Gospel Story Finder

In fact, some job experiences are so valuable that it might be worth your time to work for nothing. A young Latter-day Saint college sophomore in public relations (PR) volunteered to do publicity and general PR work for an entertainment center. At first his duties were far removed from public relations. He did errand work and was a general office boy much of the time. The next summer he was hired, this time receiving a little pay for his work. Meanwhile he was gaining experience and meeting people. When it was time for him to leave school, his first out-of-school job was helping to manage an entertainer and movie star he had worked with during the previous summer. His starting salary for his first job was higher than that of the dean of his college.

Isaac bounced up and down in his seat. He looked out the car window. They were going to visit Grandma and Grandpa. They were going to see something else special too.
“When will we see the new temple?” Isaac asked Mom.
“Tomorrow,” she said.
Isaac smiled.
Finally Isaac and his family got to Grandma and Grandpa’s house.
The next morning, Isaac got dressed in his Sunday clothes. It felt funny to wear his tie in the middle of the week. Isaac ate breakfast with his family. Then they drove to the temple open house. They were going to see inside the new temple before it was dedicated.
“I see the temple!” Isaac said. He pointed to the white building with the angel Moroni on top.
There was a Church building next to the temple. Isaac and his family went there first. They watched a video. Someone helped put white covers over their shoes.
Finally it was time to go inside the temple! Isaac walked through the temple doors. His heart felt happy.
Isaac saw lots of paintings on the walls. Some paintings showed people praying. Some paintings showed beautiful plants and animals.
Then Isaac saw a painting he liked best of all. It was a painting of Jesus! Jesus was standing with His arms stretched out.
“It looks like Jesus is opening His arms to me,” Isaac whispered to Dad.
“Jesus always has His arms open for you,” Dad whispered back. “He loves each of us.”
Isaac had a good feeling in his heart. He imagined walking next to Jesus in the temple. He imagined Jesus giving him a hug.
Jesus loves Isaac. And Isaac loves Jesus too!

For instance, consider my friend Bob and his watchcare over an elder who smoked. Nearly every morning, Bob would see a fellow member of his quorum and pray with him to help him overcome smoking and then give him a pack of Lifesavers or package of gum to help him during the day. Later, Bob would see him and his wife with hands linked across the temple altar, sealed for eternity. What was it that changed and helped to bring this all about? The gospel and “the heart and a willing mind.”

