Gospel Story Finder

David heard a horse trotting into the yard. He knew that sound—Father was home! The door opened, and Father walked in.
“I have some good news,” Father said. “The glass for the tabernacle has arrived in California!”
David felt like cheering. Everyone in their town of St. George knew about the tabernacle windows. The tabernacle was being built so the Church members in Southern Utah could have a place to worship. But the tabernacle didn’t have glass for the windows yet. They had to order it all the way from New York.
New York was a long way from Utah. Father had drawn out a map with charcoal to show David. David had traced the long line the glass had to travel by boat from New York all the way to San Bernadino, California. That’s where it was now. From there it still had to be brought the last 300 miles by wagon to St. George.
Father was in charge of leading the wagon team to California and back. “The glass is waiting for us, but we still need $800 to pick it up.”
David eyes got wide. He had never even heard of that much money!
“Do you think we can raise the money?” Father asked, ruffling David’s hair.
“Of course we can!” David answered. He ran to his room. In minutes he came back and handed a two-cent piece to his father. It was all he had.
Over the next few days, David’s family pulled together $3.87. They knew it wasn’t very much. But they also knew that if Heavenly Father wanted the Saints to build a tabernacle to worship in, then He would provide a way. They prayed for His help.
News soon spread throughout the pioneer community, and everyone gave all they could to the window fund. But when Father counted up the money on the last night before the trip, it was only $200.
“Maybe you should wait till spring,” Mother suggested. “Perhaps we could have the money by then.”
Father shook his head. “No, we have to go now. Otherwise the building will be unprotected from the rain and snow all winter. We can’t let it be damaged.”
That night they prayed for help again. They had done all they could. But it wasn’t enough. David’s father decided to start the journey to California anyway. He had faith that somehow things would work out.
Before first light, the wagon team pulled up outside David’s house. The other travelers joined David’s family inside for a prayer. Father pleaded with Heavenly Father for help.
A knock at the door startled them. When Mother opened it, a man walked in. He said his name was Peter Nielsen, and he was from a nearby town called Washington.
“Hello, Brother Cannon,” he said to Father. “You’re the man I need to see. I had a dream that I should bring you the money I’ve been saving to work on my home. I know that for some reason you need it, and God wants you to have it. Here.”
Brother Nielsen untied a red handkerchief and poured gold pieces onto the table until a big pile lay there. Father counted the coins one by one. $600! With the $200, it made $800. That was exactly the amount they needed to go and get the glass for the Tabernacle! Right away they prayed to thank Heavenly Father.
Within minutes the team was heading west. As they left, David knew without a doubt that Heavenly Father had provided a way for them.

“I was in a new culture full of new vocabulary and traditions. I felt like an outsider in most conversations and questioned my worth.”

Amy Faragher, shown with her husband, Nathan, and their children

Amy Faragher knew the Church was true the moment she stepped through the church door. “I could not deny the witness I had received from the Holy Ghost,” she says, “so I chose to be baptized.”

About a year after joining the Church as a 19-year-old, she received a calling to serve in Relief Society. A year later she was called to serve as Relief Society president of her young single adult ward. “Those experiences really enriched my life,” she says. “I was all in.”

Serving in this calling as a relatively new member of the Church had its challenges. “I was in a new culture full of new vocabulary and traditions,” she says. “I felt like an outsider in most conversations and questioned my worth as a member.”

Despite the difficulties, Church members received her with warmth and open arms, like one sister who asked to be her friend. “Such associations softened the challenge of learning a new life,” Sister Faragher says. “I felt part of a community. Ward members didn’t judge me for not understanding Church culture or doctrine.”

Five years after joining the Church, she got married. She and her husband lived in various wards over the years. One in particular was accepting of her convert experience, even inviting her to share her story as a member of a panel at a ward activity.

In other wards she attended, Amy was eager to participate but didn’t feel included. She began to doubt her place in the Church. “At times, the loneliness was unbearable,” she remembers. “I continued to attend sacrament meeting and fill my calling in the nursery but suffered from a high level of anxiety.”

When her efforts to seek support from her ward during a challenging time didn’t bear fruit, she sought counsel from her stake president. As she spoke with him on one occasion, she divulged the ache of her heart. He responded quickly and asked to hear more. They talked at length and committed to meet regularly. “The stake president was genuinely interested and listened to all I had to say,” she recalls. “He was the first to ask the hard question about what was going on.”

