyalty. Without them, our allegiance is worthless. As I see it, for you this is such a time.”
Liddell was uncomfortable, but unmoved, and the tense situation was only resolved when a teammate entered the room and offered to give up his spot on a 400-meter race on Thursday so that Liddell could still run.
That Sunday at church, Liddell read from Isaiah 40:31. [Isa. 40:31] It was not an easy day for him, for he longed to be running for the gold, but he told the congregation what he told himself: “But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.”
Later that week at the 400-meter race, he had his chance to take the Lord at his word. As the runners lined up at their marks, rumors circulated among the crowd that Liddell would never win this race. He was a sprinter, fast in the short haul, but could he take this quarter-mile distance? But as he stood at the line, Liddell received a boost that the crowd didn’t know. One of the top runners on the American team handed him a folded piece of paper that read, “In the Old Book, it says, ‘He that honors me, I will honor.’”
Liddell won that race that day. He got his gold. In doing so, those who watched believed he had passed the supreme test. He had found the courage to throw his head back, push his heart until it almost burst, and cross the finish line ahead of all contenders. But that was not really the supreme test. The supreme test he had passed on the boat on the way to France, in the meeting with the Prince of Wales, and again that Sunday while he watched the race he might have run. The supreme test in any life is whether one can stick to his highest ideals when glory or expedience pressures us away from them. (Excerpted from W. J. Weatherby, Chariots of Fire, Dell/Quicksilver, pp. 50–165.)

Twice a year, before the sun came up on Saturday morning, the youth from the East Shores (Michigan) Ward would pile into cars and vans. For the next four or five hours they would sleep, sing, play games, and anticipate their destination: the Toronto Ontario Temple. They would spend the afternoon doing temple work, then pile back in the vehicles and arrive home late in the evening.
Now the East Shores youth travel to the temple six times each year, but the travel time has been cut to about 25 minutes since the Detroit Michigan Temple was dedicated in October 1999.

Blessings
When President Gordon B. Hinckley gave the dedicatory prayer at the Detroit Michigan Temple, he prayed that the people who performed the temple work, as well as those who had passed away, would be blessed. With the temple so close, the East Shores youth have had plenty of opportunities to experience the blessings of temple work.
Many of the East Shores youth were at the temple when President Hinckley gave the dedicatory prayer. At that time, they had many expectations of what it would be like to have a temple so close. Now, more than a year later, they are looking back to see if their expectations were met.

Great expectations
When the Detroit temple was announced, Jessica Ellison, an East Shores Mia Maid, could hardly wait. “I remember the exciting feeling of knowing there would be a temple closer and we’d get a lot more chances to go.”
Michael Oniones, a teacher, shared in the excitement. “I knew it would be a lot easier to do the things we used to do at Toronto and other temples because it would be in our own backyard. We could go whenever we wanted.”
Jessica and Michael got their wish.
“We go every other month now,” says Erin Coons, a Mia Maid. “The Young Men and the Young Women switch; the girls go one month, and the next month the boys go.”
This is quite a change from the twice-a-year trip to Canada. But even though the temple is so close, the East Shores youth say going there is like entering another world.

