Gospel Story Finder

The first time Alan had come hunting was when he was 11. Before then he was forced to stay behind “with the women” while the men and the older boys in the family went up to the mountains for three or four days.
Uncle Ed had taken a special interest in him. His uncle, now dead, had been a weather-beaten rancher, a widower at 25. His ranch, snuggled against the mountains near Bozeman, had been one of Alan’s favorite places as a boy. Being alone had produced a simplicity in his uncle’s life that Alan envied. When they were there, Alan didn’t have to wash much.
The first day that they hunted, Alan went out with his father. They didn’t see anything. The second day Uncle Ed talked Alan’s father into letting Alan go with him so, as his uncle said, “He’ll learn that hunting is more than sitting around watching the robins.”
His uncle and Alan left early in the morning and hiked along a ridge for two hours before they sat down away from the trail, waiting for the hunters below to scare some deer their way.
As Alan had waited with his uncle that morning, nervous and excited, it was as if he was recording each sensory impression to the smallest detail so that years later he could still remember: his body smelling like a work horse after the long hike; the decaying beauty of a forest preparing for the snows of winter; the smooth reassuring feel of the stock of his 30-30 rifle; and the anticipation that turned every wind into the sound of an approaching deer.
Then the deer came. Alan’s heart pounded inside him until it seemed that the noise would scare away the deer.
It was a six-point buck. His uncle motioned for Alan to make the shot. As he took the gun off safety, a shift in his weight caused a twig to snap. The deer heard the sound and looked over at him the same instant Alan squeezed the trigger. The sound of the shot roared in Alan’s ears.
It had been a good shot, and the deer had not gone very far before he fell down. When they reached him, his uncle reached down and, taking a knife, slit the deer’s throat so the blood would be pumped out, leaving the meat good.
His uncle stood up and, walking over to Alan, placed both of his large hands on Alan’s shoulders. Like some ancient ritual, he said, “You’re a man now.”
That night over a large campfire, the others told Alan stories about hunting. They seemed strangely happy as if they were welcoming him into some ancient brotherhood.
Each year after that Alan went hunting. He became a good hunter and enjoyed the challenge of pitting himself against the mountains.
But one day several years later as he methodically sighted in on his scope an eight-point buck 100 yards away, he thought to himself, “I’m just grocery shopping. That’s all it amounts to anymore.” He squeezed the trigger, and the deer recoiled backwards.
He still hunted after that because they needed the meat. But although he still enjoyed the chance to be outdoors, the sense of excitement was gone for him.

There have been hiccups—an October 2023 rainstorm washed dirt and debris from farmland through a back door and into the building, necessitating the temporary removal of the school to the local M?ori marae (community building) while the mud was cleaned up and the carpets were replaced. But McFarlane says the kids have proven very resilient and were anxious to come back to this building.
“What are the odds of having to pack up twice?” McFarlane said with a laugh. “The marae welcomed us in, and Maui (Aben, the president of the Gisborne New Zealand Stake) arrived that afternoon with the facilities maintenance people, and we got everything in motion to take care of that issue really fast,” McFarlane said.
But five weeks later, when school began again, they were still missing a key component of all elementary schools—a playground area. While there was plenty of grass around the Nuhaka Ward meetinghouse, there were not many shady trees and nothing to climb.
Enter Pacific Assist Foundation. As detailed last September, Pacific Assist Director Callum Blair was able to obtain some stored equipment from Torbay School in Auckland.
After a few months tying down some loose ends, it was shipped to Nuhaka and installed, along with some overhead shade provided by the Church, with the assistance of local missionaries in February.
Elder Nathan Woods, of Garden City, Utah, USA, and Elder Jacob Hughes of Branson, Missouri, USA assisted in the installation of the playground, along with Blair and other members of his Pacific Assist Team. Elder Woods said he and Elder Hughes were delighted to be of assistance.
“As missionaries, we cherish opportunities to serve others,” Woods said. “When you help others, it helps you remember the times that people have helped you, and you remember how it feels and how much those people mean to you.”
Elder Hughes agreed, noting that the opportunity to serve is an opportunity to grow as a person and to appreciate others even more. “It’s amazing to know that when we serve those around us, God remembers that effort.”
He continued, “I think when I get to help someone in a way that brings them joy, it gives me a glimpse of the love He has for them. It was an awesome experience to see how excited everyone was who helped with this.
“They just knew how much joy it would bring to these children who had gone through so much.”
And the kids really appreciated the effort expended to make it possible for them. “They were so excited when it was finally ready for them,” McFarlane said. “We couldn’t keep them focused on their work, so we finally just told them to go try it out!”
Meanwhile, the old primary school is being removed and a new school is being planned for the same site. While McFarlane hopes the new school will be completed and ready to move into in 2025, she says she, her staff and students are so grateful for the gift of the use of the Nuhaka Ward meetinghouse they have now.
“Having to go to the marae last October really reminded us how fortunate we were to be able to hold school in this building,” she reflects. “Everything we need now is here, and we’re able to teach our students all the things they need to grow and thrive.
“It is such a blessing and I’m sure, after we eventually move out into our own new space, that we’ll all look back on our time here with tremendous fondness and gratitude,” McFarlane said. “These kids will remember and talk about this for the rest of their lives.”