Her counseling with the stake president and receiving other professional counseling helped her feel Heavenly Father’s love, an important step in her healing. “Everything changed for me. I’m finding my place,” she says. “I’ve learned I don’t need to be ashamed of being a convert.”

“It’s important for leaders to acknowledge and care for new members,” she suggests. “Ask the hard questions and learn how they are really doing. A calling or responsibility suited to the new member’s capacity is also important to the confidence of a new member. It’s not a burden to serve, as some leaders believe.”

Amy recently earned a master’s degree in clinical mental health counseling, and she conducts stake workshops on mental health and assists with the Church’s addiction recovery program.

When he returned to London and resumed composing operas, his work was not well received, and creditors began to hound him again. In the depths of despondency, he began to wonder, “Why did God permit my resurrection, only to allow my fellow-men to bury me again?”3 In April 1741 Handel held what he assumed would be a farewell concert. His creativity was spent. A biographer wrote: “There was nothing to begin or to finish. Handel was faced with emptiness.”4
Late one August afternoon that same year, Handel returned from a long and tiring walk to find that a poet and previous collaborator, Charles Jennens, had left him a manuscript. This libretto quoted liberally from the scriptures, particularly the words of Isaiah, foretelling the birth of Jesus Christ and describing His ministry, Crucifixion, and Resurrection. The work was to be an oratorio. Given his previous failures, Handel was apprehensive as he began to read through the text.
“Comfort Ye,” the first words of the manuscript, seemed to leap from the page. They dissipated dark clouds that had been pressing upon Handel for so long. His depression waned and his emotions warmed from interest to excitement as he continued to read of angelic proclamations of the Savior’s birth and of Isaiah’s prophecies of the Messiah, who would come to earth to be born as other mortal infants. A familiar melody Handel had composed earlier flooded into his mind as he read “For unto Us a Child Is Born.” The notes distilled upon his mind faster than he could put pencil to paper as he captured the image of the loving Good Shepherd in the aria titled “He Shall Feed His Flock.” Then came the overpowering exultation reflected in the “Hallelujah Chorus,” followed by the soft, supernal testimony of “I Know That My Redeemer Liveth.” The work came to its majestic conclusion with “Worthy Is the Lamb.”
After all the music he had composed throughout his lifetime, Handel would eventually be known worldwide for this singular work, Messiah, largely composed in just three weeks during the late summer of 1741. Upon completing his composition, he humbly acknowledged, “God has visited me.”5 Those who feel the touch of the Holy Spirit as they experience the overpowering testimony of Handel’s Messiah would agree.

I knew a wonderful gentleman not too many years ago who helps to illustrate this universal principle of cultural myopia. I first met him in Singapore when I was assigned to be his family’s home teacher. A distinguished professor of Sanskrit and Tamil, he hailed from the south of India. His wonderful wife and two sons were members of the Church, but he had never joined nor listened much to the teachings of the gospel. He was happy with the way his wife and sons were developing and supported them fully in their undertakings and Church responsibilities.

When I offered to teach him the principles of the gospel and share our beliefs with him, he initially balked. It took me a while to figure out why: he felt that by so doing, he would become a traitor to his past, his people, and his history! To his way of thinking, he would be denying everything he was, everything his family had taught him to be, his very Indian heritage. Over the next few months, we were able to talk about these issues. I was awed (though not surprised!) by how the gospel of Jesus Christ was able to open his eyes to a different viewpoint.

So what happened to my friend? Well, he was taught the lessons and joined the Church. His family has since been sealed for time and all eternity in the Sydney Australia Temple. He has given up little—and gained the potential for everything. He discovered that he can still celebrate his history, still be proud of his ancestry, his music and dance and literature, his food, his land and its people. He has found that there is no problem incorporating the best of his local culture into the greatest of all cultures. He discovered that bringing that which is consistent with truth and righteousness from his old life into his new one serves only to enhance his fellowship with the Saints and to assist in uniting all as one in the society of heaven.

Tragedies often strengthen marriages, but not mine. I was so filled with bitterness that relationships of any kind were impossible. My wife and I divorced. I turned people away from me wherever I went. My anger filled every part of my life.

After forcing a driver who made an illegal turn in front of me off the road, I beat him up. I attacked a 6-foot-4-inch skier whose skis poked me in the ribs while I was waiting to get on an airplane. Legal charges for my bad behavior grew in number, as did my debts to avoid being sentenced. My life was filled with anger and violence.

