Gospel Story Finder

Many years ago, I moved to a new ward. That week I attended a Relief Society activity and got there early and sat at one of the tables. The sisters kept arriving, but no one sat by me. I was feeling lonely and decided to leave.
Just then, a woman sat down and struck up a lovely conversation. I thought, “I have nothing in common with this woman.” Donna had many children and was older than me. But I thought, “I am so grateful she was friendly to me!”
Here I was—active in the Church and feeling lonely at a Church activity. And there she was—willing to sit by an unknown person. Donna and I are friends to this day. She taught me a lesson that has been seared in my heart ever since: We all need to be ministered to.

Being meek means “enduring injury with patience and without resentment,”4 something that takes both strength and humility. In 1838, Thomas B. Marsh, the first President of the Quorum of the Twelve, left the Church, in part because of his resentment that Church leaders didn’t side with his wife in a dispute over milk. In his later years, he lamented the blessings he had lost and returned to the Church, saying: “I have frequently wanted to know how my apostacy [sic] began, and I have come to the conclusion that I must have lost the Spirit of the Lord out of my heart. … “… I felt angry and wrathful; and the Spirit of the Lord being gone, as the Scriptures say, I was blinded.”5

I understand Joseph Smith’s need to pray. I had always prayed before I went to bed at night. When I became a teenager I didn’t stop believing, but I stopped taking the time to pray. One day that changed.
I had gone on a campout with some young men, and one of my good friends and I were in a tent together. I jumped into my sleeping bag, and I looked over to see my friend kneeling on his sleeping bag and praying. When he got into his sleeping bag, he said, “Lynn, don’t you pray?”
I answered, “Not as much as I should.” And I made up my mind then that no one would question again whether I prayed.
I also understand Joseph Smith’s wanting to be alone as he prayed. On another occasion a few years later, I was in a similar situation, this time with a young man I didn’t know. I was nervous about praying in front of him, so I waited for him to go to bed so I could kneel and pray without him watching me.
But he wouldn’t go to bed, so I finally knelt and prayed and got into my sleeping bag. When he got into bed a few minutes later, he said, “Lynn, do you always pray like that?”
“Yes, I try to. If I ever hurry and get into bed forgetting to pray, I get out of bed and kneel and pray.”
He said, “I should do that.”
I am so grateful to the Prophet Joseph for his courage and faith to ask and his preparation to believe the things he came to know. I love the Prophet Joseph Smith.
Through the revelations of Joseph Smith, I came to understand my need for the Savior. I knew about Jesus Christ, and I knew He was the Son of God. But the more I’ve come to understand how the Atonement works, the greater my testimony and love of the Savior is. Only His Atonement can allow us to be forgiven of our sins. We can repent, but that does not forgive us; it only qualifies us for His forgiveness.
We need to gain a testimony of who we are, to know we are spirit children of our Father in Heaven. When we know that, we can feel His love for us and His great desire for us to return to live with Him. When we have truly repented and He forgives us, we become clean. We become new creatures, as if the sin had never been committed. And when we understand that, then we really come to know Him.

After his mission, Ezra Taft returned to Whitney, purchased a farm with his brother Orval, and served on the Franklin Stake MIA board. By the time Flora returned from her mission to Hawaii, Ezra Taft had graduated from Brigham Young University and had received a scholarship to study agriculture at Iowa State College. On 10 September 1926, Flora Amussen and Ezra Taft Benson were married in the Salt Lake Temple and set off for Ames, Iowa, in a used Model-T pickup truck. There they lived on a meager income, enhancing their meals with vegetables gleaned from the college experimental garden.
Ezra Taft returned to Whitney with a master’s degree and an eagerness to help other farmers improve their crops. He was so helpful, in fact, that his neighbors drafted him as county agricultural extension agent.

Regardless of one’s opportunities for formal education, a person can engage in lifelong learning. My grandfather was Jim Gordon. His parents were Scottish immigrants. He was only able to finish the eighth grade before he went to work. He drove a delivery wagon in San Francisco when he was a young man.

Automobiles replaced horse-drawn wagons. Later my grandfather became a mechanic. He brought books about diesel engines home from work, and he read them. Eventually he became the supervisor over all the diesel equipment for a substantial company. Although his opportunity for formal education was limited, he kept learning on his own. His most important learning experiences occurred when, later in life, he decided to enter the waters of baptism and to receive the blessings of the temple.

