Gospel Story Finder

I started backpacking with my family the summer I turned six years old. I carried a small pack that had a change of clothes in it and eight rolls of lifesavers—one for each day of the trip! That year we hiked fifty miles. We went over Sawtooth Pass, one of the most difficult passes in the Sierras. It’s 11,700 feet high. A ranger we met said I was the youngest hiker he had ever seen that far into the backcountry. He even took my picture!

I saw a man do that once. It changed my life. A member of the General Authorities came to speak to a conference where I was sitting on the stand. I was in the local priesthood presidency. I knew personally the struggles of the local families and the members. He, the General Authority, had just flown in from a long assignment in Europe. He was obviously tired. He stood to speak in the meeting. It seemed to me that he rambled from one subject to another. At first I felt sorry for him. I thought he was failing to give a polished sermon of the kind I knew he had delivered many times.

After a while I was thrilled to recognize that as he moved from one apparently unrelated topic to another, he was touching the need of every poor struggling member and family we were trying to help. He did not know them and their needs. But God did.

How grateful I am that his motive was not to give a great sermon or to be seen as a powerful prophet. He must have done what I hope you and I will always do. He must have prayed something like this: “Father, I need Thy help. I am tired. Please guide me with the Holy Ghost. Bless these people. I love them. I ask only that I can do Thy will to help them.”

The Holy Ghost came that night. And the Lord’s will was done. The General Authority had spent a lifetime feeding himself and others on the good word of God. He had served the Master faithfully. He was a special witness of Jesus Christ because he had paid the price to be one. All of that came from keeping his motives as closely tied as he could to what the Lord wanted. That made it possible for the Lord to send the whisperings of the Holy Ghost to His servant and so bless the people.

As a serviceman stationed in one of the more remote areas of Vietnam, I want to thank you for the confidence, knowledge, and small touch of home your magazine brings to me and the members here in Phu Bai. Before arriving here, I was scared of the possibility of spending a year here away from family and Church, and I could imagine all types of long days ahead as a result. However, the anxiety was needless. Within a day I saw the chaplain and he referred me to other Latter-day Saints. On Sunday when we met, it was like coming home after a long trip. In the truest sense, members of the Church are one family, and I am always pleasantly surprised at the warm response given to all who seek them out. It is like an oasis in the desert. The gospel is truly a beautiful companion and guide; and here, away from all that is familiar to me, I’ve come to recognize that God is over all and that as long as we are faithful and do his will, we have a constant strength. Since I’ve come to know this, it has been much easier to forget myself and the time and to concentrate on what God would like to use me for here. Thank you for your magazine. We are all more fully aware of our responsibilities, our callings, and our obligations, especially in a place like this, because of it. Our branch is growing. We baptized two new converts last week. A group of us flew to the China Sea for the baptism, ferried by an all-Mormon helicopter crew.
SP4 Jerry D. WilliamsVietnam

Illustration by Emily Jones
I started taking piano lessons when I was seven years old. At first, it was hard to read the music notes and pay attention during my lessons. I just didn’t like to practice the piano.
Then my mom asked me to play “When I Am Baptized” (Children’s Songbook, 103) at my baptism. It was the first time I ever played in church. I was nervous but proud of myself when I did it.
Soon I got busy with school and wanted to quit piano, but my parents encouraged me to continue learning. They said that if I kept playing, I could find joy in serving the Lord.
From then on, I loved playing the piano. I started playing in sacrament meeting, and when I turned 12, I was officially called to be the ward pianist. I was so happy! I played in Primary presentations and accompanied our ward choir during ward conferences and devotionals. I was even called as the stake choir pianist and played during stake conference.
I’m grateful to my parents for encouraging me to do my best. I will be forever grateful to Heavenly Father for the talent He has given me. I know I’ll be able to use my talents on my mission and in other service someday. I truly find joy in serving the Lord.
Jyle S., National Capital Region, Philippines