The night of the dinner, the aroma of fresh-roasted turkey, steaming hot dressing, homemade rolls, and spicy pumpkin pie filled the hall of the stake center. But this time it was the Beehives, Mia Maids, and Laurels, instead of the Relief Society, who were found in the hot kitchen energetically filling plate after plate. And it was the deacons, teachers, and priests who were serving the meal, filling water glasses and clearing empty dishes. It was all a way of saying a big thank you to the senior citizens in the Taylorsville Stake—an appreciation dinner planned, prepared, and presented almost entirely by the Mutual-age youth in the stake.
The idea had originated in a stake youth committee meeting several months before. “We wanted to do a service project, something that would be a challenge and at the same time rewarding,” explained Kelly Jorgensen, stake youth chairman and member of the priests quorum in the Taylorsville Fifth Ward. “Our teachers quorum had given a dinner for the senior citizens in our own ward once, and we wondered if we could do the same thing on a stake basis. Someone mentioned that a lot of older people don’t have any children who come home for the holidays, so we decided to make it a Thanksgiving dinner in appreciation for all they have done for us.”
Two young people from each of the five wards were appointed to the planning committee. They were assisted by Sister Emma Morris, the stake Young Women president. Together they planned the evening and then worked diligently, sacrificing Saturday mornings and weeknights to see that all the details were completed before the night of the dinner. Committees were assigned to arrange for decorations, invitations, centerpieces, transportation, and food. With the exception of roasting the turkeys, the young people prepared most of the meal. One Laurel class adviser held a special pie-making workshop to help her girls in preparing their share of the evening’s desserts.
To help with the invitations, ward clerks provided lists with the names of all the persons over the age of 65. After delivering the invitations, hours and hours were spent calling to determine just how many would be able to come to dinner. A take-out service was planned for those who were not able to leave their homes.
Stake President Melvin M. Hall expressed appreciation for the work of the Mutual by saying, “We think this is a really nice thing our young people have conjured up! Too often we get so caught up in the hustle and bustle of what we do that we forget to look over our shoulders to see who needs us. Too often we forget about our senior citizens.”
The night of the dinner was one of those late autumn, early winter evenings when the air is chilly and the setting sun reveals snow clouds over the mountains. As the guests arrived, usually accompanied by a young member of the priesthood and an adult leader, many buttoned up coats and sweaters and pulled cloaks a little snugger as they walked from the parking lot into the cultural hall.
Inside, the last details were being completed: the water poured, the microphone plugged in, the turkey sampled. The basketball nets in the hall had been decked with balloons and plastic streamers earlier that afternoon, and the turkey centerpieces made from pineapples were sitting on the tables. The entering guests were greeted with friendly smiles and warm handshakes. Those who had volunteered to help were kept busy throughout the dinner as they enthusiastically saw that everyone was served and made to feel welcome.
Midway through the dinner, however, after serving plates and plates of hot food, one hungry young deacon scrunched in the corner against the wall. When asked who he was hiding from, he sheepishly replied, “The food! We can’t eat until everyone is served!”
An added treat at the dinner (following the pumpkin pie) was a musical program. Before introducing the performers, Kelly told the older people, “We’d like to thank you and your generation for all the things you’ve done for us, for building this strong community we live in, and for raising good families.”
The first number on the program was performed by a trio of three young women who sang, “Who Are You?” an original composition by Michelle Nicoulaz and Marty Tyree. They were followed by six young men and women dressed in bluejeans and straw hats, who sang, “Grandma’s Feather Bed,” accompanying themselves on the piano and guitars. A modern dance number, which was choreographed by Michelle, was next, and the Harrison Family trio (piano, clarinet, and flute) completed the program with a medley of patriotic songs.
As the older people chatted with friends before leaving, it was easy to see the gratitude they felt at being remembered. Sister Sue Huggard, an 80-year-old member of the 21st Ward, exclaimed, “That was lovely to honor us old folks—I mean us young folks!” Sister LaVern Jones North of the First Ward added, “It couldn’t have been better. I wish we had a way to thank them.”
But the youth felt they had received all the thanks they needed. As Kelly expressed it, “It’s really great when you can see they are enjoying themselves, laughing with their friends, having a good time! That’s the best thanks of all.”

On a spring morning some years ago, my wife and I planted a little cherry tree on a sunny corner of our lot. We looked forward to a bountiful harvest eventually. The next morning, however, my wife stepped outside for a few moments and came back with a look of astonishment: "Someone took our tree!" Sure enough, a thief had dug it up, leaving us with an empty hole.
While we did not lose much in terms of money, we lost all the time involved in preparing the spot, buying the tree, and planting it. Still, we were fortunate compared to others whose losses have been much more damaging. I have wondered if the person who took that tree gave any thought to the spiritual price he or she might have to pay for it.