When my grandfather was young, he drove a horse-drawn wagon. However, his world changed. During his lifetime he flew in passenger planes, and astronauts landed on the moon. Your world will change too. Many of the changes will be positive and exciting; others may present challenges. Will you be prepared to meet the challenges that will arise during your lifetime?

You never know what will happen to the seeds you plant. Elisabeth Gambee of the Springfield First Ward, Eugene Oregon Stake, recently found out when she received a letter from a friend whom she’d met at camp and had given a copy of the Book of Mormon to. He had just received his mission call to Boston.

That was the highlight of a year that included many bright spots. Elisabeth graduated from seminary, served as ASB vice president, was in the honor society, was on the varsity cheerleading squad and tennis team, and performed in school musicals. She was also chosen by her school to be Young Woman of the Year.

My friend Joshua and his family are not members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. One night Joshua came over to my house. While we played, he used the names of Heavenly Father and Jesus in vain. I told him that he was not supposed to say that because it was breaking a commandment. Joshua didn’t know that. We talked about something different he could say instead. He appreciated my help.

“I lost the girl of my dreams because we were breaking the law of chastity—just a little,” said Tyler (name has been changed). “But breaking the law of chastity ‘just a little bit’ is still breaking the law of chastity. I kept losing the precious blessings of obedience; I wanted the Spirit in my life.

“I didn’t want to do any of the little things people think are OK ‘as long as we don’t have to see the bishop.’ I wanted to keep the law 100 percent. But my decision to be obedient was too late to save our relationship; breaking the law of chastity had polluted it.

“The law of chastity is there for our protection. It isn’t a limit to our love. Instead, it is the ultimate way of expressing our love. Through keeping it, we say, ‘I love you enough to respect you and keep God’s commandments. I love you enough to keep our lives Christ-centered.’

“As single adults we are also held to the standards in For the Strength of Youth. The law of chastity applies to everyone equally, no matter what your age or situation. I’m grateful for this newfound testimony because it will help me draw closer to the Savior and to my eternal companion when I find her.”

After the sacrament, Sister Stevens, a recently returned missionary, gave the first talk.

“One day, about halfway through my mission, I was having a really bad day,” Sister Stevens said. “Nothing was going right.”

“Fortunately,” Sister Stevens continued, “my companion wouldn’t let me stay in a bad mood. She suggested that we make a gratitude list. We listed all kinds of things, like peanut butter, soft beds, and letters from home.”

“By the end of the day, I’d forgotten why I had been in a bad mood,” Sister Stevens said. “It was the best day my companion and I had ever had. We decided to make a gratitude list every day.”

As two missionary sisters currently serving in the England Bristol Mission, we have really appreciated the New Era during the past week. One of us has had a contagious throat infection, so we weren’t allowed to contact people. The doctor said, “Do not spread the gospel or your germs!” Hence we’ve had plenty of time to study. Although none of the New Eras in our flat are too up to date, the oldies gave us plenty of “food for thought.” Keep up the good articles!
Sisters Reid and HornbyEngland Bristol Mission

Randy Herrman terrified me.
It wasn’t that he was bigger than I was. He was kind of puny for his age. And he certainly wasn’t smarter, or funnier, or more creative. Nope. What intimidated me about Randy Herrman was his attitude. He wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything.
Like a villain in a melodrama, Randy appeared at school while we were all registering for the seventh grade. There were about a hundred of us in line outside the principal’s office when Randy walked up wearing a black motorcycle T-shirt. He stopped for some reason beside Travis Duncan. Then, with a little sneer, Randy reached into Travis’s open backpack—that was still on Travis’s back—fished around and pulled out a Ding Dong. Without a pause Randy bit the chocolate cake clean in half, wrapper and all.
Travis stood there for a second, in complete shock, then started yelling—a high-pitched wailing that was way too-over-the-top for a bitten Ding Dong. Finally, Mr. Squires came out of his office to see what all the commotion was about. Then the principal grabbed Randy by the shirt collar and led him down the row of kids to the detention room. As he passed, Randy looked at me with his gray eyes and smiled. It was an unspeakably cold smile that sent a shiver up my spine.
I couldn’t sleep for a week.