Take one ordinary English seaside town; connect to electric power, and on come the lights, transforming Blackpool into a place of beauty and wonder.
Take one ordinary Englishman; connect to heavenly power, and on comes a light, positive and clear, transforming Blackpool’s investigators with its beauty and wonder.
Many in Blackpool have seen that light in 19-year-old Jolyon Soames Folkett (known at home as Jo), of the Glenfield Ward, Leicester Stake, England. Elder Folkett is a young man who has overcome many obstacles to be where he is—serving as the only paraplegic missionary in a wheelchair in the British Isles.
“I used to think, ‘I’m pretty cool, coming on a mission like this,’” said Elder Folkett. “‘I had a good excuse not to come, but here I am.’”
Then, during one early-morning Book of Mormon study session, Elder Folkett read Mosiah 2:21–24. “It was the bit about serving,” he says, smiling. “Where it says even if we serve the Lord with all our souls, we’ll still be in his debt, and he requires us to do all he commands, and not be proud, whatever our circumstance.
“That really humbled me. I thought, ‘I’m not so cool, am I? It’s no big deal. I’m only doing what’s required.’”
And ‘doing what’s required’ has been his guideline for the last five years. Prior to that, Jo’s legs were the same as most people’s—active.
Then came the blood clot in his spine. Only one in a million people ever suffer from this problem. Usually they are middle-aged and end up mentally retarded due to brain damage or even die.
Jo survived, perfectly normal except for his legs.
Despite frequent hospitalization, he has become more and more cheerful, relying on priesthood blessings and developing a testimony that takes him places where legs are not important.
Looking back, Jo has a clear picture of that turning point in his life. “I was prepared, through promptings of the Spirit, for the information that my legs would always be paralysed,” he says. “So when the doctor appeared solemnly saying, ‘I have something to tell you,’ I thought it must be, ‘Sorry, no hope, you’re going to die.’ When he said, ‘You’ll never walk again,’ it was a relief. I could handle that.”
That was the easy part. Adapting and learning to do everything differently was not. So Jo developed ways of dealing with setbacks. His favourite saying when things get tough is, “You can either laugh or cry, but if you laugh, people like you better.”
Jo did progress, becoming more and more independent and mobile.
His testimony also became independent. Although brought up in the Church, Jo had, earlier in life, gone through a less-active stage. He drifted in with the wrong crowd, did some things he regretted. Gradually, through the influence of missionaries, and to keep his mum happy, he returned.
“It was while I was in the hospital that I decided to find out for sure whether the Church is true,” he says. “I had plenty of opportunity to fast and pray in there as my visits lengthened into months.” (His spine began curving, needing replacement with bones from his ribs.)
By the end of the first fast, the Aylesbury Ward bishop turned up unexpectedly, offering to take Jo for a ride. “We entered a beautiful woodland area,” Jo recalls. “As we drove slowly through I was reminded of the First Vision. I had the strongest impression of God’s hand in all that beauty. The feeling also came clearly—this is the Savior’s church, and I should go on a mission.”
Jo’s testimony never wavered after that.
Later, during a class discussion on missions back in his home ward, his yearning for service came sharply into focus. The teacher, not wanting him to feel left out or embarrassed by the emphasis on serving missions, made the comment, ‘Of course, Jo is excused. He won’t be able to go in a wheelchair.’
“That really fired me up,” exclaims Elder Folkett. “My immediate reaction was, ‘Oh yes I will!’” Soon after, Jo received his patriarchal blessing, which confirmed his decision, stating he would serve and proselyte.
Before leaving for the England Manchester Mission, it became evident just how much Jolyon’s new attitude toward life had affected him. Not only did he take part in, and win, several national paraplegic sporting events, but his social life also improved.
“We had a stake fireside on dating standards,” Jo says. “And the final challenge was a competition to get youth mixing. We had to see who could have the most dates (same partner allowed no more than five times) in six months. The prize would be a trip to London for a meal and a show.”
Despite the fact that Jo was in the hospital for one of those months, and his mission departure was a month before the competition finished, he still came out winner. His total—38 dates in four months. Now he has a two-year wait for the prize.
And Jo has more good news waiting for his return home. When he applied for a training job at his local council offices they agreed to take him—and that was after he told them he wouldn’t be available to start for another two years. They accepted his explanation, promising to keep the vacancy especially for him.
Blessings like these keep outweighing hardships in Jo’s life. He’s even found advantages to serving in a wheelchair. “I must be the only missionary to get through two years in one pair of shoes,” he jokes. “These cost me 13 pounds (about $25 U.S.) at Leicester market and they’re good as new!”
There are a few disadvantages, however. Like the number of new tyres needed for his special wheelchair. Jo saved up for a lightweight, thin-tyred sports model before he left on his mission. The smaller chair makes tracting easier and has allowed him to develop the art of wheelies, crowd navigation, and step bouncing to breathtaking degrees.
He has another saying. “You can do anything you want, if it’s possible. If it’s impossible it just takes longer.”
Elder Folkett’s companion, Elder Dean Beale from Weston-super-Mare, England, says he appreciates such attitudes from his companion. “After working with Elder Folkett,” he says, “I’ve also come to realize that many of the people who blame God for the afflictions of others are not the sufferers themselves. The suffers are often the ones with faith and humility.”
As Elder Folkett says, “Life’s not supposed to be easy. It’s a tough testing ground. But if we behave ourselves and follow God’s plan, then we’ll get the blessings in the end.”
Often the blessings come long before the end when you’re in the service of the Lord. Jo has seen that many times on his mission. Take the day he met Kevin Smith, for instance.
Kevin had become interested in the Church through the fine example of a young Latter-day Saint girl in his office and had requested a copy of the Book of Mormon from the Blackpool Ward. Jo and his companion volunteered to deliver the scriptures.
“At that point I wasn’t sufficiently interested in the Church to have missionaries in my home,” says Kevin, who has been confined to a wheelchair for the past 16 years. “I had a stereotyped image of Mormon elders—tall, fresh young American lads straight out of college, clothed in sharp suits, with toothpaste-advert smiles. I probably wouldn’t have opened the door if they’d looked like that. But here were two down-to-earth people, one just as surprised as myself at the sight of a wheelchair.”
“Kevin is such a cool guy,” exclaims Elder Folkett, who was surprised to find his investigator in a wheelchair. “Even before we got to his house the first time I felt good about things that would happen.”
Elder Folkett and Kevin hit it off from the moment they met, and Jo baptized Kevin not long after that first discussion.
The power of example is switching on eternal possibilities for Jo. Inactive members have returned to church because of his example; he has shared the gospel with anyone willing to listen; and his mission president delights in his, “good, cheerful spirit.”
Just as Blackpool’s illuminations bring life to the shadows, so too does Elder Folkett’s bright faith enrich the lives of those he meets.
There’s a sparkle to his testimony that knows no handicap, travelling beyond boundaries, turning barriers into blessings.

For Sarah and Cristina, prayer is a part of every audition. “I pray before and after every audition,” Sarah says. “I pray for help that the director will remember me when casting. I also say, ‘Help me to get the part if I’m meant for it; help me to understand why if I don’t get it.’”

Cristina remembers many prayers offered as a family when Sarah was auditioning for Promised Land. “We prayed for a long time together as a family. We didn’t want to do it if it might have a negative effect on the family. We really wanted Sarah to have this opportunity if it would bless our family and if we would be able to bless others. And I think it has.”

Luckily, Promised Land is filmed in Utah, and Sarah has found time to lead a somewhat normal life. “It’s been incredibly hard,” Sarah says, “But it’s actually worked out very well. On my days off I can go to school with my friends. If I have a late call [movie lingo for filming a show later in the day], I go to school in the morning, and if I have an early call and wrap early, then I go to school later. I have my weekends off to be with my friends and with my family on Sunday.”

