Gospel Story Finder

Weeks went by, and in our history class, with the same teacher, we began to study the ancient civilizations of America.
One night while doing my homework I felt the strongest desire to speak in class again about the Book of Mormon. I knelt in prayer and asked Heavenly Father to grant me an opportunity to do so. After praying, I felt I should again prepare a discourse on the Book of Mormon.
The next day as Mrs. Protschka began class I raised my hand. But before I could say anything, she looked at me and said, “Yes, Robert. Last night when I was preparing my lesson for today, I suddenly thought of you, and wondered if you wouldn’t have anything else to tell us about the Book of Mormon?”
This time I focused mainly in Christ’s visit to the ancient Americas. I quoted from a book which related the legend of the Great White God Quetzalcoatl. The similarity between Christ and this Indian God was obvious. Again, I told my friends and teacher that Christ had indeed visited the people in the Americas; he had indeed taught them the gospel.
At the conclusion of my speech, Mrs. Protschka wrote on the blackboard: “The Book of Mormon is the best theory of how the ancient civilizations of America came to be,” and asked us to write it down in our notebooks. What a triumph! I felt like jumping for joy. God hears and answers prayers. He is indeed a God of miracles. And he knows how to soften the hearts of men for his purposes.

I first came here when I was eleven years old when my father accepted an assignment from President Howard W. Hunter to be a founding member of the Board of Directors for the Polynesian Cultural Center. This was an assignment that would last for thirty-five years and one that brought me to this campus many, many times in my life. When I was fourteen, I experienced one of the most critical and important teaching moments of my life- right here at this campus.
At the start of the summer of my fourteenth year I had just finished my middle school. I had done extremely well in my schoolwork. My father asked me what I would like for my graduation. I boldly asked him if he would let me go and spend my summer vacation in Hawaii. He agreed to do so on the condition that I would agree to earn my Eagle Scout award. My father loved scouting and was involved in its service for over 50 years of his life. He was their national treasurer and received their highest honor, the Silver Buffalo award.
I readily accepted his condition and made a commitment to him that if he would let me spend a summer in Hawaii, I would earn my Eagle Scout award. My father arranged for me to stay at this campus in the university dorms and also arranged for me to work as a grounds keeper to help pay for my living expenses. It was an idyllic summer, one that I fondly remember to this date. I made little progress that summer on my Eagle Scout but returned home to Los Angeles very tan and with much improved surfing skills.
Over the next few years my father gently reminded me of our agreement. I initially worked hard at getting most of my required merit badges. But then as I got more involved in High School and its activities, I grew less and less interested in scouting. I decided I really did not like my scoutmaster and that I had better things to do on scout nights. Now in scouting you have until your 18th birthday to complete your work for the Eagle Scout. By the time I was seventeen I had all but a couple of the necessary 21 merit badges. I kept telling my Dad not to worry, that I would honor our deal.
To this day I can't fully explain what occurred. I completed and earned all the necessary merit badges the summer before my 18th birthday, but became too busy or involved in other things. All I had to do was go and get a couple of final signatures and have the final required interview, but I never did it. That was the only time in my life that I remember that I ever broke my word to my father. But it was more than my word, I broke his heart also. And I let myself down. It took years for my father to ever really forgive me for this breach of trust. As I look back on that time I find it hard to understand why I ever let my character be compromised by such avoidable indifference. And how I let things like sports, girlfriends, and social activities take priority over honor and commitment.

Just how the dream came to be no one really knows, but Brother Anderson envisioned a complete historical file that could vividly tell the story of the Church in pictures, with a minimum of words. Such photographs, he reasoned, would be invaluable missionary tools to interest untold thousands, perhaps millions, in the Church.
But how could these pictures be produced? If only he could study the landscapes where the Prophet Joseph Smith was born, where he had his visions and revelations, where he built cities, and finally where he spilled his blood! Such a trip would take years and something else quite out of reach—money.
An opportunity for just such a trip came in 1907. Shortly after Brother Anderson was released as bishop of his ward in Springville, Utah, he was called to go on a mission to England. To get there, he would have to pass through historic Mormon country. Receiving permission to stop off and photograph the historic sites, he visited and photographed Nauvoo, Kirtland, Independence, New York, Vermont, Pennsylvania, and many sites in between. His pictures are a documentary of what these places looked like shortly after the turn of the century, spiced by the human interest of people who lived there at the time.
On his way home from his mission, Elder Anderson stopped off again to make even more pictures of historic Church scenes. And even after his return to Springville, he was still obsessed with the urge to document Church history. While he was in Arizona in 1928 to photograph the construction and completion of the Arizona Temple, he became ill and had to return home prematurely. He died 9 May 1928 in Springville, Utah.
After the funeral of George Edward Anderson, Eva Crandall, a young neighbor, wrote about “Our Village Photographer” for a local newspaper:
“The ground he traveled was hallowed to him. I can almost hear him say, ‘I must have a picture of this sacred spot. … When I return all will be changed. Some of these old landmarks will be obliterated. Who will see them as I see them now?’”