When our children were young, we lived in the country of Kazakhstan. There were no missionaries there at that time. When friends or neighbors wanted to hear about the gospel, we got to be the missionaries!
Our daughter Marné shared the gospel with her friend Alyona. Alyona decided to be baptized with permission from her mother, who was later baptized with Alyona’s younger sister. Recently Alyona married a righteous young man in the Manhattan New York Temple, and Marné got to be there! She was so happy that she had helped her friend learn about Jesus Christ.

Tavita started learning patience when he was a young boy. He needed a direction in his life, and when he was thirteen years old, a good friend got him into weight lifting. By the age of fourteen, Tavita could lift almost twice his own weight.
“People thought that I was twenty years old when I was only fourteen because of the way I acted and the way I looked. I had the body of an adult. Even so, I still loved to play and watch cartoons on television.”
In the following years Tavita continued to grow in both strength and size. He entered and won weight lifting competitions around the country. At the age of fifteen Tavita traveled to Little Rock, Arkansas, where he was recognized as the strongest 14–17 year-old in the United States. For five years he won national titles. By the time he was eighteen years old, he could squat-lift 412 kilos.
In high school Tavita excelled at weight lifting and football. In his first season playing football, he was selected for high school teams at both the state and then the national level. His list of awards goes on and on. “I excelled in football and weight lifting because they are the two sports I love the most,” he says.
But Tavita excelled not only because of his love for the sports, but because he taught himself strict discipline. That discipline helped him learn Cantonese while still preparing to enter the Hong Kong Mission. “When I got my call to Hong Kong, my next thought was, ‘What is a 120-kilo Samoan going to do there?” But I knew that was where Heavenly Father wanted me to serve.”
At the beginning, Tavita had difficulty learning the language. It was frustrating to not be able to communicate his strong feelings about the gospel. “Through patience and prayer I learned to endure. The relationship between my Heavenly Father and me grew closer, more than I ever thought it could. My knees literally had calluses on them.”
Patience and long-suffering helped him succeed on his mission. These attributes have continued to help him succeed in his college studies and football career. During high school, he thought he had to prove something. But now all he feels he needs to prove is his worthiness to his Heavenly Father.
Tavita continues to work out six days a week. “I take a lot of pride in building the body Heavenly Father gave to me. I want to keep it clean and to keep it physically as well as spiritually fit.”
Tavita also strives to be a good example to all his friends, both members and nonmembers. He wants to have a positive influence on those around him.
But first and foremost is his relationship with the Lord. “The relationship I have with my Heavenly Father is a little like the one I have with my own dad and mom. I try to serve Him to the best of my ability and to do what He wants me to do.”
Tavita’s father recently died, and his mother is living in California. But every opportunity they have, the family gets together to have fun. Tavita especially enjoys working on cars with his brothers and cousins. ‘I love to fix cars. I love anything to do with hands and tools. I have a strong talent for being able to fix and repair things. In fact, my father was a mechanic, and my brothers are also mechanics.”
Tavita has enthusiastic advice for the young people of the Church. “Serve a mission. Especially the young men when they turn nineteen years old. Go now. It might not be the easiest, but it will be the best two years of your life.”
He also advises youth to learn the importance of the gospel in their lives.
“Stay close to the Church,” Tavita adds. “Have a close relationship with your Heavenly Father. It has helped me.”
And that’s the kind of attitude which, whether he’s standing or kneeling, makes Tavita Sagapolu a true spiritual giant.

As you think celestial, your faith will increase. When I was a young intern, my income was $15 a month. One night, my wife Dantzel asked if I was paying tithing on that meager stipend. I was not. I quickly repented and began paying the additional $1.50 in monthly tithing.
Was the Church any different because we increased our tithing? Of course not. However, becoming a full-tithe payer changed me. That is when I learned that paying tithing is all about faith, not money. As I became a full-tithe payer, the windows of heaven began to open for me. I attribute several subsequent professional opportunities to our faithful payment of tithes.

