Gospel Story Finder

As our family discussed our most memorable family home evening, what stuck out had nothing to do with a fun activity, clever object lesson, or special treat. It was a simple but profound experience that began with a lesson our 17-year-old son, Fielding, prepared about forgiveness.
After the lesson, everyone had an opportunity to express his or her feelings about what we liked about each other and what we wished we could improve in ourselves. We talked about the challenges we each faced and helped each other find solutions. We cried together, asked forgiveness of each other, and set goals to be better.
Family home evening has become one of our favorite times. We love how it allows our children to express themselves more freely and with confidence.

It reminds me of two trees that were close to my home when I was growing up. The one was a Russian olive and grew right in our yard. It was watered every time the lawn was watered, and in that kind of protected environment it grew to be a beautiful tree. Yet one night a tremendous wind came up. Trees all over town were blown down, and with them went our Russian olive. We had watered it so well that the roots did not have to reach down into the soil; and because they were so close to the surface, the tree toppled over.
The second tree withstood the gale. It was a tremendous cottonwood, which still stands in the lane just half a block from where I was born. This tree was in the fullness of its growth when I was a child. It has always stood by itself, completely exposed to the elements, with nothing but a ditch running by, which most of the time is dry. It is gnarled and tough, and its roots have had to sink deep in order to drink of the water of life; but because its roots were forced downward, it lives. I was out home the other day and noticed that most of the trees around this cottonwood are gone. But in all of its power and majesty, it still hangs on.

My great-grandfather was the last native te reo M?ori speaker in my family. I used to watch videos of him and listen to him speak the language of our people, wishing I could understand him. Even though he was only a few generations older than me, I didn’t have that connection to our heritage.
I served a mission in the Philippines, and I loved it. I loved the language, the people—everything. And because I spent time trying to connect with the people I was serving and teaching, I became immersed in their culture.
As wonderful as that opportunity was, I realized that I’d never tried to connect with my own culture and people in the same way. Although I had helped to gather Israel on my mission, I realized there were important ways for me to help gather Israel at home too, especially within my own family.
His dream resonated with me. I felt prompted to learn about my ancestors and connect with them like I never had before.
I had just entered medical school when I decided to learn the language of my people. So on top of my busy schedule, I took night classes to learn M?ori.
When the classes first began, I felt alone and uncertain about moving forward. But the more I talked to my classmates, the more I realized that many had also felt prompted to connect with their heritage by learning M?ori.
Over time, learning M?ori truly began to feel like a spiritual experience. I was beginning to understand the promise that Elijah would “turn the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers” (Malachi 4:6). My ancestors were becoming more real to me.
Learning the language also opened doors in my everyday life. I found that speaking M?ori helped me better connect with the people for whom I was providing medical care. I helped establish M?ori classes at my university and discovered that many other medical students were also interested in learning to help them provide better care.
Although the language is becoming increasingly less common, being able to communicate with those who are native M?ori speakers has helped me minister to specific populations. I’ve witnessed how my native patients feel especially heard and seen when we can speak their language together. These experiences have really shown me what it means to minister to the one.

One of my good friends asked me to go to our Senior Ball, and I was really excited to go with him. I wanted to look nice, and I knew I wanted to wear a modest dress. My mom and I shopped at a few stores, and I found a beautiful, modest dress that I was excited to wear.
A group of four couples had decided to go to a nice restaurant for dinner before the dance. My date and I and another couple arrived at the restaurant first. We chose to be seated at a table while we waited for the other two couples to join us.
About five minutes after we were seated, our waiter came over to our table and asked for our order. Since we were waiting for the other couples to arrive, we were not ready. Our waiter paused and said, “There is someone in this restaurant who would like to pay for your dinner, and they need to leave soon.” My mouth dropped open. The four of us were astounded. We placed our order but asked our waiter to bring our food when our entire party had ordered. After the other two couples arrived, we told them that our meal had been paid for by an anonymous patron of the restaurant.
After we ate our dinner, our waiter brought us the folder for the bill. My date picked it up and, with the other young man watching, opened it. They both looked up at each other and then looked at me and the other young woman. “This isn’t for us. It’s for you ladies,” my date said. I opened the folder and read a note that was left inside. It read, “Thanks for dressing modestly! You look great!”
We never figured out who was kind enough to pay for our dinner, but it made our dance even more memorable. I had never thought that wearing a modest dress would be noticed by anyone, but I am glad that I made the choice. Dressing modestly is a choice, and this experience made me want to continue to dress modestly.

