Gospel Story Finder

It was December 23rd. The mall was dead after an exhausting day. My legs ached after walking the aisles all day at the music store where I worked.
My heart was warmed by the true spirit of Christmas evidenced by the light and laughter dancing in people’s eyes as they searched for gifts to show their love to those they adore.
I had also discovered the joy of giving. My only problem was I didn’t like shopping. Why was I working at the mall, then? The employee’s discount helped.
After the metal gate was partway down, signaling that we were closed, I got out the CDs I had selected for my brother and sister. I had tucked away the exact amount. It was the last of my money until my next paycheck. The money, $26 and change, was all I had and all I needed.
Just as I was about to complete my transaction, a little girl walked in. She was so little she had no need to duck under the metal gate.
I put down my CDs and asked, “Can I help you?”
She explained that her little brother wanted a popular cartoon video for Christmas, but all the stores were sold out.
“Well,” I said, “you’re in luck.”
Her face brightened as she exclaimed, “You mean you have one?”
It was always a fulfilling thing for me to take the customer right to the item they had been searching for. Straight to the video we went.
She saw it and ran toward it before I had a chance to get it. “This is the one I’ve looked for!” Carefully she turned the video over, looking at the cartoon figures on the back. It was then that I saw the price: $24.99.
Her eyes also migrated to the price sticker. “Is this enough?” she innocently asked, holding out her mittened hand that clasped some very crumpled dollar bills and change.
I took the warm dollars and smoothed them out slowly, hoping that they would multiply themselves somehow.
“Is it enough?” she asked again. I didn’t say anything. How could I tell her?
Large tears welled up in her eyes as she realized why I kept silent. Discouragement washed over her face. With a sigh she asked, “What can I buy with this much?”
In the store there was no gift that six dollars and some change could buy—trust me; I looked. The only option, if she was to have her video, was for me to help her pay for it. Yet, if I did that, I would then be in her predicament: no presents with only six dollars and change.
A scripture came to my mind: “Knowest thou the condescension of God?” (1 Nephi 11:16). In my mind, I envisioned Christ descending from His heavenly throne, causing the tears of our shortcomings to be turned to tears of joy through His Atonement and payment of our deficit.
For the little girl it may have only been a moment, but for me that time of contemplation was a turning point. I saw a level of the glad tidings of great joy that I had left undiscovered.
I got down on my knees, at her level, and said, “You know, there is a way your brother can have his movie.”
A huge smile banished all sorrow from her face. “How?” she asked.
I took the clean, crisp $20 bill from my wallet and handed it to her. Through my new perception, I happily and thankfully watched her skip to the counter. Already on my knees, I took the opportunity to thank Heavenly Father for my Savior and His gift, which He taught me affectionately that night.
Can you put a price on a great understanding of the Atonement? I think not. I still lacked gifts for my siblings, except for some cheap demo CDs the music store was giving away. Though they weren’t what I had originally wanted to give, what they represented to me made them the best presents I’ve ever given.

The first time I renewed my temple recommend the member of the stake presidency who interviewed me was Val R. Christensen, now president of the Rexburg Temple. In the interview he asked me: "What have you done during the past year that makes you more qualified today than you were a year ago for a temple recommend?" Startled by this unexpected question I quickly reviewed the past year to determine if I had improved my life during the previous twelve months.
That interview became a defining moment for me; every time I have renewed my recommend since I pause to reflect on my life and am prepared to answer President Christensen's question (even though no priesthood leader has ever asked me again) because I know the Lord wants to know if I am living the kind of life that will qualify me to follow the bridal party. And I truly desire to make my life a journey toward discipleship, my lamp trimmed and burning brightly when the Lord returns.