We had a wonderful experience as part of our humanitarian projects.
Brother Eric Graffe, who assists us with our projects, told us about a drinking water problem on the island of Tahaa. We quickly set up a video conference with Madame Patricia Amaru, mayor of Tahaa.
To our astonishment, she began with a prayer. We then asked her what their priority needs are. With tears in her eyes, she confided: “You must be the answer to my prayers, because just yesterday we had an urgent problem. And I’m powerless to solve it.”
She went on to explain that the drinking water distribution network is outdated, making it difficult to supply water to a large part of the island.
So we headed off to Tahaa to see what was needed. As water is one of the priorities of humanitarian projects, we decided to put together a dossier that we would submit to the branch president. If successful, this substantial project will bless the lives of over 2,000 people.
Once we had finished visiting the facilities, Madame Amaru regretted leaving us, as she had to attend a meeting “with a young man from your church who is going on a mission”.
It was in fact a vigil during which the future missionary was to open his call letter. We asked her if it’s a member of her family. “No!” she replied. “But I go wherever I’m invited.”
“Then we’ll be delighted to accompany you!”
When we arrived, we found a branch filled with love for this young future missionary who had lost his mother a year earlier. What’s more, he’s the first missionary from this branch . . . in 40 years!
The branch president asked to the mayor and her husband to address a word. They both gave “parent” advice, encouraging him to be obedient and respectful, to remain humble, and especially not to stay there (Salt Lake City Mission) after the mission.
Before we left, we learned that this couple, who are very close to the people of their community, had recently attended the dedication of the meetinghouse. What’s more, during the seven-month construction period, they welcomed the entire branch into their home (not the municipality’s premises, but their own) for Sunday meetings!
It was with hearts overflowing with love and gratitude for such generous and humble people that we set sail again to leave them.
Unquestionably, we declare that our Heavenly Father watches over His children tenderly, that He sent us to Tahaa to serve them, and that the Church is the means by which this might be done.