Coming together
Although the greatest expectation the youth had was to attend the temple more often, they have been flooded with other blessings.
In the temple, sacred work is performed that connects families through the generations. The East Shores youth say that, as they work in the temple together, they forge strong bonds with each other.
“You get to know the girls in your ward better because you go together,” Erin says.
The friendship the Young Men and Young Women develop as they attend the temple is stronger than with their other friends because of the important work they do in the temple.
“There aren’t many people you get to share such a spiritual thing with,” says Krista Lyke, a Laurel. “There’s a bond with those girls that you don’t have with your outside-church friends.”
A missionary now
One blessing that wasn’t expected by the East Shores youth was the opportunity the temple would present for sharing the gospel. But when a granite building with a gold angel appears on one of the main streets in town, people ask questions.
Erin took two of her friends through the temple during the open house.
“Even though they weren’t extremely interested in learning more,” Erin says, “it just felt nice to share with them what I believe in.”
A greater respect
The Detroit temple is one of the new, smaller temples. Since there is minimal staff, those attending are expected to help keep it clean. This means that when the youth finish with baptisms, they wipe around the baptismal font, help do the laundry, and make sure everything is left in order.
“It makes it more personal to you because you’ve taken care of it,” Jessica says.
Some of the cleaning responsibilities may not seem very pleasant, like cleaning the bathrooms. But, as Mike says, since it’s the temple, it’s a privilege, not a chore. “If you clean the bathroom, people may not think that’s so great,” Mike says, “but still, you’re cleaning the bathroom in the temple, and even to be in the temple is a great thing.”
Challenges
When Moses was leading the Children of Israel through the wilderness, fiery flying serpents came down and bit them. After they had been bitten, the Lord presented a way for them to be healed. All they had to do was look at a serpent on Moses’ staff (Num. 21:8–9). “And because of the simpleness of the way, or the easiness of it, there were many who perished” (1 Ne. 17:41).
Since the Detroit temple has been built, the East Shores youth say it is quite easy to attend. But as it was with the people who died from the fiery serpents because the cure was so easy, it is also easy to say, “The temple is close by; I can go any time; I’ll skip this month and go next month.”
“We have to go to the temple on Tuesday or Thursday because we save the weekends for other stakes and wards that aren’t close,” says Krista. “So you have to change your priorities, because, if you’re in sports and you have a practice, you have to decide what’s more important, your practice or going to the temple.”
“Life doesn’t stop for you,” says Chris Young, a teacher. “Being closer to the temple does make it easier, but you still have to plan for it.”
Blessings closer to home
The East Shores youth say they are enjoying the blessings President Hinckley prayed for in the dedicatory prayer. One of the things he prayed for was that the temple would “shine as a bright and welcome light, a refuge from the storms and stresses of the world.”
Jessica, like the rest of the youth, says the temple has done that. “When you get to go, you don’t have to worry about anything. You feel so calm and special, and you don’t have the worldly matters to deal with anymore.”
As more temples are built around the world, more youth are enjoying the blessings and feelings of the Spirit that come with frequent temple attendance. “I feel that feeling more now,” says Mike. “Before we had to go far, to Canada. And now that the temple is closer, the feeling is closer.”
“There are many areas of the Church that are remote, where the membership is small and not likely to grow very much in the near future. Are those who live in these places to be denied forever the blessings of the temple ordinances? While visiting such an area a few months ago, we prayerfully pondered this question. The answer, we believe, came bright and clear” (Ensign, Nov. 1997, 49).
—President Gordon B. Hinckley
“‘Come to the temple.’ If not now, come soon. Pray fervently, set your lives in order, save whatever you can in hopes that that day may come. … The temple transforms the individual and makes abundantly worthwhile any efforts made to get there. For some who live at great distances from a temple, the temples will come to you before you might come to them. Keep your faith and your hope and determine that you will come—that you will be worthy and that you will come to the temple” (The Holy Temple, pamphlet, 1982, 1).
—President Boyd K. PackerActing President of the Quorum of the Twelve

I have a hero. She does not know that I think of her as a hero. I have met her only once, but the impression she left on me was lasting. After meeting her I inquired about her of the missionaries, her stake president, and the mission president, and I found even more reasons to respect her. She is Sister Ye Hui Hua of the Tainan Taiwan Stake. I met her when I was visiting Tainan for a stake conference. She was tending the grounds of the meetinghouse. I was drawn to the obvious happiness that enveloped her as she worked. As we spoke she shared her testimony and her gratitude for her many blessings. I left our only encounter carrying the radiance of her joyful spirit and pondering my relative ingratitude for my blessings. She obviously did not have much in the way of material things, but she was as peaceful and cheerful as anyone I had ever met. When I asked others about her, I found out the rest of her story.
As a young adult she had a great desire to attend university but knew the financial burden would be too heavy for her parents. Instead she worked and gave her income to her father, whom she dearly loved and who was a good and righteous man. After she married and in answer to her prayers, the missionaries visited her and her family and they joined the Church. Her husband, however, suffered from lingering health problems and passed away, leaving Sister Ye with three children and little means of support. Following her husband’s death, Sister Ye had to work several jobs to support her family. She managed to save a little every day so her children could serve missions. All three of her children have now served missions; two served in Taiwan and one in the Utah Salt Lake City Temple Square Mission. After returning from his mission, one of her sons became ill and passed away.
As missionaries spoke with Sister Ye at my request, she commented: “I can’t think of any reason why I would have these trials, but I have faith that it is according to God’s great wisdom. I have come to have a very deep appreciation and understanding of Heavenly Father’s plan of salvation. I believe that only when we keep God’s commandments can we understand His will for us. I thank God daily for allowing me to be here. When I have trials, I remember the pain of others. If someone is sick or has a need, I pray about what I can do to help, and the Lord leads me to know what I can do.”
The missionaries often see Sister Ye—“Ye Mama,” as they fondly call her—trimming the bushes or cleaning around the meetinghouse. They say that she is every missionary’s “second mother” and that she is as thoughtful of them as if they were her own children.
I will long carry a mental picture of a beaming Sister Ye on the grounds of the Tainan meetinghouse, garden tools in hand, sharing with me her gratitude for her blessings—Sister Ye, who has lost opportunities for education and material benefits, who has suffered the loss of those close to her, and who has repeatedly sacrificed for her children and others. What principles of faith separate Sister Ye from those who, when met with the trials of this life, “curse God, and die” (Job 2:9)?

Several years ago I spoke at a meeting for members and investigators in the Peru Lima South Mission. I don’t know why I started talking about revelation and the importance of having a prophet. But as I did, I noticed two young men on the first row listening attentively and taking notes. After the meeting, those two young men came to me and said, “You talk about prophets and about revelation. We thought that there weren’t any prophets after John the Baptist.” The young men had been sent by the local priest to find out what I said. I had to leave on an airplane soon and didn’t have time to explain more about prophets and revelation. However, I did tell them that if they wanted to have personal revelation, they should read the Book of Mormon and follow the counsel in Moroni 10. I gave them each a Book of Mormon and marked Moroni 10:4–5 [Moro. 10:4–5]. Three months later, I received a letter from those young men telling me that they had been baptized. One year later, I received another letter saying that they were both preparing to go on missions. The Book of Mormon was what converted them.

