Gospel Story Finder

Since I joined the Church, I have been blessed a lot. I can do things now I never knew I could do. I can conduct music. I can teach children in Primary. I love them, and they love me too. I can sing in the choir. I even sang in the choir during the Sunday morning session of the dedication of the Washington D.C. Temple in August 2022. I never thought I would be in the temple with President Russell M. Nelson, singing for him. But it happened. It was a wonderful blessing to be in the presence of the prophet.

Many of you have had an experience like Ryan with the family car.

One event that happened when I was sixteen I remember very well. I had had my driver’s license for three or four months, so I snuck out my window, probably about midnight, took the car, went and picked up some of my buddies, and we just went cruising. We went and picked up some drinks at 7-Eleven and just went driving around the city—nothing major. And even though I know I shouldn’t have been out that late, I did it anyways, cause you know when you’re sixteen you don’t really care. When I came back, however, dropped my friends off, and pulled into my neighborhood, I could see the kitchen lights on in my house. I knew I was caught—I was busted. I was expecting to be grounded for three or four months from the car. That never happened.

Again, note the effect his parents’ response had on Ryan.

They just talked to me like a normal person. They asked me, “Why did you want to go out?” And then, “Well, I understand. When I was sixteen, I wanted to go out and hang out with my friends—it’s a cool thing to do.” Then they asked me, “Do you realize that if you had been caught, you could have been busted for curfew?” They made me realize some things in a way that I hadn’t really thought of before. And I respected them because they treated me just normal. They didn’t talk down to me, they didn’t lash out, they just connected with me.

I can think back to one Christmas in which our family budget was extremely tight. We were supporting one of my brothers on his mission to Chicago, and that required us to skimp on nonessential items. The only gift-wrapped item I got that year was a fleece blanket. Nothing extravagant, just a plain blanket. I tried to talk it up to my friends at school and make it seem like it was a really great gift, but there was no use. It couldn’t compare to a video game console.
Since then, that blanket has come to symbolize much more to me. That gift was one of warmth. Yes, it warmed me on those few cold Arizona nights, but it also warmed me with love. My parents gave me more: they gave me fun family traditions, a firm sense of belonging, and a knowledge that true gifts are ones of service, love, and sacrifice. My parents sacrificed their money for my brother’s mission, but they never sacrificed their love for me, our family, and everyone around them as they served that year.
I wish I could go back to the school cafeteria table when my friends asked, “What did you get for Christmas?” I wish I could have answered them proudly: “I got a blanket, a blanket that warms me with the true love of the most wonderful time of year.”

I would like to share one such experience that happened while I was serving on my mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

My missionary companion and I were walking through a neighborhood to reach another part of the city. It was a quiet street with several homes.

At one of the houses, I noticed two young women about our age watching us and talking to each other on their front porch. We were across the street walking down the sidewalk. A thought came into my mind that we should go visit with them and I stopped walking, but I quickly dismissed it thinking that we needed to get to our other destination, and I continued on.

We were now a little farther past their home and again I felt impressed to go back and speak with them. I turned around and started walking back, but then quickly convinced myself again that we shouldn’t. So, I turned around and kept walking. At this point, my companion was so confused at what I was doing as I hadn’t said a word. I then had a very strong third impression and turned around again and told my companion that we needed to go back.

When we reached the porch, we introduced ourselves. We discussed the doctrine of eternal families for a little while, but I didn’t really feel that our conversation made much of an impact.

Then, one of the girls said she needed to grab a few things for work and quickly went inside the house. Immediately, the Spirit rushed in and told me to say several things to the sister who was still on the porch. I testified she was a daughter of our Heavenly Father and He knew and loved her so much. I also testified that she knew what she needed to do to follow Him.

I do not remember the other things, but I do remember the overwhelming love that our Heavenly Father had for her and that He knew her personally to send us that day.

Whether it’s bringing the joy of music to the world, fixing a neighbor’s fence, or teaching the gospel, Chance has discovered the strongest and purest motivation behind it all.