I chose the usual means of worldly escape, but the pain still remained. I cried every time I remembered that awful scene. I continued blaming God for ruining my life and my chance for happiness. Years of complete frustration followed, and although I remarried and moved to another area, I did not feel peace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

May I now paint a picture of such a situation. In faraway Bucharest, Romania, Dr. Lynn Oborn, volunteering at an orphanage, was attempting to teach little Raymond, who had never walked, how to use his legs. Raymond had been born with severe clubfeet and was completely blind. Recent orthopedic surgery performed by Dr. Oborn had corrected the clubfeet, but Raymond was still unable to use his legs. Dr. Oborn knew that a child-size walker would enable Raymond to get on his feet, but such a walker was not available anywhere in Romania. I’m sure fervent prayers were offered by this doctor who had done all he could without a walking aid for the boy. Blindness can hamper a child, but inability to walk, to run, to play can injure his precious spirit.
Let us turn now to Provo, Utah. The Richard Headlee family, learning of the suffering in Romania, joined with others to help fill a 40-foot (12-m) container with 40,000 pounds (18,000 kg) of needed supplies, including food, clothing, medicine, blankets, and toys. The project deadline arrived, and the container had to be shipped that day. No one involved with the project knew of the particular need for a child-size walker. However, at the last possible moment, a family brought forth a child’s walker and placed it in the container.
When the anxiously awaited container arrived at the orphanage in Bucharest, Dr. Oborn was present as it was opened. Every item it contained would be put to immediate use at the orphanage. As the Headlee family introduced themselves to Dr. Oborn, he said, “Oh, I hope you brought me a child’s walker for Raymond!”
One of the Headlee family members responded, “I can vaguely remember something like a walker, but I don’t know its size.” Another family member was dispatched back into the container, crawling among all the bales of clothes and boxes of food, searching for the walker. When he found it, he lifted it up and cried out, “It’s a little one!” Cheers erupted—which quickly turned to tears—for they all knew they had been part of a modern-day miracle.
There may be some who say, “We don’t have miracles today.” But the doctor whose prayers were answered would respond, “Oh, yes we do, and Raymond is walking!” She who was inspired to give the walker was a willing vessel and surely would agree.
Who was the angel of mercy touched by the Lord to play a vital role in this human drama? Her name is Kristin, and she was born with spina bifida, as was her younger sister, Erika. The two as children spent long days and worrisome nights in the hospital. Modern medicine, lovingly practiced, along with help from our Heavenly Father brought a measure of mobility to each. Neither is downhearted. Both inspire others to carry on. Kristin is now a college student living on her own, and Erika is an active high school student.
It was once my opportunity to tell Kristin, who had sent her walker to Romania, “Thank you for listening to the Spirit of the Lord. You have been the instrument in the Lord’s hands to answer a doctor’s prayer, a child’s wish.”
Later, I offered my own “Thank You” to God for children, for families, for miracles in our time.

By Jacqueline Wittwer
When water poured into the basement of the Congregational Church one Sunday after days of heavy rain, Yarmouth Branch members stopped their sacrament meeting and hurried to the basement to save furniture, books, and other valuables from ruin. David Quinn and his friend Marc Johnson—still in their Sunday best—jumped in, literally, to help.
They were laughing and having a wonderful time, even though their clothes were soaked through. What mattered was that a job needed to be done. They made the best of a bad situation. They helped me see the importance of a good attitude through life’s daily challenges.

One of the pioneers of Bible translation was William Cameron Townsend. In 1917, Townsend, then twenty-one years old, was hired by contract to sell copies of the Bible in Central America. In the Guatemalan jungle, he came face to face with reality and the Cakchiquel Indians. He could sell them Spanish Bibles, but few could read them. And even though Spanish was the official language in all the schools, few Cakchiquel could express themselves freely in Spanish. Their own language had never been written.

One native asked Townsend, “Why doesn’t your God speak my language?” The missionary could not give him a good answer. Townsend stayed past his contract time, learned to speak Cakchiquel, and invented a way to write it. Then he translated the New Testament. It took him twelve years, but that translation gave those people dignity, hope, and love for the scriptures. It also gave Cameron Townsend his life’s mission.