Another source of strength is the example members provide for those who are interested in the gospel. Such an example helped bring Adrien and Greta Teihotaata and their children into the Church. Although they had been without religion for years, “we decided we wanted to change,” Sister Teihotaata says. “We asked the Lord to guide us.” Just a few days later, neighbors invited them to an open house at the Uturoa Ward. “We decided to come back on Sunday,” Brother Teihotaata recalls, “and at church, we were impressed that everyone was involved—teaching, going to classes, taking care of children. They really seemed to love each other.”
It was fast Sunday, and “when testimony meeting began, we felt something peaceful we had never felt before—the Holy Ghost. We said, ‘This is something we need,’” Sister Teihotaata says. The family met with the missionaries and continued learning. Though their oldest son did not join the Church, Brother and Sister Teihotaata and their five other children were baptized and confirmed in 1998. Since then, keeping the commandments, studying the scriptures, and going to the temple “has strengthened us in our testimony, and so has the continuing example of members who have taught us and helped us,” says Sister Teihotaata.

When I was 14, my family moved to a new neighborhood. Now, this may not seem like a terrible tragedy to you, but in my mind, at that time, it was devastating. It meant being surrounded by people I didn’t know. It meant that all the other young men in my ward would be attending a different school than I was. And in my 14-year-old mind, I thought, “How could my parents do this to me?” I felt as if my life had been ruined.
However, through our Young Men activities, I was able to build relationships with the other members of my quorum, and they became my friends. In addition, members of the bishopric and Aaronic Priesthood advisers began to take a special interest in my life. They attended my athletic events. They wrote me encouraging notes that I have kept to this day. They continued to keep in touch with me after I went to college and when I left for a mission. One of them was even at the airport when I came home. I will be forever grateful for these good brothers and their combination of love and high expectations. They pointed me heavenward, and life became bright, happy, and joyful.