A boy entered a pharmacist’s shop and told the owner that he was Bob Brown, son of Mrs. Helen Brown. He asked if there was any possibility for him to work at the pharmacy so that he could pay for medicine that the store owner had supplied the family but that hadn’t been paid for. Mr. Jones didn’t really need any additional help, but he was so impressed by the unusual conscientiousness and honesty of this seventeen-year-old boy that he made arrangements for Bob to work at the store on Saturdays.
Bob’s work that first day greatly impressed the store owner, and at the end of it, he handed the young man an envelope containing twelve dollars. The boy took two one-dollar bills from the envelope and asked Mr. Jones to give him change for one of them. Bob put the other dollar bill and twenty cents in his pocket. Then he put the eighty cents change in the envelope with the ten-dollar bill and handed it back to Mr. Jones to apply against the family account. Mr. Jones urged Bob to keep a larger portion of the money. “You’ll need some money for school,” he said.
“No, sir,” said the seventeen-year-old. “Maybe later I could keep a little more, but today I would like to pay the ten dollars and eighty cents on our bill.”
At that moment some of Bob’s friends came by and asked him to attend a movie with them. He said that he couldn’t, that he had to go home, and that he didn’t have any money. One of the boys playfully jostled him and heard the twenty cents rattle in Bob’s pocket. The teasing began again because he obviously did have some money.
Bob finally said quietly, “Look, guys, I do have a little money, but it isn’t mine—it’s my tithing.”
Early in his life Bob had learned to be honest with his fellowmen as well as the Lord. Can anyone doubt that he will be an equally fine man, a good husband and dad, and a concerned leader who will help many others?

You may have read the story in the Ensign about the Hibbert family. (See Ensign, June 1980, pp. 41–42.) The husband and father of a large family was diagnosed as having terminal cancer. After the shock and fear were faced, the husband and wife counseled together and decided that the best thing they could do for their joy and peace of mind was to prepare themselves and their family for what was to come.
They chose to create family memories through shared experiences, to complete family histories, to have a year’s supply of food and other necessities to meet the financial emergencies that would come. A will was prepared and all insurance and legal papers were put in order. The children were taught to care for one another and to take responsibility in the home.
Just weeks before the death of Brother Hibbert, their home was destroyed in a fire. With it went much of the food storage, but there was still the togetherness of a family that had learned to work together, to plan and prepare, and to face a difficulty head on. With the death of Brother Hibbert, there was sorrow—but not grief. The family had developed the skills it takes to remain close and loving. They were prepared.

In March 1934 Admiral Richard Byrd (explorer of the North and South Poles) isolated himself in the wastes of Antarctica in a little nine-by-thirteen-foot hut buried in the snow. There he planned to remain during the six-month-long night, making weather observations. He took this task on himself. He would not order any of his men to do it.
One day he went outside to check the instruments in the midst of a raging blizzard. When he tried to get back inside the hut, he found the trapdoor frozen. He pulled and yanked, exerting all his strength. It was like trying to pull open a locked bank vault. The door was frozen solid. He tried to scrape off some of the snow around the edges. He threw himself on the door, trying to break the ice by the pressure of his body. He pulled, tugged, pushed, and pounded until he was worn out. Then he was terribly cold, even through his heavy clothing. His fingers were numb, losing feeling. He was alone in vast Antarctica, the frozen, wild wastelands.
The wind tore at him. He was about to panic. Ten minutes more in the cold, and it would be too late! With the mighty effort of his will, he resisted panic; he prayed. He forced himself to rest quietly, to think, to concentrate. Suddenly he remembered—a shovel! The other day when he had been checking the instruments, he had left a shovel outside. He crawled around. It had snowed a great deal in the past two days. Where was the shovel? He slipped and fell, and as he crashed, he struck something hard. He seized it; he had the shovel.
Now, back to the trapdoor of the hut! Somehow he got back. Somehow he wedged the handle of the shovel under the handle of the trapdoor. His hands were almost useless by this time. He threw his body across the handle of the shovel, and, God be praised, the ice cracked and the door opened.

My name is Rachel. I live near the Paris France Temple.
The temple is really important to my family. Before the Paris Temple was built, we would go on family trips to the Frankfurt Germany Temple several times a year. It took 10 hours to drive there and back!
We loved watching the new temple be built. Every week after church, our parents drove by to let us see how the construction was going. First they tore down an old building and dug a big hole. Then they started building the temple higher and higher. Soon the house of the Lord was there!
My siblings and I are excited to go to the temple someday. My oldest sister, Esther, gets to do baptisms first. We are all waiting anxiously for our turn to go too. We love the temple and are happy to have one in our very own city!