Usually, we sit in two or three rows for our Young Women lesson, and our teacher stands in the front. But one Sunday our teacher had us move our chairs around a circular table. For some reason sitting in a circle made it feel like we could talk to one another instead of only speaking to the teacher. We all felt like we were actually sisters, not just students. In fact, before the lesson even began, one young woman said, “I feel like we’re family right now.”
That Sunday, the lesson was on the Atonement. Our teacher started by passing out copies of a general conference talk. She asked us to circle words that describe the Savior. We called out the words we were circling so others could circle them. After that, our teacher spoke briefly about the Atonement and then turned to me and asked if I had anything to say. I don’t remember what I said, but afterward all the young women started talking to one another. We had a conversation! We were talking about our Savior and His sacrifice as a group of friends.
After a while, the conversation slowed down and we just sat in silence, enjoying the Spirit.
This lesson was remarkable. Because I participated, I felt the Spirit strongly and the lesson became a part of me. I had a testimony of the Atonement before, but this lesson reminded me that the Savior is real and that the Atonement and the gospel are about love. I now have a stronger love for my peers—Church members and those who are not members—and I want to share the gospel with everyone so they can know the blessings of the Atonement. Doing something about a lesson—whether it’s commenting in class or writing in your journal—changes you.

Some years ago, one of our young married daughters and her husband asked Sister Rasband and me a very important, life-influencing question: “Is it still safe and wise to bring children into this seemingly wicked and frightening world we live in?”

Now, that was an important question for a mom and dad to consider with their dear married children. We could hear the fear in their voices and feel the fear in their hearts. Our answer to them was a firm “Yes, it’s more than OK,” as we shared fundamental gospel teachings and our own heartfelt impressions and life experiences.

Now, what about that daughter and son-in-law who asked the very heartfelt and probing, fear-based question years ago? They seriously considered our conversation that night; they prayed and fasted and came to their own conclusions. Happily and joyfully for them and for us, the grandparents, they have now been blessed with seven beautiful children as they go forward in faith and love.

When President Soares asked Luan what he would like to do when he left the hospital, Luan said he would like to perform vicarious baptisms in the Recife Brazil Temple. After Luan left the hospital, President Soares and Bishop Farias helped him fulfill this desire. Luan performed as many baptisms as his strength would allow. At the end of his day at the temple, even though he was in great pain, he was happy he could do something for others.

My wife, Sarah, was 24 weeks pregnant when she started having a lot of pain. I gave her a blessing and then left for work. I was still at work when she called me home to take her to the hospital.
“Your baby’s coming,” we were told when we arrived. Since Sarah was only 24 weeks along, the baby’s best chance of survival was an emergency C-section.
“Your wife doesn’t need to go through any additional trauma,” the doctor told me. “She’s going to lose the baby anyway.”
Sarah and I talked and prayed about what the doctor had said. We felt that if there was any chance our baby could survive, we needed to take that chance. We had experienced difficulty having children. Our oldest son, Taylor, is adopted. When Sarah got pregnant two years after we adopted Taylor, we felt that it was a miracle. Now we needed a second miracle.
A little while later, a specialist came to us and said, “I think we may have time to get your wife to a children’s hospital in El Paso, Texas, that is equipped to care for premature and critically ill newborns. The baby will have a chance there!”
An ambulance pulled away from our local hospital with Sarah and sped toward the children’s hospital 45 minutes away. I followed close behind, pleading with the Lord in prayer to give us a miracle. I promised Him that I would stay on the gospel path and try to be better.
At the hospital, I told the doctor in the neonatal intensive care unit: “We know we have already had one miracle with my wife’s pregnancy. Now we expect another one.”
The birth went well, and our baby survived. After she spent four and a half months in the neonatal intensive care unit, we brought Shanna home. We had received a second miracle. Not many years later, we received yet another miracle—the Lord blessed us with twins.
Shanna has a slightly low IQ, and she’s in a wheelchair, but she’s full of joy, always positive, and a friend to everyone. She loves to tell you about her day, and she’s excited about life. She keeps us smiling and teaches us to be happy. We love her and are grateful for her. Shanna is truly a blessing.