If you are fortunate enough to have grandparents who are still living, you can ask them these sorts of questions. And if your grandparents haven’t written their personal history, you can help them write it. It’s a big job, but if you ask January Winterton, 18, of St. George, Utah, she will tell you it’s worth the work.
January’s grandma, Karen Vlam, is a woman of great faith and courage. Confined to a wheelchair now, she has battled multiple sclerosis for more than 30 years. Despite her daily challenges, she is still smiling. Her dedication to the gospel and to her large family is a wonderful example to January.
“I want her to be more than just my kids’ great-grandma that they see in an old picture,” says January. “I want her to be a person that they know a lot about.”
That’s why January spent two-and-a-half weeks last summer living with her grandparents. Each day January asked her grandma questions about her life and typed the answers on a laptop computer. Once her notes are edited and compiled, January expects to have more than 50 pages of facts, stories, and pictures about her grandma’s life.
Along with funny stories, January’s grandma also shared her testimony and expressed her love for the Savior. January says, “I was impressed how throughout her life she turned to the Lord in her trials. She isn’t resentful about her disease, but instead she has learned to have a good attitude and move forward.
“Talking to my grandma made me realize that my trials are so small,” continues January. “If she can stay strong with all that she has been through, I can too. It may take a little faith on my part, but I just have to follow her example, her example of faith.”
After writing her grandma’s personal history, January feels she knows her grandma a lot better than before. “I know where she is coming from. I know her life experiences,” she says. January also knows that writing a personal history is hard work. It isn’t easy to summarize a life on paper. Because of this January suggests you help your grandparents or older relatives write their personal history, especially if they have health challenges that may prevent them from doing it themselves. She says the best thing to do is to get them thinking about their life by asking questions and just talking with them. Before you start, however, make sure you are ready to record their answers on tape, on video, on a laptop computer, or on paper.

Illustration by Apryl Stott
Last summer I worked for my neighbor. She has a big alpaca farm right next to her walnut orchard. Alpacas look kind of like llamas, only smaller.
My job was to clean out their stalls every day. I liked the work, even if it wasn’t easy.
One hot summer afternoon I showed up and my neighbor was gone. That wasn’t a problem, though. She already told me I could clean the stalls any time I chose, even if she was away.
While I was cleaning, one of the alpacas knocked over a gate. In a few seconds all 14 alpacas escaped into the yard and orchard! I couldn’t believe it! I felt sick to my stomach. How would I ever get them back by myself?
I started scrambling as fast as I could, rounding them up one or two at a time. Fifteen minutes later my heart was pounding from all the running, but the last one finally went back into the stall. Whew!
Then I turned and saw a pregnant alpaca lying down by a fruit tree 30 feet away. Ugh. Still one more to go. I tried scaring her back into the stall, but she wouldn’t budge. Then I tried pulling her with a harness and a rope that I found in the garage. No good. She lay there like a giant pile of bricks. I blew out my breath in frustration. What else could I try?
Then I remembered there’s always a way to ask for help, no matter where I am. I knelt down to pray. As soon as I finished praying, I opened my eyes and could hardly believe what I saw. The alpaca was walking back toward the stall, all on her own. I opened the gate, and she walked right in.
I smiled as I rode my bike home. I knew Heavenly Father had answered my prayer.

Jane Allgood Bailey wasn’t about to give up the light of her new religion. She would not be defeated by the cold, starvation, and sickness on the plains of Wyoming. She grasped hands with other women to wade through icy streams. They came out on the other side with their clothes frozen to them, but they carried on. On the trek, her 18-year-old son, Langley, became ill and was so weak that he had to be pushed on the handcart much of the way. One morning he rose from his bed on the cart, which had frozen canvas for bedding, and he went ahead of the company and lay down under a sagebrush to die, feeling that he was too much of a burden. When his faithful mother found him, she scolded him and told him: “Get on the cart. I’ll help you, but you’re not giving up!” Then the family moved on with what was left of the Martin-Willey Handcart Company.
Upon arrival in the Salt Lake Valley, Langley was still alive! He was 18 years old and he weighed only 60 pounds. That 18-year-old boy was my great-grandfather. I’m grateful for the preservation of his young life and for the fortitude and stamina of his noble, courageous mother, who was a light to her family and kept her son going in spite of deathly odds.

When I was 20, I went into the army. In basic training, I was exposed to many things I had been warned against. I was very grateful for the teachings I had received at home and in Primary. They were a lifesaver for me. I saw some young men who changed their way of life in the army and who chose not to follow God’s teachings. After basic training, one of these young men talked to me privately. He was sobbing because he had picked up a lot of bad habits, and now he had to go home and he didn’t want to face his parents. I was grateful I had been prepared to face those challenges and had remained faithful to the truths I had been taught.

