Gospel Story Finder

The rickety bus slowed just enough to let us swing out the open back door. Lurching forward once again, it careened around the corner and was gone in an instant. We stood alone on the highway, Ciudad de Dios on one side and Urbanización San Juan on the other. It seemed a forsaken place to me that December day in Lima, Peru, three days before Christmas. A humid wind blew the sand into grainy little whirlwinds, and the ever-present Lima overcast was still with us although it was nearly summer. It was my first Christmas away from home, and I felt empty and alone. I had been singing carols to myself for days trying to catch the mood but to no avail. I missed the snow and the crisp Utah winter air. Lima’s mugginess didn’t help at all.
We trudged along past row after row of cement tract houses, all in various stages of construction but occupied nonetheless. Dogs barked at us from their rooftop guard stations, and children tagged along at our sides. Arriving at the Manco home, we knocked on the door and Sister Manco answered.
A three-foot bramble bush stood ridiculously in the middle of the bare cement floor in the living room. We oohed and aahed appropriately. I smiled slightly, remembering the beautiful firs and pinion pines at home, but had to appreciate Sister Manco’s good intentions. Her home would be happy this Christmas Eve. But just down the street where the Nostadez family lived, it would be a different matter.
Brother Nostadez was a trolley conductor who had been out of work since July when his union struck. The government had settled the issue by tearing up the tracks, and Brother Nostadez had been without a job ever since. We had baptized the entire family, except two underage daughters, only the night before. Although I knew they were glad to be in the Church, I also realized that it would be a meager Christmas for them this year.
All at once I knew what had to be done. If I couldn’t celebrate the kind of Christmas I so longed for, at least the Nostadez family would have a good one. My companion Elder Slack agreed, and we enlisted the aid of a member friend, Estrella Costa, to buy things she thought the family might enjoy. We involved the Manco family by asking them to deliver the gifts at just the right moment on Christmas Eve, hoping to teach them something about caring for others at the same time. Estrella had brought the gifts she chose to our apartment.
Still, as I surveyed the fare, I wasn’t completely satisfied. The silly little useless toys, the oranges, apples, and fun surprises that are so much a part of holiday giving were missing.
Hurriedly I set out with Elder Slack in tow to explore the open market across the highway in Ciudad de Dios. Although appallingly filthy, Ciudad de Dios was vibrantly alive. The rhythm of humanity literally pulsated through its streets. A thousand vendors sought to sell their wares. Here was fruit fresh from the jungle: papayas the size of cantaloupes, watermelons, pineapples, figs, several kinds of bananas, mangos, and oranges of every size and variety. We bartered for a dozen of the latter. Huge sides of beef, lamb, and pork were scattered among hogs’ heads and cows’ stomachs, all hanging from enormous hooks for better view. Fresh fish from the famous Peruvian fisheries gaped at us with mouths opened wide. Live animals were sold to be taken home and raised for later butchering. Turkeys, chicks, ducklings, and baby guinea pigs scampered nervously in their pens. Next came sundries. Black market shampoo, soaps, and razor blades were spread on blankets on the ground or in the now-familiar make-shift stalls. There was a section with shoes and clothes of every description. At last came the toys.
I don’t remember what we bought, and it’s really not very important. I do know that we had a marvelous time trying everything before deciding. The vendor waited patiently, enjoying our enthusiasm. I vaguely recall marbles and combs. Yes, we bought combs for all, and a large basket to put everything in.
The shoppers in the marketplace that day carried off their business in a more lighthearted manner than usual. The bartering that is so much a part of Latin life was good-natured and friendly. One usually sees a number of heated arguments among those driving hard bargains, but not today. Shoppers and vendors alike seemed genuinely pleased to do business together. Negotiations were concluded with large smiles and holiday greetings. Everyone in “City of God” was happy that day. They had little and yet they were happy, anticipating the celebration of the birth of Him who was their Savior also. That strange, bustling marketplace made me feel the spirit of Christmas for the first time that holiday season. At last I understood why this tenement was called “City of God,” and no other name could have been more appropriate.
The Latin people celebrate this holiday like none other. Nearly everyone attends midnight mass. After that the fun begins. Fireworks burst everywhere, not just overhead. Rockets zip up and down streets, sidewalks, between one’s legs, and out of windows. Firecrackers of every caliber roar a mass salute that would rival a squadron of 747’s taking off in formation. The next morning a pungent haze overcasts the city, a smokey memorial to the Yuletide celebration, a mushroom cloud Latin style.
Time was short. We quickly bought wrapping paper and dashed back to the Mancos where mother and children helped ready the presents for delivery. I carefully instructed young Paco in the finer points of subbing for “Papa Noël.” “Leave the basket on the front porch, knock loudly, and run. Hide nearby to make sure the basket is taken in before returning home.” They mustn’t discover any connection between the gifts and their new-found faith. We wished the Mancos a “Feliz Navidad” and rushed home to prepare for our own festivities.
We made four or five calls on wonderful families that night, all of whom implored us to share their midnight feast. A carefully planned schedule brought us to the home of a convert employed by a U.S. airline where we observed a sort of Anglo-Latin Christmas culminating in an enormous banquet. After exchanging gifts, we finally dragged back to our apartment.
During the course of the evening I often mused on the events transpiring out in San Juan. I imagined Paco stealing up to the door, leaving the basket with great commotion, and escaping to the safety of nearby shadows. Brother Nostadez answers the door and, finding nothing, shakes his head in disgust at such an annoying prank on Christmas Eve. It is little Teresa who spies the basket on the porch and dashes through her father’s legs, hoping for a glimpse of Papa Noël. Hearing the disturbance, the rest of the family rushes to the door. Sister Nostadez whisks the basket into the house with her excited children in hot pursuit.
Across the street, Paco flattens himself in the sand, stifling uncontrollable laughter at Brother Nostadez who is suspiciously scanning the neighborhood for the perpetrator of the deed. He makes one more careful sweep and then backs through the door, slamming it behind him. As if loosed by a starter’s pistol, Paco is up and sprinting for home to report the success of his adventure.
Inside the house, little girls squeal with delight when dolls emerge from the basket. Ten-year-old Hilario is quietly enraptured with his first pocket knife. And Brother and Sister Nostadez contemplate the happy scenario, amazed at this unexpected answer to Christmas prayers uttered for the first time.
Each Christmas Eve for 12 Christmases my thoughts have returned to that singular event in my life. I know that it’s possible that the outcome was not at all as I envisioned it. And it is that uncertainty that keeps the experience so alive and vibrant in my memory. For the imaginings of that night’s events by far transcend any actuality I might have experienced in person. And so on each Christmas Eve I think, and ponder, and dream of miracles that I never witnessed but that I know to have transpired.
It was my first Christmas away from home and family—a young missionary in a strange land among strange people with strange customs. It was a time of learning and teaching and giving in secret. It was the time I first learned of, felt, and understood the true meaning of the spirit of Christmas.