As you reach out to them, please remember the experience of a friend of mine. He had never owned a horse in his life until he married a wonderful woman who loves horses. Wanting to impress his new bride, he announced one evening that he was going to the pasture to teach a colt how to be led. He weighed more than the colt. He knew more than the colt. He assumed all he would need to do was pull on the lead rope and sooner or later the colt would follow. He was confident that the process would be short and simple.
He attached the lead rope to the halter, got in front of the colt, and pulled. The colt resisted. My friend pulled harder, and the colt planted his legs more firmly. So he really pulled, and the colt fell over. The process was repeated several times until my friend made this assessment: in just four or five minutes he had successfully taught the colt to fall over. All he had to do was get in front of the colt, pick up the rope, and over it would go.
His wife, watching this process, finally suggested that instead of getting in front of the colt and pulling, he might try wrapping the rope around the colt and simply walking alongside. To my friend’s chagrin, it worked.

I am reminded of a story about a missionary call which you may find of interest and which shows how the inspiration of the Lord directs his work. I could give you a dozen. But on one occasion, after the letters of call had been sent to a group of missionaries, the executive secretary of the Missionary Department received a telephone call from the mother of a boy who had received an assignment to a mission in the eastern part of the United States. The mother said that she and the father of the boy were extremely disappointed because the boy’s father and grandfather had served missions in Germany, and they had expressed their desires that the boy also be called to a German mission.

The secretary asked the mother how the boy felt about it, and she replied that he was at school and that she had opened the letter in his absence. He did not yet know where he was to be called. The secretary expressed his surprise that the mother would open the only letter the boy might ever receive from the President of the Church and suggested that she call him back after the boy had read the letter.

The following day the mother called back most apologetically and said that the boy’s reaction was one of complete satisfaction with the call. He had secretly been praying that he would not be called to a foreign mission.

Melissa opened her eyes and hopefully looked around. But her bedroom was still gloomy and gray—just like yesterday.
“Grumpy gray dismal day,” she muttered to herself as she got out of bed.
Melissa wondered why Saturdays had to be rainy. Since there’s no school on Saturdays, she thought, they should all be nice sunny days so I can play outside. Besides, it rained all day yesterday and the day before!
A frowning freckled face scowled at her from the mirror as Melissa brushed her hair. Still frowning, she went into the kitchen to see what the family was having for breakfast.
Mother looked sunshiny in her daffodil yellow housecoat. The smell of pancakes and sausage and blueberry syrup was enough to brighten most anyone. But not Melissa.
“Good morning,” Mother said, smiling cheerfully.
“It’s a grumpy gray day,” Melissa answered. “How can anyone smile?”
Just then little Marcy toddled in. She wrapped her arms around Mother’s legs and smiled her biggest two-year-old smile.
How can Marcy be expected to understand gloomy gray days? Melissa wondered.
Then Michael bounced into the kitchen wearing his new shoes. “These shoes make me jump higher than my old ones!” he laughed. “I like them!”
Michael is happy because he has new shoes, Melissa thought. And Mother is cheerful just because—well, because mothers are supposed to be cheerful.
Melissa could hear Martin whistling upstairs as he finished dressing in his room. Before long he came into the kitchen smiling and looking relieved. “Boy, am I glad it’s raining today!” he said. “Now I can work on my model airplane and finish that book report for school.”
Melissa was really puzzled. She was just going to ask Martin how he could be happy on such a dismal day when Dad came into the kitchen. He smiled at everyone and gave Mother a big kiss.
Everyone laughed and talked while they ate breakfast—everyone, that is, except Melissa. She simply could not understand how anyone could be happy on a grumpy gray day.
After breakfast while Melissa was helping with the dishes, Mother said, “Why don’t you run over to Grandpa’s after the dishes are done? I’m sure he would like to see you.”
Melissa hesitated, thinking about the drizzly cold rain. Still, it might be fun to see Grandpa, she finally decided, and she put on her boots and raincoat and hurried out the door.
Grandpa lived about three blocks away. By the time Melissa stepped onto his porch, she was wet and cold and grumpier than ever.
Grandpa heard Melissa and called for her to come inside.
Entering the house, Melissa smelled dry wood burning in the large living room fireplace. Grandpa was sitting in a tall rocking chair by the window, and the pleasant glow from the burning wood brought a sunshiny warmth into the air.
“Hi, Grandpa,” Melissa greeted him. “It’s another dismal gray day outside.”
Grandpa looked a little surprised. “What makes you say it’s dismal?” he asked.
“Well, it’s raining!” Melissa replied impatiently. Doesn’t anyone understand about grumpy gray days? she wondered.
Grandpa sat quietly for a while looking out the window at something that seemed faraway and beautiful.
Melissa looked too, but all she could see was gloomy wet rain soaking the grass, the trees, and the street. Everything was gray and grumpy!
Grandpa suddenly asked, “What do you see?”
“Gray rain,” said Melissa frowning.
“Look closer and use some imagination,” Grandpa suggested. He watched Melissa for a few moments and then asked, “Now what do you see?”
“Well,” said Melissa, looking very closely at the window itself, “I see tiny clear raindrops splashing and falling against the glass.” A smile started to grow around her mouth. “And when a drop holds still, it really doesn’t hold still,” she added. “It shimmers and shivers!”
Grandpa nodded. “What color would you call it?” he asked.
“Mostly crystal clear,” answered Melissa. “But I see sparkling speckles of red and gold and blue if I squint my eyes almost shut.”
“Then rain is not really gray,” said Grandpa, raising an eyebrow as if he too were making a discovery.
“Well, not close up,” Melissa agreed. She looked out across the yard at the rain for several minutes. “In fact,” Melissa continued, “it’s not really plain old gray even far away. It’s a mysterious foggy blue gray.”
Now she understood what Grandpa had seen. This rain is really beautiful, she thought.
“Come out to the kitchen and we’ll have some cookies,” Grandpa said as he stood up. “It only takes a little imagination to make a raindrop into a diamond.”
That night when Melissa snuggled into bed, it was still raining. She thought about her visit with Grandpa and what she had learned about raindrops.
Who knows, she thought sleepily, maybe I can make homework into diamonds, and maybe even washing dishes. Rainy days aren’t so bad after all!
And Melissa drifted off to sleep, a happy smile on her lips.