“One of the most important things I’ve learned is the love God has for us,” he says. “I was going through a really tough time, and I was filled with this hatred and was blaming God for my issues. I was saying, ‘Why did you allow this to happen? Am I not worth it?’ And through this experience, I had a great moment at Especially for Youth. I learned that the number-one important thing about this gospel is that God always loves us. No matter how far gone we are, He always, always loves us and wants us to be happy and will do everything He can for us to be happy.”

I was twenty years old and almost 5,000 kilometers away from home attending college when my mother died unexpectedly. I had not seen her for two years, and this added to my shock at her sudden passing.
Two months later the missionaries came to my door. During the discussions I was surprised to learn that many of my mother’s personal beliefs were the same as those of the Church—beliefs she had constantly held despite criticism from the church I was raised in. I readily accepted the teachings of the gospel and was baptized three weeks later.
For me, baptism was a happy but sad experience. I was happy in a way I had never known before, yet I struggled with grief and disappointment because Mother had been so close to the truth and yet I had been robbed of sharing it with her by two short months. Despite all I now knew of eternal life, I could find no inner peace. I poured out my feelings in prayer, apologizing for my weakness in not being able to come to terms with her death.
Then one night I had a beautiful dream. My mother entered my room and sat on the edge of my bed. She was dressed all in white, and although she looked much the same as when I last saw her, she was yet more youthful, for no lines of worry or sadness creased her brow. She was smiling and radiant. When I awoke, I could only remember that in the dream she had spoken to me for some time, comforting me and reassuring me that all was well.
The following week I received a box in the mail. It had been among my mother’s things in storage and was labeled in her own handwriting “for Cindy.” I was stunned as I examined its contents. There were old family portraits, some of grandparents who had died before I was born. There were some of my school papers, childhood photos, my first letter to Santa Claus. I found a small white journal my mother had kept, personal letters, and a large chart, yellowed and tattered, with several generations of family genealogy carefully written by Mother and started by her mother long years before.
My eyes flooded with tears, and for what seemed a long time I rested my head on that old box and wept. My sobs seemed to wash away the doubts and grief, and the peace I had sought filled my being.
With that peace came a sudden realization: it was no coincidence that Mother’s beliefs were the same as many Church teachings—or that she had collected and preserved the box of family items. Her life and teachings prepared me to receive the fulness of the gospel; her faith and inspiration guided her to pave the way for me to compile a family history and complete genealogical and temple work that would unite our family forever.
I hadn’t needed to be a missionary to Mother—she had been a missionary to me!

For some time I had wanted to take pictures of Temple Square in Salt Lake City—including the reflection pool, the fountains, and the sidewalks—covered with freshly fallen snow void of any footprints. To get a picture of fresh snow without footprints, I knew I had to arrive at Temple Square early in the morning following a nighttime snowstorm.
One evening after a forecast of snow overnight, I prepared myself. Because Temple Square groundskeepers start plowing the sidewalks at 5:00 a.m., I set my alarm for 3:00 a.m. and got my gear together.
Driving on unplowed roads the next morning, I arrived at Temple Square at 4:15 a.m. while it was still snowing. Then I proceeded to drive around the square, looking for someplace to park that would give me easy access to take pictures.
On my first pass around Temple Square, I noticed that the walkway to the entrance of the Salt Lake Temple was covered in fresh snow—without any footprints! I knew I was going to get my perfect photo. Excited, I drove around the block again to find a parking spot.
As I proceeded east on North Temple Street, I thought I would find a spot close to the walkway. Before I realized it, however, I had run out of parking spots and was again near the sidewalk to the temple entrance.
As I sat at a red light, I looked to my right at the fresh, undisturbed snow. When I looked to my left toward the Conference Center, I noticed an elderly woman dressed in her Sunday best, her head tilted into the falling snow as she headed toward the temple.
“Oh, no,” I thought. “I’m not going to get my shot!”
As the woman crossed in front of me, I turned and looked toward the soon-to-be-ruined walkway and saw that another sister had already gone down the walkway and was turning into the temple entrance. Then I looked back to the first sister now walking down the walkway. With snow clumped around her shoes and ankles, and following the footsteps of the first, she walked slowly but surely down the walkway, through the gates, and into the entrance to the temple.
As I contemplated what I was seeing, I looked at the clock in my car: 4:20 a.m. Sitting in my warm car and looking at the footsteps in the freshly fallen snow, I was humbled by the faithfulness of these two sisters on their way to perform their appointed duties.
I drove around the block again, parked, grabbed my camera, and took a picture of footprints in the snow—a far greater picture than the one I had envisioned.