I shall never forget a lesson I learned many years ago as a boy in the little country of Wales. My family lived in a small mining village where coal not only provided us with a livelihood but was also used for cooking and was burned in the fireplaces to keep us warm when the weather was cold. So much coal was used that the chimneys would become clogged with soot, and it would be necessary to have it removed by a chimney sweep.
There was in our village a quaint little man who did this menial task. His appearance was almost repulsive. His hands were bent and gnarled, and his shoulders were bowed as if he carried a load. But the strangest thing about him was that he never talked. The only sound that left his lips, and this could only be understood by those who knew him, was the cry of “Chimney sweep, chimney sweep!” This man was Jimmy Drew.
Jimmy never bothered anyone. He would walk through the village streets with his bundle of brushes over his shoulder, calling out his strange cry. If someone accepted his services, he would sweep the chimney and load the soot into a sack that he carried away. His fee was two shillings, and the transaction was a silent one, for Jimmy was almost mute.
Ofttimes we boys in the village would make fun of Jimmy. We would walk behind him hunching up our shoulders and holding our hands like claws, just like Jimmy’s, and try to imitate his strange cry. But he didn’t seem to mind; he went about his business as if we were not there.
One day Jimmy was on our street, and as usual we proceeded to make fun of him. But it so happened that on this occasion my father came up behind us and observed what we were doing. Normally my father was a gentle man, but now he grasped my arm and unceremoniously marched me home. He took me to the big bay window from which we could see the valley below. He pointed with his finger and said to me in quite a stern voice, “Son, do you see the old Prince of Wales Colliery?”
Yes, I could see the old colliery; for as long as I could remember it had been there. The structure above the deep shaft was still there, but rust and decay were taking their toll.
The cages that lowered the coal miner down into the shaft were gone. The shaft itself was covered over with heavy boards and surrounded with a well-rusted cable. There was something about this old mine that made you feel uneasy when you were around it, and once some of us boys pried a board off the top of the shaft and dropped stones down into the inky blackness. It seemed like we waited for an age until the stones splashed into the water below.
“Yes, Father,” I replied, “I can see the old Prince of Wales.”
“Well, listen carefully,” he continued, “for I want you to always remember what I am going to tell you.”
I remember still how my father put his arm around me and pulled me close to him, and together we shed tears.
I have never been ashamed of those tears, for even though I was only a boy, the moral of this true story was quite clear. From that day on, whenever I was tempted to ridicule any of my fellowmen who had suffered misfortune or injury at birth, I would stand once again by the big window in the little Welsh village, look down the valley to the Prince of Wales Colliery, and think of the little chimney sweep, Jimmy Drew.

With his permission I would like to share a story a good friend recently told me. This friend was raised in the Church, and, while young, he was baptized, given the gift of the Holy Ghost, and ordained to the Aaronic Priesthood. During his teenage years he made some friends who had values dramatically different from those he had been taught in his home and at church. Over a number of years he made some poor decisions and became involved in behaviors that were deceptive, destructive, and not aligned with the teachings of the gospel. As a result he didn’t enjoy the constant companionship of the Holy Ghost and turned from much of the light available to him.

As he approached mission age he continued to be involved in these poor behaviors but also began to have questions about the direction of his life. One day while under the influence of an illegal substance, he had an experience—a very powerful spiritual ­experience—that he recognized as coming through the Holy Ghost. Although it came under surprising circumstances, that ­experience ­provided clarity for him and ultimately changed the course of his life. He repented, served a mission, and was married in the temple. He has a wonderful family and a powerful testimony and is an active and contributing member of the Church.