Colton slouched in a chair at the kitchen table. His arms were folded together tight, his mouth turned down in a frown.
“What’s the matter?” Mom asked.
Colton just frowned harder. The only sound was the ticking of the clock. He sighed. “Nothing.”
“Well,” Mom said, “if that nothing turns into something, let me know.”
Colton sighed again. “I’m just mad at myself.”
“Mad at yourself?”
Colton nodded. “Yeah. And I’m not going to look at myself in the mirror for a whole week, maybe two.” He pulled a little green car from his pocket.
“I ruined the car Dad gave me—the one he played with when he was little. It was on the floor, and I stepped on it. Now it’s all broken. It was so … dumb!”
Mom sat down next to Colton and reached for the broken car. “I’m so sorry. I know how much you loved this car. But you didn’t do it on purpose. It’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault.”
“Well, I think it’s somebody’s fault—mine!” He held up a wheel that had fallen off his car. “I shouldn’t have left it on the floor! And I’m not going to get over it until I’m ready. And maybe not even then.”
“That’s a long time to stay mad at yourself,” Mom said. She thought for a minute, then stood up to grab a pencil and notepad from a drawer. She set them on the table. “Let’s make a list of things you like about yourself. I’ll write for you.”
“Do I have to?” Colton asked.
Mom nodded and tapped the notepad. Colton stared at the paper.
“Well,” he finally said, “I do take really good care of my frog.”
“Perfect. That’s one,” Mom started to write. “What else?”
Finally Mom and Colton had a whole list of good things about Colton. He smiled as Mom read the list out loud.
He’s kind to animals and takes good care of his frog, Jumpy.
He always talks with his grandpa when we visit him at the nursing home.
He tries to choose the right every day, even when it’s hard.
When he gets money, he saves some of it in his red elephant missionary bank, and he always pays his tithing.
He tries hard to keep his room clean without being asked.
He doesn’t always complain about having to eat green beans at dinner.
He doesn’t tease his little sister. Much.
“Can I go out and play now, Mom?” Colton asked when they were done reading the list.
Mom nodded. “Who are you going to go play with?”
Colton grinned. “With me. I kind of like me again.”
“I kind of like you too. Kind of a lot. And you know what, Heavenly Father and Jesus love you too!”
Colton hugged her. “Maybe next time I get mad at me, I’ll make another list. I can think of a bunch more things I like about myself.”

Sunny is an exchange student from Korea. She is living in a strange new land with a new language and a new family. School was hard and she had no friends to eat with or talk with or go to school activities with. She said: “I felt so miserable. Then I started thinking about praying. I had not thought about praying for help to Heavenly Father and for comfort and faith in myself. Then I began to read the Book of Mormon every morning and pray before I went to school. School began to be much easier. I was so surprised that I could understand better! I felt like someone was helping me while I was studying” (letter in possession of Young Women office).

The story is told of a traveler who asked a farmer, “How’s the cotton crop going to be this year?”
The farmer replied, “There won’t be any. I didn’t bother to plant it, because I was afraid of the boll weevil.”
Upon hearing this, the traveler asked further, “Well, are you going to harvest a big corn crop?”
“It’s the same,” came the response. “I was afraid we wouldn’t get enough rain for the kernels to mature.”
The traveler pursued, “At least you will have a good potato harvest.”
“Nope. I didn’t dare plant any, because I was afraid of insects.”
Somewhat frustrated, the traveler then asked, “Well, what is it that you have planted?”
“Nothing, my good man,” came the answer. “I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

And so, brothers and sisters, the first tool of the capacity to create is integrity, and the second is the patience borne of faith that allows things to happen in the Lord’s own time. I have learned much from you. I will tell you of a student; I will call her Ann. That is not her name.