Francine walked slowly through the deep green alfalfa field, the soft, cool plants brushing her bare legs pleasantly. The summer sun felt warm on her head and shoulders, and bees darted here and there among the blossoms. It had been only a month since Francine’s family loaded all their belongings onto the wagon behind her father’s workhorse and had moved up from town to this beautiful valley. She still liked to walk through the fields and just look at everything. But she would like it even better if she had a horse.
Looking out across the field, she saw a man riding a horse up the lane that separated her family’s fields from the neighbor’s fields. The man turned the horse into his alfalfa field and rode to the top of it where the irrigation ditch ran. Francine was startled to see him suddenly tumble off the horse into the alfalfa. Maybe he’s sick, she thought. She ran quickly to the fence, ducked under it, and raced across the field. She could see water splashing where the man had fallen and great drops flying into the air, catching the sunlight. He must have fallen into the ditch, Francine surmised. She ran as fast as she could over the rough ground.
“I’m coming!” she shouted, hoping he wouldn’t give up till she got there. At that moment the man raised his head and looked at her calmly. Francine stopped abruptly, her face hot from running and her breath coming in gasps. She could see that he was not in the ditch at all but beside it. He held the board for damming the ditch in his hands.
“What are you shouting about?” he asked gruffly. His streaked gray hair stood up wildly, and his blue eyes were piercing under his shaggy eyebrows.
“I thought you needed help,” she replied, “and that you had fallen into the ditch.” She suddenly felt awkward and embarrassed and looked at the ground. Only then did she see that the man had no legs. His pants were cut off at the middle of his thighs and pinned securely. Both his pants and flannel shirt were quite wet.
“I definitely don’t need help from a little girl,” he rasped. He turned away from her and began pushing the stopper board into the cement headgate, but it jammed in the slots. Then he pulled himself closer, oblivious of the water spilling around him.
“Could I help you get the board in?” Francine asked, moving closer.
He turned to her, his face red with exertion and anger. “Can’t a man do his irrigating without pesky little girls coming around?” he stormed. “Now go play!”
Francine turned away quickly and found herself face-to-face with the man’s horse. It was a rather short, strongly built horse with a gleaming reddish brown coat and a shiny black mane. Francine looked into the animal’s face and thought it had the kindest, most intelligent eyes she had ever seen. The horse lowered its head to her, sniffed briefly, and then stepped back as though to let her pass. How Francine would love a horse like that for her own.
“You have a beautiful horse,” she said, looking back again at the man. He was just pushing the board securely into its place when he glanced at Francine. She thought she saw the barest flicker of gentleness in his eyes before he said gruffly again, “Go and play, little girl.”
Francine walked past the horse and back across the field to the canal, where large shady cottonwoods grew along the bank. Sitting down in the cool, prickly grass, she watched the man from a distance. She wondered why she wasn’t more afraid of him. He’s been mean to me, she thought. Maybe its because of the odd way he had to get off the horse. She watched as he worked himself away from the ditch. The horse took a few steps toward him, then stood still and stiff, its head lowered while the man grasped the horse’s leg and pulled himself upright. Then he reached up and knotted his hand into its mane. In a quick motion he was on the horse’s back. He rode back through the field and down the lane as Francine watched, fascinated.
That night at dinner she told her family about the experience.
“I’ve heard about our neighbor, Mr. Lewis,” her father said. “He runs his whole farm without any help except from his wife.”
“He certainly didn’t want any help from me,” Francine said.
“They say he’s very proud,” her mother added as she passed the food around. “He won’t let anyone help him.”
“I’ve heard he’s very mean and grouchy,” her little brother, Stephen, put in, looking up from his potatoes.
“I don’t think he’s really mean, just grouchy,” Francine said, remembering how his eyes had softened a little when she mentioned the horse.
“Doesn’t he have a wheelchair or something?” Stephen asked.
“I don’t know, but I think he finds his horse the most help for getting around his farm,” his father said.
Francine’s eyes lit up. “His horse is wonderful, Daddy. You should have seen the way it stood so still while he climbed onto it. And it was beautiful, all shiny in the sun.”
Her father looked at her kindly. “You’d really like a horse, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, Yes!” Francine said. “And I have five dollars saved for one. How much is it going to take?”
“I don’t know,” her father replied. “It depends on what you’re willing to settle for. You might find an old retired workhorse for ten dollars or so. It would give you something to ride around on.”
“No,” she said firmly. “I want a good horse … like Mr. Lewis’s.”
“Then you’ll have to wait quite a while, because we don’t have the money for it,” her father said.
“I know that, and I’ll wait.” Francine ate her potatoes resolutely, seeing in her mind Mr. Lewis’s shining red horse standing still and strong in the sunlight.
The next afternoon Francine wandered through the fields again. She came to the top of the small hill that looked down on the Lewis farm. Their house was white and neat, with roses in front and various sheds and coops sprawled out behind it. Francine hesitated and then walked down the hill, skirted around the house, and slipped quietly into the barnyard. She walked past the chicken coops where white hens cackled and pecked behind the wire, and then she saw the horse standing outside a cinder-block milking barn. He was not tied but stood quietly waiting, the reins over his mane. Francine approached very slowly and silently. The horse turned its head and regarded her calmly, so she put out her hand and stroked its neck. The warm coat twitched deliciously under her hand.
She could hear the clanging of milk pails in the barn. The double doors stood open, and she could see the backsides of the large holstein cows, their tails switching and flicking at the files. After petting the horse and talking to it for a few minutes, she stepped quietly through the door so as not to startle the cows.
Mr. Lewis sat on a small wooden platform mounted on what looked to Francine like roller skate wheels. He leaned his head against the cow’s flank as the milk squirted rhythmically into the bucket. When the bucket was full, he put it beside him on the cart and took two thick rubber rings from his pockets with which he pushed himself so that his hands did not touch the floor. As he approached the milk can, he saw Francine standing in the doorway.
“You again,” he said. He raised the bucket of milk above his head and poured it into the can.
“I came to see your horse,” she said.
He peered at her from under his shaggy eyebrows as he placed the empty bucket beside him. “Her name is Pilar,” he said.
“I’m saving my money to buy a horse,” she said. “I have five dollars.”
“That won’t buy much of a horse,” Mr. Lewis snorted.
“I know,” Francine said, a little hurt that he would think her so stupid about what a horse cost. “I’ll have to save a lot more before I can get one.”
“Well, Missy …”
“My name is Francine.”
“Well, Francine, as you can see, I have work to do, so you’d better run along.”
“I could help you,” Francine said. “I could curry Pilar for you.”
Mr. Lewis sighed. “All right,” he said. “The currycomb is there on the wall.” He turned back toward his cows.
Francine got the currycomb quickly. She curried the horse until her coat glistened in the late afternoon sunlight. At first Pilar looked suspiciously at the girl, but then she appeared to relax and enjoy the brushing. Through the open door Francine saw Mr. Lewis return several times to the milk can and lift the bucket to pour the warm milk in.
When she had finished with Pilar, she went back into the dim barn and watched him. “I could do that for you,” she said as he returned again to the milk can. “It would save you a lot of time.”
“Look,” he said impatiently, “I have managed quite well here for five years without your help.” He turned away from her and said gruffly over his shoulder. “You’re a busybody.”
Francine felt crushed. She knew she should go home, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave. She liked Mr. Lewis somehow, and she liked Pilar even more.
When he came back again, she said, “How about if you paid me so I could save for my horse—say five cents a night? I’d empty all the milk buckets, too, and help you clean up the barn.”
Mr. Lewis looked up at her, and the warmth she had seen before crept into his eyes.
“Francine,” he said, “we have very little cash. We just barely make it on this farm. I don’t think I could afford to pay you even that small amount.”
“I’d really be glad to do it without pay if I could see Pilar … maybe even ride her sometime.”
He shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not,” he said.
Francine turned and went outside. She stopped by Pilar and stroked the horse’s neck again and then started through the barnyard.
“Francine!”
She turned and saw Mr. Lewis framed in the doorway of the barn.
“Come back here a second.” When she reached him he looked at her a minute. “I do get pretty tired emptying those buckets.” He smiled slightly. “Pilar is going to foal in a couple of months. If you turned out to be worth anything as a worker, I might consider her colt as payment.”
Francine’s heart leaped at the thought! “I’d come for morning milking too,” she said.
“You’ll have to ask your folks,” Mr. Lewis said. “And I’ll expect you to go on working after the colt is born.”
“Oh, I will!” Francine promised.
“Well, don’t just stand around, girl,” he directed. “Get the bucket emptied.” Then his face creased into a big smile as Francine rushed past him into the barn.