In April of 1830, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was organized in upstate New York. [8] By December of that same year, the Lord had given His fledgling Church “a commandment... that it is expedient in me that they should assemble together at the Ohio.” [9] The following month, He revealed: “There I will give unto you my law; and there you shall be endowed with power from on high.” [10]
Early missionaries found converts in Kirtland, and within months the Saints in New York were making their way to join them. [11] By 1832, the commands started coming to “organize” and “prepare” and to “establish a house, even a house of prayer, a house of fasting, a house of faith, a house of learning, a house of glory, a house of order, a house of God; That your incomings may be in the name of the Lord; that your outgoings may be in the name of the Lord; that all your salutation may be in the name of the Lord, with uplifted hands unto the Most High.” [12]
That language, recorded in the 88th section of the Doctrine and Covenants, is filled with a sense of excitement and anticipation for the outpouring of spiritual gifts the Lord had planned for His people once the temple was built and dedicated in Kirtland, Ohio. The temple is a place where heaven and earth overlap. It is a place where God the Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, can be more present in our lives. It is a place of sacred ordinance and covenant that amplifies and magnifies our most important relationships. In profound ways, “the power of godliness is manifest” most fully in the temple. [13]
Thus, when the Saints didn’t quite move fast enough or give construction of the temple the right priority, the Lord “chastened” them, and invited them to reconsider “the great commandment in all things, that I have given unto you concerning the building of mine house.” [14]
Received in June of 1833 by the Prophet Joseph, the 95th section of the Doctrine and Covenants reads like an anxious parent pleading with a child to receive some wonderful gift that the child cannot yet seem to appreciate or comprehend.
Indeed, the Lord had blessings in mind and was in a hurry. Quoting again from section 95, He says, “I design to prepare mine apostles to prune my vineyard for the last time... that I may pour out my Spirit... [and] endow those whom I have chosen with power from on high.” [15] Aware of how difficult it would be, He continued by promising the Saints that “if you keep my commandments you shall have power to build it.” [16]
Then, the Lord does something that emphasizes just how different and important this house, this temple, is going to be. He says, “Let the house be built, not after the manner of the world... [but] let it be built after the manner which I shall show unto three of you... The size thereof shall be fifty and five feet in width, and let it be sixty-five feet in length... And let the lower part of the inner court be dedicated unto me for your sacrament offering, and for your preaching, and your fasting, and your praying, and the offering up of your most holy desires unto me.” [17]
The “three” referenced in section 95 were Joseph Smith, Sidney Rigdon, and Frederick G. Williams, the First Presidency of the Church at the time. Truman G. Angell, a man who later became the architect of the Salt Lake Temple, recorded in his journal President Williams’ description of how the temple plans promised in section 95 were revealed. He wrote:
Joseph received the word of the Lord for him to take his two counsellors Williams and Rigdon and come before the Lord, and He would show them the plan or model of the House to be built. We went upon our knees, called on the Lord, and the Building appeared within viewing distance, I being the first to discover it. Then all of us viewed it together. After we had taken a good look at the exterior, the building seemed to come right over us. [18]
The revealed plans made such an impression that when he eventually saw the interior of the completed Kirtland Temple, President Williams observed that, “the Makeup of this Hall seemed to coincide with what I there saw [in vision] to a minutia.” [19]
Even with plans in hand, however, the Saints faced many barriers to construction in the summer of 1833. As a people, they were relatively few in number, they did not have enough money, and they were part of a new church trying to come together as a Zion people. [20]
Eliza Snow, who would later serve as the second General President of the Relief Society, described the scene in Kirtland this way:
At that time... the Saints were few in number, and most of them very poor; and, had it not been for the assurance that God had spoken, and had commanded that a house should be built to his name, of which he not only revealed the form, but also designated the dimensions, an attempt towards building that Temple, under the then existing circumstances, would have been, by all concerned, pronounced preposterous.
From 1833 to 1836, the construction of the Kirtland Temple was the primary focus of the Church in Kirtland. On June 5, 1833, they broke ground. On July 23, 1833, they laid the cornerstones. [21] A stone quarry two miles from the construction site was identified, and the Prophet Joseph himself would help quarry the stone used to build the temple. [22] Those who had a team of horses were enlisted to carry stones to the temple site. [23]
Obtaining wood was more difficult. Anything harvested nearby needed to be dried and seasoned before it could be cut and used in the construction of the temple. [24] To that end, the Saints built a kiln that, one historian explained, “required heat and evidently open flame.” [25] Unfortunately, the kiln caught fire frequently. In December of 1835, the Prophet Joseph recorded in his journal that:
The board kiln had taken fire... After laboring about one hour against this destructive element, we succeeded in conquering, and probably saved about one-fourth part of the lumber... There were about two hundred brethren engaged on this occasion; they displayed much activity and interest, and deserve much credit. [26]
Just three days later, the Prophet wrote, “To day the board kiln, took fire again.” [27] When the Saints could not overcome the problems with the kiln, they were forced to contract for lumber with a local supplier. [28]
Interruptions slowed or suspended construction on at least three occasions. [29] During the Winter of 1833–34, there was not enough wood, stone, or other materials. In the summer of 1834, Zion’s Camp took many of those working on the temple to Missouri in defense of Zion. During the winter of 1835–36, harsher and colder weather made work unbearable.
Those who helped build the temple worked long hours at considerable personal sacrifice. A brother named Daniel Tyler described those who worked on the temple this way:
How often have I seen those humble, faithful servants of the Lord, after toiling all day in the quarry, or on the building, when the walls were in course of erection, weary and faint, yet with cheerful countenances, retiring to their homes with a few pounds of corn meal that had been donated. And, in the case of those who lacked a cow to give a little milk, the corn meal was sometimes, for days together, all that they and their families had to subsist upon. When a little flour, butter or meat came in, they were luxuries. Sometimes a little New Orleans molasses, not as good as our sorghum, would be donated; but oftener the hands had to seek a job elsewhere to get a gallon or so, and then return to the labor on the temple. [30]
Others contributed and sacrificed from their homes. Heber C. Kimball reported that:
Women were engaged in spinning and knitting in order to clothe those who were laboring at the building, and the Lord only knows the scenes of poverty, tribulation, and distress which we passed through in order to accomplish this thing. My wife toiled all summer in lending her aid towards its accomplishment. She had a hundred pounds of wool, which... she spun in order to furnish clothing for those engaged in the building of the Temple, and although she had the privilege of keeping half the quantity of wool for herself, as a recompense for her labor, she did not reserve even so much as would make her a pair of stockings; but gave it for those who were laboring at the house of the Lord. She spun and wove and got the cloth dressed, and cut and made up into garments, and gave them to those men who labored on the Temple; almost all the sisters in Kirtland labored in knitting, sewing, spinning, etc., for the purpose of forwarding the work of the Lord. [31]
“Poverty” was a word used often in the many journals and records of the day. [32] When Heber C. Kimball arrived in Kirtland, he described the scene that greeted him:
When I got to Kirtland the brethren were engaged in building the house of the Lord. The commandment to build the house, and also the pattern of it was given in a revelation to Joseph Smith Jr., Sidney Rigdon, and Frederick G. Williams, and [it] was to be erected by a stated time. The church was in a state of poverty and distress, in consequence of which it appeared almost impossible that the commandment could be fulfilled, at the same time our enemies were raging and threatening destruction upon us. [33]
To keep the project moving, money was borrowed and missionaries were called to solicit funds. [34] By March of 1835, while the walls were still going up, Joseph felt the need to provide many of those working on the temple with a spiritual lift. One hundred nineteen individuals were gathered and received blessings given by the First Presidency. [35]
Later that same year, Joseph rallied the Twelve, promising them that:
Great blessings await us at this time, and will soon be poured out upon us, if we are faithful in all things... The house of the Lord must be prepared, and the solemn assembly called and organized in it, according to the order of the house of God... [ordinance there] is calculated to unite our hearts, that we may be one in feeling and sentiment, and that our faith may be strong... If we are faithful, and live by every word that proceeds forth from the mouth of God, I will venture to prophesy that we shall get a blessing that will be worth remembering... our blessing will be such as we have not realized before, nor received in this generation. [36]
On Sunday, March 27, 1836, the Kirtland Temple was dedicated. Of that day, the official history of the Church records Joseph’s account that:
The congregation began to assemble at the Temple, at about seven o’clock, an hour earlier than the doors were to be opened. Many had come in from the regions round about, to witness the dedication of the Lord’s House and share in His blessings; and such was the anxiety on this occasion that some hundreds (probably five or six) assembled before the doors were opened. The [First Presidency] entered with the doorkeepers, and stationed the latter at the inner and outer doors... The doors were then opened. Presidents Rigdon, Cowdery and myself seated the congregation as they came in, and, according to the best calculation we could make, we received between nine and ten hundred, which were as many as could be comfortably seated. We then informed the doorkeepers that we could receive no more, and a multitude were deprived of the bene?ts of the meeting on account of the house not being sufficiently capacious to receive them; and I felt to regret that any of my brethren and sisters should be deprived of the meeting, and I recommended them to repair to the schoolhouse and hold a meeting, which they did, and filled that house also, and yet many were left out... At nine o’clock a.m. President Sidney Rigdon commenced the services of the day by reading the 96th and 24th Psalms. [37]
For those without a seat in the temple or at the nearby schoolhouse, the windows of the temple were opened so that as many as possible could listen and a repeat of the dedicatory services was scheduled for the following Thursday. [38] Hymns were sung, sermons given, scriptures read, prayers offered, the sacrament passed, Church officers sustained, and then the dedication. [39]
Joseph had received the dedicatory prayer by way of revelation. [40] After reading it, those in the temple sang The Spirit of God by W. W. Phelps. [41]
In the days that followed, additional fast meetings were held. On March 31, a second dedicatory session was conducted. [43] On April 3, 1836, Christ appeared to Joseph and Oliver Cowdery and accepted the temple, saying, “I have accepted this house, and my name shall be here; and I will manifest myself to my people in mercy in this house.” [44] Appearances by Moses, Elias, and Elijah followed and the “keys of this dispensation” were committed. [45]
It is, I believe, important to remember that the outpouring of the Spirit at this time in Kirtland was universal and enjoyed by all those who came spiritually prepared to the dedication.
As Eliza Snow described it, “The ceremonies of that dedication may be rehearsed, but no mortal language can describe the heavenly manifestations of that memorable day. Angels appeared to some, while a sense of divine presence was realized by all present, and each heart was filled with ‘joy inexpressible and full of glory.’” [46]
The Savior appeared on five occasions, including a vision of both the Father and the Son. [47] Members of the congregation recorded the appearance of heavenly beings or angels at nine different meetings. [48] The letters and journals of the more than 1,000 who participated in the dedicatory meetings offer firsthand accounts that are remarkable, faith-filled, and transformative. [49]