Ann was a young woman with many friends; and, as it turned out, one of her friends was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. In the process of this rather large group of young women being friends, the member of the Church invited the others to hear the missionaries teach their discussions. Ann was one of those who went. She later told her mother that she had gone and heard the Mormon missionaries, which startled her mother a great deal because she was staunch (as was Ann’s dad) in her own faith. The young woman assured her mother that it was really only a lark, that it was just kind of fun to hear what they had to say. She said, “Mother, if it will make you feel better, every time I hear the missionaries I will go to our church leader and have him explain what was wrong about what I heard.” The mother reluctantly agreed. But as the daughter continued to listen, the power of the Spirit touched her life and she came not to believe but to know that what she was hearing was true. Her mother had earlier said, “If you ever join the Mormon Church, don’t tell me and don’t tell your dad because it would kill us to know that.” She agreed that she would not.

As the time came of decision about joining the Church, she decided two things. She decided to join the Church, and she also decided that she would not tell her mother and dad because they had asked her not to.

Over time she came to believe in her own heart that somehow they knew and had accepted it, and life would be fine. That was not the case. Ann decided to apply and come to Ricks College. She did so, and upon arriving the first night, she called back home to tell her parents that she was safe and so happy and so excited. In the meantime, her parents had learned from a neighbor that Ann had joined the Church. When her parents picked up the phone and she bubbled over about her happiness, there was no response until finally her mother said, “Ann, we have learned that you joined the Mormon Church, and your father and I are trying to forget that you ever existed.” And there was a click.

Ann immediately sought the comfort and help of the Lord in prayer and then of her bishop. She was counseled that the only thing she could control in this matter was what she did. She was encouraged to write to her parents every week and to reaffirm her love for them and her joy in doing good things. She began to do that, and she did that through all the fall semester and all of the winter semester until the very end. She came in again to her bishop, as she had done on a number of occasions, discouraged and feeling that she had been forgotten both by her parents, whom she loved, and by the Lord who had not answered her prayers. She was once again reassured and went home. Later that evening, the phone rang.

Now remember the scripture, the Lord said, “. . . my words are sure and shall not fail . . . But all things must come to pass in their time.”

The phone rang; Ann answered and heard this: “Ann, your father and I could not forget that you existed. We love you, and we need you; and we wondered if there was any way you could come home this weekend because there are some things we wish to say to you.” Ann responded: “Mother, there are some things I wish to hear. I’ll be home this weekend.”

About twelve years ago I had a call early in the morning from a beloved friend who is a physician. He asked me to come to the hospital to administer with him to his infant son, just born and fighting for his life. We reached our hands into the incubator and laid them on this tiny boy and prayed, and then sat and waited with Larry’s mother while he took a turn for the better. We were there when the pediatrician came to announce that he was going to make it. He came through that difficult ordeal with a fine mind and a strong, indomitable spirit. Only a pair of legs that are not quite as strong as they one day will be remain to remind Larry how blessed he is to be alive.

Recently this little boy’s big brother returned from having served an honorable mission for the Lord abroad. A perceptive uncle, observing the reunion at the airport, wrote a letter to Larry that I had the privilege of reading. I asked if I might have permission to quote it and have been given that permission. I would like you to know about a Latter-day Saint boy just ordained a deacon who tries to practice what we preach.

“Dear Larry,” the letter said. “Yesterday I got a lump in my throat without even swallowing a frog; and I got a tear in my eye without even inhaling a hippy’s breath! More than that, I got a picture tattooed on my memory that I’ll never forget.

“It’s only right that I thank you for the lump, the tears, and the picture, for a handsome boy named Larry Ellsworth gave me all three of them … and he didn’t even know it or ask me for a receipt.

“It started when he stood waiting for his brother to return from serving our Heavenly Father as a missionary for two years in a far-off land named Chile. You could see that the two years had been longer for this boy than for anyone else. He was so intense, so pale, so absorbed with just watching and waiting.

“Then to see his face light up when he saw his brother again! It was like a flashlight in a dark room.

“Someone whispered that this wonderful boy had been saving his nickels, dimes, and quarters for two years to buy his big brother a basketball … a more than $30 ‘best there is’ basketball because he loved him! He wouldn’t let anyone else contribute. It was his idea and his gift … the best way, out of money he could have spent for himself but chose not to because he loved someone else so much!

“Then I watched this fine boy stand, without saying a word, at the side of his brother, happy just to look way up at his face, hold on to his leg, and see him home again.

“I have a special love and admiration for both of those boys: the giant who went far away all alone to do what was right and the little brother who waited and planned and remembered.

“Larry, you’re a fine boy. I’m sure that you’ll be a great man … for you have a big heart and a tender conscience. Some can run faster, jump higher, walk farther, play longer just because they had an easier time getting born into this world. That’s no credit to them. But you have more than most to be thankful for, because Heavenly Father sent one of his favorite sons to live in your body … and it’s who lives in a house that makes all the difference. Thanks, Larry, for the lesson an old dumb uncle learned yesterday just by watching. Love, Uncle Dick.”