Cheng Han-sin awakened with a feeling of great happiness, but it took him a few seconds to remember why he felt the way he did.
Stretching out on the mat helped him to recollect. He had given his bed to his aged grandparents who had come to Hsinchu to join in the New Year’s Eve celebration.
This was the very day! There would be fun and feasting all over Taiwan, with fireworks and a parade in the evening. Best of all, he was to march in the head of a dragon. He had been chosen because of his good grades at school and because he happened to be just the right size.
Oh, it was good to be alive this day in Hsinchu, to have grandparents, and to be just the right size to stand inside the head of a dragon and guide it in the parade! He jumped up from the mat, slipped on his clothes, and went out to the kitchen where his mother was preparing a breakfast of rice and fried vegetables. The feasting would come later.
After breakfast his father said, "Now all of you scatter and do your chores. Then I have a surprise for you." From the smile on his father’s face Han-sin knew that it was a good surprise.
He hurried out to weed the small garden. When he came back into the house his sister Mei-ling had just finished wiping off the floor mats. His brother Shih-kai was watering the house plants. The two younger children were listening to their grandfather tell how he and their grandmother had come all the way from the farm on the train.
Waiting impatiently for his father to come in from his work in the garden, Han-sin asked, "Is it time now for the surprise?"
"Now is the time, my son," said his father. "Come. We will all go down to the park."
Han-sin asked, "Grandfather, will you not come with us to the park?"
"No, my son. I cannot walk so far. My old knees do not hold up for more than a few steps."
It was the first cloud on Han-sin’s happy day.
The children followed their father from the house. He was carrying a large package. When they reached the park he brought out a large kite. "This is for you, Han-sin," he said, "because you have brought honor to the house of Cheng."
Han-sin unwound the string and ran along the grass. The kite was lifted upward. It was in the shape of a carp, and as it filled with the wind, the mouth of the fish kite opened as though it were searching for food.
The children all laughed and cheered. "It is the finest kite in all the world," said Mei-ling.
After many flights Father said, "Come, it is time to go home. We will have our dinner, and then it will be the hour to go to the parade."
As they reached the house they took off their shoes and put on the clean slippers that were lined up outside the door. The house was filled with delicious odors of food. Mother said, "Come. The New Year’s feast is ready."
There was fish, steamed rice and vegetables, bits of pork in sweet and sour sauce, bananas and melons, and a sweetmeat for an extra treat.
Before long it was time for Han-sin to leave to take his place in the parade.
"We will all be there to watch you," said his father. "Will you be able to see us?"
"Oh, yes, indeed! I can look out through the huge mouth as long as I am careful not to stick my head out too far. Behind me is Lin Ting-fang. It is he who blows the smoke through the dragon’s nostrils."
Han-sin turned to his grandfather. "I hope that you will like the parade."
"I’m sorry, son, but I cannot walk even that far or stand that long. Your grandmother and I will sit outdoors here and imagine the dragon writhing down the street."
"And I shall stay here with them," his mother added. "I will have many more chances to see parades."
"There will be music that you could hear," said Han-sin. "There will be flutes and banjos and oboes. And there will be fireworks along the way that may be high enough for you to see."
"That will be fine, my son. We will watch and listen."
Han-sin left. He was troubled that his grandparents would not be able to see the parade.
Chang Tso-lin, the parade director, explained, "The big dragon is in the lead. Next come the musicians and the acrobats. And you, Han-sin, will be the last in the little dragon. All you have to do is follow and weave from side to side as you march along. At the third fountain the parade will turn right and return on the other street."
The boys took their places inside the dragon. The sides came down and hid all but their feet. It was a gorgeous green, trimmed with tinsel and make-believe jewels.
As they started to weave down the street, Han-sin thought again of his grandparents. If only they could see the parade! They have had little in life but hard work on the farm.
The boys fell in line behind the acrobats, who were tumbling and performing other stunts along the way. Just behind Han-sin was Lin Ting-fang, blowing smoke through the dragon’s nostrils. He blew some in Han-sin’s face. The boy almost stumbled as he began to choke.
"Please don’t do that again," said Han-sin. "I might fall."
"A fine dragon you’d make if you can’t stand a little smoke," responded Ting-fang, blowing more smoke around Han-sin’s head.
Han-sin started to cough and his eyes were blinded for a moment. "If I fall, it will ruin the parade," he warned.
"So it would," agreed Ting-fang, almost with glee.
Han-sin remembered now. Ting-fang had wanted to be the leader. He was a year older and thought that he should have been chosen.
Han-sin said no more. He thought that if he paid no attention, Ting-fang might stop bothering him. But it was not so. Almost every time the dragon came to an extra large crowd or was making a wide curve, Ting-fang blew more smoke around Han-sin’s head.
At times he could hardly see where they were going because of the smoke. But still he counted the fountains as they passed. Ahead was the third one, Yu Shann, named in honor of the high mountain.
The big dragon in the lead had already turned, followed by the musicians. Now the acrobats were turning. If I turn left instead of right, Han-sin suddenly had a thought, I can go down our street. Then my grandparents can see the dragon.
Disregarding the consequences, Han-sin left the main body of the parade and turned to the left. Behind him Ting-fang hissed, "You numbskull! You have made the wrong turn. Go back before it is too late!"
"It is too late now," said Han-sin. "We will go down this street."
People came running out of their houses to see the dragon. Han-sin’s grandparents and his mother were already seated before the house. Their faces lighted up with surprise and joy as the dragon swerved in their direction and bowed its head.
When they returned to the starting place Chang Tso-lin was waiting. "What is the meaning of this?" he asked.
"I told him!" shouted Ting-fang. "I told him to turn back."
"Anyone can make a mistake," said Tso-lin. "It is not too serious."
Han-sin swallowed hard. He could have let it go at that. But instead he softly said, "It was not a mistake, sir. I went the wrong way because I wanted my grandparents to see the dragon."
"Then you disobeyed. You must tell your father. He will give the proper punishment."
Han-sin bowed and started to walk home. He arrived soon after his father and the younger children.
"It was such a beautiful parade!" Mei-ling was saying. "We wish that you could have seen it."
"But we did," said Grandfather. "At least we saw the best part—Han-sin’s dragon."
"How was that possible?" asked Father. "The parade turned to the right."
"All but the last dragon," explained Han-sin. "I turned it down this street. But it was the wrong thing to do. Chang Tso-lin says I must be punished."
"He is right," agreed Father. "You will bring me the new kite."
"Yes, Father," said Han-sin. He went inside and brought out the beautiful new kite that swam in the sky like a fish.
His father took the kite and handed it to Shih-kai. "It is now yours," he said.
Shih-kai turned to his older brother. "Will you help me fly the kite?" he asked.
Han-sin nodded with a smile.

As a seven-year-old boy living in the Arabian Peninsula, I was consistently told by my parents to always wear my shoes, and I understood why. I knew that shoes would protect my feet against the many threats to be found in the desert, such as snakes, scorpions, and thorns. One morning after a night’s camping in the desert, I wanted to go exploring, but I did not want to bother with putting on my shoes. I rationalized that I was only going for a little wander and I would stay close by the camp. So instead of shoes, I wore flip-flops. I told myself that flip-flops were shoes—of a sort. And anyway, what could possibly happen?
As I walked along the cool sand—in my flip-flops—I felt something like a thorn going into the arch of my foot. I looked down and saw not a thorn but a scorpion. As my mind registered the scorpion and I realized what had just happened, the pain of the sting began to rise from my foot and up my leg. I grabbed the top of my leg to try and stop the searing pain from moving farther, and I cried out for help. My parents came running from the camp.
As my father battered the scorpion with a shovel, an adult friend who was camping with us heroically tried to suck the venom from my foot. At this moment I thought that I was going to die. I sobbed while my parents loaded me into a car and set off across the desert at high speed toward the nearest hospital, which was over two hours away. The pain all through my leg was excruciating, and for that entire journey, I assumed that I was dying.
When we finally reached the hospital, however, the doctor was able to assure us that only small infants and the severely malnourished are threatened by the sting of that type of scorpion. He administered an anesthetic, which numbed my leg and took away any sensation of pain. Within 24 hours I no longer had any effects from the sting of the scorpion. But I had learned a powerful lesson.
I had known that when my parents told me to wear shoes, they did not mean flip-flops; I was old enough to know that flip-flops did not provide the same protection as a pair of shoes. But that morning in the desert, I disregarded what I knew to be right. I ignored what my parents had repeatedly taught me. I had been both lazy and a little rebellious, and I paid a price for it.