“What special things, Kate?” Papa winked at Mama. “I thought I was to get flour and sugar and salt. Nothing special about that.”
“You know, Papa,” Molly burst out. “Get a bolt of the prettiest calico you can find! Mama’s going to make me a new dress, and shirts for John, and curtains for our new glass windows!” She stopped, and everyone was quiet as Papa gave thanks for the food.
“Papa,” John asked, taking a bite out of his corn bread, “do you remember the other two special things?”
“Let’s see,” Papa replied. “I’m to get some smooth boards to cover this dirt floor.” His eyes sparkled. “We’re going to be the first family out here to have a real wood floor!”
“And then, Frank, if there’s enough money left over, get that last special thing,” Mama said excitedly. “Bring home some oilcloth to cover the walls with and some pretty wallpaper to go over the oilcloth. Then we’ll have a real house, like the one we had back east.”
They all looked at the hardpacked dirt walls. Papa had tried to make them look nice by painting them with whitewash, but most of it had come off. “I think if we put oilcloth up first, the wallpaper will last longer,” said Mama.
The little sod house seemed even warmer as Papa laughed. “I’ll do the best shopping I can,” he promised, and his smile wrapped around Molly like a hug. “Now, Molly,” he said as they finished their squash and ham, “get out your favorite book. It’s your turn to read tonight.”
Early the next morning as the sky turned pink along the eastern edge of the prairie, Papa hitched the horses to the wagon. “I’ll be back in three days,” he called as he drove off.
Molly watched until Papa was out of sight and only the tall prairie grass waved back at her.
Molly and John carried water to the chickens. They collected buffalo chips to burn in the stove and helped Mama milk the cow. They gathered the eggs and shelled the corn. They studied their lessons—and they counted three days.
By dinnertime on the third day Papa wasn’t home. Molly squished her nose flat against the wavy glass window. “I still can’t see him, Mama,” she said.
“Don’t fret, Molly. Papa’s been to town many times since we’ve been here.” Mama’s voice was calm and quiet. “Don’t you remember he said it would take three full days? Now let’s put the lantern in the window so he can see the light shining out over the prairie.”
They had just finished their mush-and-milk supper when John shouted, “Listen! I hear the wagon!”
In a few minutes Papa was in the house. He gave Mama a big hug and picked up Molly and John. “Just wait until you see the special things I’ve brought!” he said, whirling them around the room.
Papa and Mama and Molly and John carried in the food supplies for winter. Then Papa brought in a big package. “Here’s your calico, Molly—the prettiest in the country, I’ll wager.” The calico was a soft blue, with little red and yellow designs scattered all over it.
“Oh, Papa,” Molly cried, “I’ve never seen such pretty calico!”
“Frank, it’s lovely,” said Mama. “Did it take you a long time to find it?”
“No,” said Papa, laughing. “I just matched Molly’s blue eyes.”
“And was there enough money to get the second special thing?” John asked.
“Wait and see,” said Papa. He came back with one wide, smooth board and laid it on the dirt floor. “There you are, Kate, the finest floor on the prairie!”
“But, Papa, that’s not big enough!” cried John.
Papa chuckled. “Don’t worry, John. The rest of the floor is in the wagon.”
“And the third special thing, Papa?” Molly jumped up and down on the board. “Did you get the oilcloth and the prettiest wallpaper in the country too?”
“I got the oilcloth and the best wallpaper you ever saw,” said Papa. He went to the wagon again and came back with two heavy brown packages.
Papa unwrapped a roll of oilcloth first. Then he opened a squarish package and held up a large dictionary. “Here’s the wallpaper. And it’s a brand-new 1870 edition, too,” he announced.
“Frank, I don’t understand. Where is the wallpaper?” Mama sounded puzzled.
“Just watch, Kate.” Papa’s eyes twinkled as he carefully fastened a piece of oilcloth over one of the hard-packed sod walls. Then he opened the dictionary and carefully cut out some of the pages with his knife. He took one of the pages and nailed it up, right through the oilcloth and into the sturdy wall behind it. He nailed up another, and another. Soon the wall was covered with pages. The white paper made the sod house look large and bright, and the words looked like tiny stripes across the wall.
“How beautiful!” cried Molly.
Mama looked at the wall without a word. Then she turned to Papa. “Frank, who else would ever have thought of papering the walls with a dictionary!” Mama’s eyes were bright as she hugged Papa. “You really did bring us something special!”
“And, Kate,” said Papa, “when we’ve learned all these words, we’ll just add more pages and keep on reading.”
Molly gave a happy sigh. “Papa,” she said, “now we have the prettiest calico, and the finest floor, and the smartest walls in the whole world!”