The youth in Ucon aren’t the only ones who knew that acting out scenes from the Book of Mormon could help to make the scriptures more meaningful. Youth from two stakes in Canada, the Calgary Alberta East Stake and the Medicine Hat Alberta Stake, spent time in wilderness areas near their homes for their annual youth conference reenacting different events from the Book of Mormon. The two youth conferences were similar in format and included reenactments of battles, holding to the iron rod (avoiding worldly temptations, which were represented by tempting candy and treats), and the appearance of Christ on the American continent.
The conferences weren’t all smooth, of course. The youth in Medicine Hat wandered through a “wilderness” so muddy that some of them had the shoes sucked right off their feet! But walking among the wildflowers on the Canadian prairie, listening to an actor playing Samuel the Lamanite, and writing their feelings during a private journal time gave the youth in both stakes a chance to really think about their testimonies of the Book of Mormon.
“I didn’t want to leave to go home when the conference was over,” said one participant. “We were surrounded with good feelings.”

Have you ever asked yourself any of these questions? Are you entertaining any of these questions now? If you are, rest assured that most people have contemplated these very questions, including me. Let me illustrate by sharing with you the following tragic event that happened to me when I was three or four years old. It happened on a peaceful day when my older brother and I were milling around the backyard, looking for something to do. My brother came upon the idea of exploring my father's cupboard in the garage that was, by the way, strictly off limits. I reluctantly followed my brother into the garage and watched as he climbed upon the workbench and pulled the stick from the latch on the cupboard.

As he opened the cupboard door, he quickly located the test tubes of chemicals that my father kept there. I began to feel very uneasy and ran for the back door of our house. Unfortunately, the back door to our house was difficult to open. And weighing a mere 40 or 50 lb., there wasn't a chance that I was going to get it opened. I cried out to my mother while pounding on the door, but she, at that very moment, was vacuuming the floor and was not able to hear me.

After a few moments, I resolved to return to the garage to see what my brother was doing. He had, while I was away, secured a test tube, climbed down from the workbench, and removed the tube's lid. He motioned for me to come and smell its contents. I reluctantly moved forward. As I drew near to him, he--not knowing the bottle was filled with dangerous acid--threw it on me. I was badly burned and rushed to the hospital. I still vividly remember the ambulance ride. My mother later said that she had never heard a child scream so loudly. I ended up spending many days in bed, wrapped in white bandages. And I still carry the scars of those burns to this day.

That was a traumatic experience in my life, one that was followed by a number of others. Time will not permit me to relate those. Nevertheless, it is sufficient to say that I seemed to be a magnet for tragic events. And many times I have had the occasion of crying out to Heavenly Father for comfort and for answers. Let me share with you some of the things I have learned. I hope that you will find them helpful.

Matthew put his head down and walked faster. He tried not to see the white stucco house ahead. He knew he should stop. Mother would probably ask him, “Did you see Grandma today?” He sighed. He used to stop almost every day on his way home from school.
Then Grandpa died.
Matthew hadn’t known what to say to Grandma since Grandpa died. She was sad now. Sometimes when she talked about Grandpa, she cried.
Other people seemed to know what to say to Grandma. They put their arms around her and told her not to cry. But Matthew never knew what to say or do. He just stood there feeling uncomfortable.
Matthew walked up the sidewalk and knocked on the door. Grandma opened it. Her eyes were red. Matthew’s heart sank. He wished he had walked on past her house.
“Come in, dear.”
Matthew went in. He saw a box on the floor in the hall. Inside was a small rosebush, its roots wrapped with burlap and packing.
Every year Grandpa ordered a new rosebush for his garden. He must have ordered this one before he died.
“Take it home with you, Matthew. I can’t bear to look at it,” sniffed Grandma.
“No,” said Matthew. He gulped, surprised at himself, then plunged on. “Grandpa would have wanted you to plant it. He loved the garden, especially the rosebushes.” Matthew had spent many hours helping Grandpa in the garden.
Grandma was silent. Matthew thought she was angry with him. He wished he hadn’t said anything.
“You’re right, Matthew. Grandpa would have wanted that rosebush planted in the garden. I’ve never planted a rosebush before, though.”
“I’ll help you, Grandma,” Matthew offered. “I helped Grandpa lots of times.”
Grandma changed into old clothes while Matthew went to the garage to get a shovel.
Soon the two of them had a big hole dug in one corner of the garden. It was hard work. By the time the rosebush was in place, they were panting. The afternoon sun was almost behind the hills.
Grandma stood for a moment and looked at the rosebush. Her cheeks were red, and her eyes sparkled. “Is it all right, Matthew?”
“Yes, Grandma. It’s fine. It’s where Grandpa would have wanted it.”
Matthew put the shovel away. When he went inside, Grandma was in the kitchen. “I’d better go home, Grandma. Mom will be worried.”
“It’s all right. I called her. She knows where you are. Matthew, I want to show you something.” Grandma reached into a kitchen drawer and pulled out a box of seed packets. “These came in the mail last week. I was going to throw them away. I was just thinking … maybe I’ll try to plant them after all. Would you help me? I’ve never been much of a gardener.”
“I sure will, Grandma,” said Matthew. “I’ll stop by tomorrow after school.”
Matthew went out the door and down the sidewalk whistling a happy tune.