After my mission, while studying to become a nurse, I spent a lot of time each day doing on-the-job training. Afterward, I would do homework assignments until 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. Then I would sleep a little before doing more on-the-job training the next day.

At the time, I was serving as ward Young Men president. It was very difficult for me to study and fulfill my Church calling. I knew if I quit my calling, however, I would not be able to teach the young men about the importance of following God’s path or receive the blessings He had in store for me.

“What should I do?” I asked Heavenly Father. “My body and mind are in shambles, and I don’t think I’m doing the kind of job Thou wouldst have me do.”

After my prayer, I was comforted. I felt that God was telling me, “This time you are spending working so hard is important for you. Your busy schedule may be difficult, but if you overcome this trial now, I will use you to bless and help many others in the future.”

This answer gave me assurance that I had a purpose, that if I endured, I would be able to do a special work in the future.

Another week we had a rough time at church; the children were more restless than they should have been, especially during the sacrament. The next night we talked about the sacrament in family home evening. We discussed its purpose and how we should behave as the sacrament is being passed. I asked the children what they thought about during the sacrament. Our 10-year-old, Sharanne, commented that she thought about the life of Jesus Christ and the words from “The Living Christ.” Nothing more needed to be said.

“Who’s out there, Pieter?” Charity asked.
Her younger brother shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know,” he replied. “It looks like somebody trying to see into our shop, but the snow is too thick on the windows.”
“Why don’t they come in?” Charity hurried to the door and opened it. A gust of cold wind blew a cloud of snowflakes into the shop. Standing on the doorstep was an old man breathing deeply of the delicious fragrance of baking that drifted to him from the shop.
“Come in,” Charity said softly. “Please come in. It is warm by the fireplace.” She reached out and touched his bony elbow. Caked snow fell from his head and shoulders as he followed the girl into the shop. He was wearing a bearskin robe and deerskin moccasins.
“He’s a Canarsee Indian,” Pieter whispered to Charity.
“Please be quiet, Pieter,” Charity replied, “and get him something warm to drink while I get some apple tarts.”
The old Indian sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the huge fireplace in the back of the shop and closed his eyes. When the food was brought to him, he ate it quickly. Then he closed his eyes again and seemed to be napping.
Charity had never seen such an old Indian. While it was not unusual for Canarsee Indians to be roaming the streets of New Amsterdam during the seventeenth century, there was a law that prevented Dutch bakers from selling goods to them. But to twelve-year-old Charity, anyone who was hungry was entitled to sample her mama’s delicious Dutch apple tarts.
“What will Mama say when she comes back?” Pieter asked.
Charity replied, “I’ll explain to her that he is just a homeless and hungry old man.”
The little bell over the door of the shop tinkled, and in strode a burly Dutchman. “Well!” he exclaimed, puffing out his red cheeks. “Where is the Widow Van Elf?”
“Mama is not here now, Master Donk,” Charity told him politely. “We are waiting for her to come home. She has gone to the miller’s for more flour.”
The Dutchman looked around the shop. “Business must be good if she needs to buy more flour. Does your mama have money for the rent as well?”
Charity shook her head sadly. “No, Master Donk, business is not good. Mama has gone to ask the miller for some flour on credit. The dampness ruined our barrel of flour.”
“The rent is long overdue, Charity,” he said more kindly. “Tell her I hope that things will go better soon.”
“Yes, Master Donk, I will tell Mama what you said,” Charity replied.
When Mama returned, she was cold and discouraged. The miller had refused to lend her any more flour until she had made a payment on the flour he had loaned her last month. After Charity gave her Master Donk’s message, Mama sighed deeply. “It’s no use,” she said wearily. “We’ll just have to close our shop and move in with Aunt Jenny.”
“But we love the shop!” Charity cried. “I don’t want to leave it.”
“It isn’t what we want to do, but what we must do,” Mama responded sadly as she walked to the back of the shop. When she saw the old man, she let out a little cry in surprise. He opened his eyes, and Mama and the Indian stared at each other.
“Mama, he was hungry and out in the storm,” Charity explained. “Oh, Mama, he’s so old, and he was very hungry.”
“And so you gave him our food.”
“Just two apple tarts and something to drink.”
“Without flour I can’t make more apple tarts,” Mama replied softly. “But you did the right thing.”
“What can we do with him when we close the shop?” Pieter asked.
“We’ll worry about that later,” Mama said. “Get down the trunks and boxes so that we can start packing, Pieter.”
Later Mama cooked a simple meal of cabbage soup. While she was dishing it up, she filled an extra bowl for the old man and gave it to Charity to take to him.
The snow fell quietly all evening, drifting against the doors and windows. At bedtime Mama said, “The Indian can sleep by the fire for the night and leave tomorrow when we do.”
“I’ll give him my extra blanket,” Charity said.
“And I’ll put more wood on the fire,” said Pieter.
In the morning, the sky was still full of whirling white snowflakes. Mama and the children found the Indian sitting in front of the fireplace, just where they had left him. Charity’s extra blanket was wrapped around his shoulders, and the shop was still cozy and warm.
“We have to try to make him understand that he must leave now,” Mama said. “We can’t close the shop and leave him in it.”
“The snow is still coming down hard,” Pieter replied. “If we let him sit here a little longer, maybe it will stop.”
Mama sighed deeply. “I was hoping he would leave when he saw us packing everything,” she said. “But I suppose he has nowhere else to go.”
The Indian looked from one face to the other, not understanding what they said. And after eating the warm food Charity brought to him, he closed his eyes again.
Soon a distant sound startled him awake. Mama and the children looked at each other, wondering what the noises could be. It sounded like people chanting or yelling.
The old Indian listened for a moment, then, with difficulty, rose to his feet and limped slowly to the door. As he opened the shop door, the sounds became very loud. A large group of Canarsee Indians were coursing through the narrow streets, shouting and calling. The old man gave a surprisingly lusty cry, and the entire group came running to the door of the shop.
Mama put her arms protectively around the children as the tiny shop filled with fur-clad Indians.
The old Indian stood among them, talking excitedly in his own language. From time to time he pointed to Mama and the children. When he finished talking, several of the younger men picked him up in their arms and carried him away.
A tall young Indian walked toward Mama and the children. “I speak your language,” he said. “My brothers and I want to thank you for caring for our chief, White Eagle. He said that you took him in out of the storm and gave him food, even though you didn’t have much for yourselves. We are grateful to you, for we love and respect our chief.
“We have come,” he continued, “to find our chief and to trade with the Dutch. We wish to give you some of our pelts. Please take them with our gratitude.”
One by one each Indian came forward and dropped some of his fur pelts on the floor in front of Mama and the children. Soon there was a large pile of valuable furs. Then the men left as quickly as they had come. The shop was empty. Mama and the children were alone.
No one spoke for a long time. Finally Mama said, “I never dreamed that he was the Canarsee chief!”
“Chief White Eagle,” Pieter murmured in a hushed voice.
“Oh, Mama!” Charity cried. “I thought he was just a poor, homeless, old man.”
Mama gave Charity a warm smile. “Your father certainly knew what he was doing when he named you Charity,” she said. She turned to Pieter. “We have work to do,” she told him. “While you and I carry some of these pelts to trade for flour, sugar, and other supplies, Charity can start unpacking. When we get back, we’ll all start baking cakes and pies again.”

Just before my eleventh birthday, British and Australian troops and American paratroopers liberated us. Our property had been confiscated in the civil war between the Dutch and the Indonesians, so we had no home to return to. We stayed in a refugee camp, waiting for my older brother to recover from cholera. My father had needed immediate medical aid and had been shipped to Holland with the wounded Dutch soldiers. He lived only a short time after the rest of us reached Amsterdam.
My mother was left to find what work she could to sustain herself and her six living children. Penniless, we lived in a tiny apartment furnished with old wooden boxes. Life was not easy, and although my mother longed to make our existence more comfortable, she did not have the means to do so.
On my sixteenth birthday, as I was cleaning out a closet, I came across Pop Mientje, safely tucked away on the shelf. She was dirty; she had been a victim of my airsickness in a cargo airplane, and she had been in the mud under me as we sought cover when our truck was shot at by the Indonesians.
I decided to clean her up. As I scrubbed her with a brush, her clothes, which were sewn to her body, disintegrated. Unwilling to abandon her, I began the job of reconstruction. But as I reached into the stuffing, it yielded more than soft cotton. Pop Mientje spilled forth the treasure she had carried all these years: diamonds, rubies, pearls, jade, and various rings. How had my old rag doll been made the guardian of such precious goods?
The discovery of the jewels changed our lives. The proceeds from their sale first brought us warm clothing and furniture to make our lives more comfortable. Eventually they enabled us to obtain higher education. The training I received because of Pop Mientje’s treasures meant better employment and higher wages, both in Amsterdam and later in America.