For example, Yves, an 18-year-old from the Tamenga Branch, Paramaribo Suriname District, saw that when he played the keyboard at Church meetings and activities, lots of people were interested in learning how to play. So he started teaching free classes for children, teens, and adults.
The classes are taught at several branches and are open to anyone who wants to come. Most evenings when Yves teaches, there are at least a half dozen students in attendance, both Latter-day Saints and others who heard about the class from members of the branch. He also teaches flute when someone is interested. He leads the branch choir, and he directed a special presentation by the district choir. He says his musical involvement is a way of showing thanks for the missionary couple who taught him how to read notes and make music.

In 1940, the Kimballs began construction of their dream house, a pueblo-style home they designed themselves. The business was going well. Prosperity beckoned. They looked forward to a long, comfortable, and happy life in Safford.
Then, on July 8, 1943, the phone rang, a phone call that would change the Kimball’s lives.
“It must have taken only a few seconds for me to cross the room to the phone, grasp the receiver and say, ‘Hello,’ but it seemed that an hour’s thinking and retrospection coursed through my mind.”
Then came the voice of President J. Reuben Clark, a counselor to President Heber J. Grant, and a call to the Quorum of the Twelve. There followed six days and nights of weeping, confusion, and prayer. He yearned for a confirmation from the Lord. Finally on a hilltop in Boulder, Colorado, where he and his wife had been visiting their son, he received the calm assurance and peace that his call was indeed inspired. “My tears were dry, my soul was at peace. A calm feeling of assurance came over me, doubt and questionings subdued. It was as though a great burden had been lifted. I sat in tranquil silence surveying the beautiful valley, thanking the Lord for the satisfaction and the reassuring answer to my prayers.”

I am acquainted with a family which came to America from Germany. The English language was difficult for them. They had but little by way of means, but each was blessed with the will to work and with a love of God.

Their third child was born, lived but two months, and then died. Father was a cabinetmaker and fashioned a beautiful casket for the body of his precious child. The day of the funeral was gloomy, thus reflecting the sadness they felt in their loss. As the family walked to the chapel, with Father carrying the tiny casket, a small number of friends had gathered. However, the chapel door was locked. The busy bishop had forgotten the funeral. Attempts to reach him were futile. Not knowing what to do, the father placed the casket under his arm and, with his family beside him, carried it home, walking in a drenching rain.

If the family were of a lesser character, they could have blamed the bishop and harbored ill feelings. When the bishop discovered the tragedy, he visited the family and apologized. With the hurt still evident in his expression, but with tears in his eyes, the father accepted the apology, and the two embraced in a spirit of understanding. No hidden wedge was left to cause further feelings of anger. Love and acceptance prevailed.

This does not mean we should have no interest in history. I love Church history, and my joy when visiting Church historical sites is intensified by knowing their background. But the more lasting impressions are from what is felt there, rather than what is remembered.