Permit one other little story in this connection. A man was putting up a sign in a window: “Puppies for Sale.” Before he had driven the last nail there was a small boy standing at his side. That kind of sign seems to attract small boys. The youngster wanted to know how much the puppies were going to cost. The man told him that they were very good dogs and that he did not expect to let any of them go for less than thirty-five to fifty dollars. There was a look of disappointment and then a question, “I got $2.37. Could I look at them?” The man whistled and called, “Lady.” Out of the kennel and down the runway came Lady, followed by four or five little balls of fur and one lagging considerably behind. The boy spotted the lagger and, pointing, asked, “What’s wrong with him?” The reply was that the veterinarian had said that there was no hip socket in the right hip and that the dog would always be lame. The boy’s immediate rejoinder was “That’s the one I want to buy. I’ll give you $2.37 and 50¢ a month until I get him paid for.” The man smiled and shook his head. “That’s not the dog you want. That dog will never be able to run, jump, and play with you.” The boy very matter-of-factly pulled up his little trouser leg and revealed a brace running down both sides of his badly twisted leg and under the foot, with a leather cap coupled over the knee. “I don’t run so well myself,” he said, “and he’ll need somebody that understands.”

For a weekly activity, our ward Young Women leaders arranged a visit to a local nursing home. We would sing Christmas carols, share smiles, and return to the church for hot cocoa and cookies.
I really didn’t want to enter the discomfort of those hospital-like rooms, with their antiseptic smells, sparse decor, and feeling of sadness. I confess I was more interested in the cocoa and camaraderie of my friends than singing to the elderly.
We arrived and walked past a small strand of Christmas lights to the rooms. As we sang several beloved carols, some residents had tears in their eyes, some tried to sing along, and some seemed indifferent. All thanked us as we left their rooms, but I didn’t feel the joy that often accompanies service. I felt sad, wondering how many people visited the nursing home only at Christmastime.
“We’re going to Brother Tingey’s room now,” one of our leaders said. “He has Alzheimer’s disease, so he doesn’t remember much. You know that Sister Tingey passed away a while ago.”
A pang of remorse pricked my heart. I had forgotten all about the Tingeys. Brother Tingey and his sweet wife had been the white-haired angels of our congregation. I remembered their smiling faces, Sister Tingey’s gentle touch, and Brother Tingey’s friendly greetings. I hadn’t noticed when they stopped attending church. I hadn’t even remembered that Sister Tingey had passed away.
We entered Brother Tingey’s room and gathered in a semicircle around his wheelchair. Our singing filled the room, but he sat still, his head drooping. After two songs, one of our leaders suggested that we sing “I Am a Child of God.”1
As we began, Brother Tingey suddenly lifted his head, opened his eyes, and looked at us. He smiled and in a feeble voice said, “I know that song.”
Tears began to run from his eyes onto his cheeks. By the time we finished singing, we were all weeping. Then we hugged Brother Tingey and said goodbye.
Through the simplicity of a song and the imperfect voices of a group of teenage girls, Brother Tingey was reminded that he was still a child of God and that God had not forgotten him. Since that visit, neither have I.

Near my home was a hotel we often went to that had an arcade, a bowling alley, and a good restaurant. I spent many fun times bowling with my brothers and our friends. To get to the bowling alley, we had to go through the hotel’s casino. There is a distinct image in my mind to this day of the smell of cigarette and cigar smoke and the dropping of coins into the metal basins from the slot machines. The image of countless people sitting in the same place for hours playing cards or pulling levers on slot machines seems to be a constant reminder to me of the shallow habit of gambling.
One day a friend of mine, while leaving the bowling alley, tried his luck at a game of chance they called “Megabucks.” The winnings were well over a million dollars. You had to play several dollars at a time to have a chance at winning. Of course, he lost, and he kept on losing. Within five minutes he lost $60, and the only thing he had to show for it was his contribution to the grand total that would eventually go to someone else. My friend lost $60, yet I gained a greater distaste for the gambling habit and a greater resolve to keep the Lord’s commandments. Like other occasions in my life, this became a defining moment that strengthened my resolve to put my occasional past blemishes behind me and turn to the Lord with full purpose of heart.