The nurse called to let me know that based on the results of my ultrasound, it was time to meet with the doctor to discuss a hysterectomy. My dream of raising a child of my own in this life was dissipating, and I wasn’t ready.
It seems like in the Church, we often talk about infertility inside of marriage. We talk about couples who are unable to conceive, who struggle to carry a baby to term, or who decide to adopt. But infertility also happens to single members, whose plans for a family can be disrupted before they have even begun.
I found that I didn’t know how to talk about how devastated I was to be facing this reality. I felt very alone.
All I wanted as a little girl was to be a mom. When I received my patriarchal blessing, the only thing I wanted to hear was that I would marry and have children. I waited for it with eager anticipation and listened intently. When the patriarch pronounced the promise, I was relieved and excited!
I graduated from high school and assumed I’d meet my husband when I went to college. And while I met and dated several worthy and kind men, none of them were to be my eternal companion.
My life went on. Over the years, I had several loving bishops who looked beyond my single status and offered me the chance to serve in varied ways in the Church. I developed relationships with many stalwart members who quietly went about serving their fellow Saints. Some of these relationships taught me more about myself, what I wanted to be as a wife, and what I wanted in a husband.
I held on tightly to the promises in my patriarchal blessing of a temple marriage and children born in the covenant and watched for the ways the Lord would fulfill them in my life.
Then my health started to decline. I sought medical help, and it was then that I got the call from the nurse. I found myself at a crossroads: I had to decide whether I would take the doctor’s recommendation and go through with the hysterectomy. The problems in my body were crippling my life in a way I couldn’t ignore. But the surgery would be irreversible. The door to my dream of bearing a child wasn’t just closing—it was closing and locking, never to be opened again in this life.
I suppose adopting a child could have been a future possibility, but because of my circumstances at the time (being unmarried and relying solely on myself financially), adoption didn’t feel like a real or comforting option.
I shed many tears and immediately went to two trusted priesthood holders for a blessing. They gave me a beautiful blessing promising me that my opportunities for a family stretched long into the next life and that those promises were still in place.
I spent hours on my knees, asking my Father in Heaven what to do. But I knew. I knew that medically my current situation could not continue. Even though I was scared, I also knew that I was in my Heavenly Father’s hands and that ultimately I was safe in His care. As it says in Helaman 12:1, I knew “that the Lord in his great infinite goodness doth bless and prosper those who put their trust in him.”
The Sunday before my surgery, my brother gave me a blessing. I was surrounded by my wonderfully supportive family. He opened the blessing with the Lord’s confirmation that I had made the right decision. It was the final witness that I needed to step into an unknown future of His design.
While there are still sometimes tears, I have learned more about what it means to have faith.
Faith for me doesn’t mean that I don’t ache at times for the opportunity to hold my own child in my arms or long for an eternal relationship. Faith for me doesn’t take away the hiccup in my heart when a sister bears her testimony about how Heavenly Father has trusted her with His children.
Faith for me does mean holding on to the promise in Doctrine and Covenants 138:52, that as we continue in righteousness, we will “be partakers of all blessings which were held in reserve for them that love him.” Faith for me does mean striving to be the daughter, sister, aunt, friend, and Church member that my Heavenly Father and Savior need me to be.
My Savior knows the heartache of being alone. He will walk with me until the end. As Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles once said, “Some blessings come soon, some come late, and some don’t come until heaven; but for those who embrace the gospel of Jesus Christ, they come.”1
Although this part of my life has not turned out as I had once dreamed, I have never ceased to be in Heavenly Father’s care. I am in His arms.
I trust that the promise in Doctrine and Covenants 98:1–3 is true—not just for me, but for everyone:
“Fear not, let your hearts be comforted; yea, rejoice evermore, and in everything give thanks;
“Waiting patiently on the Lord, for your prayers have entered into the ears of the Lord. …
“… He giveth this promise unto you, … and all things wherewith you have been afflicted shall work together for your good, and to my name’s glory.”