They seem to be everywhere, looking back at you—rough-hewn faces with enormous mustaches and lopsided grins, topped by oversized hats. Here and there a head woodenly grins from a windowsill or countertop. On a bookcase stands a quartet of musicians, fiddles and legs bowed. Nearby, a goofy gunslinger nervously points his six-shooter at the horizon.
Matt Rogers’s western woodcarvings have earned him a growing reputation among those who make or collect such work. His mother, Julie, is a professional artist who teaches art. And his siblings all have artistic talents. So you might say Matt’s accomplishments are to be expected. But raw talent is just the beginning.
The first piece of wood Matt carved was pine. And his chief tool was a pocketknife. Not exactly the best material or tool for wood carving. Pine is brittle. It chips and has hard knots in it. And Matt quickly learned that serious wood-carvers use a whole range of special tools that doesn’t include pocketknives. Matt has also learned that sometimes it’s the carver who is being shaped and molded.
Glendale, where the Rogers family lives, is a small southern Utah town spread along Highway 89 in the bottom of a beautiful mountain valley. It’s a place of apple orchards and pastures, with a rich pioneer history. TV reception in the valley is quite poor, but that just helps make for richer family relationships and more time for developing talents. The Rogers’s white-frame farmhouse is full of drawings and paintings, carvings and sculptures, all produced by family members.
On the wooden porch of the farmhouse, Matt sits in the dimming light of an autumn evening and talks about his life and his art and his hopes for the future. First he talks about the wood he uses for his carvings. Basswood from the midwest is his material of choice. “It doesn’t flake or chip like pine. It’s soft enough that you can carve details in it, but it’s not too soft,” he says. And the tools he uses: “V gouges and U gouges, and different tools for different details. I have to keep them sharp and fine-edged, because as you use them they become dull. Then, the tool’s not effective.”
As a wood-carver and sculptor, Matt can’t help but make comparisons between his art and his life. He thinks sometimes about how his life has been shaped. “I can see the Lord strengthening me. For two years when I was on my mission, I served others and I didn’t think of myself. Then I’d read my patriarchal blessing, and I could see these things that had come to pass. I don’t know yet exactly what I’m going to do with my life, but I know that the Lord has a plan. That’s part of a process.”
So, is the Lord “carving” him?
“Yeah,” Matt answers.
Is it painful?
“Sometimes it is, yeah.”
One of the things that has shaped Matt’s life is diabetes, discovered when he was 12. He had to spend Easter in a hospital, badly dehydrated. How has it shaped him? “There’s a scripture that I like that could explain it better than I can. It’s in Ether, chapter 12, verse 27: ‘I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; … for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them.’”
Matt sits in thought for a minute. The night has deepened and warm, yellow light from the kitchen spills onto the porch. In the pasture below the house, a horse whinnies softly. The talk turns to the qualities of wood again—about the problems with the big knots in wood like pine, how hard and brittle they are and how difficult they make it to shape the wood. And how difficult it must be for the Lord to shape us if our hearts are hard and brittle.
Matt sees the process of shaping people as a joint effort between the Lord and the individual. “You live your life and live the principles you have been taught, and the Lord will take you and show you things that you wouldn’t otherwise think He could do.”
Each of Matt’s carvings starts out pretty rough. But bit by bit, piece by piece, he turns it into something. “I have a vision of what I want it to be. And I make the rough cuts. And when I get it carved out, I change a couple of things to make it better. And then I make a few more coarse cuts and make it still better.” And so the process goes.
But it takes patience. “Sometimes you can get really involved in a piece and you ruin it because you haven’t stopped to look at what you are doing. You have to stand back, be patient, and wait,” Matt says. It’s like the experience he had with some of his investigators in the mission field. For example, one woman didn’t think she could give up smoking. “We had to be patient with her and give her blessings. But in the end, she made it and she, her husband, and their son and daughter were baptized.”
Thinking back, Matt speaks fondly of his mission presidents and how they helped to shape him as a missionary, making him a sharper tool in the Lord’s hand. “I had a lot of spiritual guidance,” he says. And the people he helped the Lord shape? “I think about them a lot, and about how they are doing. I miss the people, the interaction with them.”
Considering how much he cares about people, it’s no wonder Matt has been teaching sculpting at an area art center, even as his future is still being shaped. After all, a piece of wood is still just a piece of wood. But a life—now that’s a real work of art.