Was Evan’s project easy? “A lot of people turned me down. I almost quit when I knocked on one man’s door and he told me that he wouldn’t contribute. He even admitted that he was hard-hearted!” Very discouraged at this point, he says, “I fasted for 24 hours and prayed. I told Heavenly Father that I really needed to do this, for the babies in China, and would he please help me find people who wanted to give.” Evan’s prayers were answered.

A stake president in Logan, Utah, kept a guest book, and after he passed away that book was given to his son. When the son thumbed through the pages, he was impressed with the signatures that were there. Most of the General Authorities had signed the book. One entry he saw was:
Name: Elder Spencer W. Kimball
Date: 1954
Position or title: Apostle
Hobby: “I love people.”
He thumbed through many more pages, and then he saw an almost identical entry ten years later:
Name: Elder Spencer W. Kimball
Date: 1964
Position or title: Apostle
Hobby: “I love people.”
We all knew President Spencer W. Kimball as a man of love. He thought of love as a way to overcome even unknown offenses. Such an incident occurred with one of his neighbors. This neighbor would go out and talk to President Kimball whenever he saw him in the yard, until one day the neighbor’s wife said, “You mustn’t do that. The only time President Kimball is alone is when he is in the yard, and then you go over and impose yourself upon him.” After that, the neighbor stayed in and just watched President Kimball through the window.
A few weeks passed before President Kimball rang the neighbor’s doorbell and handed him a casserole. “What’s this for?” the neighbor asked. “I don’t know,” replied President Kimball. “I’ve come to make amends for whatever I’ve done to offend you. You never come and talk to me anymore, so I decided I must have done something wrong.”
It was President Kimball who has so lovingly explained to us that the Lord whispers to our hearts to go and do and in this way he answers the fervent prayers of others. President Kimball said the Lord has chosen this method of answering prayers because he knows it is the way we will learn most effectively to give love.

On a cold winter’s night in 1951, there was a knock at my door. A German brother from Ogden, Utah, announced himself and said, “Are you Bishop Monson?” I answered in the affirmative. He began to weep and said, “My brother, his wife, and family are coming here from Germany. They are going to live in your ward. Will you come with us to see the apartment we have rented for them?”
On the way to the apartment, he told me he had not seen his brother for many years. Through the holocaust of World War II, his brother had been faithful to the Church, once serving as a branch president before the war took him to the Russian front.
I observed the apartment. It was cold and dreary. The paint was peeling, the wallpaper soiled, the cupboards empty. A forty-watt bulb, suspended from the living room ceiling, revealed a linoleum floor covering with a large hole in the center. I was heartsick. I thought, “What a dismal welcome for a family which has endured so much.”
My thoughts were interrupted by the brother’s statement, “It isn’t much, but it’s better than they have in Germany.” With that, the key to the apartment was left with me, along with the information that the family would arrive in Salt Lake City in three weeks—just two days before Christmas.
Sleep was slow in coming to me that night. The next morning was Sunday. In our ward welfare committee meeting, one of my counselors said, “Bishop, you look worried. Is something wrong?”
I recounted to those present my experience of the night before, revealing the details of the uninviting apartment. There were a few moments of silence. Then Brother Eardley, the group leader of the high priests, said, “Bishop, did you say that apartment was inadequately lighted and that the kitchen appliances were in need of replacement?” I answered in the affirmative. He continued, “I am an electrical contractor. Would you permit the high priests of this ward to rewire that apartment? I would also like to invite my suppliers to contribute a new stove and a new refrigerator. Do I have your permission?”
I answered with a glad “Certainly.”
Then Brother Balmforth, the seventies president, responded, “Bishop, as you know, I’m in the carpet business. I would like to invite my suppliers to contribute some carpet, and the seventies can easily lay it and eliminate that worn linoleum.”
Then Brother Bowden, the president of the elders quorum, spoke up. He was a painting contractor. He said, “I’ll furnish the paint. May the elders paint and wallpaper that apartment?”
Sister Miller, the Relief Society president, was next to speak. “We in the Relief Society cannot stand the thought of empty cupboards. May we fill them?”
The three weeks which followed are ever to be remembered. It seemed that the entire ward joined in the project. The days passed, and at the appointed time, the family arrived from Germany. Again at my door stood the brother from Ogden. With an emotion-filled voice, he introduced to me his brother, his brother’s wife, and their family. Then he asked, “Could we go visit the apartment?” As we walked up the staircase leading to the apartment, he repeated, “It isn’t much, but it’s more than they have had in Germany.” Little did he know what a transformation had taken place and that many who had participated were inside waiting for our arrival.
The door opened to reveal a newness of life. We were greeted by the aroma of freshly painted woodwork and newly papered walls. Gone was the forty-watt bulb, along with the worn linoleum it had illuminated. We stepped on carpet deep and beautiful. A walk to the kitchen presented to our view a new stove and new refrigerator. The cupboard doors were still open; however, they now revealed every shelf filled with food. As usual, the Relief Society had done its work.
In the living room, we began to sing Christmas hymns. We sang “Silent night! Holy night! All is calm, all is bright.” (Hymns, 1985, no. 204.) We sang in English; they sang in German. At the conclusion, the father, realizing that all of this was his, took me by the hand to express his thanks. His emotion was too great. He buried his head in my shoulder and repeated the words, “Mein Bruder, mein Bruder, mein Bruder.”
It was time to leave. As we walked down the stairs and out into the night air, snow was falling. Not a word was spoken. Finally, a young girl asked, “Bishop, I feel better than I have ever felt before. Can you tell me why?”
I responded with the words of the Master: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” (Matt. 25:40.) Suddenly there came to mind the words from “O Little Town of Bethlehem”:
How silently, how silently,
The wondrous gift is giv’n!
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of his heav’n.
No ear may hear his coming;
But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive him, still
The dear Christ enters in.
(Hymns, 1985, no. 208.)
Silently, wondrously, His gift had been given. Lives were blessed, needs were met, hearts were touched, and souls were saved. A provident plan had been followed. A precious promise had been fulfilled.