On November 9, 1989, an East German government official mistakenly announced that effective immediately, the citizens of the capital city were allowed to pass through the Berlin Wall. A few minutes later the usually bored border guards had no choice but to allow the large and growing crowd to leave the territory of the German Democratic Republic.
My best friend, Jakub Górowski, and I—then still in our teens—watched the unexpected miracle unfold on television from our home in Poland. The world was truly on fire but not a destructive one. The spirit of freedom and hope filled the hearts of millions of people.
For Jakub and me, our dream had been to one day move from Poland to the West—Denmark, Sweden, West Germany. We were inspired by American movies and TV shows. My favorite was The Wonder Years. I loved the atmosphere of American suburban life.
I don’t think anybody on either side of the Iron Curtain expected the Cold War to end. But Heavenly Father had a different plan. In 1975, unbeknownst to us, President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) had invited Latter-day Saints to “join in a serious continuous petition to the Lord to open the gates of the nations and soften the hearts of the kings and the rulers to the end that missionaries may enter all the lands and teach the gospel.”1
Two years later, President Kimball visited Warsaw, Poland. One morning, accompanied by a small group of his associates, including Elder Russell M. Nelson, President Kimball left his hotel, walked by the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, and entered Saski Park. Not far from a large fountain that still stands there today, he knelt and rededicated Poland for the preaching of the gospel.
A decade of unrest and mass protests followed. While the adults distrusted and opposed the political leaders, many young people questioned some of the values, traditions, and attitudes of their parents. My friend Jakub and I felt disillusioned with Christianity as we understood it. He lost interest in religion in general, while I was drawn toward philosophies that originated in Asia.
In April 1990, Jakub and I hitchhiked to Austria. In Vienna we met two nice women standing on the sidewalk of a busy street. One of them was holding the Book of Mormon in Polish. She told us about Jesus’s visit to the people of ancient America and promised to mail the book to our homes if we gave her our addresses. We also opened our address books and copied addresses of many of our friends. We thought it would be a nice surprise for them to receive a gift.
A few months later the Poland Warsaw Mission was established, and four missionaries arrived in our city. Later, I learned that the large number of “referrals”—our friends’ addresses—played a key role in the decision to open our city for the missionaries. To my surprise a few months later, Jakub told me that two “Mormon” missionaries had visited him and that he had decided to join their church.
I was hurt by his announcement. I had tried for years to interest him in religion but with no success. How could strangers from a different country suddenly convert him? I was determined to face them and show Jakub they had no chance in a debate with me.
When I saw the two young, smiling missionaries standing in the doorway of my parents’ apartment, I forgot about my goal to prove them wrong. They were happy and funny. They asked me lots of questions about myself and my beliefs. They respected my convictions. Later they told me that during that first meeting with the arrogant guy with long hair and ripped jeans who was smoking cigarettes, they had a hard time imagining I would ever be interested in becoming a follower of Jesus Christ. But I felt something special in their presence, and I was intrigued that their Church was the only Christian denomination I knew of that believed in a premortal existence.
I was also impressed with their testimonies and the strong convictions of Jakub and Robert ?elewski, his new friend from the Church. Robert was a psychologist, an intelligent but down-to-earth man whose insights and experiences strengthened my interest in the religion of the Latter-day Saints.
Everything the elders, Jakub, and Robert told me was fascinating, especially the doctrine of the plan of salvation, starting with premortality and ending with the three degrees of glory. But I didn’t see any point in joining the Church until I was able to grasp more fully their unique beliefs. My understanding of Christianity was that anciently, God performed miracles, sent angels, and called prophets, but all those things belonged to biblical times. Once the Bible was completed, humanity no longer needed miracles and revelation because scripture contains all we need to know.
A breakthrough came during our discussion about the Great Apostasy and the Restoration of the fulness of the gospel through the Prophet Joseph Smith. I realized that their beliefs were more consistent with the Bible than the claim that the Bible had replaced prophets and revelation. I felt real joy when I realized I might be living in modern “biblical times.”
I was ready to ask God sincerely for personal revelation, but an answer did not come. Finally, I said, “Heavenly Father, if You called Joseph Smith as Your prophet, I will obey every commandment You revealed through him.” Then the answer came to my heart and mind with surety, and I knew that God had restored the fulness of the gospel and that it is found in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Jakub was baptized on November 3, 1990, and remained faithful until dying in a tragic hiking accident two decades later. I joined the Church on January 11, 1991, determined to serve a mission. Robert was called as the first local president of our branch and drove me all the way to Freiburg, Germany, so I could receive my temple endowment. During my last interview with him, I promised to return to Poland after my service in the Illinois Chicago Mission to use my missionary experience to strengthen the Church in our country.
Two years later, my mission president convinced me that I should get my education in America at Brigham Young University. But I never forgot my promise to Robert.
After getting married in 2000, I moved back to Poland with my wife, who, in 1988, had been an extra in the sixth episode of The Wonder Years. We attend Church meetings in Krakow, raising two boys and keeping in close touch with our two older children. Our older son recently announced he has decided to serve a full-time mission.
In the summer of 2021, I took my family to Berlin, where I showed them the spot where the wall used to stand. It no longer stops God’s servants from sharing the message of the Restoration with the people of Eastern Europe. God’s miracles continue in our day.