In my early teens, life seemed to fly by. I was testing the wings of young manhood and feeling a lot of turbulence along the way. Every turn brought new discoveries.
In the midst of this period I discovered something that I grew to cherish. It was something I never expected.
In those days our family would often spend our weekends in a small community nestled in the peaks of the Oregon mountains. As soon as my dad came home from work we would grab the fishing poles and mosquito repellent, throw them into the back of the camper, and drive off.
Full of anticipation, my sisters and I, and on occasion, our friends, would all lie on the top level of the bunk bed in the camper, leaning our faces up against the window screen to get relief from the summer heat. There we would plot out our upcoming adventures. During our planning sessions, I would never forget to tell the newcomers of the great summer attraction.
The great summer attraction was a large wooden pipe which carried water, under pressure, from a dam several miles to its powerhouse. The pipe was made of planks bound by steel bands. Over the years, time and moss had taken their toll, eating little holes in the pipe. This made the pipe resemble a gigantic lawn sprinkler, the kind that you stretch across the lawn but can never get both ends to lie right side up at the same time, resulting in water shooting for yards in every direction. This constant spraying was not only a refreshing retreat from the summer heat, but it kept the forest deep green. In winter it transformed the forest into a heavenly white, with every stream of water making its own unique ice sculpture.
On one of those summer outings, I sat in the cab of the truck and listened with the intense fascination of a boyish heart to Dad tell of his boyhood. He had grown up in this community. He told of spending the summers as a sheepherder in the alpine meadows, when the mountains would awaken and put on their summer green. In the winter, when the layers of white would again start to cover the high country, he would return to the small town below.
I had been to this community many times before and had visited his grandmother’s grave and the old house where he used to live. I had even wandered around his old high school. But never had my dad’s life seemed so real to me as it did that day. I spent the day as he had, at his old hangouts. He pointed to one of the meadows where he had herded sheep. We went to one of his favorite fishing holes, where a dam had stood. We continued to the lower dam. This was the place of the wooden pipe.
As I walked along the pipe that day, I felt different than I ever had before. I realized that there were just as many fish elsewhere. It wasn’t the fishing, or even the pipe, that was so special. It was my dad’s life. This place is my father’s link with the past, I thought. He had made a niche, a sanctuary, a home here. And his stories had become a part of me. Retracing the footsteps of my father’s childhood that day, I felt as if I was my dad. I knew that he had traveled this pipe often in his younger days, and I marveled at our newfound similarities. We were different; yet we were much the same. He wasn’t perfect, as I was not, but he, like the ice sculptures, was unique, a masterpiece of God’s creation.