Announcement of our decision was made in the April 1996 general conference. I said on that occasion:
“I regret that many who wish to meet with us in the Tabernacle this morning are unable to get in. There are very many out on the grounds. …
“My heart reaches out to those who wish[ed] to get in and could not be accommodated. About a year ago I suggested to the Brethren that perhaps the time has come when we should study the feasibility of constructing another dedicated house of worship on a much larger scale that would accommodate three or four times the number who can be seated in this building” (in Conference Report, Apr. 1996, 88–89; or Ensign, May 1996, 65).
It was a little more than a year later when ground was broken. This occurred on the 24th of July, 1997, the 150th anniversary of the arrival of our forebears in this valley.
At the conclusion of the groundbreaking services, President Packer offered the benediction. In that prayer, he asked the Lord that He might preserve my life to be present for the dedication of the new building. I am grateful for the evident answer to that request.

This story reminds me of an experience I had when I was an undergraduate student here at BYU. Being at college can be a really exciting time, but I found that it was also really challenging. And my guess is that although our specific challenges may be different, you can relate to how hard it was at times. My last semester was probably my most difficult semester emotionally, and I felt as if the wind and waves of life might sink me. My mom had passed away the previous year, and though I did not recognize it at the time, I was experiencing depression. Nothing felt exciting to me, and life did not really feel worth living. Every day it seemed that the best I could do was just to go through the motions.

On top of that, I had just completed an internship working in an orphanage in Eastern Europe. After seeing so many young children abandoned and neglected, I had a hard time seeing how my classes were meaningful, so I did not attend class as much as I should have. And then, of course, I wondered why I was not doing as well as I wanted to on some of my exams.

I had chosen public health as my major, and I had thought that by my last semester I would know just what to do with my life. But with graduation only months and then weeks away, I realized that I was clueless—maybe more clueless than I had ever been. Of course I did what most any BYU student would do: I prayed for direction. I prayed and I prayed. And I felt absolutely nothing. I was so discouraged and afraid. I felt as if I were in that boat with the disciples trying to shake the Savior awake, only this time He kept on sleeping. Where was the peace, and why had He abandoned me?

Now, in hindsight, I can see that the Lord was wide awake and calming the storm. He sent a friend who gave me encouragement and advice as I was having a meltdown in the process of applying to master of public health programs. I ran into one of my favorite professors who suggested that I apply to a program I had never heard of before but that I ended up attending. Even though I could not feel the Spirit guiding me—maybe that was because of my depression, maybe because I was still learning to interpret how the Spirit spoke to me, or maybe because He wanted to empower me to work things out—I now see that He still inspired my logic and reasoning so that I could figure out the next steps.