I once worked with a group of railroad men who seemed to pride themselves on the use of profanity. They tried to make an art of it. I recall handing a written instruction to a switchman. It was his job to take care of the matter as instructed, but he thought it inconvenient that he should have to do so at that time. On reading the order, he flew into a tantrum. He was a fifty-year-old man, but he acted like a spoiled child. He threw his cap on the ground and jumped on it and let forth such a string of expletives as to seem to cause the air to turn blue around him. Every third or fourth word was the name of Deity spoken in vain.

I thought, how childish can a grown man be? The very idea of a man acting and speaking like that was totally repugnant. I could never again give him my full respect.

When you think of the Netherlands, you probably think of wooden shoes, tulips, and windmills. But the Netherlands is also home to youth who are strong in the gospel. Here’s what some of them had to say about their testimonies and beliefs in gospel principles:
“I was home-teaching and had to give the lesson. I talked about Jesus Christ, the Resurrection, and life after death. While I was teaching the lesson, I felt it was true. I almost cried because I really felt it deep inside me.”
—Jos Reijnders, age 16

For the past three years the name of “Bob Gunther” had appeared on seminary rolls, yet no one had ever seen him at any Church meeting.
Just who is this Bob Gunther then? The seminary students from the San Lorenzo wards in California could tell you. At the beginning of each seminary year for the past few years, the students had signed the name of Bob Gunther to the roll as a joke. This joke led to what is now known as “The Bob Gunther Story.”
Early one Monday morning Neal Jarecki, a 16-year-old boy, was on his way to school. To Neal this was just another normal school day, but unknown to him, it was a day that would change the rest of his life. Neal was going to school early this particular morning to meet a girl he knew—Kim Spier, a Latter-day Saint.
When Neal arrived at school, he found Kim with a group of LDS girls studying in the library. He asked them why they were always at school so early, and they proceeded to tell him about seminary. Suddenly a voice from among the girls said, “We can get Neal to be Bob Gunther!”
Neal just stood there, not knowing what was happening, and said, “What?” The girls then told Neal that they would like him to play the part of the Bob Gunther, an imaginary person who had been enrolled in seminary for the last few years. After asking a few questions about what he would have to do at seminary, Neal finally agreed to be part of this joke. As the day went on, though, Neal began to have doubts about what he had agreed to do and wondered what he was getting himself into.
During the afternoon Neal received a phone call from Kim and Marlene from the seminary class, asking him if they could bring some Church books for him to read. He said yes, so at 5:30 P.M. Kim and Marlene visited Neal’s home to give him a half dozen pamphlets, a Book of Mormon, a Doctrine and Covenants, a Pearl of Great Price, Gospel Principles, and one volume of Church history. Neal was astounded, and he said, “I still have to do my homework this evening.”
He finished his homework as quickly as possible that evening. Then a thought flashed through his mind. “If I’m going to seminary tomorrow, the teacher is going to be suspicious, so I’ll need some proof of identification.” Neal hurriedly went over to the public library and purchased a library card with the official name “Robert Neal Gunther” printed on it. The rest of the evening Neal studied as much Mormon Literature as he possibly could. But he really didn’t absorb too much because there were too many facts going into his mind in such a short period of time.
Tuesday morning came early as Kim drove over to get Neal for seminary. Many students in the class knew Neal, so she told as many as possible before the teacher arrived that Neal was playing the part of Bob Gunther. Finally Neal was introduced to Brother Mike Danielson, the seminary teacher. But Brother Danielson didn’t believe he was Bob Gunther. He even laughed when he was shown the library card.
Now that the climax of the joke was over for Neal, it was just a matter of sitting through the class. And the lesson that day, from the book of Daniel in the Old Testament, really stimulated Neal’s interest. It ended with Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego being cast into the fiery furnace under orders from King Nebuchadnezzar. Brother Danielson told them that the next day in class they would find out what happened to Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. Neal decided to come again the following day to find out what happened.
Early Wednesday morning Neal came to seminary like he said he would, and from then on, Neal went to seminary every morning. It wasn’t long before Neal was asked if he would like the missionaries to come to his home and teach him about the Church. He agreed, and on a Friday two elders taught him the first lesson. Approximately two weeks later, Neal was baptized and confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Today Neal is an active priest and a strong member of the San Lorenzo Second Ward in California.
What started as a simple joke by a group of seminary students ended with a young man’s membership in the Savior’s true church. The non-existent “Bob Gunther” had developed into a fine missionary.