Margaret Lenan Ellis was volunteering as a public affairs specialist when she was tasked with searching out and joining her local community interfaith organisation. With no such organisation in Ballarat, Victoria, she founded the Ballarat Interfaith Network. Its purpose is to demonstrate our connection as part of the human family, expanding understanding and building bridges between faiths, philosophies, and spiritual perspectives. Over the past 20 years, the network’s events have built friendships, respect, peace, love, and service to God and others.

In March of 1842, Charlotte Haven of Nauvoo, Illinois, wrote a chatty letter to relatives in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, describing a party she had attended in a Mormon home. One hundred and forty-five years later, a group of seminary students in Portsmouth recreated that Nauvoo party.
When the first guests walked up the snowy path to the home of Dell and Laura Fox on December 23, 15 costumed teenagers were still running upstairs and down, checking fireplaces, whipping cream, arranging ringlets, and threading yarn through oversized needles. Our “Joseph Smith Birthday Party” was the culmination of four months of study in our Church history course. Early in the fall we began collecting ideas and materials. We wanted everything—food, costumes, games, program—to be as true to the period 1805–1844 as possible.
We learned, for example, that Nauvoo Mormons sent formal written invitations to social events. So early in December parents and other special guests opened handmade invitations “soliciting the pleasure of” their company on “December 23, instant.” (“Instant” simply means in the present or current month. In an age when communication was often slow, it had a practical as well as formal value.)
But because we also wanted to share much of what we had learned in seminary during the fall, we decided to do some things that the Saints of the 1840s couldn’t have done, like show slides and filmstrips. One of our anachronisms was purely for fun. Even though our research convinced us that early Mormon parties would not have included a sugar-frosted birthday cake, we made one anyway, complete with a replica of the Nauvoo Temple constructed with sugar cubes and glue.
The Fox home was the obvious setting for our party, having been built in 1820 when Joseph Smith was just 14 years old. It still has sliding interior shutters and a fireplace in each of the eight rooms. The floor plan is reminiscent of the Mansion House built by the Prophet in Nauvoo.
As they arrived, guests were greeted at the door by “Emma Smith,” then ushered into the living room where they were entertained with piano and violin music. With everyone assembled, we divided into small groups for a house tour complete with special activities in selected rooms. “Joseph Smith” greeted guests on the stairs and treated them to a few impromptu remarks. Upstairs was “a large quilting frame around which sat … the belles of Nauvoo” just as in Charlotte Haven’s day. But unlike the 19th-century girls who may have sewed quietly until the quilt was finished, these girls chattered enthusiastically, explaining the incidents from Church history illustrated in each square of the quilt.
Downstairs in the “drawing room,” two students showed slides of the Nauvoo and Kirtland temples and explained photographs and maps illustrating Joseph Smith’s achievements as a city builder. In the “parlour” small groups played 19th-century games to the accompaniment of considerable giggling.
Meanwhile, the refreshment committee was busy in the candle-lit dining room arranging a host of tasty treats concocted from old recipes. Like most 19th-century parties, those of Nauvoo featured heavily laden tables that included roasts and main dishes as well as sweets. We chose to concentrate on the latter, with homemade donuts and cider, three kinds of pie (mince, apple, and custard), and four puddings (bread pudding; maple cream; “Injun Pudding,” made with molasses and hand-ground corn meal; and “Freshmen’s Tears,” a traditional New England concoction thickened with old-fashioned tapioca pearls). In honor of Mother Smith, we included root beer and hard gingerbread, two commodities she manufactured in her Palmyra home and sold to neighbors.
The climax of the evening was a short program followed by testimonies around the fire. “Eliza R. Snow” read a poem of her own composition. “Mother Smith” sat in a rocking chair and reminisced about the life of her prophet-son as selected events came to life in short tableaus. In the darkened room, with flickering candlelight and the glow of the fire, we felt as though we had stepped back a century and a half and had gained a deeper appreciation for the life and work of Joseph Smith.