The palms of my hands were cold and sweaty the morning I first met Lester at the airport in Chardon, Ohio. Lester was a legend. Crusty and dusty was a good way to describe him. He was a short, stubby old guy who had run Dethloff’s Flying Service at Chardon’s Airport for—well—forever. Now he stood sizing me up, not exactly excited by the 15-year-old boy he saw. Finally, he asked, "Okay, what do you want?"
"I want to learn to fly."
"So does every other kid in the world. What should I do about it?"
I wasn’t going to back down, so I asked, "Will you teach me?"
He stared at me for some time. I felt like I was being X-rayed. "Nobody can teach anybody to fly," Lester grumbled. "Only experience can do that! But I can show ya how it’s done. But only if. …"
"If what?"
"If you’re willing to work hard enough to learn."
"I am."
"We’ll soon see, won’t we?" Lester turned and began walking away. I stayed rooted, not sure what to do.
He finally turned around and said, "Well, aren’t you coming?"
"Coming where?"
He looked at me like he couldn’t quite believe what he saw. "Flying for goodness’ sakes. Flying! Isn’t that why you came here?"
The next 40 minutes were crowded. We rattled and bumped across the grass and then climbed toward the clouds. Straight and level. Shallow turns. Climbing. Gliding. Then climbing and gliding turns. He guided me as we eased back toward the runway and didn’t take control until we were crossing the wires strung on poles beside the road. We climbed out. He nodded his head and said, "I guess you’ll do."
I pedaled my bicycle home that day fueled by pure elation.

One year my family and I went trick-or-treating* on Halloween with our cousins. We knocked on one door and the man said he was out of candy, but that he would give each of us a dollar instead. As we walked to the next house, I looked at my dollar and realized that it was actually a $100 bill. I told my dad, and we looked in everyone’s bags. They all had $100 bills. The man had given us a total of $800. We decided to go back and tell him. He was thankful that we had returned his money because that was his house payment. I felt happy because if we had not given him back his money, he could have lost his home. I’m glad that Jesus teaches us to be honest.

If someone had asked me when I was little if I would serve a mission, I would have said no. My heart softened toward the idea as I got older, partly because I had seen my older siblings serve. But I still never really thought of it as something I would do.
When I turned 21, I began to wonder if I should go on a mission, but I never prayed seriously about it. As time went on, I began to feel something was missing. I told my mother how I felt, and she suggested I reconsider a mission. She said that when she was my age, she felt the same emotions I was experiencing. Serving a mission was the answer for her, so maybe it was also my answer.
I was terrified to pray about a mission. One reason I never considered a mission before was that I didn’t think I was strong enough to do it. I would have to leave my comforts behind and perhaps learn a new language. Plus, I didn’t think I knew the gospel well enough to teach it. But as I prayed with purpose, I felt my fears melt away. The answer I received was overpowering: the Lord loved me, and He wanted me to serve a mission.
I was amazed by the confidence I felt after I received my answer. I no longer felt nervous or unqualified. Instead I was excited to share the gospel, and I began working on my mission papers. I was soon called to the Utah Salt Lake City Temple Square Mission.
Rebecca Keller Monson

Most birthday parties I am invited to are on Saturdays. However, one year I was invited to two of them on a Sunday. It was hard not to go as both parties were at the Canada Games Pool, and I knew they would be a lot of fun. But I also know that it is a commandment to keep the Sabbath day holy. I decided not to go. The next year when these girls’ birthdays came around, both of them held their parties on Saturday, and I was able to go.

About two weeks later, we had another of those extra special family home evenings. And again we felt impressed to proceed with a kidney transplant. Again I went to the phone and called a brother, this time my older brother, Craig. Again I received a positive response.