When I turned 17, I started thinking seriously about my future, and I prayed to Heavenly Father about what I could do to prepare to go on a mission and receive the Melchizedek Priesthood. I felt that I ought to go to the temple more often because it is the house of the Lord and would be the place where I could feel closest to my Heavenly Father.
So I set a goal to do 1,000 baptisms in a year. I truly felt the need to set this goal; I fasted to know if this was what I ought to do. Our Heavenly Father answered me, and I began to go to the Tampico Mexico Temple every Saturday.
After I had done 500 baptisms, I set a goal to do family history research on my ancestors, and I liked doing the research so much that I could not sleep because I was looking for names. I found 50 names and eight generations of my family history; I helped do the temple work for all of them.
I ended up doing over 1,300 baptisms, and I graduated from seminary, received the Melchizedek Priesthood, and am now serving as a full-time missionary, which was one of my biggest goals in life.

I would like to tell you the story of a woman who was in my ward some years ago when I was a bishop. She and her husband were having a marriage problem. As they spoke with me, she began to tear down her husband in all those key areas that a man must have to have some respect for himself. She talked of his inadequacy as a father, his inadequacies in marital relations, his inadequacy as a provider, his inadequacies socially, contrasted with what she had expected. I asked her, “Why do you do this to a man you should love and sustain?” She said, “Oh, it’s much better to argue with someone you love because you know where you can hurt them the most.” And she meant it.

Now let’s think about that for a minute. Can you really hurt a stranger? Who are the people you can hurt the most? Is it your roommate? Is it your companion? Is it your mom and dad? Is it your brother or sister? Isn’t it true that while you’re at this institution you should learn how to strengthen those around you, not tear them down? Shouldn’t you be developing an attitude with your roommates so that it becomes a natural part of you to be supportive and helpful? You share your strengths and weaknesses with their strengths and weaknesses, again, as you climb that mountain together and help one another.

Cassie experienced this after dating Brian for a year. Unfortunately, Brian was abusive. Cassie didn’t realize how much it affected her until after she left the relationship. Since then, Cassie has felt depressed, unable to trust her own thoughts and unable to trust others to support her. She often uses defense mechanisms to avoid getting hurt again and to manage feeling like others are angry with her or will leave her. Sometimes she unknowingly pushes others away or becomes demanding in relationships. These defenses make it difficult for her to get or feel close to others. After talking with loved ones and a counselor, Cassie recognized her trauma and her need to heal—and also that healing is possible over time.

One Primary leader shared how grateful she was for this focus in Primary. She said that she and her husband read the scriptures to their children—ages 2, 3, and 4—every night before they go to bed. I asked her to tell me more. I must admit I questioned that children so young could understand the language of the scriptures. She said that she and her husband had the same doubts when they first began reading with their children. But she said after the first week the language was not an issue. The children love reading together and feeling the Spirit, and it’s amazing how much they understand.