In 1934, in an abandoned farmhouse in Arkansas, Townsend started what would become the Summer Institute of Linguistics. From two students that first year, the Institute has grown to more than three thousand linguists and trained technical people such as pilots, radio operators, nurses, and teachers. In teams of two, translators go to the forgotten peoples of the world. They learn the language, teach the people to read and write, and then with a team of native speakers, they translate the New Testament. It still takes twelve to fourteen years. Some Institute teams stay twenty years to do the Old Testament as well. A linguist can use up a lifetime translating the Bible into two languages.

Institute workers have been decimated by exotic diseases and other dangers. In 1982, one was shot by guerrillas. Many live primitively, often in isolation. Still they go.

Some years ago while I was serving as a mission president, my wife, Evelia, witnessed a touching scene of happiness when she saw a faithful family enter the chapel. This mother and her two small children had walked from their humble home under oppressive heat to church that day. They never imagined they would find Elder Cruz, the dedicated missionary who, the year before, had shared the message of the restored gospel with them. This wonderful surprise was key in their recognizing the great happiness the gospel had brought into their lives. The children ran to embrace him, and while tears of joy ran down the cheeks of Elder Cruz, the mother clasped his hands in hers and profoundly thanked him for all he had done to bless their family. Surely they found that happiness which is prepared and reserved for the Saints.

Every year, fifth-graders at my school can go to a camp called Sky Ranch. They sleep in cabins, swim, and learn about the outdoors. My parents didn’t have enough money for me to go, but they said they’d help me earn it.
The Fourth of July was coming up, so we decided to make some cute Uncle Sam flag holders. We figured out how much money we needed to buy the materials and still have enough money for me to go to camp. We needed to buy flags, wood, and paint to make fifteen holders.
Dad bought and cut the wood. Mom and I painted the holders. When we were finished, Dad and I started to sell them. We sold seven that Saturday. At Sunday dinner, Grandpa asked, “What about paying your tithing?” I had forgotten about tithing!
We decided to raise the price of the flag holders, but we only sold one, so we knew we had to lower the price again to what it was and find another way to earn the money I still needed. Mom said that we had to pay the tithing first and that the Lord would bless us for it.
On the last Saturday before the Fourth of July, we sold all but two flag holders. Then a man came up and bought those two. Upon learning why we were selling them, he gave me an extra twenty dollars!
I am very excited about going to Sky Ranch, but I’m even more excited about learning that the Lord will bless you when you pay your tithing first.
Melissa McKenna, age 10Allen, Texas

When I was deciding if I should serve a mission, I was called to serve as a digital missionary in my home ward. In this calling, I was asked to share the gospel on social media by posting uplifting messages about Jesus Christ. I wanted to do my best, so I posted conference quotes, scriptures, and gospel insights on Instagram every day.
On most of my posts, I got likes and comments from people I knew, but there were also times when I would get likes and comments from people I didn’t know. One time, I shared part of an address by Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles about the principles of Jesus Christ’s gospel. A girl I didn’t know saw the post and reached out to me. Her name was Emma (name has been changed). She was a college student in England and had been searching for truths and more meaning in her life.
When Emma saw my post, she searched for and read the full talk by Elder Bednar and felt a deep desire to learn more. So, she started messaging me to ask questions about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and what I believe as a member. We had some insightful discussions as she expressed her interest in the gospel.
Over time we continued to reach out to each other and get to know each other. Eventually she became more and more interested in the Church, and I explained how she could get in touch with missionaries in her area. Soon she was meeting with them often!
After a few months of being taught, Emma accepted the invitation to be baptized, and she became a member of the Lord’s Church. She struggled for a while with difficult family relationships because of her desire to join the Church, but I was amazed by her courage and faith to keep moving forward with hope in Christ. Today, she loves the gospel and is so thankful for the effects it has had on her life.
Before I became connected with Emma, I had been contemplating serving a mission but had felt so uncertain and insignificant. I didn’t feel that my efforts to share the gospel would make a difference for anyone. But seeing how much Emma’s life changed simply because a stranger like me posted a message about Jesus Christ on social media, I was filled with hope that my desire to share the light of Christ as a full-time missionary and as a disciple of Jesus Christ could truly change people’s lives and bring them to Christ.
Emma and I continue to encourage each other and are now both serving full-time missions.
I know that Heavenly Father inspired me to post that original message from Elder Bednar on social media. The message was small and simple, but that’s all it took for Him to work a miracle.