As a teenager, I didn’t want to participate in the branch choir. I loved to sing, but singing with the branch never thrilled me. One day, though, I grudgingly decided to accompany my mom to choir practice. Believe it or not, I actually had fun that day. I couldn’t exactly explain what it was, but for the first time I could remember, I wanted to be there. I continued to go.
At our last practice before we were to sing at branch conference, a recently returned missionary suggested that our choir go sing for Sister Rose. Sister Rose was a sweet 90-year-old lady whom I’d heard a lot about but never met. She was homebound, and the leaders were always telling us youth that she was lonely and that we should visit her. Not knowing her, I felt funny about just showing up on her doorstep. When this returned missionary suggested we sing, I jumped on the idea. Everyone else did too.
The next week, our choir sang at branch conference. Our stake president said that we were one of the best choirs in the stake. Even though we were a small branch, we had the best turnout as well.
Finally, we got to go sing for Sister Rose. I don’t recall having met a sweeter lady. While we were singing, she caught my eye and smiled. I struggled hard to choke back the tears as I saw her singing the chorus of “Praise to the Man” with us. That day I knew why I had participated in the choir.
After we were done, Sister Rose said we were one of the best choirs in the stake. Members of our choir enthusiastically reported to her that the stake president had said the same thing.
The joy I saw on her face was worth dragging myself from my Sunday afternoon nap to choir practice. In fact, it was a small price to pay. I shudder to think that if I had been hardhearted and not gone to choir, I would have missed out on this amazing experience. It was wonderful to be a part of something that brought another person such happiness.