While in New York City, the choir performed a musical fireside in the newly dedicated Latter-day Saint meetinghouse in Harlem.
“Performing at Carnegie is such an accomplishment and a great feather to put in the hat of our music department,” said Justin Smith, the coordinator for the university’s performance tours. “But when we did the Harlem fireside with the newly formed BYU–Hawaii Alumni Chapter of New York, that became my tour highlight.”
Brother Smith continued: “Before the tour, the fireside seemed like just another ‘appointment’ on the itinerary—it kind of flew under the radar. That’s probably why it was so incredible, because it was an unexpected moment on the tour that really struck a chord. Carnegie was commendable. Harlem was the highlight.”

For the last few years in my morning prayers, I have asked Heavenly Father to guide me to someone who needs His help through me. I have had some incredible experiences that have been a blessing because of this simple request. Let me share one with you.

I work in downtown Salt Lake City. A number of years ago, I parked my car about 1½ blocks from the office. One day as I was crossing the street, I noticed a grandmother-like woman standing on the opposite corner. She had her bathrobe on. I walked up to her and asked how she was doing. She said she was fine. I asked what she was doing. She said she was out for her morning walk. I thought that was interesting and asked where she had walked from. She mentioned a place five miles away. I heard what she said and then was shocked. It was 7:30 a.m. How did she walk that far? In my mind I wondered what time she started.

And then I looked down at her feet and noticed she was wearing slippers and the thought came to me and I asked her, "Did you walk from the rest home a block away?" She said, "I think so." I offered to walk her home. Slowly, we walked arm in arm down the street. She told me about her children and that she loved music. She talked about how happy she was.

When we entered the rest home, a nurse hollered out, "Mary, did you leave the home again?" She smiled. I told the nurse who was coming towards us we had just walked from the corner. Mary thanked me and invited me to come again and the nurse whisked her off down the hall. What a marvelous experience. Heavenly Father blessed me to be able to help someone in need. I thanked Him for the experience and walked happily to work.

Keeping a personal history is a fun and easy way to do genealogy work. Young Women in the Castro Valley Second Ward, San Leandro California Stake, found a fun and creative way to get started. Each Young Woman created a time capsule by decorating a new paint can. Then she filled the can with important information and items like newspaper clippings and other memorabilia. Then the cans were sealed.
The Young Women will meet again during Christmas of the year 2001 to open their time capsules and share their memories with each other.
It’s history in the making.

At an encampment in Finland, the Scouts decided I should know how to sauna. Finns heat their saunas to 170 or 180 degrees. President Olli Roto, the stake president who was teaching me, along with the Scouts, who were experts, made a small bundle of birch branches. When we really began to perspire, he took the bundle of birch leaves and swatted me all over my back, chest, and legs, and said, “That brings the blood to the surface.” I said, “It works.” Then we ran down and dove into the Baltic Sea, then went back into the sauna. It’s amazing what we learn when we’re working with youth.

What are you doing? That’s where I was going to put the tent!
But these are the best trees for the hammock.
Ugh! You always do everything wrong!
Clara’s so annoying. She never listens to me!
You might disagree with her, but that doesn’t mean you can’t work together.
Maybe Clara and I can try harder to get along.
Will you help me set up the tent over here? That way it won’t block the good view from the hammock!
Sure!