Eventually my inner storms were calmed. The depression lifted. I had a wonderful experience in my graduate program. I now realize that figuring out what to do with your life is a lifelong process, but I have loved the path that the Lord has guided me on.

I began college at age 18. After a short time, however, I transferred to another university and changed my major. My new university was only a couple of hours from my home, but I found myself terribly homesick and discouraged, wanting to give up and return to my family. Yet I knew if I did, I would be abandoning my chance to earn a degree.
One weekend not long after the school year began, all of my roommates went home for a visit. I knew that if I went home too, I would not return. I couldn’t even call and speak to my family for fear I would break down and not be able to focus on my studies. I had been praying for the strength to overcome my homesickness, but now I was praying to know whether I should even remain at school and complete a degree.
Early that Sunday morning as I walked slowly across the quiet campus on my way to church, I wondered how I could stay at school when I missed my home and family so deeply and couldn’t overcome my loneliness. But what would I do if I left school?
When I arrived at church, the previous ward had just left the chapel. I entered, hoping for a moment to pray for direction. As I found a place to sit and slowly moved onto the wooden pew, I noticed a printed program from the previous sacrament meeting. There on the front of the folded paper were the following words: “Perhaps the most valuable result of all education is the ability to make yourself do the thing you have to do, when it ought to be done, whether you like it or not.”1
At that moment I knew what I needed to do. The Lord had answered my prayers in such a simple way, but I could not deny that it was an answer just the same.
It wasn’t long after that Sunday that my loneliness and discouragement left. As a result, I enjoyed my remaining years in school. I gained a degree, lifelong friends, and a stronger testimony by following the promptings of the Spirit.
Now, more than 25 years later, I still recall that answer to my prayer, and I use those same words from that sacrament meeting program to commit myself to difficult tasks. I have shared my experience with close friends and family in hopes that they too might gain strength in difficult times.
I know the Lord cares about our feelings and everyday choices, and I know He answers our sincere prayers.

Serving a mission was a sacred time of my life. In my last interview with him as a full-time missionary, President Blair Pincock spoke of the upcoming change in mission leaders, as he and his wife were also nearing the completion of their service. We were both sad to be leaving something we loved so much. He could see that I was troubled by the thought of not being a full-time missionary. He was a man of great faith and lovingly taught me as he had for the previous two years. He pointed to the picture of Jesus Christ above his desk and said, “Elder Olsen, it is all going to be OK because it is His work.” I felt reassured knowing that the Savior will help us, not just while we are serving but always—if we will let Him.

Sister Pincock taught us from the depths of her heart in the simplest Spanish phrases. When she said, “Jesucristo vive,” I knew it was true and that He lived. When she said, “Elderes y hermanas, les amo,” I knew that she loved us and wanted us to follow the Savior always.

One came in the October 1856 general conference as President Brigham Young announced to the congregation that handcart pioneers were still on the trail and late in the season. He declared: “Your faith, religion, and profession of religion, will never save one soul of you in the celestial kingdom of our God, unless you carry out just such principles as I am now teaching you. Go and bring in those people now on the plains, and attend strictly to those things which we call temporal, … otherwise your faith will be in vain.”2
We remember with grateful admiration the men who headed off to rescue those suffering Saints. But what did the sisters do?
“Sister [Lucy Meserve] Smith recorded … that after President Young’s exhortation, those in attendance took action. … Women ‘[removed] their petticoats [large underskirts that were part of the fashion of the day and that also provided warmth], stockings, and every thing they could spare, right there in the [old] Tabernacle, and piled [them] into the wagons to send to the Saints in the mountains.’”3
Several weeks later, President Brigham Young gathered the Saints again in the old Tabernacle as the rescuers and the handcart companies got closer to Salt Lake City. With great urgency, he pleaded with the Saints—especially the sisters—to nurse the sufferers and feed them and receive them, saying: “Some you will find with their feet frozen to their ankles; some are frozen to their knees and some have their hands frosted. … We want you to receive them as your own children, and to have the same feeling for them.”4
Lucy Meserve Smith also recorded:
“We did all we could, with the aid of the good brethren and sisters, to comfort the needy. … They got their hands and feet badly frosted. … We did not cease our exertions [un]til all were made comfortable. …
“I never took more satisfaction and, I might say, pleasure in any labor I ever performed in my life, such a unanimity of feeling prevailed. …
“What comes next for willing hands to do?”5