My little brother and sister, Michael and Abbie, are a handful. You just can’t get them to sit still. I should know—I’ve tried. Mom says I’m old enough to watch them when she goes out for errands. I’m glad Mom thinks I’m responsible, but I’m not sure I want to watch them on my own.
So today, when Mom went to the store and put me in charge, I was ready. I decided that in order to watch Michael and Abbie, I would need to get them to behave, and I knew just the way to do it.
“Who wants to play a game?” I asked.
They jumped up and down. “Ooh! Me! Me!”
“It’s a game I just invented. It’s called Baby Caterpillar. Do you want to pretend to be baby caterpillars?”
“Yes!” Michael yelled.
“Yay!” Abbie shouted.
I grinned. My brother and sister can never quietly agree to anything.
“To play this game, I need both of you to get a blanket,” I said.
They both ran to their bedrooms as fast as they could and brought back two blankets.
“OK, now just watch.”
They stood quietly and watched, which was a first for them.
First I laid down both blankets and had Abbie lie right in the middle of one and Michael in the middle of the other. Then I wrapped them each in a blanket cocoon up to their chins.
“Ta da!” I said. “You are now baby caterpillars!”
“Yay!” they shouted.
They wiggled around for a bit, and after a while they started talking to each other in their “caterpillar language.” Their smiling faces peeked over their blankets. I sat on the couch with a good book while they chattered to each other.
When I looked at my brother and sister, nestled in their little cocoons, I realized they weren’t so bad after all. In fact, now that I was spending time with them, I kind of liked them. I thought about how much fun we could have playing a board game together after they were done being baby caterpillars. I put my book down and started to think of other games we could all play the next time Mom left me in charge.

At the accession of President George Albert Smith in 1945, Joseph was asked to stay on as secretary to the First Presidency. He traveled widely with President Smith and learned that he was truly a “man of love.” He recalls that President Smith laid his own overcoat on a bale of clothing to be shipped to the Saints suffering in postwar Europe. Elder Anderson remembers going with him when he called on the presidents of the United States and Mexico. They kept former U.S. President Herbert Hoover waiting in the outer office while President Smith explained the Book of Mormon and bore his testimony to President Avila Camacho of Mexico.”
For nineteen years following the death of President Smith, Joseph served in the administration of President David O. McKay. His boyhood teacher was now the leader of the Church. President and Sister Emma Ray Riggs McKay represented to Joseph the same great example of love for each other and the gospel that became legendary in the Church. “He was always loving, considerate, and courteous,” he remembers. When the prophet was near death, Elder Anderson recalls visiting him in his apartment and finding him on the couch holding hands with his sweetheart. “I asked Sister McKay how she was, and she said, ‘I am all right, but am concerned about my boy.’ I said, ‘He is still your boy, is he?’ She answered quickly, ‘He surely is.’ To this said, ‘He is the best, is he not?’ and she answered, ‘Most certainly.’”

Laura was excited to start kindergarten. She couldn’t wait to go to school with her big brother, Sam. Sam was going to be in third grade.
A few weeks before school started, Mom and Dad talked to Sam and Laura. “Laura,” Dad said, “the schools have made a change. Kindergarteners will go to their own school now.”
Laura chewed on her lip. “Can I still ride the bus with Sam?”
Mom shook her head. “I’m sorry, Laura, but your school is on the other side of town. You’ll ride a different bus.”
Laura tried to be brave, but her lower lip trembled. How could she go to school without her big brother? She and Sam were best friends.
Sam put his arm around Laura’s shoulder. “It’ll be all right,” he said.
That night Sam came into Laura’s room. “Let’s say a special prayer,” he said.
Sam and Laura knelt down.
“Heavenly Father,” Sam prayed, “please bless Laura that she will feel happy about starting school. Help her learn things and make new friends.” Sam closed the prayer in the name of Jesus Christ.
Laura threw her arms around Sam’s neck. She felt better already.
When it came time to start school, Laura was still a little nervous, but she thought about Sam’s prayer. That morning, Dad gave Laura a blessing.
Laura waved goodbye to Mom, Dad, and Sam. She climbed onto the school bus. She knew Heavenly Father would help her.

A superb stake president told me of a stake council meeting in which they were wrestling with a difficult challenge. At one point, he realized that the stake Primary president had not spoken, so he asked if she had any impressions. “Well, actually I have,” she said and then proceeded to share a thought that changed the entire direction of the meeting. The stake president continued, “As she spoke, the Spirit testified to me that she had given voice to the revelation we had been seeking as a council.”

5 April 2015, President Thomas S. Monson announced in General Conference that a temple would be built in Ivory Coast. Due to the difference in time, most of the members in Ivory Coast did not hear the announcement live, but heard mainly by word of mouth. Large groups gathered in meeting houses later to view the rebroadcast. They patiently waited to hear the “Ivory Coast” name. There was great emotion when they heard the announcement. Brother Mathieu Brou Baah, a family history consultant exclaimed to all around him, “We got our temple!” There was great joy seeing an answer to years of fervent prayers.