When the Heritage Arts Committee began selecting displays from Heritage Arts festivals to be exhibited at June Conference, they soon realized that the work was just too good to be housed in little square booths. They called a special “atmosphere committee” that decided to create a turn-of-the-century village to house the displays in the Salt Palace convention center. They drew up plans and assigned a ward, stake, or group of stakes to put up each of the buildings.
Local stake presidents were asked to provide 40 journeymen carpenters and 40 helpers. The 80 built a whole frame city out of two-by-fours one Saturday morning, using enough lumber to have built four four-bedroom houses.
But before even one two-by-four had felt a hard-hit nail, thousands of Church members had spent months planning, researching and collecting relics of the past, not to mention learning, developing, or brushing up on age-old skills.
The red-brick grammar school seemed to slumber in the shadows. Next to the co-op, the balconied Deseret Hotel was shadowy and silent. The social hall looked awkward and lonely without its crowds of happy people.
Members of the Aaronic Priesthood and the Young Women of the Holladay 22nd Ward, Salt Lake City, began when the bishop’s youth committee discussed activities stressing the past that might interest young ward members. They chose as their theme “Born of Goodly Parents” in appreciation for the legacy of other generations. Class presidents met together with class members and selected projects. Together the young people worked under the supervision of their presidencies, calling on the ward service and activities committee to suggest specialists and to help coordinate. The kids sponsored a potluck banquet and invited all ward members to see their projects. They set up the displays in the ward meetinghouse and were later invited to do the same for the stake festival. The Salt Palace display was their third. This time they were to display their skills in an old-time mercantile store.
The Church steeple was gray against the blackness. The barber pole was merely a shimmer of pale white stripes.
When the frames were up, the wards and stakes assigned moved in and started fleshing out the skeletons. Although each group was given a suggested plan for the facade of its building, everyone was encouraged to make improvements, and some groups even called on architects in their stake to help create authentic and beautiful designs.
The spirit of cooperation and achievement was infectious. One man and his teenage helper started driving their pickup down the street toward their building, glancing at the work on both sides as they went. Before long they stopped the pickup and started backing out. When someone asked them what was wrong, the man replied, “Ours isn’t good enough. We’ll be back.” He went home and got a crew and more materials and came back and built a whole new storefront.
The newspaper presses were silent. There were no car sounds, no people sounds, not even dog sounds. The town was suspended in a stillness unknown to modern cities. The clocks all said 4:00P.M.
In the Sweet Shop a retired carpenter worked alongside an Aaronic Priesthood youth. They did not work swiftly, but every small detail was finished perfectly.
At the post office a deacon, a teacher, and their nine-year-old sister painted real-looking rocks on the whole building, putting in more than 14 hours each.
An 81-year-old lady working on the grammar school climbed up and down a ladder, pasting each red cardboard brick on individually.
Soon, a gleam came from the east, and the city lights flickered on. Men and women came. Doors began to open. There was talk and laughter. Dresses and dolls and rugs and plows and saddles were set out. The barber stood ready by his chair. The potter’s wheel began to turn.
In the meetinghouse of a Salt Lake student branch a poster titled “Jobs to Be Done” hung on the wall. There were instructions under each job listed. For two days, at all hours of the day, young people would come streaming in from work or school, pull on a pair of coveralls, do the job, scratch it off the list, and be on their way.
Students from the Utah Technical College donated the labor necessary to install 10,000 feet of electrical wiring, plus light poles and lights. The poles were supported by sandbags donated by inmates at the Utah State Prison. For five days hundreds of people worked hard and loved it. Laughter was as prevalent as the banging of hammers and the rasp of saws. Finally, when the sawdust had cleared, there were 50 buildings, a bandstand, a medicine show wagon, and a tepee—an authentic little turn-of-the-century town with a few last workers walking down its streets dressed in the clothing of an age to come.
When the clocks said 5:00 P.M., the row of doors to the east swung open and hordes of people came pouring in out of the future to look and point and wonder at the way it was. A band struck up a lively tune, and Heritage Square was open for another evening of business.
In their store, the youth of the Holladay 22nd Ward talked to visitors and embroidered, hammered, and quilted. Robed Buie, first counselor in the bishopric commented, “We took it seriously when the prophet said the youth were our first and foremost responsibility.” He was there to offer help, but he made it clear that the kids were running the show and had from the start.