On another occasion, Joseph Smith, Brigham Young, and a man named Brother Barnard were traveling to Far West, Missouri. The journey was difficult. The ground was frozen. After crossing a small stream, they found that the axle on their carriage had become bent.
Brother Barnard, a blacksmith, felt that they could not continue traveling with the axle bent so badly. He said that if they tried to straighten it, it would break.
Joseph inspected the axle and suggested that they try to spring it back into shape, anyway.
Again, Brother Barnard warned that it would break.
Joseph told him that he could straighten it, and it would be fine. He found a pry and, with the help of the brethren, bent the axle back into place. It gave them no further trouble, and the brethren arrived safely in Far West. Brother Barnard turned to Brigham Young and said that he would never say again that a thing could not be done when a prophet said that it could.2

Everyone likes to feel the support of friends and loved ones, and bishops are no exception. When Bishop Robert Stevens of the Mountain View 11th Ward, West Jordan Utah Mountain View Stake, faced his first Sunday at church sporting a new “hairdo”—he had lost his hair because of chemotherapy he is undergoing—the deacons and teachers decided to show their support in an unusual way.
“We shaved our heads so that my dad wouldn’t feel out of place,” says Jonathan Stevens, the bishop’s 13-year-old son. “We wanted it to be a surprise, so we all had to hide from him until Sunday at church. I could tell it made him feel really good, and we all felt great too.”
The bishop is expecting a full recovery.

My testimony of the Book of Mormon came when I was a seminary student in high school. Our teacher challenged us to read the entire book—something I had not done before. As I read, I remember how tears would stream down my cheeks as the Spirit testified to me that the words I was reading were true. I wanted to be worthy so that the Lord could say to me just as he did to Nephi, “Blessed art thou, because of they faith, for thou hast sought me diligently.” (1 Ne. 2:19.) Three years later I received my patriarchal blessing, which admonished me to read the Book of Mormon with a prayerful heart that my testimony would be strengthened. That promise has been fulfilled year after year as I have continued to study this holy book of scripture.

I first learned of the treasure on a beautiful Australian morning in October 1992. My husband, who is not a member of the Church, woke up and described a remarkable dream. He said that in his dream someone from my family had asked him for permission to let me go into mainland China to get my family’s genealogy records.
I asked my husband what his response was. He answered that he did not want to be held accountable for not letting me go.
I was amazed. I had already planned to go to Hong Kong in a few months for my daughter’s wedding. It occurred to me that, after the wedding, I could travel to my family’s ancestral village on mainland China, where our records are kept. Because of my husband’s dream, I decided to make the trip.
I was excited, yet afraid of going into China alone. But Heavenly Father provided a solution. A son-in-law was also going to Hong Kong, and he offered to accompany me into China.
On 16 December 1992, we boarded the train from Hong Kong to GuangZhou, China. From GuangZhou, we took another train eleven hours to the city of MaoMeng; then from MaoMeng we took a motor bike with sidecar three more hours to the village. When we arrived, my uncle was surprised to see us, as he had received the letter announcing my visit only the night before. I recognized him immediately, for he looked just like my father. After we all got acquainted, I asked about the records.
My uncle brought out seven volumes that traced my family back nearly seven hundred years. Not only did they contain birth and death dates, but the records also contained a bit of history on each ancestor. I was thrilled.
However, I faced a major problem. The village was so remote that it had no running water, let alone a photocopy machine. Copying the records by hand would take months. When I expressed my concern, my uncle smiled. He said he had a spare set I could take. My son-in-law and I looked at each other in wonder. These people are not well off; making that extra copy must have cost a lot of money.
For years I excused myself from doing family history work because I lacked records. Now there is no excuse. This experience has convinced me that many of my ancestors have accepted the gospel in the spirit world, and that is why the way was opened for me to secure their records—truly a treasure beyond price.

Joseph Smith, on one occasion while he was away from home and away from his wife, wrote in a letter to Emma:

My situation is a very unpleasant one although I will endeavor to be contented the Lord assisting me. I have visited a grove which is just back of the town almost every day where I can be secluded from the eyes of any mortal and there give vent to all the feelings of my heart in meditation and prayer. I have called to mind all the past moments of my life and am left to mourn and shed tears of sorrow for my folly in suffering the adversary of my soul to have so much power over me as he has had in times past, but God is merciful and has forgiven my sins and I rejoice that he sendeth forth the Comforter unto as many as believe and humble themselves before him. I was grieved to hear that Hiram had lost his little child. I think we can in some degree sympathize with him but we all must be reconciled to our lots and say the will of the Lord be done. Sister Whitney wrote a letter to her husband which was very cheery and being unwell at the time and filled with much anxiety it would have been very consoling to me to have received a few lines from you. But as you did not take the trouble I will try to be contented with my lot knowing that God is my friend. In him I shall find comfort. I have given my life into his hands. I am prepared to go at his call. I desire to be with Christ. I count not my life dear to me only to do his will. [6 June 1832, Chicago Historical Society]