Oh? What happened?
I was in a show, and as far as I know, I was the only LDS person there. A lot of times the cast members questioned my faith, and I was seeing them live their lives so normally. I had always thought I was happy because I had gospel things in my life like prayer and scripture study, but when I realized that these people were living life the easy way and seemed to be happy anyway, without doing all of those things, I felt like, “Hey, I don’t need to do all of this either.” But after one morning of not saying a prayer, I realized how much it affected my day. I was so reassured, knowing that I was doing exactly what I was supposed to and that I was shining my light so others could see it.

President Heber J. Grant once heard Bishop Millen Atwood preach a sermon in the Thirteenth Ward, “I was studying grammar at the time,” he said, “and he made some grammatical errors in his talk.
“I wrote down his first sentence, smiled to myself, and said: ‘I am going to get … enough material to last me for the entire winter in my night school grammar class.’ We had to take … four sentences a week, that were not grammatically correct, together with our corrections.
“… But I did not write anything more after that first sentence—not a word; and when Millen Atwood stopped preaching, tears were rolling down my cheeks, tears of gratitude and thanksgiving that welled up into my eyes because of the marvelous testimony which that man bore of the divine mission of Joseph Smith, the Prophet of God. …”
He continued: “Although it is now more than sixty-five years since I listened to that sermon, it is just as vivid today, and the sensations and feelings that I had are just as fixed with me, as they were the day I heard it. …
“… the one thing above all others that has impressed me has been the spirit, the inspiration of the living God that an individual had, when proclaiming the Gospel, and not the language. … I have endeavored, from that day to this … to judge men and women by the spirit they have; for I have learned absolutely, that it is the spirit that giveth life and understanding, and not the letter—the letter killeth” (Improvement Era, Apr. 1939, p. 201).

That’s not bad for a young woman who’s been a member of the Church for a little over one year.

“Before I met the missionaries, I had seen them but I didn’t know the nature of what they were preaching. Then one autumn day, two of them knocked at my door.

“We let them in and listened to them. After they left, I read the Book of Mormon and prayed. The more I read the happier and more interested I felt. I waited and waited. They hadn’t said when they might return.

“By the time they came back, I had many, many questions. I listened to everything they taught. From then on, I prayed daily, whenever and wherever it was necessary. I read the scriptures continually. Eventually I gained a strong belief in the Church and I was baptized on October 9. Afterward, I was able to learn more and more from teachers in Sunday School and Young Women and from the example of many members. I have become totally active in the Church.

“Since I joined, I haven’t had any pessimistic thoughts at all. Any unhappy feeling can’t last five minutes in me. Besides, by observing the commandments, I have avoided going astray or learning bad habits. My life has become more solid. I have gained more knowledge.

“My mother is a Buddhist, and it is hard for her to think of changing her traditions. But she does not object to my belief in the Church. I hope that by the time I become old enough to think about leaving on a full-time mission, she will have joined the Church. I don’t often get a chance to talk at length with my father, because he is a very busy man, a newspaper distribution manager. He is also remodeling our apartment, which takes up his time after work. But I hope that he also will someday find the gospel and that my younger brothers and sisters will, too.” (Mei Ling is the oldest of five children.)