Right now, I am missing my father as well. Due to an accident that has left him in the hospital and due to COVID restrictions, I am unable to visit him in person. But I want to share some of his quirks that I love dearly. My father is not a fan of camping, but he came to a majority of my scout camps as I grew up, including my first backpacking trip, where he volunteered us to carry a fellow scout’s tent when that boy was struggling. I took the poles, and my father took the rest of the tent. I remember vividly a long drive we took together where we read Terry Tempest Williams’s beautiful book Refuge out loud. We both started crying at the same point. And it used to drive me nuts that when the forecast predicted six inches of snow, my dad would be out when just two had fallen and then return to the driveway two more times to remove the next batches of snow. But now that I have my own driveway to shovel, I often start shoveling before the snow has ended in a restless desire to keep the driveway free of icy tire tracks. And while I shovel, I think of how wonderful my father is. He and I are bound together by myriad small instances and preferences like these, too many to count where he and I have laid bare our wonderfully peculiar particularities. If I have some conception of a loving Heavenly Father, it is because of this individual bond I have forged with my earthly father.

Best friends Daniel Dewey and Lyle W. Rogers had always planned on getting their Eagle Scout Awards together and sharing a Court of Honor, but their plans looked doubtful when, the day after he passed his Board of Review, Daniel was diagnosed with a severe type of adult leukemia.
Daniel had to undergo six weeks of chemotherapy, and his chances of coming home for his Court of Honor looked doubtful. Just about every Church member in Gooding, Idaho, prayed for Daniel, and his name was on the prayer rolls of several temples.
Finally, prayers were answered, and Daniel’s cancer went into remission. Daniel was able to make the two-hour trip from Boise, where he was being treated, to Gooding, and the friends’ Court of Honor was one of the most touching ceremonies most people who attended could remember.
After the ceremony, Daniel had to return to the hospital, but his cancer continues in remission and he has received bone marrow transplants from his little brother. He has been eager to get out and get back to Scouting.