In June 2015, I had the opportunity to work at the Priesthood Restoration Site in Pennsylvania, USA. I don’t remember specifically what I was asked to do when I first got there, but I remember being hot and dripping in sweat. Living in the western United States, I’m used to hot summer days—but not humid ones. As I worked, sweat poured from my head, my clothes were sticking to me, and I felt myself getting weaker by the minute. But, knowing I had five days of work ahead of me, I pushed on.
By lunchtime, I was physically exhausted, but I knew something else was happening to me. I was nauseated and probably dehydrated. I’d been working all morning, sweating like I never had before, and I hadn’t had anything to drink since breakfast. I walked to a cooler, pulled out a couple of water bottles, and drank. I could feel my body thanking me for the long-overdue water, but the refreshing feeling was short-lived. “Maybe I need more,” I thought, so I pulled a third bottle out and drank more water. Big mistake! As I finished off the last bottle, I immediately felt worse. I went into the Smith home and found a bench where I could lie down. Closing my eyes, I prayed that I would feel better.
Fortunately, the lunch hour gave me a short break, even though I didn’t want anything to eat. We returned to the site with everyone rested, fed, and ready for more work—except for me. I began to question myself: “Why did you come?” Then I heard someone ask, “Do you want a blessing?”
Realizing that I wasn’t going to get better on my own, I replied, “I do.” We walked into the reconstructed Smith home. I sat on a chair, and the men in our group gathered around me. As I felt the weight of their hands on my head, an overwhelming sense of gratitude filled my heart. The Spirit whispered to me, “You are in a holy place.”
My thoughts went to the building I was in. In this space, the Prophet Joseph Smith translated a significant portion of the Book of Mormon. In this space, the Prophet and Oliver Cowdery discussed the need for baptism for the remission of sins. In this space, these two young men, seeking inspiration from God, decided to go to the nearby woods to pray for guidance and revelation.
Heavenly Father not only heard their prayer but also immediately answered it.
Joseph Smith recalled:
“While we were thus employed, praying and calling upon the Lord, a messenger from heaven descended in a cloud of light, and having laid his hands upon us, he ordained us, saying:
“Upon you my fellow servants, in the name of Messiah, I confer the Priesthood of Aaron, which holds the keys of the ministering of angels, and of the gospel of repentance, and of baptism by immersion for the remission of sins; and this shall never be taken again from the earth until the sons of Levi do offer again an offering unto the Lord in righteousness” (Joseph Smith—History 1:68–69).
God sent John the Baptist, who conferred priesthood authority and commanded the two to baptize each other. This event was the first of many in which priesthood authority and keys would be restored to the earth by heavenly messengers.
As my friends said, “Amen,” I realized that what I had just experienced had happened because of a conversation between Joseph Smith and Oliver Cowdery in that very same space in May 1829. I don’t remember what was said in the blessing. I wasn’t immediately healed. But I do know that I was blessed. In the very place where the priesthood of God began to be restored—the priesthood that blesses the lives of millions of people around the world—God blessed me with a reassurance that the holy priesthood is once again upon the earth. With this reassurance came a strengthened testimony that the Book of Mormon is the word of God, translated by His prophet Joseph Smith Jr.
I know that this site is more than the two reconstructed homes. It’s more than the exhibits in the visitors’ center. It’s more than the Church’s investment of time and money to make it an official historic site. It is the place where the priesthood of God began to be restored—the priesthood that blesses the lives of millions of people around the world.

An inspiring example of following the prophet comes from the life of Charles Lowell Walker. Brother Walker was born in England in 1832. He was baptized as a teenager and emigrated to the United States. He came to Salt Lake City in 1855 and was married in 1861. On Sunday, October 19, 1862, at the end of Sabbath meetings, Charles heard his name read among a list of 250 others who had been called to help settle the “Cotton Country” in southwestern Utah.

Brother Walker wrote in his journal that evening:
Obedience [is] a great principle in heaven and on earth. Well, here I have worked for the last 7 years through heat and cold, hunger and adverse circumstances, and at last have got me a home, a lot with fruit trees just beginning to bear [that] look pretty. Well, I must leave it and go and do the will of my Father in Heaven, who overrules all for the good of them that love and fear him, and I pray God to give me strength to accomplish that which is required of me in an acceptable manner before him.

On November 13, only twenty-five days after having received his call, Charles Walker and his wife left Salt Lake City and began their journey to what we now know as St. George. In his journal he wrote:
This was the hardest trial I ever had, and had it not been for the gospel and those that were placed over me, I should never [have] moved a foot to go on such a trip, but then I came here not to do my will but the will of those that are over me, and I know it will all be right if I do right.

Charles Walker lived a life of devotion to the Lord and His work. His actions matched his words—including these words (now included as hymn number 96 in our hymnbook) that he wrote to describe the blessings available to those who are faithful:
Dearest children, God is near you, Watching o’er you day and night, And delights to own and bless you, If you strive to do what’s right. He will bless you, He will bless you, If you put your trust in him.

Charles Walker put his trust in God, and he was blessed. He remained faithful to his call from the prophet all his days. He lived in St. George from 1862 until his passing in 1904.
I am confident that within this audience are many descendants of Charles Walker. The faithfulness of Charles Walker preceded the miracle of a righteous posterity. Your faith in following the living prophet throughout your lives will have the same result.