Things had been hard since Joseph’s death. Nauvoo wasn’t allowed to use its police force, so bad men did what they wanted. They burned farms outside town and caused trouble in Nauvoo. Then some of the Latter-day Saint boys formed the “Whittling and Whistling Brigade.” When one of the bad men came to town, the boys followed him everywhere, whistling and whittling pieces of wood with their pocketknives. There were too many boys for the man to fight, and they wouldn’t let him out of their sight long enough for him to do anything bad, so finally he would leave and look for mischief someplace else. Howard and George couldn’t wait to join the brigade, but they were only six and four then, and Mama wouldn’t let them use her knives to learn to whittle. They practiced whistling, however. Finally, though, even the brave boys couldn’t keep the bad men away.
Aurelia squeezed George’s hand and pointed to show him the temple across the river. Even on this cold, gray day, the tall building seemed to shine on the hill. She remembered when its roof had caught fire one day. She lived only a block away and had run with a bucket of water to help fight the fire. It had been put out, and work on the temple had continued. Just two months ago, Mama and Papa had gone to the temple to be sealed together. Mama said that that was the hardest part of leaving Nauvoo—leaving the temple they’d worked so hard to build. It still wasn’t quite finished. “Heaven only knows when we’ll have a temple again,” Mama had said. “We’ve been blessed to have this one.”
Aurelia looked to the left of the temple to see if their house was visible from here. She couldn’t see it. But she did see Mary Ann Stearn’s house. Mary Ann and her cousin Ellen Pratt were Aurelia’s best friends. They had gone to school together and played together. Aurelia stared at Mary Ann’s house, but she knew that Mary Ann wasn’t there. She, too, was going west with her family. Aurelia wondered if they’d meet again on the way to the Rocky Mountains. Oh, she hoped so! It was hard leaving everything and everyone to travel to a strange land. Why shouldn’t the bad men have to leave instead? It wasn’t fair to be forced to leave friends, homes, gardens, orchards, the temple!
Thinking of Mary Ann made Aurelia remember something else. At the last general conference, in October, Mary Ann’s stepfather, Parley P. Pratt had spoken to the Saints. People had crowded into the temple to listen. Elder Pratt spoke about how hard the Saints had worked to build a beautiful city and temple and how hard it was to leave it all behind. But the Lord had other plans for this people, Elder Pratt had said. He explained that a small nursery could produce many thousands of fruit trees, but that as they grew, they must be transplanted. They need room to grow if they are to produce fruit. He promised that the Lord had a place for the Saints to grow, where they wouldn’t be crowded and where they would enjoy liberty and equal rights.
Aurelia knew that it was true. She thought of those tiny twigs of fruit trees she and Ellen and Papa had planted. She had seen them grow and blossom and produce sweet fruit. It was hard to leave Nauvoo, but it was time to be transplanted to a place where she and her family and all the Saints could grow strong and bloom.
Aurelia murmured, “Farewell, Nauvoo,” and turned with George to face the west. It would be a long journey to the Rockies, but she had her family and the true gospel. She was ready.

Of my parents’ three daughters, I am the middle one. It wasn’t until the dawn of a January morning that a fourth child, a son, was born. David seemed just like any other newborn to me—tiny, chubby, and fun. By virtue of my being merely a first-grader when he was born, my parents found no reason for telling me then that my baby brother was “different.” Hindsight tells me that it would only have compounded their already-numbed feelings to explain to me what they could hardly believe themselves. Besides, I was too young, and the word mongoloid would not have meant a thing to me. All I knew, or cared about then, was that my little brother was beautiful!
We grew to love him. He was a kind, loving, and cheerful child. It was not until I was in the sixth grade that David’s difference caused any concern to me at all. It was at the end of that school year that my class was visited by the principal. She asked those of us who had brothers or sisters who were or would be five years old next fall to raise our hands. I raised mine, and just as she counted it, I was prompted to ask something. I hesitated a split second, thinking that I should not even bother her with such a question. But, as she counted my hand, I asked, “Does this school allow mongoloids?” When I heard the words, “No, I’m sorry,” I took my hand down, wondering numbly why they would not let my brother come to their school. My naiveté about David had been shattered.
As the years passed, David was continually shunned by the majority of the neighborhood children. They had been warned by fearful parents. More than once our front door was darkened by an irate mother who told my mother to keep David away from her young ones.
It often seemed that if I would look into his eyes, I could see him peering over his inner wall of quietness with the tender, smiling eyes of someone who really knows a great deal more than will ever be credited to him. I wished that I could step inside that wall and talk with him for just one hour.
These past years have seen my family pass through many sorrows because of David’s difference. But to say that his presence with us has been destructive would be false. Rather, his presence has been like a powerful steel cable strongly binding our family together. As a family we are close, and because David is a part of it, we have learned real love, sweet patience, a pure and undefiled faith, and a tender, guileless approach to life. Still a child, even though he has passed into the age of adulthood, he continues in his innocent state. He is my brother. He is my friend. Heaven itself was granted to my family in this one single gift.
I know that in the bright hereafter I will finally be allowed to pass through David’s wall. I hope he will take me by the hand and sit with me, and I will ask him to share his world with me—his bit of heaven.

Everyone in the family enjoys music and singing. Emma plays the flute, often accompanied on the piano by her mother or one of her brothers. When Emma looks after her baby brother, she often sings to him. She always sings when she concentrates on something. On her first day of school, all her classmates suddenly got quiet. They turned around, and there was Emma, singing to herself as she painted a picture.