“A young mother on an overnight flight with a two-year-old daughter was stranded by bad weather in Chicago airport without food or clean clothing for the child and without money. She was . . . pregnant and threatened with miscarriage, so she was under doctor’s instructions not to carry the child unless it was essential. Hour after hour she stood in one line after another, trying to get a flight to Michigan. The terminal was noisy, full of tired, frustrated, grumpy passengers, and she heard critical references to her crying child and to her sliding her child along the floor with her foot as the line moved forward. No one offered to help with the soaked, hungry, exhausted child.

“Then, the woman later reported, ‘someone came towards us and with a kindly smile said, “Is there something I could do to help you?” With a grateful sigh I accepted his offer. He lifted my sobbing little daughter from the cold floor and lovingly held her to him while he patted her gently on the back. He asked if she could chew a piece of gum. When she was settled down, he carried her with him and said something kindly to the others in the line ahead of me, about how I needed their help. They seemed to agree and then he went up to the ticket counter [at the front of the line] and made arrangements with the clerk for me to be put on a flight leaving shortly. He walked with us to a bench, where we chatted a moment, until he was assured that I would be fine. He went on his way. About a week later I saw a picture of Apostle Spencer W. Kimball and recognized him as the stranger in the airport.

“Several years later, President Kimball received a letter that read, in part:
“‘Dear President Kimball:
“‘I am a student at Brigham Young University. I have just returned from my mission in Munich, West Germany. I had a lovely mission and learned much. . . .
“‘I was sitting in priesthood meeting last week when a story was told of a loving service which you performed some twenty-one years ago in the Chicago airport. The story told of how you met a young pregnant mother with a . . . screaming child, in . . . distress, waiting in a long line for her tickets. She was threatening miscarriage and therefore couldn’t lift her child to comfort her. She had experienced four previous miscarriages, which gave added reason for the doctor’s orders not to bend or lift.
“‘You comforted the crying child and explained the dilemma to the other passengers in line. This act of love took the strain and tension off my mother. I was born a few months later in Flint, Michigan.
“‘I just want to thank you for your love. Thank you for your example.’”2

In 2019 my husband Doug and I returned home after serving as mission leaders in Arequipa, Peru. Doug’s back had been bothering him the last few months we were there, pain we attributed to long trips in the mission van to be with our missionaries.
So, when we got back to Utah, Doug saw an orthopedist, who ordered physical therapy and then injections. As neither helped him, it was suggested that Doug have surgery. But the surgery didn’t relieve his pain; it got worse. So a second and then a third surgery were performed.
After three surgical tries, various treatments, and nearly four years, Doug was worse and never without pain.
I spent more than a week with Doug in St. Louis, Missouri, where he had a fourth surgery performed by an expert on spinal reconstruction. Doug’s spine now has all the right curves. It’s vertically straight—less than one centimeter to the left. And he has curvature in the lumbar spine so that he can stand up straight. He’s aligned again.
Doug did not get into alignment alone. He needed the help of a surgeon. If Doug had tried to carry this burden on his own, he would have remained misaligned. He couldn’t fix it alone.
The last few years have been a journey for Doug and for me. I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone, but the experience of watching someone I love battle pain has smoothed down some of my rough edges and improved my still imperfect patience.
More than ever, Doug and I have relied on the Savior’s healing, comfort, and enabling power made possible through His atoning sacrifice. Doug wasn’t immediately provided with physical relief; what we got was a more sustained and deeper relationship with Jesus Christ. His covenantal promises have never felt more significant to us. In a way we hadn’t before, we tested His promise that we could “always have his Spirit to be with [us]” (Doctrine and Covenants 20:77). That promise is real and fulfilled even in the midst of suffering.
The Savior provided us with spiritual and temporal relief, through the Comforter and through the acts of other people. As covenant keepers have aligned themselves with Jesus Christ, they have brought us closer to Him and have been instruments in His hands to help us experience His relief.

In my hand is a folded $100 bill. Over 25 years ago, my father put this in his wallet for emergencies, and there it was when he was killed in an automobile accident on the morning of my missionary farewell. One hundred dollars was a lot of money to me when I was 19, and it still is today. However, in all those years since my mother gave it to me, I’ve never been tempted to spend it.

This currency, folded by my father’s hand, has always been worth more to me as a symbol than anything I could purchase with it. To me, it is a symbol of things that are available to each one of us, regardless of our financial circumstances—things that are worth much more than material riches. This folded $100 bill is a symbol of the treasures of heaven.