The Gordon-Smith family’s cosmopolitan story begins more than twenty years ago in Prague, Czechoslovakia, where eighteen-year-old university student Rostya saw little hope for a future in her native country. Her parents were divorced. Her mother had escaped to Austria, and her father was in prison. Upon his release, “I told him I couldn’t live in Czechoslovakia any more,” she says. “I had seen a glimpse of freedom.” That “glimpse of freedom” had come during a student demonstration, when she and others of her generation had determined to live the ideals of liberty and equality, in spite of the opposition they faced.
Rostya obtained a visa that would allow her to leave for England, ostensibly to study English. “It was a sad and lonely time for me,” she recalls. “I arrived in London unable to speak English, with one suitcase and five American dollars.” Before leaving Czechoslovakia, she had arranged for a job as a maid with an English family in London. But after a year with the family, Rostya felt she wanted something more out of life.
With the encouragement of friends, she applied for admission to the University of London. “To pay for my studies, I sold newspapers at a railroad station from 5:00 to 10:00 A.M., attended classes in the afternoon, worked again from 6:00 to 11:00 P.M., and then returned home to my attic room to study and sleep.”
Two years later, she met Simon, also a student. A week after they met, he proposed marriage to her. At first, Rostya was hesitant. “I told him that I wanted to have a career and that I was not interested in marriage or children. But he persisted.” They were married eighteen months later. Both graduated the same year, Simon in civil engineering and Rostya in Eastern European studies. Simon’s first job was in Scotland.
Two years later, Simon came home from work and asked Rostya if she would like to move to Brazil on a company assignment. “When?” she asked.
“Tomorrow,” he replied. They were soon in Santos, Brazil, where Simon began work on an oil pipeline along the coast. They knew they had opened a new phase in their life. But the real change was yet to come.
The young couple soon joined a club for expatriates, where Rostya was attracted to a group of women that seemed enthusiastic and open. When Rostya introduced herself, one of the women said, “‘Gordon-Smith’ sounds English enough, but ‘Rostya’ certainly doesn’t.” “That’s because I’m Czech,” Rostya replied. To Rostya’s surprise, the women started speaking in Czech. Rostya had just met Zaza, a native Czech raised in Brazil, married to an American, Don Clark.
The Clarks and the Gordon-Smiths soon became friends, attending movies together, playing tennis, and just visiting. One day, two Latter-day Saint missionaries called at the Clark home while Rostya was there. “I did not know they were missionaries at that time,” Rostya says. “They were just two young men with short haircuts, dressed in shirts and ties. I asked them who they worked for, because I presumed any foreigner was working for a company. They gave me a very vague answer: they were working for a church, they said, and they were visiting people and reading scriptures with them in their homes. I thought it sounded very strange at the time.”
Don and Zaza Clark, who were members of the Church, began to talk to the Gordon-Smiths about the gospel. Soon, the Clarks invited their friends to attend a Church meeting with them. It was a fast and testimony meeting. “It was a shocker for me,” Rostya says. “All I could see was that everybody wept: men, women, and children. I was very, very embarrassed, and my husband was, too. When Don Clark asked me what I thought about the meeting, I looked at him and said, ‘I think it’s mass hysteria.’”
A short time later, Don and Zaza invited Simon and Rostya to an area conference in São Paulo, where President Spencer W. Kimball announced the building of the temple in Brazil. Rostya was impressed by the affection the people showed for the prophet. Following the conference, the Gordon-Smiths agreed to take the missionary discussions.
Nothing much happened until the lesson on repentance. “I was good at justifying any of my actions,” Rostya says, “but somehow the process of repentance seemed logical to me.” She found herself thinking about repentance, even writing letters of reconciliation. “But when the missionaries asked me to pray about the principle of repentance, I said, ‘How can I pray if I don’t believe in the existence of God?’ ‘How will you know if anyone lives on the tenth floor,’ they asked me, ‘if you don’t ring the bell? Ring the bell and see if anyone answers.’
“I was thinking about what they said while I was doing the dishes one day. I decided to follow their suggestion. I knelt down and said, ‘Heavenly Father,’ and a wave of warmth enveloped me. I started again, ‘Heavenly Father,’ and the warmth intensified. I felt enveloped in love and protection for the first time in many years. I asked all the questions: ‘Is this the true church?’ ‘Is Joseph Smith a prophet?’ ‘Is the Book of Mormon true?’ ‘Do you love me?’ My answers came in the affirmative by the power of the Spirit.
“I telephoned my friend Zaza Clark. ‘I’ve got it! I’ve got it!’ I cried. ‘What have you got?’ she asked in alarm. ‘A testimony!’ I exclaimed.”
Rostya and Simon were scheduled to be baptized after a stake conference. During the conference, Elder James E. Faust of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles called on members of the congregation to bear their testimonies. He motioned for Rostya to come to the podium. With Don Clark translating into Portuguese, she bore her testimony in English. When she finished, tears were running down her cheeks. “At the end, when I said, ‘Amen,’ Don Clark turned to me and smilingly said, ‘I don’t understand. What is all this mass hysteria about?’”
Before they left Brazil, the Gordon-Smiths introduced their friends Richard and Sally Hardwick to the Church. When Richard sustained a serious injury that required surgery, the Gordon-Smiths accompanied Sally to the hospital. Rostya said, “Simon, I wish you would give Richard a blessing.” Sally asked, “What is a blessing?” The blessing was given and fulfilled. The Hardwicks joined the Church.
From Brazil, the Gordon-Smiths moved to Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, where Simon worked on another pipeline project. When construction ended in 1985, the way opened up for Simon to move his family to Hong Kong and work for the Church. Simon supervised the construction of meetinghouses for the Asia Area—Hong Kong, Thailand, Indonesia, Singapore, and Malaysia. He also provided management support for Japan and Korea.
During this time, political changes in Czechoslovakia made it possible for Rostya to return home for the first time in twenty-two years. “I cannot describe my feelings,” she says. “I know that the new wave of freedom and enlightenment will bring the gospel into the lives of the people and then they will achieve real freedom.”
As for the four boys, they enjoy traveling and have learned to adjust well. Rostya calls them “citizens of the world.” “We found they are learning tolerance and acceptance of other people, cultures, and beliefs,” she says. David sings and plays piano. He loves soccer and swimming. He wants to be a lawyer or businessman. He bears his testimony of the gospel almost every testimony meeting. George also sings and plays piano. He is a gymnast. He wants to be a doctor and serve a mission in Czechoslovakia. He gained a testimony of the gospel for himself by praying after reading from the Book of Mormon. Richard draws and excels in mathematics. He also plays piano and is a gymnast. He wants to be an architect. Henry tries to emulate whichever older brother he is with.
Rostya says that their many experiences in all parts of the world have helped her family understand better who they are. “I am raising my sons with the idea that we are all equal to each other,” she says. “It does not matter what sex or what nationality you are. I firmly believe that. I am teaching them that the world is a very small place, and that with love and with the gospel, we can conquer all the evil.”

Courage counts. This truth came to me in a most vivid and dramatic manner many years ago. I was serving as a bishop at the time. The general session of our stake conference was being held in the Assembly Hall on Temple Square in Salt Lake City. Our stake presidency was to be reorganized. The Aaronic Priesthood, including members of bishoprics, were providing the music for the conference. As we concluded singing our first selection, President Joseph Fielding Smith, our conference visitor, stepped to the pulpit and read for sustaining approval the names of the new stake presidency. He then mentioned that Percy Fetzer, who became our new stake president, and John Burt, who became the first counselor—each of whom had been counselors in the previous presidency—had been made aware of their new callings before the conference began. However, he indicated that I, who had been called to be second counselor in the new presidency, had no previous knowledge of the calling and was hearing of it for the first time as my name was read for sustaining vote. He then announced, “If Brother Monson is willing to respond to this call, we will be pleased to hear from him now.”
As I stood at the pulpit and gazed out on that sea of faces, I remembered the song we had just sung. It pertained to the Word of Wisdom and was titled “Have Courage, My Boy, to Say No.” That day I selected as my acceptance theme “Have Courage, My Boy, to Say Yes.” The call for courage comes constantly to each of us—the courage to stand firm for our convictions, the courage to fulfill our responsibilities, the courage to honor our priesthood.