“It looks like Sarah will need to have an MRI of her back,” said Dr. Frank. He smiled at Sarah. “I’m going to schedule one for tomorrow. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Sarah’s back had been hurting for a while. When she woke up that morning, it hurt so much that it was hard for her to stand up straight, and she could barely walk. Sarah and her mom had come to see Dr. Frank to find out what was wrong.
“Another MRI?” asked Sarah, looking up at Mom. She’d had an MRI once before. She remembered how scared she had felt in the big tube that took pictures of the inside of her body.
“I’m sorry, Sarah,” said Mom. “But the pictures will help Dr. Frank learn what’s wrong with your back. I know you can do it. And I’ll be right there with you.” Mom squeezed Sarah’s hand.
“But you can’t come inside with me,” said Sarah. Her head dropped, and a tear slipped down her cheek. Mom could be with her in the room, but once Sarah went into the machine’s tunnel, she would be alone.
Mom put her arm around Sarah. “That’s true, but do you know who can be there to comfort you?”
Sarah remembered a name she had heard for the Holy Ghost: the Comforter. Maybe the Holy Ghost could help her not feel so afraid.
“The Holy Ghost?” Sarah asked.
Mom nodded. “That’s right. You can pray for the Holy Ghost to help you. Dad and I will pray for you too.”
That gave Sarah a great idea. “Can I ask Dad for a blessing?”
Mom smiled. “Of course. I know he’d love to do that.”
That night Dad placed his hands on Sarah’s head and gave her a priesthood blessing. As he blessed her that she would be comforted by the Holy Ghost, a soft warmth filled her body. The feeling stayed with her all night.
The next day Sarah lay on the bench that would slide into the big tube in the MRI machine. She repeated in her head the words Dad had used during her blessing: The Holy Ghost will be there to comfort you. Sarah squeezed Mom’s hand tight. Then the nurse slid her into the tube.
The MRI machine made funny noises while it took pictures of her back. Sarah had to lie very still so the pictures wouldn’t be blurry. She panicked for a minute, but then she felt that warm feeling again. It felt like one of Mom’s hugs. Or a snuggly blanket. She knew that everything would be OK. Before she knew it, the MRI was over!
In Dr. Frank’s office, he showed Sarah and Mom the pictures of Sarah’s back. “You did a great job lying still,” Dr. Frank told Sarah as he knelt down beside her. “These pictures of your back show that you will need surgery to help you walk better.”
Sarah gulped.
“We’d like to do the surgery soon,” Dr. Frank said, looking up at Sarah’s mom. Then he turned back to Sarah. “It might take a few weeks afterward for you to feel like your old self again, but after seeing you today, I know you’ll do great.”
Sarah tried to think about all the things she’d do after Dr. Frank fixed her back. I’ll be able to run and swim—and jump in a big pile of leaves. She missed doing all those things. But surgery was even scarier than an MRI! Then Sarah remembered her prayers and her special blessing. Heavenly Father had sent her the Comforter. He would help her again.
She looked at Dr. Frank. “Then can I jump in a big pile of leaves?” she asked.
He grinned. “Then you can jump in a big pile of leaves.”

To illustrate how the Lord works through young missionaries, such as many of you, as well as through his living prophets, I would like to share something of the history of the architectural plans of the Nauvoo Temple, how they were preserved for more than 100 years and eventually came into possession of the Church and which the Church had at the time President Hinckley made that surprising announcement that it would be reconstructed.

As mentioned before, Brother William Weeks was commissioned as the architect and when the saints were driven from Nauvoo, he brought the plans with him. Not many years after they arrived in the Salt Lake Valley, some kind of conflict arose between him and President Brigham Young. William Weeks left the Church and took his family and the architectural plans to California. As a result of his defection, his entire posterity grew up outside the Church and its blessings.

Incidentally and parenthetically, there is a message there for all of us about the importance of our remaining faithful to our covenants and what can happen to us and those who follow us if we do not.

In 1948, more than 100 years since the plans were drawn, young Elder Vern Thacker of Charleston, up by Heber City, Utah, in Wasatch County, and his companion, were serving as missionaries like many of you have served or will serve. They were doing their duty knocking on doors one very hot and dry day in the little town of Boron, California, way out in the Mojave Desert. I think it was more than a coincidence that they made contact with a Mr. Leslie Griffin, who at that time was almost seventy years of age. He told them that he was a grandson of William Weeks, the architect. Just before Elder Thacker was to be released and return to his home, Mr. Griffin went to a back room in his house and brought out the roll of the original architectural plans for the Nauvoo Temple. Brother Thacker described the roll as being about three or four feet long and ten inches in diameter. They were the original plans which had been handed down from one generation to another in his family. He requested that Elder Thacker take them to Church headquarters since he and his family agreed that it would be more appropriate for the Church to have them. Elder Thacker tucked them in the trunk of his 1935 Ford coupe and brought them to Church headquarters.

As a result, more than fifty years later, when President Hinckley made the announcement of the re-construction of the Nauvoo Temple, the plans were in possession of the Church and thus it could be restored on the original site and as near its original external appearance as possible.

I've thought it providential that those plans were physically located for all those years in the area of the dry climate of the Mojave Desert rather than in some humid area of the country where they may not have survived in as good a condition as they were. There is no question in my mind that the Lord's hand was in it.

Illustration by John Kachik
School was out for Thanksgiving break, but I was not looking forward to it. I was struggling at school, and I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of being surrounded by family members who were in the mood for holiday cheer. It seemed to me that I didn’t have a whole lot to be thankful for.
“Who is it?” my dad called from the kitchen as I came in the front door after school.
“It’s me,” I called back.
He came to give me a hug and invited me to help him make pies. I’d been hoping he would just tell me to relax, but all he said was, “I really could use your help.”
At first the task was tedious—one cup of this, two teaspoons of that. I’d never talked a lot with my father. I could ask him to help me with my homework, or he could tell me to do the dishes. But it seemed that deeper conversations just didn’t happen between us. So we went on working side by side until he asked a simple question: “How’s school going?”
I started talking about how school was really going—my frustrations, my worries, the things I liked, and the things I didn’t like. I talked and he listened. After I was done, it was his turn. He told me stories of his high school days and how he had experienced some of the same frustrations and delights. He gave me advice that I actually needed to hear.
We discovered that we didn’t have any bananas for the banana cream pie. “I guess I’ll have to run to the store,” my dad said.
“Can I come with you?” I asked. He agreed. Off we went, singing to the radio at the top of our lungs the whole way. I don’t remember ever having such a fun time on a trip to the grocery store.
The pies were all gone after a few days, but I will never forget talking with my dad while making them. It was the first time that I realized that my dad was just a person like me, the first time I saw that in addition to being my father, he could also be a friend. I learned to appreciate my whole family more and the small memories we create each day. I went back to school with a newfound motivation. For some reason, I felt like I had so much to be thankful for.