I have always loved to read, so I was extremely excited to take the Advanced Placement literature class at my high school—an entire class devoted to reading and discussing books! I quickly discovered, however, that the class was not at all what I had expected. Instead of focusing on books, we mainly discussed religion and moral issues. I was the only member of the Church in my class, and I had very different opinions from my classmates and my teacher. Most of the time it felt like everyone was against me as they’d ask me religious questions and try to pick apart my answers. They didn’t want to understand what I believed; it felt like they just wanted me to admit I was wrong.
It would have been easy for me to remain silent or to agree with them, but I couldn’t denounce what I knew to be true, so every day I opened my mouth and defended my beliefs. No one in my class ended up wanting to investigate the Church, and I actually lost friends because of it. However, defending my beliefs every day helped strengthen my testimony immeasurably because I truly came to understand the reasons why I believed the things I did, and I learned how to talk to others about what I believe. The doctrines of the gospel truly became a part of who I am.
Sara S., New Mexico, USA

“Come in for prayer,” called Angela, summoning everyone in for our family’s nightly routine.
“This won’t take very long,” I thought as I rolled out from under the snug blanket where I had been reading.
I walked down the hall to my parents’ room, where everyone was gathering. While we were waiting for everyone to settle down, my mother reached behind her and grabbed a handful of pistachios from a bag sitting on the cedar chest.
“Wait a second!” cried Corinne. “Where’s some for the rest of us?”
“Don’t worry,” my mom assured her, “sharing is exactly what I plan to do.” And without hesitation, she proceeded to divvy out the handful of nuts. With a smile she exclaimed, “Call it a blessing for participating in family prayer!”
We liked the idea. We liked it even better when mom reached behind her a second time, returning now with more than just a handful of nuts. She plopped the whole bag down in the middle of the bed we were gathered around.
We spent several happy minutes breaking open salty pistachios and talking. Our conversation became boisterous and enthusiastic as we chatted and snacked away.
The nuts were soon gone but our conversation continued. We probably talked for half an hour. During this time, no one complained about family prayer taking so long. No one complained about being tired or wanting to go to bed. We were so happy to be together and content to continue talking.
At that moment, I realized that Heavenly Father had blessed us for participating in family prayer. The blessing wasn’t like the physical strength a bunch of pistachios could offer—it was more nourishing. The blessing was the opportunity to grow closer together as a family, and really, though I love pistachios, it was far more satisfying.
After we prayed together, I wandered back to my room to read a little more before calling it a night. I’d just opened my book when the sound of laughter wafted in from my parents’ room where two of my sisters continued to joke and tease my parents. I smiled and returned to my book. Who could have predicted the powerful impact of a simple mix of family prayer and pistachios?