I was young and inexperienced, so the impressions made by this unusual incident were especially deep. I was assigned as a missionary to a little-known island in the South Pacific in 1955. Coming from America, my first impressions were two—the natural beauty of these islands and the apparent poverty of the people.
Slowly I began to learn the native language, adjust to the native food, and fit into the unhurried pace of living. The heat seemed at times unbearable and the mosquitoes vicious, as though they preferred the taste of hinehina (white) blood.
As I became more acquainted with the islanders and their language, food, and customs, I became more fully aware of the real poverty (in relative terms) in which they lived. It seemed irreconcilable. Why should we have so much in America and they have so little here? I could not at that time perceive the great spiritual blessings they had.
One day gave way to another with little change in the village routine. It would rain fiercely, and then the sun would shine just as intensely. The diet of fish and breadfruit was almost unchanged from day to day. The oneness and the unity of the sun and the sea, the lagoon, and the soft laughter of those beautiful brown-skinned people seemed to melt into a covering of quiet and peace.
Then one day excitement and change arrived! A strange boat was working its way into the harbor. Hurrah for something different! The whole island was soon down on the seashore looking at one of the most beautiful sailing yachts I have ever seen.
Quietly, as if in slow motion, a crewman threw an anchor into the waiting lagoon. It did not appear even to make a splash, as though to refrain from disturbing the beauty of the setting. It was nearly dusk. The light from the setting sun silhouetted that sleek shape, its sails furled against the backdrop of deep blue waters and emerald green islands. Golden shafts of color painted all around in unbelievably vivid hues, as though framing the whole picture for eternity.
Silently the crew rolled out deep red carpets on the freshly scrubbed deck, and then the master emerged in his crisp white “tropics” to survey the situation. By now there were canoes all around as curious islanders naturally wanted to be a part of this experience, this change.
My assignment was to a little flock of about 50 Church members, most of whom were caught up in the excitement. They soon brought back reports, and even though I was young and inexperienced, it did not take very long to realize what was happening.
The man was a millionaire from overseas, cruising the world. He wanted to trade for food and water, and he wanted girls. There was liquor on board and a real swinging time for those who would accept his invitation.
I counseled my little flock to stay away. Most did, but some did not. The wealthy adventurer stayed for a few days until he filled his wants. Then he announced he would leave before noon the following day. Some of the faithful members pleaded, “Could we not go out just before he leaves, just to see the boat?” I agreed that at 10:00 the next morning we would briefly look at the yacht.
When we got there, it was even more magnificent than I had pictured. Evidence of the previous night’s activities was still being cleared away, and preparations were being made to raise anchor and take sail. We spent a few moments in wonder and awe, astonished at the beauty of the deep mahogany paneling, the rich bronze fittings, the lustre of the freshly painted surfaces, and the gleaming white of the hull as it lapped quietly at the deep blue lagoon.
The owner, nearly sober, waved good-bye, and we returned to shore. As we pulled the dugout canoe onto the sandy beach, I turned again to see the white form move toward the horizon. I thought of the millionaire in his white “tropics,” having had his fill, comfortable with his well-stocked cupboards and expert crew, with his money and his power. He seemed to have everything he wanted.
Then I looked at the men who had brought me to shore: no shoes, shirts of rags, tattered valas tied with coconut sennit around their waists. I looked past them to the village. I saw the smoke from the morning’s cooking twisting lazily into the air, heard the monotonous sound of tapa being beaten, and felt the heaviness of the overhead sun as it filtered through the palm trees. I watched the men slowly walk to their gardens and heard the laughter of naked children as they chased the scrawny dogs.
Suddenly the oppressiveness of island life with so little opportunity for change struck me as being grossly unfair. I turned again to gaze at the yacht, now receding into the distance. The contrast was so great as to be almost unbelievable. My heart cried out, Unfair! Unfair! These poor people—look at them—and you—look at you!
I returned to the group, and we trudged up the shore to the village. Then one of the older men turned to me and said softly in his native tongue, “I am very sad. I feel very sorry.”
“Well,” I interrupted, “I am very sad, and I feel very sorry too. It just isn’t fair, is it?”
“No,” he continued, “it really isn’t fair. I feel so sorry for him, for he will never be happy.”
I stopped dead in my tracks.
“You, you feel sorry for him? He won’t be happy? What are you talking about?”
My mind was groping to come to a sense of reality of what was being said. This man with nothing saying he was sorry for that man with everything! My immature mind was spinning, trying to interpret words, feelings, and relationships.
But he continued: “I feel so sorry for him. He will never be happy for he seeks only for his own pleasure, not to help others. Yet we know that happiness comes from helping others. All he will do is sail around the world seeking happiness, hoping others will bring happiness to him. But they cannot. He will never find it for he has not learned to help others. He has too much money, too many luxuries. Oh, I feel so sorry for him.”
I looked at the wrinkled brown body of the old man. His teeth were gone, his hair was white, and his skin was leather; but his eyes were soft, his voice quiet, and his countenance immaculate.
I can never forget his powerful words: “I feel sorry for him. He will never be happy. He hasn’t learned to help others.”
Years have passed, but occasionally, as I see proud people closed up in their sleek new cars or sense my own temporary unwillingness to help others, I close my eyes and see a beautiful yacht moving toward the horizon and turn and see an old man with a wrinkled brown body, white hair, and skin of leather and listen as his soft eyes penetrate mine and his toothless mouth moves and his spirit explains: “I feel very sorry. He will never be happy. He hasn’t learned to help others.”

On this week’s discussion board, I asked if people would share experiences of kindness. Laura’s story is a great example of someone being sympathetic, considerate, and helpful. Laura wrote, “I have a young adult son who has a disability. Chad loves to attend our neighborhood gym twice a week. The owner has taken a special interest in Chad. He personally trains him free of charge. The staff loves to get Chad’s movie requests each week and they have them ready for him to watch in the theater while he does his cardio. But the owner has gone above and beyond—he has given my son his cell phone number so they can text each other during the week. Believe me—my son sends a lot of messages. This Christlike man is a true and loving friend to my son.”