I had to get my tonsils and adenoids removed and have tubes placed in my ears. The day before my surgery I started feeling nervous. My dad asked two other men to come over that night, and they helped my dad give me a blessing so that I would be OK. After the blessing I felt better. I made it through my surgery well the next day and got to come home right afterward. I am thankful that my dad has the priesthood so he can help people when they need it.Abbey Hancock, age 10 St. George, Utah

José Mesaville told what it was like to be the first convert in Granada. The rest of his family was not at all interested in anything two young North Americans might have to say about religion, but José accepted a strange book called the Book of Mormon and read it. To his amazement he found that he believed what he read. “When I read the part in Third Nephi about the visit of the Savior to America, I knew with a special surety that it had really happened. I decided to be baptized, but I was only 18, and at that time I was still legally a minor. My parents wouldn’t give me permission, so I couldn’t become a member. Shortly after my conversion, the missionaries left Granada. They later came back for a month or two, but for the greater part of three years I lived without the Church. But although I did not have the Church or the gift of the Holy Ghost, I did have the gospel to guide me, and I tried to live as the elders had taught me. When my father found out about the law of tithing, he tore up all my Church books because he thought the principle was a form of thievery. So I had only the Bible and the knowledge I carried in my heart until a returned missionary later sent me more books from the United States. These I had to leave in a hotel where I worked or at the home of a family I had interested in the Church. Finally my father softened his attitude, and I was able to read them at home. I quit smoking and drinking, lived the law of the fast, and did my best to comply with all that I had been taught.
“Before long I came to wonder if I had any friends. Those who had been my best friends made fun of me. I refused to take offense, however, but kept treating them as friends no matter how they treated me. Little by little they began to grow accustomed to my beliefs. Now when we are out together, they ask for beer for themselves and a soft drink for me without my saying anything.”
In 1976 the missionaries returned to Granada to stay. José was now legally an adult, but out of deep respect for his parents, he still asked for their permission to be baptized. “My mother said that I was now an adult and must make my own decisions. She said she thought that this was all youthful foolishness, but that if it wasn’t true, I would grow tired of it with time. I suppose she was right because I certainly haven’t grown tired of it.”
José was baptized in a nearby lake. There was no chapel in those days, and Church meetings were held in the elders’ living quarters. “At first the meetings consisted of two elders and me. The services didn’t last long because we only had one speaker. Later we moved to our present location, and more members began to join the Church. It causes me pain to say that some of them have left the Church already. They didn’t give enough of themselves, and the only way to stay strong is to give of ourselves.”

“One woman wanted more than anything else to marry a righteous priesthood holder in the temple and be a mother and a wife. She had dreamed about this all her life, and oh, what a wonderful mother and loving wife she would be. Her home would be filled with loving-kindness. Never a bitter word would be spoken. The food would never burn. And her children, instead of hanging out with their friends, would prefer to spend their evenings and weekends with Mom and Dad.
“This was her golden ticket. It was the one thing upon which she felt her whole existence depended. It was the one thing in all the world for which she most desperately yearned.
“But it never happened. And, as the years went on, she became more and more withdrawn, bitter, and even angry. She could not understand why God would not grant her this righteous desire.
“She worked as an elementary school teacher, and being around children all day long simply reminded her that her golden ticket had never appeared. As the years passed she became more disappointed and withdrawn. People didn’t like being around her and avoided her whenever they could. She even took her frustration out on the children at school. …
“The tragedy of this story is that this dear woman, in all her disappointment about her golden ticket, failed to notice the blessings she did have. She did not have children in her home, but she was surrounded by them in her classroom. She was not blessed with a family, but the Lord had given her an opportunity few people have—the chance to influence for good the lives of hundreds of children and families as a teacher.
“The lesson here is that if we spend our days waiting for fabulous roses, we could miss the beauty and wonder of the tiny forget-me-nots that are all around us.”

Marusia Lawrence, longtime member of Aylesbury Ward lives in a small community on the outskirts of her town.
In 2018, she made a house-to-house collection hoping to raise enough funds to purchase a silent soldier (also known as ‘Unknown Tommy’, see https://rbli.shop/products/unknown-tommy), a black silhouette of a soldier armed with a rifle, which would be displayed permanently in the village. To her delight, these efforts raised enough money for two silent soldiers for the special 100 Year Centenary Remembrance Sunday in 2018.
For 2019, she organised a Remembrance Service for November of that year. She felt strongly that there should be a formal start prior to the two-minute silence and asked fellow Church friend—Richard Godivala—to play the “Last Post” on his trumpet, dramatically setting the scene for the rest of the programme.
All neighbours attending were able to sincerely reflect on a reading of “In Flanders Field” by John McCrae (Canadian poet, soldier, and physician, who died in 1918 in France) and then a reading of “For The Fallen,” written by Englishman Laurence Binyon in 1914.
The service finished by singing the national anthem. Afterwards attendees socialised and talked of their thanks for peace in Europe since 1945, sharing beverages and biscuits at local venue, Cooper’s Barn. Marusia said these quotes made by World War II soldiers truly resonated at this Remembrance Service:
“For your tomorrow they gave their today.”
“Attitude, gratitude and service before self brings happiness and fulfilment in life”
“Brave soldiers laid down their lives for everyone to bring peace into the world.”