Recently I returned home from a mission presidents’ interim seminar. We held meetings all day, and then I caught a plane home. By the time I arrived home I had been up about 17 hours. I changed into my sleep wear and climbed in bed beside my wife. We talked for a few moments; then the phone rang.
A boyhood friend, one I had known since first grade, was on the other end. “Brother Vaughn,” he said in a trembling voice, “my daughter is back in the hospital. She has had several major seizures. She has stopped breathing twice. She is on oxygen but seems to be failing fast.”
I asked if she had been administered to.
“No, we were hoping you could come and bless her.”
The physical body was tired. I felt I had earned the rest. I also felt my wife needed me, and the flesh wavered. However, the spirit knew precisely what was to be done. I said, “Joe, I will be there in about 30 minutes.” We live about a half an hour from the University of Utah Hospital.
I turned to my wife and asked her if she would like to go. This noble woman said yes. We both got up, dressed, and drove to the hospital.
I embraced this sweet friend that I had known for over 46 years. We found a little room, and along with family members we joined in a prayer of great faith.
Then Joe and I went to the intensive care room and gave his daughter a blessing. We pleaded with the Lord and had a sweet, peaceful assurance come over us that she was in his care. At the time, I wondered whether or not she would live through the blessing.
My sweet wife waited in the car. We drove home, and we were not tired or exhausted any more. We were deeply grateful to be worthy enough to be called upon. At the time of the writing of this article, Joe’s daughter is alive. She is a miracle.

With only three months left on my tour of duty, I was called on another hoist rescue. This time it was in the Ashau Valley. Two casualties had to be moved from a dangerous location in another double canopy area. Once again we hovered between the trees like a sitting duck, protected only by cover shots from our troops but threatened by incoming enemy fire. Things went well until we started to bring the second patient up through the lower canopy.
Rifle fire sprayed around us. The crew chief was going to cut the cable, dropping the wounded man back to the ground and to possible death. “No!” I yelled. “Tell me when he’s clear of the trees.” The crew chief kept the litter bearing the wounded man coming up and yelled, “Clear!” as soon as it got above the trees. I moved the helicopter up, then forward, while the wounded man dangled below, slowly being drawn into the cargo area. Finally the terrified soldier was inside and we were on our way back to the base. What an experience! What excitement!
Back on the ground, the crew hugged each other. We were grateful to acknowledge that we were delivered by the power and mercy of God. We also felt sure we would merit a DFC. The recommendation was written up and submitted with assurance that it would be approved.
The awards ceremony was scheduled for July 8, 1968, two days before my departure from the country. I didn’t have to fly any more combat missions, and I had been informed that the DFC had been approved. I was going home and would be a hero, finally receiving the award I had longed for for so long.
Since many of the officers were receiving decorations, the first sergeant was left in charge of the awards formation. Those of us who were recipients were out in front of the other men. I was second in line, next to the detachment commander, who was also receiving a DFC. This was the moment of glory I had been waiting for since childhood. This was the ceremony of grandeur envisioned in the dreams of my youth.
The commanding general’s helicopter touched down. His aide-de-camp scurried from the craft to talk to the first sergeant, as the first sergeant called us all to attention. The two men exchanged comments, then the sergeant took several steps and stood right in front of me. He saluted.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but your DFC has been downgraded. Take your place as fifth in formation.”
Pow! My dream was shattered. I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. I had to bite my lower lip to make sure I was in the real world and not having a bad dream. I was angry and hurt. Was this the type of gratitude bestowed for dedicated service which I considered above and beyond the call of duty? I did an about face, took two steps forward, made a right face, and moved to my new location as fifth in formation.
As the detachment commander had his Distinguished Flying Cross pinned on his pocket, I had to fight back the tears. I was happy for my boss and his deserved recognition, but I was disappointed at my own situation. When the general came to me, I snapped a salute. He returned it and pinned another Air Medal with a “V” for valor onto my shirt, saying, “Captain, this represents a lot of flying. I respect you for your contribution and congratulate you.” My heart was filled with resentment. How could he do this to me? I choked out a half-hearted “Thank you, sir.” We saluted and he moved on.
As I stood there with those mixed up feelings, I asked the Lord why this had happened. Surely there must be a mistake! It wasn’t fair! Then my spirit became calm as the words of my patriarchal blessing came to mind once again, telling me not to let Satan keep me from growth and development, telling me that the Lord would try me to prove my worth. The Spirit spoke to my soul, telling me that God had kept his promise to me—I was returning to my loved ones unharmed, I still had work to do in this life, and God had preserved my life. “Seek not after your own heart,” the Spirit whispered, “for the praise and rewards of men.”