I began today’s discourse with this $100 bill in hand. How often have I wished it had never come to me. The days immediately following my father’s untimely death were the darkest of my life. In the prayers before my mission, I pleaded with the Lord for primarily one thing: that my missionary service would be the instrument through which my father would return to the Church. And then, in an instant, on a morning in which he was not only going to attend church for the first time in many years but also send me on the Lord’s errand, he was gone. I miss him dearly. However, I am grateful for this trial of faith. In darkness, I found light. I witness that my earthly father lives and is continuing his eternal progression.

My father is a treasure in heaven.

One former general authority was an amazing example to me by the name of Sterling W. Sill. He was a Carnegie Hero for saving a drowning boy in 1959, while nearly drowning himself. Sill had devoted every spare moment in his life, to meeting the great heroes of the past through what he called the majesty of books. He said, "I imagine this shelf in my library to contain a great collection of human beings were I may have the better of each one as his service is needed. The contribution of each may be brief in itself, but whatever may have been possessed of inspiration, dedication, and righteousness now belongs to me. How else but in a book can one go back into the past for a visit in ancient Rome or Gethsemane or Gettysburg? How else can we share in the wealth of the great thinkers who bring about the progress of the world? Books may contain the distilled essence of the greatest lives. They abound in inspiration and provide a motivation for the most magnificent accomplishment."
I've read everything he wrote, all 30 books, which were the experiences that were most profitable to him after reading 987 of the greatest books about the greatest lives. I've been to the University of Utah and looked through many of the 34 boxes of letters and notes that were complimentary to Sterling W. Sill in his work and Church callings. And I have gone through many of the 7500 pages he left in his "idea banks," including 25 three-ring-bound books with 300 pages apiece, about what he would consider his great ideas. In addition to a marvelous speaking career he was the voice for over 17 years on 370 stations every Sunday night. When it came to picking a career he thought life insurance would be a good way to go, yet he was turned down in his first interview. Then he was given a chance by New York Life and became, according to some, the most influential agent in that 40-year span.

Brother Featherstone’s account of the talking wall brought to my mind an incident that I was told about. Not long ago two of our security men were working high up on the temple, inspecting it or something, in the night, when it was dark. Down in front of the temple, two or three inebriated men were hanging on the gate looking up at the temple, and one of them said, “Oh Moroni, speak to me.” And one of our men said, “Yes, what is it you want?”

President Gordon B. Hinckley tells of an experience he had as a boy lying in the bed of an old farm wagon at night with his brother Sherman. They “looked at the myriads of stars in the heavens, and took turns picking out familiar stars and tracing the Big Dipper, the handle and the cup, to find the North Star.” President Hinckley said he was fascinated by the North Star. Regardless of the earth’s rotation, the North Star maintained its position in the heavens and never moved. He said: “I recognized it as a constant in the midst of change. It was something that could always be counted on, something that was dependable, an anchor in what otherwise appeared to be a moving and unstable firmament.”

Just two weeks after the group’s arrival, Joseph heard Church President Brigham Young issue a call for volunteers to go out and help the 600 members of the Martin Handcart Company still in the mountains in deep snow.
Joseph left that day with the other volunteers.
In the mountains the snow was almost three meters deep, and the wagons couldn’t get through. The volunteers had to carry the supplies on their backs to the handcart company. With the others, Joseph helped set up a camp to prepare the members of the company for the final effort to reach Salt Lake City.
Finally, all the handcart pioneers were safely gathered to Zion, where they went about the business of starting new lives.