Melinda Marx lived in a brick apartment building in a big city, and she often played in the hall near the front door. She liked to watch the people going in and out, in and out. Eight families used the door, and she knew all of them.
She knew where each of them lived too. “So how are you today, Miss Merry Sunshine?” David Sullivan would say as he rolled his wheelchair out to get his mail. He lived in A-2, and every day he had a different name for her.
“Let me through, kid—I’m late enough for work now!” Mr. Warrel would growl, his big bushy eyebrows wiggling. He lived in A-5, right across from Melinda and her mother and the baby. He frowned and complained a lot.
“Want to play jump rope with us?” the Johnson twins would ask as they swung on the hall door. They lived in A-7 with their mother, who worked at a bakery, and their father, who was looking for a job.
“It’s a disgrace! A disgrace!” Miss Bates would exclaim each time she went in and out, her brown curls bouncing up and down. “Children cluttering up the hallway—a disgrace!” She lived in A-4, and she thought everything was a disgrace.
“Watch out! I don’t want to step on you!” Mr. Spreely, from A-3 would shout when he passed through. He always shouted because he was almost deaf.
“You ought to get out in the sunshine more, Melinda,” admonished Mrs. Treski, from A-8, as she left each day to go jogging. She had glasses that bobbed on her long thin nose as she jogged, and she ran in place as she talked, her words going up and down as she did.
Yes, Melinda knew all of these people. She liked some of them a little, and she liked some of them a lot. But Mrs. Pasquali, in A-1, was absolutely, positively, without a doubt the very nicest of all. She had loved Mrs. Pasquali since the day the little lady moved in, and Mrs. Pasquali loved Melinda too.
“You remind me of my own Rosanna when she was your age,” Mrs. Pasquali would say, her brown eyes sparkling. She had a brown face, too, with gray hair twined around her head in a braid. Her face was lined and worn, and she walked with a limp. Mrs. Pasquali had the happiest laugh in the whole world. Even the metal mailboxes in the front hallway seemed to chuckle right along with her.
She had the most interesting apartment, too, Melinda thought. It was full of wonderful, marvelous inventions. The best one was a record player that didn’t need to be plugged in.
“You just wind it up like this, and you have beautiful music,” Mrs. Pasquali would say. She really did have beautiful music—exciting songs with strange words sung by people with deep, full voices. Mrs. Pasquali seemed to have absolutely everything.
Except money. She didn’t have much of that. “But who needs money if you have love?” she would ask, hugging Melinda. Somehow she always got along just fine. Often her cupboard would be almost bare, but she always managed to find a box of rice or a bit of macaroni when things were bad and her pension check was late.
But then one day it happened! Mrs. Pasquali had no money at all, and none would come until the next day. She had no food, either. Not one scrap. “Dearie me,” she said, peering into her empty cupboards.
Melinda felt tears come to her eyes. Then a happy thought came to her. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Pasquali,” she told her with a merry smile. “You can have some love stew!”
“Love stew?” Mrs. Pasquali stared at Melinda. “What’s that?”
“It’s wonderful,” Melinda said. “You invite people you love to come to dinner, and then you all just sit down and eat love stew. It’s delicious!”
“How can I invite people to dinner?” Mrs. Pasquali asked. “I have no food to feed anyone, and I hardly know anybody. I haven’t lived here very long.”
Melinda spied a huge pot and struggled to put it on Mrs. Pasquali’s stove. “That’s no problem,” she said “I know everybody in this building, and they all love you. I’ll tell them to come here at six o’clock tonight for some love stew.”
Mrs. Pasquali wrung her hands. “But, Melinda, when they come and find I have nothing to feed them, they’ll laugh at me.”
Melinda patted the huge pot. “This will hold the love stew!” she said. “Now I’ll go invite the guests.”
Melinda knocked at the apartment of David Sullivan first. “There is only an empty pot on the stove,” she finished telling him, “but I told Mrs. Pasquali we’d all eat love stew.”
David Sullivan wiped his eyes. He’d been peeling onions, he said, and they made his eyes water. “Hey, Princess, I’d love to come! Count me in.”