A few years ago my wife and I went to some of these sites. Two experiences come to mind which have relevance to this search for balance. In Jackson County we sat on the lawn within the boundaries of the future Jackson County temple. It was sunset. We were alone. We talked of history and prophecies of the future. But we remember most the sweet, peaceful, spiritual witness that Jesus Christ stands at the head of this church and that Joseph Smith is what he claimed to be, a prophet of God. No amount of historical research alone can bring to pass that spiritual witness. It comes only when we become attuned and learn to recognize spiritual things. However, the spiritual witness was strengthened by our knowledge of what has happened and what will happen there. That evening we found the elusive balance.

The next day we strayed off center. We went to Adam-ondi-Ahman, part of a sacred past and destined to be included in a sacred future. Knowing this history helped us understand the significance of the land. We had a history book which told of an altar of Adam and the Nephites. We didn’t know subsequent research has given rise to some questions on the exact location. We arrived an hour before sunset and, in search of the precise location of the altar, we drove to and fro becoming more frustrated by the minute. Fortunately, we came to our senses and drove to a knoll just in time to watch the sunset and enjoy the spirit of the place. Again, the Lord blessed us with a spiritual experience which can be recalled vividly upon reflection.

A group of 43 teens in Larimer County, Colorado, were able to help a young man complete his Eagle Project, collect 1,800 pounds of food, take the Christmas spirit to the elderly, gather emergency supplies for disaster victims, and build relationships with each other—all in four days.
Each December these youth plan a special youth conference that focuses on building relationships with each other. Last year the youth decided they wanted to make their conference more meaningful. To do this, Sarah Fenton, 17, says, “We decided to focus on a service project.”
By the last day, the youth had collected 1,500 pounds of food for the local food bank and another 300 pounds to go to 40 families in the community. This was 1,200 more pounds than their goal of 600. They then split into two groups. One group sorted and cleaned supplies for the homeless while the other group put together humanitarian aid kits to be sent to Korea. That evening the group went to retirement and assisted living homes to sing Christmas carols to the residents. The priests quorum president, Tanner Kahl, said it was his favorite youth conference and hopes they can do the same this year.

One of the persons who signed agreements (guarantees) for me when I began in the insurance business, was Brother Horace S. Eldredge, and as each bond required two signatures, he suggested that I ask Captain William H. Hooper to sign with him. I explained that I knew the Captain only slightly, and feared he would not care to become one of the persons liable in case of my failure. Brother Eldredge thought otherwise, so I solicited the Captain’s signature, but he promptly declined. I walked direct to my office and had been there but one or two minutes when a messenger from the Deseret National Bank, where I had just left the Captain, called and said that Mr. Hooper desired to see me. My answer was that I had just seen the Captain and our conversation had been of such a character that I had no particular desire for another interview. The messenger insisted that he had seen the Captain since I had, and I finally concluded: therefore, to go see him again.

On reaching the bank, the Captain said: “Young man, give me those bonds.” He signed them, and then said, “When you were here a few moments ago, I did not know you. I have met you on the street now and then for a number of years, and have spoken to you, but really did not know you. After you went out, I asked who you were, and when I learned that you were a son of Jedediah M. Grant I sent for you at once. It gives me pleasure to sign your bonds. I would almost be willing to sign a bond for a son of Brother Jedediah if I knew I would have to pay it. In this case, however, I have no fears of having to do that.”

He related a number of incidents about my father, which showed the Captain’s love for, and confidence in, him. What the Captain told me, filled my heart with gratitude to God for having given to me such a father, and Captain Hooper’s remarks have never been forgotten. They impressed me with a strong desire to so live and labor that my children would be benefited, even after I have passed away from this life, by the record which I shall have made.

The action of Captain Hooper profoundly impressed me with the benefits derived from having a good father. Although my father died when I was a babe nine days old, twenty years after his death I was reaping the benefits of his honesty and faithful labors. The incident referred to above happened twenty-three years ago. Many, many blessings have since come to me because of the honesty and integrity of my father.