Within a week, Craig, his wife Penny, and their one-year-old son Jason flew in from California. That same afternoon I went to the hospital, and Craig was admitted the next day.

Our names were placed on the prayer rolls of six temples from London to Los Angeles by friends of the family.

The night before surgery we held family home evening in my hospital room. At one point I tried to tell the family that it didn’t seem worth the risk or sacrifice required of my brother to attempt that transplant. But Dad looked at me soberly, put a hand on my shoulder, and softly said, “We all feel that this is what the Lord wants, and your brother is proud to be able to do it. Remember, Brent, we’ll all live to see you running across the park lawn again, with that large grin of yours.”

Surgery began the next morning at 6:00 A.M. with my nurse giving me a sedative before the operation. At the end of the day I opened my eyes to see my parents close to my bed. I was back in my hospital room, and I knew everything was all right.

I remember seeing other members of the family briefly that evening. But I couldn’t find Craig. “How is Craig? Where is my brother?”

A familiar hand rested on my shoulder, and I heard my mother’s voice: “Brent, Craig is fine and your new kidney is fine, too.” With those words I went to sleep. “Thanks, Father in Heaven. Thanks, Craig. Thanks a lot, family.”

During those first few days after my transplant, I got a feeling that something was wrong when I looked at the troubled faces of my parents and brothers. All was not well with Craig. By the third day I was sure he had died and no one would tell me about it. Actually, he hadn’t died. But he was very ill and having a difficult time recovering from his part of the surgery.

On the afternoon of the third day, my father and brother carried Craig to see me. He was the color of a ripe banana. With a half smile on his face he said, “How’s it going, brother?” At that moment, seeing his pain and considering his sacrifice, I knew what love was and what having a family meant.

Haruki, it is time for bed. Did you say your prayer yet?
No, not yet.
We will kneel with you.
Haruki knelt down and started to pray.
Thank Thee for my family, my house, my friends, and my toys. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.
Haruki, that was a good prayer, but you forgot to start by saying, “Heavenly Father.”
Why do I have to say that?
When we pray, we are talking to Heavenly Father. He loves us.
When we pray to Him, we can thank Him for everything He gives us. We can also ask Him for things we need.
Heavenly Father loves me?
Yes, He does. How does that make you feel?
I want to say my prayer again!
Heavenly Father, thank Thee …

This group was successful in winning battles in Argentina, and then José began to plan to free Chile. In order to do so, it was necessary to take his army of 3,500 men across the rugged snow-topped mountain ranges of the Andes. The Andes have an average width of 150 miles and an average height of 12,000 feet. The only roads were narrow, steep, and dangerous paths that wound around deep gorges and over jagged peaks.
Even the women and children in and around Mendoza, Argentina, where the march began, participated in the final preparations. The women brought their precious jewels to José to be exchanged for food and equipment. The children went from door to door collecting blankets, clean rags, and whatever could be used for bandages or for protection against the intense below-zero cold of the Andes.
One man had room in his saddlebags for nothing but the medical supplies for José, who was almost always ill with asthma, rheumatism, stomach ulcers, and various other ailments. But neither impassable mountains, severe illness, lack of money, lonely separation from his young wife and little daughter, nor other obstacles could stop this man whose dream was to free the people of South America from what he believed was the unfair government of Spain.
Finally all was in readiness. The night before the army left Mendoza, mule packs and oxcarts went through streets that had been strewn with flowers, as everyone gathered to hold special prayers and to pledge again their dedication to freedom.
The army made an unbelievable crossing of the Andes despite storm, cold, illness, and other hardships. This march prepared the way for the establishment of independence for both Chile and Peru.

Olivia Eson, a sister in my ward (Ekpoma First Ward), hardly has the chance to come to chapel cleaning every Saturday morning because of her tight class schedule at school. But unfailingly, she serves every Sunday immediately after the sacrament meeting by tidying the chapel, which becomes messy after Sunday services.
She also goes to get soap, water, and other cleaning materials to keep the toilets clean.
Sister Olivia says, “I find joy in serving my Heavenly Father by keeping the Lord’s house clean. This is one way I choose to do my part.”