The first-year Beehives made patriotic pillows for their rooms. Large and small, tufted, machine-stitched, embroidered, appliquéd, and creweled, the pillows displayed original as well as traditional designs, many taken from past American flags and Naval symbols.
The second-year Beehives discovered Pennsylvania Dutch designs. Seeing the distinctive heart, tulip, angel, and fruit patterns on bedspreads, furniture, birth certificates, and needlework, they duplicated the authentic designs on wall plaques, dish towels, pillow cases, table runners, and cutting boards.
The Mia Maids took advantage of the experience of a ward member and a blue-ribbon recipe for honey wheat bread to learn and demonstrate the art of bread making.
Thinking of their hope chests, the Laurels took up quilting, embroidery, and cross stitching. “People are really interested in taking up the older handicrafts,” said Mary Robinson. “The older women all say they’re glad the old skills aren’t dying out. We’re making a stitch quilt in activity night, and it’s really made me appreciate the time people used to take in doing a beautiful job.” The group donated three of their quilts to the Primary Children’s Medical Center.
The Holladay 22nd Ward Aaronic Priesthood wasn’t about to be outdone. The deacons earned the pioneer merit badge and worked on their Heritage Arts project at the same time. With dowels and balsa wood they built spans, trusses, monkey, suspension, and pier bridges.
Teachers quorum members chose pioneer photography. They studied early cameras and inventors and also photographed other classes at work on their projects.
The priests learned leather tooling from quorum members Richard Larson and Craig Hanson and then made sheepskin vests, belts, hats, wallets, moccasins, and even purses.
Visitors to the mercantile store were delighted as the young people stitched and pounded and demonstrated. The onlookers repeatedly asked, “How long does it take?”, “Where did you learn this?”, and “Is it hard?”
Throughout the square people learned from each other. A Laurel worked alongside an 85-year-old woman, explaining a new needlepoint stitch to her, and the sister taught the Laurel the practically lost art of tatting. Becky Cutler, 18, worked on a circular shag rug across from Ada Jensen, 79, who used 40 years of experience in making hidden-crocheted rugs.
The festival committee told participants that some 20,000 people might visit Heritage Square. No one was surprised, however, when the word got out and more than 100,000 showed up. The display was extended an extra day. Salt Palace executives tried unsuccessfully to extend it even further, but the volunteers who manned the displays were unable to give more time.
Everything on the 1900 Main Street teased memories. There were Dutch almond pastry, apple butter on wheat bread, and sour dough pancakes to taste. There were Indian dancers, flappers, brass bands, barber shop quartets, and marimba players to see and hear. There was even a lady who played the spoons and comb. The grammar school was complete with girls in pigtails, ink wells, dunce cap, pot-belly stove, and a portrait of George Washington. The Centerville Utah Co-op bragged that it was “the store that sells striped paint.” Modeled after the town’s old general store, the co-op featured lace-up ladies boots, black-boa wide-brimmed hats, the legendary cracker barrel and pickle jar, sasperilla, ginger snaps, shelves of mason jars, and yellow “bridal pajamas” trimmed with black lace. The Dressmaker, with its elegant collection of ecru vintage clothing, brought back the parasol, hats with plumes, long christening dresses, and the top hat. Everyone overlooked the frayed hems, worn velvet, and clumped feathers and marveled at the Japanese silk, delicate lace edgings, and tiny shoes. At the Missionary Church, a black-coated preacher exhorted, “There are places still on the front row,” and a young girl answered knowingly, “Aren’t there always?”
There were young people churning butter, dipping candles, throwing pots, pulling taffy, and spinning wool. Across from them their friends were weaving cloth, caning ladder-back chairs, stringing snowshoes, splitting stones, tying trout flies, and making rope.
This was a time-spanning occasion for all as evidenced by the equal numbers of “What’s that, Dad?” and “Hey, look over there. That’s what we used to chop ice.” Or “… warm the bed … reap wheat … pump water … and … harness the team.”
The grandmothers left feeling their quilting skills were not lost, and fathers left knowing that the five-foot saw with one-and-a-half-inch teeth was as big as they’d remembered. Mothers decided that making wheat bread must not be as hard as they remembered, while their daughters learned there’s more to embroider than jeans. For those who had spent months preparing, it was a time to excite and explain. But for most it was a motive to go home and search the attic, library, and family tree for old skills and heirlooms in an attempt to “remember the past, to better the future.”

A girl active in her sorority found that scripture reading helped her stay spiritual at school: “Well, I decided that if I promised to read the scriptures for thirty days, I would do it for thirty days—which wouldn’t do me too much good. So I promised to do it for the rest of my life. That was about six months ago. I’ve almost read the Book of Mormon three times since then and oh the difference! It has made possible the thing that I have always thought impossible, which is to be spiritual during the school year.”