Fifteen-year-old Andy Tuitupou’s feet left the court long enough to grab the rebound during basketball practice. Gliding through the air, Andy was confident—he was good-looking, popular, active in his teachers quorum in our Utah ward, and a member of the school basketball team. But when his feet touched the ground again, his life changed. His strong body crashed to the floor—never to walk again.
Surgeons pinned and cast Andy’s broken leg. Pain became his constant companion. Long days, determination, and patience seemed to bring only more suffering. Although Andy gave it his all, physical therapists weren’t able to help him learn to walk again.
In desperation Paul and Carolyn Tuitupou, Andy’s parents, took him to a hospital where skilled surgeons operated and found the source of Andy’s intense pain: bone cancer. Andy made the difficult decision to have the doctors amputate his leg. Whatever the price, he wanted to beat the cancer.
Several days after the amputation, Andy asked me—his bishop—if he could receive his patriarchal blessing. I wondered what a blessing would hold for a young man facing possible death. I rushed to my office to get a patriarchal blessing recommend. Then I jumped in my car and headed for Andy’s bedside, where I found him waiting patiently for his interview. I asked Andy where he was getting his obvious strength and peace. “From the things I learned in family home evening,” he answered without hesitation. Andy was worthy to receive a patriarchal blessing.
As I visited with him throughout the next few months, I saw him as a brother who loved his family, friends, the gospel, and life. Although his spiritual health was strong, his physical well-being seemed only to worsen. Chemotherapy treatments left him violently nauseated for four or five days each week.
All hopes of a cure were dashed when a tumor in Andy’s hip erupted. His lungs began failing as cancerous tumors started their deadly invasion. But Andy wasn’t content to watch life pass him by. With the help of a devoted Scout leader, Andy soon fulfilled the requirements for his Eagle Award.
During one of my routine visits with this young member of my ward, I felt prompted to set up a formal appointment for his annual priesthood interview on the next Sunday.
On Sunday I headed for the hospital and found Andy in agony with his eyes closed. Not wanting to disturb him, I quietly sat by his bedside. After several minutes of listening to Andy’s labored breathing, I heard him whisper, “Bishop, are you going to interview me?”
After a tender prayer, I began the interview.
“Andy, are you morally clean?”
“Yes.”
“Do you honor your priesthood?”
“Yes.”
Our interview was a spiritual feast. After I asked him all my questions, he had one for me: “Bishop, how many priesthood blessings can I have?”
“As many as you want,” I said.
A few days later, I awoke to a ringing telephone.
“Andy is pretty bad. Can you come over?” Carolyn Tuitupou asked.
When I reached my friend, he asked for a blessing and then said, “I want to go home.”
As his humbled bishop, I placed my hands on my young friend’s head and knew Andy was nearing the end of his mission on earth. I asked the Lord to please take Andy home if it was His will.
After the blessing, I held Andy’s hand and said to him, “It’s okay to go home, little brother; it’s okay to go home.”
Before he went home, though, he had a few things to finish. Andy’s pain subsided, and breathing became easier, enabling him to talk to each of his brothers and his sister privately. He expressed his love to each of them and challenged his brothers to serve missions.
When I talked to him again, I asked him what he wanted me to tell the youth in the ward.
“Tell them you don’t have to be ‘cool’ for your friends; real friends don’t care if you’re ‘cool,’” he said.
Andy called several special people on the phone to say good-bye. He called an aunt he was close to and wanted to challenge her to become active in the Church again. Afraid of offending her, he didn’t quite have the courage to do it.
I looked at Andy and knew I had one last calling for him.
“Andy, will you serve as a ward missionary?”
Andy smiled. “Yes.”
I once again placed my hands on his head. After I set him apart, I gave him his first assignment: “Andy, I want you to get on the phone and bear your testimony to your aunt.”
I left the room, and he went to work—an honorable missionary.
Throughout the day, friends and neighbors dropped by to see Andy. Because it is traditional in the Tongan culture to sing in front of the home of someone who is dying, a member of the ward organized a group to come later that evening and honor Andy by singing on the Tuitupous’ front lawn.
Midafternoon, Andy’s breathing became very labored. His father and I laid our hands on his head. Brother Tuitupou pleaded with Heavenly Father to allow his son to return home. Andy died in his mother’s arms.
Their front yard was soon full of ward members singing Andy’s favorite hymn, “Because I Have Been Given Much” (Hymns, number 219). Music surrounded the home, and the family wept as love filled their hearts.
Although the Tuitupou family said an early good-bye to their son and brother, they knew they had been given much: the chance to love and learn from Andy.

An acquaintance recalls that when he was a young boy, an electrician came to do some wiring. It was necessary to string some wires in a little crawl space under the house. Since the space was too small to accommodate an adult, the electrician asked the boy if he would go in and pull the wires through. When the boy had done it, the man handed him a quarter, and the proud boy went to show it to his mother. Her response was, “Oh, a quarter is too much. Go back and tell him that a dime is plenty.”
No doubt the mother was only trying to be fair to the electrician, but the fact that the man remembered the incident after thirty years seems quite significant.
How much better it would have been for the mother to have said, “A quarter is a lot of money. He must have thought you did a real good job.” Or she might have used the experience to teach him about service and help him realize the good feeling that comes from service offered freely. Such an approach would contribute to the child’s self-esteem instead of lowering it.