When I was a young boy, I took church attendance seriously and always said in my heart that I will go to a church that bears Christ’s name, so I was happy to attend a church that had “Christ” in its name. One day at school, one of my friends came to me and said: “Rich Boy, I want to invite you to my church on Sunday.” I asked him why he wanted me to go to his church and he said: “I want you to gain salvation!”
I was confused at the invitation to be saved because I attended church regularly and as far as I was concerned, we all worshipped one God.
On Sunday morning, my friend called to tell me to get ready for church because he was coming over to my house to pick me up. When I saw him approaching our compound, I quickly went to hide because I belonged to another church and didn’t know why I should visit my friend’s church.
After that, my friend would on occasion extend the invitation to come to his church again. One day, I decided that I would go with him to know the reason why he wanted me to accompany him. The first time I attended church with my friend, I felt the Spirit. I heard about the Atonement of Jesus Christ and I was so impressed. When we came back from church, I told him that I can’t go back to my church again. I wanted to attend The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
The next Sunday, i was contacted by some missionaries who asked me if they could visit me at home during the week. I agreed and set an appointment with them. I requested that they bring a copy of the Book of Mormon to me when they came to my house. The missionaries arrived and told me amongst other things “Brother Nimako, do you know that God loves you? The gospel we teach can bless you and your family.” I enjoyed their visit and scheduled another appointment.
I read my copy of the Book of Mormon and prayed. I pondered on the message the missionaries shared and what I was reading in the book of Mormon. I had a good feeling as I did this. I couldn’t wait to be baptised!
After my baptism on 30 January 2009, I was so active in Church, even more active than my friend who invited me, so I started to visit him with missionaries. I asked the missionaries to visit my mother also. I wanted her to be blessed by the gospel I had received.
On July 4, 2014, my mother was also baptised, to my greatest joy. I went on to serve a full-time mission in the Nigeria Benin City Mission. I stood as a witness of the truth. I testify that the gospel is true. I know that Joseph Smith saw God and Jesus Christ, and he was a true prophet. I know with all my heart that if we read the Book of Mormon daily and ponder and pray about it, we will know that Jesus Christ is our Savior and Redeemer.

“Why not just a little?” That was the question David asked after his early-morning seminary teacher had finished an entire lesson about protecting yourself from sin. “I’m not talking about doing anything big,” David continued. “I just want to know why I can’t have a sip of beer—just to taste it and know what it is like. Why not just one cigarette or one night with a girl so my friends will stop bugging me?”
Before the teacher could even start giving him the usual answers, David outguessed him and blurted, “And don’t tell me that alcohol kills your brain cells and that cigarettes cause cancer. Don’t tell me about AIDS.” He didn’t want to hear the typical “scare” stories. David continued, “I know men who used to drink and smoke, and they’re bishops now.”
It was true. David knew many people who had repented and been forgiven of their sins. “So,” he looked directly at his teacher and repeated his original question, “why not just a little?”
By now nearly every young person in the room was nodding and saying, “Yeah, why not?” The seminary teacher knew he had to say something—quickly. He swallowed hard, said a silent prayer, and offered, “Try looking at it like this: Isn’t the Holy Ghost a member of the Godhead?”
“Yes,” answered David, “but what does that have to do with anything?”
The teacher explained, “Well, ‘no unclean thing can dwell with God’ (1 Ne. 10:21; Mosiah 2:36–38). Maybe that’s why we must be baptized—completely cleaned—before we receive the gift of the Holy Ghost” (see D&C 68:25; D&C 84:64).
The room was quiet. Despite the fact they had already sat through one lesson that day, David and his friends were listening to their teacher. “In scriptures we are told that the Spirit won’t always strive with men (see Gen. 6:3; Ether 15:19; D&C 1:33).
“The immediate consequence of any sin is withdrawal of the Spirit of the Holy Ghost. So one cigarette may not be enough to give you cancer, but it is enough to alienate you from the Spirit. One can of beer may not make you an alcoholic and leave you homeless, but it is enough to leave you without the Spirit. The same thing for a premarital sexual experience.”
Most of the class was agreeing with their teacher now, but David still wasn’t completely convinced. He said, “So the Spirit leaves. So what?”
Class time was over. The students needed to go to school. “Let’s pick this discussion up tomorrow,” said the teacher, and they did. Over the next few days the class studied the fruits of the Spirit. What David had not considered was that when we lose the Spirit we automatically lose some other things as well.
The seminary class was glad David had asked, “Why not just a little?” In the course of their discussions and study, David and his friends had come to some important conclusions. One student summed it up like this: “Why not just a little sin? Well, why not just a little touch on the burner of a hot stove? Sure, you may heal in the long run, but not without going through a lot of unnecessary pain and suffering.”