It was 1:00 A.M. on Christmas 1843. A band of less than two dozen, dressed against the chill, approached the Mansion House at the northeast corner of Main and Water streets in Nauvoo. The group halted below the windows of the room where the Prophet Joseph Smith slept. With well-wrapped scarves, hats pulled low, and hands gloved or pocketed, the members huddled below the Prophet’s window. One of the group gave the pitch, and they began caroling:
“Mortals, awake! with angels join,
And chant the solemn lay;
Love, joy, and gratitude combine
To hail th’auspicious day.*
As they sang the other six verses, the inhabitants of the house gathered at the window. Perhaps a few, including the Prophet, braved the foot-stamping cold to greet the singers. He later said, “It caused a thrill of pleasure to run through my soul. All of my family and boarders arose to hear the serenade, and I felt to thank my Heavenly Father for their visit and blessed them in the name of the Lord.”
The chill forgotten, Widow Lettice Rushton, a blind English convert, her five grown children and their spouses, and a handful of neighbors who made up the singing group departed for Hyrum’s house two blocks west on Water Street. Naturally at that hour the patriarch to the Church was asleep. He arose and went outside to shake hands with the singers. He blessed each one of them, telling them it was such heavenly music that he thought at first that a choir of angels had come to visit him.
For the Prophet and his brother, that Christmas was to prove their last.
Joseph intended to stay home that day. A family man, his past Christmases had not always been as pleasant as this one. In the previous Christmas season, he had met with Governor Ford concerning problems between the Saints and their nonmember neighbors. In 1839 he had spent the Christmas season in Washington seeking redress for the Saints who’d lost their possessions in the Missouri conflicts. The year before that Joseph and several loyal friends had spent a miserable Christmas in Liberty Jail.
Perhaps his thoughts turned to his good friend Porter Rockwell, now 30, who at the last account was still languishing in the Missouri prison where he had been for seven months. Because Porter was being illegally held, it did not seem likely that efforts on the part of the Saints in Illinois would secure his release.
At noon on that last Christmas, Joseph met with some brethren from Morley Settlement, located near the present site of Lima, 25 miles south of Nauvoo. He counseled them to keep the law on their side despite the depredation of marauding citizens.
At about 2:00 P.M., 50 couples sat down at Joseph’s table as guests. During the meal, Joseph was asked to solemnize the marriage of Dr. Levi Richards and Sara Griffiths. Not desiring to leave his guests, he had the request forwarded to Brigham Young, who was living on the southeast corner of Kimball and Granger streets, three blocks north and one block west of the Prophet’s residence. Brother Brigham complied with the request.
Apparently the 38-year-old Prophet, who had a reputation for hospitality, spent the remainder of the day with his family and associates. That evening a large group also dined at the Prophet’s house before turning to music, dancing, and other festivities in the tradition of Christmas in that day.
Latecoming guests, dressed in their best, arrived during the evening hours on that Monday. The troubles of the Saints, past and present, were temporarily forgotten as the guests enjoyed the festivities. Then the spirit of the evening was disrupted when a gaunt, seemingly drunk, unwashed Missourian, straggly and unkempt hair brushing his shoulders, forced his way into the room.
Efforts were made to throw the ruffian out, but he was too powerful. In the ensuing struggle, Joseph had a good look at the man. It was his friend, Porter!
The atmosphere cleared as friends gathered around Rockwell and welcomed him home. He explained how he had been honorably released after seven months in prison and had worked his way home through hostile territory. Because his feet were injured and men were seeking his life, it had taken him 12 days. He had just arrived in Nauvoo. The trick he’d played on the Prophet and his guests was merely his idea of fun.
Rockwell’s safe return climaxed the day for Joseph on his last Christmas, the Christmas before the summer guns at Carthage.

Mary Elizabeth Rollins was also prepared for the truth the Prophet Joseph brought forth. She recalled that when she saw a copy of the Book of Mormon at the home of Isaac Morley, “I felt such a desire to read it, that I could not refrain from asking him to let me take it home and read it, while he attended meeting.” She asked so earnestly that Isaac gave her the book on the condition that she bring it back before breakfast the next morning.
Mary Elizabeth and her aunt and uncle stayed up very late reading the Book of Mormon, and Mary rose at daybreak so she could continue reading. True to her promise, she returned the book before Isaac Morley had had breakfast. When he told her, “I guess you did not read much in it,” she showed him how much she had read, recited the first verse, and outlined the story of Nephi. Surprised, he said, “Child, take this book home and finish it, I can wait.”12 Mary was one of the first to receive the witness of the Spirit promised in Moroni 10:4 [Moro. 10:4]. Joseph had still another fellow witness!