Winter had set in, and mounds of snow covered the hills and rounded the shapes of the trees. It was the kind of weather one would expect two days before Christmas in Sharon, Vermont.
About midnight the few farmhouses scattered among the hills were dark—except for the Smith’s where a lamp was still burning.
Even though it was Christmastime, a light that late at night was unusual. But something wonderful had happened on that twenty-third of December, 1805. A baby had been born.
The next day, a neighbor came to visit the Smiths. Alvin and Hyrum, the oldest of the children, saw him coming. They ran to meet him, shouting the news as they went, “We have a new baby!”
“It’s a boy! A boy!”
As they plowed through the snowdrifts surrounding the small frame home, they all had to laugh. Little sister Sophronia was watching from the window with her nose flattened against the glass. Father Smith opened the door to let them in and took the neighbor to see the baby, who was sleeping peacefully in his mother’s arms. “Well, what do you know,” he exclaimed, removing his hat, “a baby boy!”
“Yes,” Lucy said. “He’ll be named for his father. We’re going to call him Joseph.”
There weren’t any telephones, just neighbor folk to pass the word along. So when he left, the neighbor must have carried the news to the men and boys clustered around the stove at the village store. “Another boy for the Smiths,” he announced. “They can always use another hand on the farm,” a hand-warmer declared.
However, when Lucy stroked the soft baby hair, she imagined him not as a farmhand but as a leader and a mighty man. Then she smiled at her dreams. He looked like every other baby born to farm folk in the backwoods of Vermont. There was no reason to think he would be known outside the neighborhood.
Even in her wildest dreams Lucy could not have guessed that this small, new Joseph would run into hatred and yet would inspire such admiration that millions would follow him. And it would be said of him, “In all that he did he was manly and almost godlike.”
Yes, a baby had been born, and “the Lord had his eyes upon him.”
The baby grew and was strong and well. But when he was six, the Smith children became ill with typhus fever. Then a swelling in Joseph’s leg caused him so much pain that he could scarcely bear it. One day Joseph thought it was Dr. Stone, who was treating him, at the door until he heard Rebecca Perkins speak to his mother.
“I brought some honey bread, Lucy—new-baked.”
“Thank you, Rebecca.”
“It’ll help some, I reckon.”
Joseph knew it would help. His mother was bone tired from tending him and his brothers and sister, who slept only fitfully because of the fever. Sophronia was sick for ninety days, even came near dying.
“I understand young Joseph is still feeling poorly,” Joseph heard Mrs. Perkins say.
“Yes. He’s been real sick for some weeks. The typhus caused a fever sore in his shoulder. Dr. Stone lanced it, but the pain shot like lightning down his side and into his leg. He cut into it, clear to the bone, trying to relieve the infection. But it’s still so red and swollen.”
“We deemed it wise to call a council of surgeons to consult about the case,” Joseph heard his father explain. “We’re just waiting to hear.”
Waiting. So much waiting, Joseph thought. Everyone had done his best; he knew that. Even his big brother Hyrum had held Joseph’s leg, day and night, to help relieve the pain. But the pain persisted. Once Joseph cried out in desperation, “Oh, Father, how can I bear it?”
Now his father called to him, “The doctors are riding up, Joseph.”
Rebecca spoke a hasty wish-you-well as Lucy invited the doctors into a room apart. “Gentlemen, what can you do to save my boy’s leg?” she asked.
There was no answer for a moment, then one of the surgeons said as kindly as he could, “We can do nothing … his leg is incurable. Amputation is absolutely necessary in order to save his life.”
Lucy covered her mouth with her hands as if to silence the cry that rose in her throat. “No! Not little Joseph!” Then she found herself thinking back to the time when the doctor said Sophronia couldn’t live. How he even stopped coming, death was so close. They prayed for a miracle … and it happened, just like that. With her head in her hands, Joseph’s mother prayed again—for another miracle.
When she raised her head she said quietly, “Dr. Stone, can you not make another trial? You must not take off his leg until you try once more.”
After consultation the doctors decided to try to remove the infected bone. Lucy went for some clean homespun sheets to fold under the infected leg while the doctors told Joseph what they were going to do. And because there were no anesthetics to deaden pain, they called to his mother, “Bring some cords. We can tie him down to the bedstead. And bring a little brandy or wine; the pain will be almost unbearable.”
But Joseph protested. He didn’t want any liquor; neither would he be tied down.
“Mother, I want you to leave the room. Father can stand it, but you have carried me so much and watched over me so long that you are almost worn out.” Tears rimmed his eyes. “I’ll have Father sit on the bed and hold me in his arms. Then I’ll do what’s needed to have the bone taken out.”
One of the doctors objected. “The boy’s so young! He needs some kind of help to get through it!”
Joseph reached out for his father’s hand and pulled the big man down beside him on the bed. “The Lord will help me . … I’ll get through it.”
So the big, weathered farmer wrapped his arms around his little son and hugged him to his heart.
The operation began. It was long and excruciating with no medicine to deaden the pain, just his father to cling to. At one point Joseph’s mother heard his screams and came running back into the house.
“Oh, Mother, go back, go back. I don’t want you to come in. I’ll try to tough it out if you will go away,” he sobbed.
When the crude operation was over, Lucy stood hesitantly at the bedroom door, not daring to ask the question that trembled on her lips. Her husband, tenderly supporting his son’s shoulders, looked up and held out his other hand to her.
In a moment Lucy was across the room, that hand curving around her own as she knelt by young Joseph’s bed. How small and pale he looked. How still.
From the dark depths of his exhaustion, Joseph heard her coming, felt her touch—gentle but hesitant. He opened his eyes and his steady blue gaze swept the anxiety from his mother’s face.
Dr. Stone wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “It’s all right,” he said, nodding.
Young Joseph knew the Lord was with him. Their prayers had been answered. His leg would heal.
(To be continued.)

Brothers and sisters, I invite you to seek opportunities to bear your testimony in word and in deed. Such an opportunity came to me recently, at the end of a meeting with the mayor of a capital city in South America, in his chambers with a number of his cabinet officials. As we concluded with very cordial feelings, I hesitantly thought I should share my testimony. Following the prompting, I offered a witness that Jesus Christ is the Son of the living God and the Savior of the world. Everything changed at that moment. The Spirit in the room was undeniable. It seemed everyone was touched. “The Comforter … beareth record of the Father and of the Son.” I am so grateful I summoned the courage to bear my testimony.

On the day she finally realized she would never walk again, Diane made the decision to return to school to work for her degree. She was lying on her bed with all her scrapbooks filled with souvenirs and photos of her performances. Tears dripped down her face and splashed on the scrapbook pages. “I just realized right then that things weren’t going to get any better. As I lay there crying I thought, ‘I can either give up or get on with my life’ and that’s when I decided to go back to school and get my degree.”