The Molalla High School seminary class, taught by Dianne Chelson, earned enough points to be named the number one class in a poll conducted in the Portland Oregon Region. The status was achieved by earning points for attendance, memorization, reading, and locating scriptures. The ten students in the class were in first place when the poll began and held that position for five months.
The Molalla class also won their stake scripture chase competition. They went the extra mile and memorized all 40 of the year’s scriptures.

Nancy Lovern was excited. It was June 27, and today she turned five years old. In some ways, the day had been just like any other. She’d fed the chickens and collected their eggs, slopped (fed) the pigs, and helped Mama clean the house. But in some ways, it was different. Everyone had sung “Happy Birthday” at breakfast and paid extra attention to her all day long.
Now it was late afternoon, and Nancy couldn’t help peeking out the window every few minutes. Papa had promised to bring her a surprise from Nauvoo. Mama was making a special dinner and a dried-apple molasses cake. There would be a grand birthday party.
The hour grew late. Long shadows spread across the barnyard, and still Papa didn’t come. Nancy thought that she would burst. Mama just laughed and said, “Staring out the door won’t make Papa get home any sooner.” When Nancy could wait no more, she went out to the road that led to Nauvoo. She was swinging on the gate when she finally heard the clippety-clop of horses’ hooves and the rattle of wagon wheels. She saw a lone figure driving slowly down the dusty road. It was Papa! He must be dawdling to make me wait longer for my birthday surprise, she thought, running to meet him.
She was stopped short by the sadness on his face. And he was crying! Nancy didn’t know what to do. Papa never cried except when he bore his testimony. She was surprised to feel tears in her own eyes. “What’s wrong, Papa?”
He climbed down from the wagon and held her close. “They did it, Nan—they killed Brother Joseph!”
Nancy completely forgot her birthday. She loved the Prophet. He always took time to talk with her whenever he visited her parents. She truly felt that he was a prophet of God.
Sorrow was thick in the house as Papa gathered the rest of the family around him and told how an angry mob had stormed the jail in Carthage, killing their beloved prophet and his brother Hyrum, and seriously wounding Brother Taylor.
The next day Nancy’s family filed through the Mansion House to pay final respects to the slain leaders. Later they listened to Brother W. W. Phelps preach the funeral sermon. Sorrow hung like a heavy fog over the whole community.
Nancy celebrated seventy-nine birthdays after that eventful day, but never without some melancholy recollection of her birthday in 1844.
More than one hundred fifty years have come and gone. Nancy has thousands of descendants, most of whom faithfully sing praises to “the man who communed with Jehovah”*—the prophet and martyr who was killed on her fifth birthday.
Nancy Francis Lovern Oliver was a real person! She was my great-great-grandmother. When my grandmother, Lenna Kathryn Bryce Blain, was a little girl, she sat by the fireplace on cold winter nights and listened to pioneer stories told by her Grandma Nancy. Grandma Lenna said that she couldn’t remember all the stories, but she would never forget the one about the death of the Prophet. This fictional account is based on that true story.