Bishop Richard C. Edgley, First Counselor in the Presiding Bishopric, told of an experience where his integrity was similarly tested:
“Some 30 years ago, while working in the corporate world, some business associates and I were passing through O’Hare Airport in Chicago, Illinois. One of these men had just sold his company for tens of millions of dollars—in other words, he was not poor.
“As we were passing a newspaper vending machine, this individual put a quarter into the machine, opened the door to the stack of papers inside the machine, and began dispensing unpaid-for newspapers to each of us. When he handed me a newspaper, I put a quarter in the machine and, trying not to offend but to make a point, jokingly said, ‘Jim, for 25 cents I can maintain my integrity.’ ”1
Bishop Edgley could have easily walked away without paying for that newspaper. After all, 25 cents would have hardly made a difference to the publishers. But he knew it would make a difference to his integrity.

When Amy was three, her mother and father brought home her baby brother, Paul. They said Amy was a big sister now. But she didn’t feel any different. She still felt little.
Amy wasn’t sure she liked the baby. He didn’t do anything, even when she smiled at him. Then one day he smiled. “I taught my brother how to smile,” said Amy.
Sometimes Amy liked to shake a rattle in front of Paul. When Paul was three months old, he reached out and took the rattle from Amy and shook it. “I taught my brother how to shake a rattle,” said Amy.
One day Amy’s friend came over to play. They crawled on the floor and pretended they were dogs. Paul watched them. A few months later Amy saw Paul crawl. “I taught my brother how to crawl,” said Amy.
Amy liked to pretend that she was an acrobat on a high wire, walking very slowly, one foot in front of the other. When baby Paul was ten months old, he took his first steps walking very slowly, one step at a time. “I taught my brother how to walk,” said Amy.
Paul was growing big and tall. He didn’t always do what Amy told him to. Sometimes Amy forgot to be nice. She pulled his hair and made him cry. Then she felt bad and gave him a hug.
One day Amy would not share her book with Paul. He grabbed her hair. Amy rubbed her head and said tearfully, “I taught my brother how to pull hair.”
Paul held out his arms in front of Amy. Amy held out her arms, too, and they hugged. “I taught Paul how to hug,” said Amy. “I would rather hug than pull hair. From now on I will be very careful about what I teach my brother.”

When Ross Harwood, 83, moved into the Cedaredge Branch of the Montrose Colorado Stake in Eckert, Colorado, he had no idea he would be singled out for a special evening courtesy of the Young Men and Young Women.
Crippled by a stroke, Brother Harwood had not been able to attend church. The youth of the branch decided to plan something special for him. A dinner was prepared complete with fine china and silverware. Brother Ross said, “I’ve never had such courtesy shown to me.”