Melinda had tears in her eyes, too, but they weren’t from onions. She turned to go up the stairs. The front door banged open, and Mrs. Treski came bouncing in, carrying two jugs of milk.
“Love stew?” she cried, when Melinda invited her. “Sounds very healthy! I’ll be there. Six o’clock on the dot!” She bounded up the stairs.
Melinda looked after her and grinned. Now to invite Mr. Spreely.
The smell of meat cooking drifted out from his apartment. “What?” he kept shouting. “Love stew? Where? When? Who?”
“What’s all this racket?” Miss Bates cried, opening her door across the hall.
“It’s a disgrace! A disgrace!” She agitatedly waved her hand. “What’s going on out here?”
Melinda hadn’t been sure whether she wanted to invite Miss Bates and Mr. Warrel. But yes—even if they were cranky and complaining sometimes, Melinda was sure they liked all the people in the building. And so, twisting her braids, she told Miss Bates about Mrs. Pasquali’s love stew.
“Love stew? I declare! I accept your invitation. It would be a disgrace not to accept it!”
“Six o’clock?” boomed Mr. Spreely. “Yes, yes, I’ll come!” Both doors banged shut.
“Don’t block the stairs, little girl,” said Mr. Warrel, hurrying past Melinda. He was carrying a grocery bag with celery leaves sticking out of the top.
“I was just going up to ask you to come to dinner,” Melinda said. “It’s at Mrs. Pasquali’s. The lady in A-1.” She told him the whole story.
“Well,” he said. He stood a moment, thinking, and Melinda realized that he was rather handsome when he wasn’t complaining or wiggling his bushy eyebrows in a frown. “I usually watch the news then,” he mumbled, “but I’ll come.”
Melinda’s mother agreed to come, too, and to bring the baby. She had planned boiled potatoes for their dinner, she said, but she would rather eat love stew.
Melinda hurried off to the top floor.
“Glad to come,” Mr. Johnson answered. He promised to bring his wife and the twins as soon as Mrs. Johnson returned from work at the bakery.
Just before six o’clock, Melinda went down to Mrs. Pasquali’s apartment to help her set the table. She put water in the huge pot and turned on the burner under it. Then Melinda found her favorite record and was cranking up the record player when there was a knock at the door. Mrs. Pasquali rushed to open it.
“I declare!” cried Miss Bates, hurrying inside and over to the stove as the music started. “I haven’t heard that song since I was a girl!”
“Let me have a look at our dinner!” cried David Sullivan, entering next and wheeling himself toward the stove.
The rest of the guests all arrived together. “I want to see the love stew too!” shouted Mr. Spreely, bobbing impatiently behind the Johnson family. “Excuse me,” said Melinda’s mother, “I want the baby to see that magic pot.” Mrs. Treski opened the refrigerator door to put the milk in to keep cool.
Soon everybody was laughing and talking. Some of them started singing along with the music. Mrs. Pasquali’s merry laugh rang out above the happy sounds.
Melinda scurried about between the kitchen and the guests and the dining room table. Finally she called out, “Dinner’s ready!”
Mrs. Pasquali’s laughter turned into a deep sigh as everyone crowded around the table.
“Make way for the love stew!” cried Mr. Warrel, carrying the huge pot from the stove. He placed it on a thick pad.
Melinda put a potholder on the lid and said, “Come dish it up, Mrs. Pasquali.”
Still looking anxious, Mrs. Pasquali lifted the lid.
The pot was full! It had meat and potatoes and carrots and onions and celery and gravy and a wonderful aroma! There was bread and milk, too, and even a freshly baked pie for dessert. Mr. Spreely offered thanks for it all.
Everyone ate and ate, then bustled around and cleaned up the dishes. A little stew was even left over for Mrs. Pasquali to eat the next day.
“How can I ever thank you?” Mrs. Pasquali asked timidly as her guests started to leave.
“Just bring something to our next love-stew dinner,” said Mrs. Johnson as she helped her husband guide the twins out into the hall.
“Yes, it’s a tradition we have here,” Melinda’s mother explained, hurrying away to put the baby to bed.
“We do it when one of us is lonely,” Mr. Spreely shouted.
“Or sick,” chimed in Miss Bates.
“Or bored,” added Mr. Warrel.
“Or celebrating something special,” David Sullivan put in.
“It keeps us on our toes,” Mrs. Treski joked as she started out for her nightly jog.
“Love stew is a wonderful tradition!” Mrs. Pasquali exclaimed, giving Melinda a big hug. Melinda just grinned and hugged her back.