“My husband’s family was very poor. His mother made rugs to sell at a store in a sparsely settled area, and his father tended sheep, cut firewood, and hauled water for the family,” explained the lovely young wife of this General Authority, while rocking a baby on her lap.
“There were ten in his family and they lived 24 kilometers from the nearest town in a remote desert area. There were no cars or running water. And the drinking water was often so bad that the people there would drink fruit juices and soda pop instead.
“When my husband was four years old, he became very ill and went into a coma. Everyone thought he had died. In fact, his body had been placed in a casket for burial. In a little while they heard a faint knocking on the inside of the casket. The child was alive! The casket was quickly reopened and the boy sat up. ‘I want a soda pop,’ he said.
Thereafter, he was known as the ‘soda pop child’. His parents have often said that after this experience he was a changed child. He was more responsible and would help tend the others in the family. He was concerned about others and seemed to be blessed with a special spirit.
“The main food for his family was fry bread made from biscuit dough, mutton stew, and often soda pop. Today, his favorite foods are anything hot and spicy that he can put pepper on.
“He herded sheep until the age of nine; then he was placed in boarding school. Since the people there could not pronounce his real name, they gave him an English one. The only problem was that they also gave three other children the same name. So there was a number one, two, three, and four with the same name.
“A Latter-day Saint missionary couple at the store baptized my husband when he was ten years old, and he attended Church services from that time on. He was selected to participate in the Church’s education program and was to be sent to Utah to live with a foster family and go to school. An hour before the bus was to leave, a friend, Brother Bloomfield, put a bowl on his head and gave him a quick haircut. All of his belongings were put into a shoe box—he had no shoes. There were more holes in the denim pants he was wearing than there was denim material. He was put on a bus at night, given two dollars by Brother Bloomfield, and told that he would arrive there by morning.”
At this point, I was thinking how difficult it must have been for that little boy to leave his family to go all alone on a bus to a place with a different culture where he knew no one. The only tie that he had with them was that he was a member of the Latter-day Saint Church.”
The General Authority’s wife continued: “On the first day at his new school in Utah the children all gathered around my husband. They had never seen an Indian before. ‘Where’s your war paint?’ they asked. ‘Where are your moccasins?’
“The new foster parents were concerned because their Indian son was so shy. In fact, the only words he spoke to them during the first three months were yes and no. At Christmastime they gave him some new clothes—two pairs of pants, four shirts, two pairs of socks, etc. The mother asked him to go upstairs and try them on. After quite a while he came downstairs with all of the shirts, pants, and socks on at the same time. It was difficult to get used to a new language and customs.
“Even though my husband is now very busy, he enjoys football and basketball. When he has spare time, which isn’t often, he loves to play the harmonica. Last Christmas he played for the General Authorities at their Christmas party.
“My husband believes that family home evening is a great time to train children to be leaders. He always has one of our children conduct. One of them will assign the prayers and choose the hymns. At the conclusion, the one conducting thanks all those who participated. Usually the person who gave the lesson is sincerely complimented. Then the closing song is announced and the name of the one to give the closing prayer.
“One morning the children’s father had to leave at 5 A.M. for an early meeting at the Church offices. Later he called when the children were just getting up and we all had family prayer with him on the telephone.”
His small children had these comments: “When Daddy comes home, he tells me that if I eat my dinner he’ll give me a ride on his back. Sometimes he’ll give my friend a ride too!”
“Dad is helping me to save money for my mission.”
“My daddy shows us how to clean. He always tells us to clean the counter after we wash the dishes.”
“He’s kind.”
“When he plays football with us, we all have to speak nicely.”
When asked about her husband’s favorite topic to speak on, she said, “He always says that we’re all God’s children, no matter what color we are, and that our church has no room for prejudice. When he speaks, he represents the whole Church, not just the Lamanite people.”