But in today’s world, more will be expected of you than to just stand in holy places. My plea is not just that you stand in holy places but that you make holy the places in which you stand.
As Sister Sharon G. Larsen, a former member of the Young Women general presidency, once explained:
Holy places can be wherever you are—alone, in a crowd, with strangers, with friends. The road to Jericho was treacherous and formidable. Thieves infiltrated the bushes and trees waiting to ambush any traveler. It took a kind and courageous Samaritan to change that road from a haunted place to a holy place.5
As followers of Christ, we are capable of doing more than standing in holy places. We can make any place holy—not just our temples and chapels but also our homes, our workplaces, and our locker rooms. We have the ability, like the good Samaritan, to change the areas in which we stand from haunted places to holy places.
Elder Jeffrey R. Holland illustrated how this can happen when he spoke of the experience of Joseph Smith in Liberty Jail. If there were any place likely to be considered unholy or haunted, it would be that small jail, located near the western frontier of America, in the winter of 1838–39. As described by Elder Holland:
The jail . . . was considered escape proof, and it probably was. It had two stories. The . . . main floor was accessible to the outside world only by a single small, heavy door. In the middle of that floor was a trapdoor through which prisoners were then lowered into the lower floor or dungeon. The outside walls . . . were . . . two feet thick, with inside walls of 12-inch . . . logs. These two walls were separated by a 12-inch space filled with loose rock. Combined, these walls made a . . . virtually impenetrable barrier four feet thick.6
Joseph and his companions spent more than four months in that setting.
Elder Holland continued:
The food given to the prisoners was coarse and sometimes contaminated, so filthy that one of them said they “could not eat it until [they] were driven to it by hunger.” On as many as four occasions they had poison administered to them in their food, making them so violently ill that for days they alternated between vomiting and a kind of delirium, not really caring whether they lived or died. In the Prophet Joseph’s letters, he spoke of the jail being a “hell, surrounded with demons . . . where we are compelled to hear nothing but blasphemous oaths, and witness a scene of blasphemy, and drunkenness and hypocrisy, and debaucheries of every description.”7
Elder Holland included further descriptions from Joseph Smith’s letters:
“We have . . . not blankets sufficient to keep us warm; and when we have a fire, we are obliged to have almost a constant smoke.”8
“Our souls have been bowed down”9 and “my nerve trembles from long confinement.”10
“Pen, or tongue, or angels [could not describe] the malice of hell that I have suffered.”11
That is not the kind of place that you or I would describe as holy. And yet it was in that setting that the Prophet received and recorded some of the most sublime revelations of this dispensation, including sections 121, 122, and 123 of the Doctrine and Covenants. The outpouring of the Holy Spirit was so profound in that jail that B. H. Roberts, as Elder Holland noted, rightly referred to it as a “prison-temple.”12

Although Virgilio gave up his governorship to stay true to his testimony, he was able to pass on another legacy to the next generation: that of serving the people by establishing the gospel among them. He lived to see Wilson serve a full-time mission and then return to Guayacana to marry his wife, Ruth, and have children. Some years later, Virgilio died faithful in the Church. His wife, Maria Juana Apa, has lived to witness their son’s calling, in 2014, to serve as branch president in Guayacana.

“We’re glad you could stay with us tonight. This is the coldest night I can remember in Illinois,” Sarah Ann said, taking a seat at the table across from Mr. James. “Our family moved here from New York after Father died. He and Mother left Norway to escape those who wanted to punish them for being Quakers. When they arrived in America, Father worked hard to build a house.”
As Sarah Ann told the story, she could almost smell the fresh-cut maple wood again.
“One day, our home caught fire, and everything was destroyed. When Father returned from work and saw us standing in the street, he asked Mother if we were safe. She answered yes, and Father knelt down right there in the middle of the street and thanked God for protecting us.”
“Your father must have had a lot of faith in God,” Mr. James said.
Sarah Ann nodded, wishing her father were still with them.
Soon their visitor said good night and went to bed. Mother reached for his worn socks, which had been drying by the fire, so she could mend the many holes. This was a scene Sarah Ann had witnessed a hundred times. She kissed Mother on the cheek and went to bed.
When Sarah Ann awoke the next morning, Mr. James was gone. But the house was not quiet. There was a large crowd gathered in the road outside, and Sarah Ann leaned out the window to hear what was happening.
Two men were standing in the middle of the crowd. Sarah Ann recognized them as the Mormon missionaries who had arrived in the village last week. It was obvious that whatever they were talking about was important to them.
One of the men held up a book and said, “We testify that the Book of Mormon is true. We also testify that there is a living prophet once again on the earth.”
Sarah Ann suddenly felt a warm feeling fill her heart. It surprised her. She knew in that moment that what the missionaries were teaching was true.
Sarah Ann rushed to tell Mother about the experience and her desire to be baptized. Some of Mother’s friends were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and even though they were good people, Sarah Ann could tell that Mother didn’t want her to be baptized.
“Sarah Ann, this is a big decision. If you still feel the same way when you are older, then you may be baptized,” Mother said.
Sarah Ann agreed. Over the next three years, she learned all she could about the Church. As she did, her faith in Jesus Christ and His restored gospel grew. No amount of time could take away what Sarah Ann felt about the gospel.
Finally, Sarah Ann was baptized. On her baptism day, Sarah Ann made a promise in her heart that she would always do whatever Heavenly Father asked her to do. She was about to find out what that would be.