I looked at the photograph of her in my mother’s scrapbook, pasted in next to Grandma’s certificate of blessing. She wore plaited hair wound in a crown above her oval face. Her eyes were fine and slanted.
“That’s your great-great-grandmother Totshauna.” My mother used to point her out to me when I was a child and the relatives first started saying I favored her. “She crossed the plains with the pioneers, pulling a handcart for more than a thousand miles.”
“Is a thousand miles farther away than Grandma’s house?” We lived in Salt Lake, and my grandmother Harris lived in Spanish Fork.
“Oh, lots farther, honey. A thousand miles is … is almost as far away as the moon.” Mom was proud of her pioneer heritage, and she wanted to be sure her children appreciated their ancestry sufficiently. I still remember at five years marveling over the woman with the funny hair who pulled a cart to Utah from as far away as the moon. Now I’m 20, and three nights ago when I looked at the photograph (faded, and taped in one corner), I remembered again, and marveled.
I was born in Salt Lake City, the city that she, and others like her, built more than a hundred years ago with adobe bricks and irrigation systems fed from the streams of the Wasatch. The call to gather to Zion brought tens of thousands of Saints from the East and converts from Europe, mostly England, to the Great Salt Lake Valley between 1846 and 1900. The Church in those days, struggling for its existence, desperately needed the strength found in unity, for a scattered church stood little chance of developing into the powerful organization that would be necessary to carry out the Lord’s latter-day work.
Twenty-three-year-old Totshauna Svenstrup, her husband, Christian, and their two small daughters were four of those who responded to the call. They came out of Denmark and, after sailing to the United States, joined one of two ill-fated handcart companies that headed westward to Zion. Totshauna’s daughter, Anna Karil, at that time only five, years later wrote briefly of the trek in her journal:
“Father died just outside of Florence [Nebraska] in a wagon accident. Mother pulled the cart, and she with child. We buried Gury in the snow by the Sweetwater [Wyoming]. She froze one night next to me and Mother in the tent. We reached the Salt Lake Valley in October. In December Mother delivered a son.”
In the old museum on Temple Square there used to be a statue of two pioneers, husband and wife, their cloaks windswept, standing together beside a small grave. My seminary class once took a tour of Temple Square. We stopped and looked at the statue, and one girl said, “Isn’t that so sad?” and the girl next to her solemnly agreed, “It’s awful. How did they ever stand it?” Then we continued on to the Assembly Hall to exclaim over how beautiful the stained glass windows are.
My seminary class saw the granite temple that day, too. Totshauna died three years before its completion. Every summer thousands of tourists park their heavily loaded automobiles in the spaces posted “Out-of-State Cars Only” that surround the temple block. They go inside and listen attentively to how the seagulls ate the crickets, then flick coins into the fountain. They file into the Tabernacle where once she, too, shifted her weight on the hard, narrow benches, and they lean a little forward in their seats to hear a pin drop. They snap photos of the spired temple and murmur with admiration: “Forty years to build. Imagine that!” Totshauna’s second husband, Samual Hoopes, was killed while quarrying granite for the temple up Little Cottonwood Canyon in June 1872.
Sometimes when I stand outside the temple, my fingers clutching the iron gate, my head thrown back as I stare at the golden words “Holiness to the Lord,” I remember a widow with eight children. Anna Karil, by that time married, wrote: “Mother embroiders linens for pay. Her fine Danish needlework is admired by many. The children work as they are able. Mother also takes in boarders and washing.”
The spires of the temple and Moroni sounding his trump no longer dominate the Salt Lake skyline. The modern Church Office Building across the street now holds that position of prominence. The office building, 28 stories high, took three years to build. The project was financed by the tithes and offerings of Church members. Totshauna, I think, would be proud to see the tall building. (I can picture her craning her neck toward the top: “Twenty-eight stories high. Imagine that!”) I am proud, too, but sometimes I think of the days when a temple cost 40 years, and even lives, to build. I will be careful not to forget.
After reaching the Salt Lake Valley, Totshauna settled in what is today known as Holladay. Not long after her arrival, she became the plural wife of Samual Hoopes. (I wonder if Samual was as enchanted as I am by her plain and lovely crown of plaits.) She had nine children by Samual; only seven lived past infancy. Her husband, at one time, was two and a half years absent from his family, which included three wives and numerous children, while serving a mission for the Church in the British Isles. Totshauna later sent three sons on missions after Samual’s death, with each son proving an added hardship, for her boys were among the eldest of her children and were depended upon to aid in the support of the entire family. Her own sketchy journal (now kept treasured in soft cloth in my grandmother’s bureau), which she kept for a brief period following Samual’s death, reads: “Hyrum left with elders Whitney and Williams in a wagon and went to take the rail to Canada. I packed him two beef tarts and two loaves bread with chokeberry jam, and Samual’s Book of Mormon, and an extra shirt and pair socks. He is seventeen.”
When my older brother, Jeff, left on his mission to Quebec, we stood in the airport terminal and watched the big jet take off. In his two large suitcases he carried a missionary Bible and leatherbound triple combination, three new suits, five white shirts, and a brand-new woolen coat that Mom saved for three months to buy. He had a notebook with the missionary discussions in it, and he’d already memorized them in French. I asked my mom if we could pack him beef tarts and bread with jam for his send-off, but she just smiled and said, “Oh, don’t be silly,” and baked him a shoebox full of tollhouse cookies instead.
As I reflect upon Totshauna’s life, I can’t help but contrast her harsh and simple life-style with my own. I attend Brigham Young University (named for the prophet-colonizer she followed and revered) where I study English and music and religion. Occasionally I may wash a pair of socks in the sink (she washed all her clothing with a scrub board and lye soap) or take a break from my daily routine by baking wheat bread, but these interruptions are rare. I often wonder while buzzing down the freeway in my Volkswagen or listening to the prophet at conference time on television or radio, what part of her remains in me.
Somewhere inside me I feel a bittersweet ache as I reflect upon those early days of Mormonism. There is in me a kind of wistful longing to return to the days of seagulls and crickets, days when temples took 40 years to build, days of missionaries who traveled on foot or by rail with neither purse or scrip, days of adobe bricks, and martyrs. Such days formed my roots and the roots of my church. They are a part of me in ways that I feel though do not fully understand.
Yet, despite my shadowy longings for past times and things, I am immersed in modern Mormonism—the organization she spent her life building a foundation for. That it is an exciting and marvelous age I live in I cannot deny. (Totshauna would thrill to hear about the 25,000 missionaries who now tract the earth. I thrill, too.) But as the modern church grows in strength and size, and I grow along with it—full of vast and varied possibilities for personal development and eager to discover what part in the growth and development of today’s church I might play—I will be careful to remember and strive to understand that part in me that is Totshauna, that part that is there because of her. I will go to Brigham Young University and exert my mind in the study of Faulkner, Hemingway, and Shakespeare. I’ll learn how to be a writer and maybe one day write for Church publications. I’ll practice my violin for at least one hour each day, and I’ll study the scriptures and struggle to comprehend, as well as live, the gospel of Jesus Christ. But in the mornings as I prepare to meet each day of work and study, I will plait my hair and sometimes even fashion it in a crown above my oval face.