Speaking of music, one of the most obvious places to use a musical talent is in the orchestra pit. It’s hard work, say Shane Larsen, 14, and his brother Joseph, 16. When you point out to Shane that nobody really sees the orchestra, he says, “Yes, but they hear us. And if the music isn’t good, the play won’t be any good either.” Joseph admits that when he was on stage in previous productions, he kind of took the orchestra for granted, too. But not any more.

Of course, when it comes to being seen, no one would be seen—or heard—if the stage and sound and light crews were not on the job. Sandy stake’s Thomas Craft, 19, has acted in some productions, but he prefers to work behind the scenes. “Backstage people don’t always get credit, but they are very important for the play to turn out the way it should.”

Which brings up some of the things the stage can teach you about life. Kaisa Hansen was in Pirates. Now she’s a student at BYU. As much as anything, performing gave her an appreciation of the work of others. “When you get involved, you see how much people do behind the scenes. I have started realizing how much work people put into things. And when you are involved in something with other people, and you just play a small role, you are part of the glue that holds things together.”

Eli Hansen, 15, of Burley, talks about another lesson learned from the stage: “When you’re not part of the action, don’t upstage the others. Focus attention on them. Stay in character all the time. There’s always somebody watching you. You represent the Church name, your family name, even your employer. You have to be ‘on’ around the clock.”

When you get involved in stake productions or even Church pageants, there are still more lessons learned—things that shape and strengthen your testimony. Many of those who performed in Promised Valley volunteered that the experience had given them a greater appreciation of the pioneers and of their own heritage. As Spencer Williams notes, “To get into character, you have to imagine what it would have been like.” For him, the miracle of the crickets and the seagulls took on much deeper meaning.

Just like the friendships formed, those kinds of experiences can stay with you for years. Amy Hill, 18, of the Taylorsville Utah Central Stake, remembers when she was in her stake’s performance of the Book-of-Mormon-based A Day, a Night, and a Day. Amy was a ninth grader and had only a small nonspeaking part. But she has vivid memories of “acting out the Book of Mormon, thinking, Wow! this is so cool. This is how it would have felt.” Would she do it again? “I’d definitely recommend that kind of experience. I miss it sometimes.”

So what do the critics say? You’ve just heard from the critics who matter most—the people who have done it. So next time you have a chance to get on the stage (or behind the scenes, or in the orchestra pit) don’t start looking for the first stage out of town. If you want to develop friends, talents, and self-confidence, that stake musical or school play or community theater may be just the ticket.

Be a critic. The world judges plays and musicals as good or bad based on how well they are written and performed. Latter-day Saints must be concerned about content. What is the message? Are language and costumes appropriate? If you have to “become your character” in order to act well, what kind of character are you being asked to play? Several of the young people we talked to indicated that they were touched emotionally and spiritually by what they were portraying.

Be aware. There are lots of opportunities to get involved in wholesome theater. Most—but not all—school plays are safe. (Get a look at the script if you are unsure.) Stake and ward productions are a wonderful opportunity for friendships and personal growth. And many communities—especially those with a strong LDS influence—have local theater companies that have high moral standards. Ask around.

Be prepared to commit yourself and work hard. Rehearsals can be boring and tiring. But when everything comes together, the payoff can be terrific.

Amherst Ward, Springfield Massachusetts Stake
My name is Nichole Jewkes, and I am eleven years old. I live in Belchertown, Massachusetts. I am one of only three Latter-day Saints in my middle school. This has been a big change for me because I just recently moved here from Utah. Since not many people in my school know about the Church, I have a great opportunity to do missionary work.
I wear my CTR ring to school every day. People look at my ring and ask what CTR stands for. I always reply, “Choose the right.” And they say, “Cool!” and move on.
One day, my friend Christine noticed my CTR ring and asked what it stands for. I answered, “Choose the right.” Christine said, “Wow! This is so cool!” Then she asked me where I had gotten it. I said that I got it from my church. She asked me how much one costs and if she could buy one. I said that I’d get one for her for free. She acted surprised and said, “Thank you so much.”
I got a CTR ring from my Primary president on Sunday and took it to school on Monday. Christine was very excited and said thank you so many times! She continued to wear it every day and was always telling me how neat it was and how much she loved it.
A few days later, another friend named Julie also noticed my CTR ring. She noticed that Christine had one, too. Julie thought they were neat and asked where we had gotten them. I asked her if she would like one, and she said, “Oh yes, please!”
Now when Julie sometimes says the Lord’s name in vain, she’ll remember and say, “Sorry.” And when older kids swear around me, she’ll say, “Don’t swear around Nichole; she doesn’t like it.” It is nice to know that even though my friends do not belong to our church, they are still trying to choose the right and stand up for me.
I have learned from living here and having many friends who are not LDS that most people are still really good people, trying to do good things with their lives. I hope the CTR rings continue to strengthen Julie and Christine and that I can continue to invite them to church and Church activities. I hope we can all continue to be good missionaries, no matter how old we are.

When I was a child, Frank Talley, a member of the Church, offered to help my family fly from Puerto Rico to Salt Lake City so we could be sealed in the temple, but soon obstacles began to appear. One of my sisters, Marivid, became ill. Unsettled, my parents prayed about what to do and still felt prompted to make the journey. They trusted that as they faithfully followed the Lord’s prompting, our family would be watched over and blessed—and we were.
My family’s trip to the temple years ago was difficult, but as we approached the temple in Salt Lake City, Utah, my mother, full of joy and faith, said, “We are going to be OK; the Lord will protect us.” We were sealed as a family, and my sister recovered. This happened only after the trial of my parents’ faith and in following the Lord’s promptings.