The 49 Montgomery Alabama Stake youths piled out of their vehicles. Rakes, shovels, and axes were unloaded from auto trunks as they began to tackle the weeds, leaves, and debris around the old Magnolia chapel. They were continuing a tradition of service for the Church that stretches back nearly 80 years to the night of Saturday, May 8, 1897, when Henry McCoy and Grover Surginer passed a group of riders hurrying through the dark, wooded lane. The men’s faces were covered, which caused the pair to wonder.
“I recognized one of the horses, though. It belongs to John Garrett,” one of them commented as they continued to the bowery erected for the conference sessions being held in Magnolia.
When the men got to the crossroads where the bowery was located, they discovered that the seats, made of planks and sawed blocks, had been heaped together and ignited. The two men quickly put out the blaze.
The next day the members met again in conference despite the blackened ends of the seats. For them, persecution was nothing new. The missionaries had been tarred and feathered before and had eggs thrown at them. Converts reaped the ire of relatives and neighbors alike, but they didn’t quit. Service to the Church has continued into modern times.
Some of the youths were directed to begin digging around a stubborn four-foot stump. It wasn’t long before thick roots had to be chopped through with the axes as the young people laboriously dug deeper in their attempt to remove the old stump. It had been a stately tree when the Church took hold in that part of the state.
The tree had been young when Olivia Tucker McCoy joined the Church. In her diary she wrote: “We were baptized Oct. 3, 1897. My husband’s father had given him the place he settled on with the understanding that he would help him work and pay for that place and the one his father bought, but as it was his father’s he never got the deed. So, after we joined the Mormons his father told him he would have to move.”
Their little daughter had been burned in a fire in December, and they asked for time before moving the child but were ordered out. On January 3, 1898, “We put her in the wagon on a bed, moved to what they called the Coates place, and rented the same from Jim Smyly.
“The Christmas of 1898 I spent with my sister, a Mrs. Guinn, the one I lived with when I was married. But the folks didn’t seem just the same. You see, I had joined the Mormons and I was reminded of it.”
Nor did the early Saints forget it either. In 1913, with the aid of Elder Sellers from Vernal, Utah, and Elder Joseph E. Ward from Parowan, Utah, the Magnolia chapel was built. It stands now as the oldest LDS chapel in Alabama.
Before construction began, a mob gathered to drive the elders out. Mrs. Willie Autrey, a nonmember, stepped out with her gun and turned the mob away. So the Magnolia chapel was built and has stood through the years as a monument to the dedication of area Saints, early and modern.
The youths raked the weeds and leaves from the Church’s cemetery. The area around the building began to look neater, although the stump was not yet removed. The diggers were making progress when they stopped briefly for lunch.
Despite the persecution in the early days, a number of families joined the Church. Later many moved west—the Martins, Sealeys, Cranfords, Torberts, and others—leaving only a few to use the chapel and the adjoining cemetery.
Today, the old LDS chapel in Magnolia is used for socials only. A newer, larger building stands next door and is used by the 50 members of the Magnolia Branch.
The young people returned to work. The ancient, worn-out fence was pulled down, the rotted wood piled for a bonfire. That afternoon they held a testimony meeting, followed by a hot dog and marshmallow roast, which concluded at 7:00 P.M.
Perhaps as they worked or relaxed, they recalled some of the stories told about the chapel, including the time it caught fire during a conference in 1937. The blaze was caused by a defective flue to the pot-bellied stove. A bucket brigade was formed, and water drawn from the well was passed up to Heber B. Martin, who doused the burning wood.
The chapel has been the scene of a number of talks by various Church authorities, including mission president Charles A. Callis, who presided over the Southern States Mission for about a quarter of a century and later became a General Authority.
Sometimes as many as 30 missionaries would be in attendance at the conferences in Magnolia. Today, conference is held in the Montgomery stake center 100 miles east of Magnolia, but the small chapel, while no longer in official use, still stands as a reminder of the heritage of the Alabama Saints.