“I wish we didn’t have to take the tree down,” Jeff sighed. “It still looks so pretty.”
“I know it does, honey,” Mom said, “but Christmas was 10 days ago.”
Jeff and his mother carefully wrapped shiny ornaments, bows, lacy stars, and the treetop angel in pieces of tissue paper and put them in boxes so nothing would break.
“Next Christmas we’ll decorate the tree again,” Mom said, “and we can make lots of new ornaments.”
She took the last string of lights off the tree, and Jeff put away the ornaments he’d made in church.
“The empty tree looks lonely. It makes me feel sad,” Jeff said. “I wish we could have Christmas all year.”
“In a way, we can,” Mom said. “Christmas means giving, and we can do that all year.”
“But how?” Jeff asked.
“Well, for one thing, the tree doesn’t have to stay empty.” Mom went into the kitchen and got bread, cranberries, and nuts from the cabinet.
“Let’s take the tree outside and put it near the kitchen window. Then we can put the food on the branches for the birds.”
After Jeff and his mom put on their coats, they lugged the tree into the backyard and trimmed it with the food.
“Now the birds can sing while they eat,” Jeff said with a smile. “What else can we do?”
“Let’s go inside. It’s cold out here,” Mom said.
While Jeff looked out the window at the blue jays and cardinals eating food from the tree, Mom found a notebook. “Let’s make a Christmas All Year calendar,” she said. “We’ll fill it with good things to do that will make others happy. Each month we can do a different project. We did the food tree, so let’s write that on the calendar for January.”
Jeff enjoyed making the calendar. When it was finished, here’s how it looked:
JANUARY—Make a Christmas food tree for the birds.
FEBRUARY—Bake valentine cookies for neighbors.
MARCH—Make snowmen for friends.
APRIL—Plant flowers in our garden.
MAY—Help older neighbors clean their yards.
JUNE—Pick strawberries and give them to someone.
JULY—Have a picnic with our family.
AUGUST—Have a lemonade stand.
SEPTEMBER—Help my teacher keep the classroom neat.
OCTOBER—Have fun raking leaves in our yard.
NOVEMBER—Invite friends for Thanksgiving dinner.
DECEMBER—Decorate the Christmas tree.
“We can celebrate Christmas all year!” Jeff declared as he helped Mom hang the calendar on the kitchen wall. Outside it started to snow, so Jeff put on his hat, coat, and mittens and ran out into the front yard. His neighbors were taking down their outdoor Christmas decorations. They waved. Jeff called to them, “Merry Christmas to you for the whole year!”