When I was a boy, our family lived in the Sixth-Seventh Ward of the Pioneer Stake. The ward population was rather transient, which resulted in an accelerated rate of turnover with respect to the teachers in the Sunday School. As boys and girls we would just become acquainted with a particular teacher and grow to appreciate him or her when the Sunday School superintendent would visit the class and introduce a new teacher. Disappointment filled each heart, and a breakdown of discipline resulted.

Prospective teachers, hearing of the unsavory reputation of our particular class, would graciously decline to serve or suggest the possibility of teaching a different class where the students were more manageable. We took delight in our newly found status and determined to live up to the fears of the faculty.

One Sunday morning, a lovely young lady accompanied the superintendent into the classroom and was presented to us as a teacher who requested the opportunity to teach us. We learned that she had been a missionary and loved young people. Her name was Lucy Gertsch. She was beautiful, soft-spoken, and interested in us. She asked each class member to introduce himself, and then she asked questions which gave her an understanding and insight into the background of each. She told us of her girlhood in Midway, Utah, and as she described that beautiful valley she made its beauty live within us and we desired to visit the green fields she loved so much.

When Lucy taught, she made the scriptures actually live. We became personally acquainted with Samuel, David, Jacob, Nephi, Joseph Smith, and the Lord Jesus Christ. Our gospel scholarship grew. Our deportment improved. Our love for Lucy Gertsch knew no bounds.

We undertook a project to save nickels and dimes for what was to be a gigantic Christmas party. Sister Gertsch kept a careful record of our progress. As boys with typical appetites we converted in our minds the monetary totals to cakes, cookies, pies, and ice cream. This was to be a glorious event. Never before had any of our teachers even suggested a social event like this was to be.

The summer months faded into autumn. Autumn turned to winter. Our party goal had been achieved. The class had grown. A good spirit prevailed.

None of us will forget that gray morning when our beloved teacher announced to us that the mother of one of our classmates had passed away. We thought of our own mothers and how much they meant to us. We felt sincere sorrow for Billy Devenport in his great loss.

The lesson this Sunday was from the book of Acts, chapter 20, verse 35: “Remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how he said, It is more blessed to give than to receive.” At the conclusion of the presentation of a well-prepared lesson, Lucy Gertsch commented on the economic situation of Billy’s family. These were Depression times, and money was scarce. With a twinkle in her eyes, she asked: “How would you like to follow this teaching of our Lord? How would you feel about taking our party fund and, as a class, giving it to the Devenports as an expression of our love?” The decision was unanimous. We counted so carefully each penny and placed the total sum in a large envelope. A beautiful card was purchased and inscribed with our names.

This simple act of kindness welded us together as one. We learned through our own experience that it is indeed more blessed to give than to receive.

The years have flown. The old chapel is gone, a victim of industrialization. The boys and girls who learned, who laughed, who grew under the direction of that inspired teacher of truth have never forgotten her love or her lessons. Her personal influence for good was contagious.

During COVID-19 quarantine, Sunday could become too casual at home on our couches and in our comfy clothes. I wanted to do something to make sure Sunday was special. I decided to make my family our own sacrament tray as one of my spiritual goals for the new Children and Youth program.
First, I took a piece of wood and drilled holes in one half for cups. Then I carved out a tray on the other half for the bread. My abuelita helped me sand it until it was perfectly smooth. Then we attached a handle and sealed the wood.
The first Sunday we went to prepare the sacrament and couldn’t find the cups that fit the holes in the tray. We all looked for hours and hours for them. After a while I decided that with or without the perfect cups we were still going to partake of the sacrament. We weren’t going to let this stand in our way of keeping the Sabbath day holy.
That Sunday when we partook of the sacrament, it was with more stillness, intention, and reverence. I felt pleased with the goal I’d set and achieved. I know and could feel that my Heavenly Father was proud of me for my goal and the choices it involved.

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.

When I was 18, I was living in Lima, Peru, where I was born and raised. At that time my father came across a good friend he hadn’t seen in a long time.
My father was impressed that his friend looked younger and was well dressed. He asked his friend what had happened to him to create this transformation. “Did you just win the lottery?” he asked. The friend responded, “Well, something better than that. Now I am a Mormon, and I want to share the gospel with you and your family.”
My father thought his friend was joking, so he said, “OK, if you want to send your missionaries, do it.” But this man was very serious about it, and within a few days the missionaries came and knocked on our door. That was the beginning of a wonderful experience.

Young Women in the San Jose California South Stake are wondering why everyone tells such horror stories about boot camp. As far as they’re concerned, it’s about the greatest thing to do with their free summer days.
Of course, their “boots” were a little different than those worn in the military, and it was a training camp for living a Christlike life, rather than serving as a soldier. BOOT (which stands for “building our own testimonies”) camp had a lot of the same activities that all girls’ camps have. But the highlight of camp was having poems written by the girls set to music by their stake president. The songs were then sung by a guest soloist at a special camp fireside, and tape-recorded for the girls to keep.
“It made my poem sound so good,” says April Gustavson. “I couldn’t believe it was something that I wrote.”