It was the Christmas season of 1994. Nine-year-old Jaron and his six-year-old brother, Parker, were excited. They had entered a reading contest sponsored by a grocery store in their hometown. The two students who read the most books would each win a brand-new bicycle. All they had to do was have their parents and teachers sign for each book they read. Two bikes were to be awarded, one for the first-to-third-grade levels, and one for the fourth-to-sixth-grade levels.
Parker was especially excited because this was a way for him to earn a bike. He really wanted one. He was tired of watching his older brother ride around on the new purple ten-speed bike he had earned by working at a yard sale. Parker thought that it would be great to earn a bike of his own by reading books. So he started to read books as fast as he could. He read Curious George, Green Eggs and Ham, and Brown Bear, Brown Bear. But no matter how many books he read, someone in his grade level had read more.
Meanwhile, Jaron had not been all that enthusiastic about the contest. When he went to the grocery store and checked the big chart with all the readers listed and how many books each had read, however, he could see that his younger brother had little chance of winning the contest.
Touched with the true meaning of Christmas, the joy of giving, he decided to do for Parker what he could not do for himself. So Jaron put away his own bike and, library card in hand, went to work. He read and read. He read when he wanted to ride his bike. He read as much as eight hours a day. The thrill of perhaps having such a wonderful gift to give kept him going.
The day came when the final lists were to be turned in. Jaron’s mother took him to the store, and he turned in his list, then admired the prize-winners bikes on display.
The store manager watched him admire the shiny red twenty-inch bike. “I suppose that if you win the contest,” the manager said, “you’ll want the larger bike, won’t you?”
Jaron looked up at the man’s smiling face and said very seriously, “Oh, no sir. I would like one exactly this size.”
“But isn’t this bike too small for you?”
“No sir—I want to win it for my little brother.”
The man was surprised. He turned to Jaron’s mother and said, “This is the best Christmas story I’ve heard all year!”
Jaron’s mother hadn’t known that he had worked so hard for his little brother. She looked at Jaron with great pride and joy as they went home to await the contest results.
Finally the phone call came! By reading 280 books, Jaron had won! With his parents’ help, he hid the bicycle in his grandma’s basement until Christmas Eve. He could hardly wait to give Parker his gift!
On Christmas Eve, the whole family gathered at Grandma’s home for a special family home evening. Mother told the story of Heavenly Father’s gift to the world of His Son Jesus Christ. Then she told the story of another older brother’s love. Although it wasn’t the great sacrifice the Savior has made for each of us, she said, it was a sacrifice, and it showed how much the older brother loved his younger brother. Parker and his family listened to the story of a brother who had read 280 books to win his little brother a bike.
“My big brother would do something like that for me,” Parker said.
At that, Jaron ran to the other room, where Grandma had moved the bike. The rest of the family proudly grinned while he wheeled out the two-wheeled treasure he had earned for his younger brother. Parker ran over to the bike, and the brothers hugged over the top of it.

I always wanted to serve a mission, but when I turned 18 years old, the pandemic started. I didn’t feel ready to serve, so I started college, and I received a great scholarship. Many people recommended that I shouldn’t go on a mission. I felt like I was losing my desire to serve.
But then in general conference President M. Russell Ballard said, “If you are still in the age range for missionary service but have not served yet due to the pandemic or other reasons, I invite you to serve now.”1 When he said the word “now,” I felt as if he were speaking to me—that I must serve a mission now. Since that day I prayed about it and received confirmation that it is time for me to serve the Lord.
I have received a lot of criticism about my decision. My scholarship was even cancelled. But my desire to go is strong enough that none of those things matter. I was called to serve in the Guatemala Quetzaltenango Mission. It’s so special because my parents were sealed for eternity in Guatemala.
If you are wondering if you should serve a mission, it’s not too late! Always trust in Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. They will guide us and bless us with things we cannot imagine.
Enoc M., Dominican Republic

Later, as I sat in sacrament meeting thinking about the dreams, I silently prayed for guidance that I might be able to find the information necessary to do my Choctaw ancestors’ temple work. I felt impressed to acquire a copy of a record I had seen some twenty years earlier at the National Archives in Washington, D.C. It was the Choctaw-Armstrong Roll of 1831, and it contained records of the Choctaw before their trek over the “Trail of Tears” to Oklahoma. This census had on record some 3,000 heads of families and represented about 17,000 people. I had photocopied the pages from it that dealt with my ancestor named Betsy.
I wrote to the National Archives, requesting a microfilm copy of the entire record. I also contacted the Church Family History Library in Salt Lake City, Utah, and asked whether temple work could be done for people listed on the record. I then asked for and obtained permission to help do name extraction work on the Choctaw-Armstrong Roll.
I also went to Philadelphia, Mississippi, as I had been prompted. There, on the Choctaw reservation, I learned the story of the Nanah-weya. Archaeologists think that the Choctaw are probably of Mayan descent—from Central America—because their language, customs, and culture are similar to those of the Mayans. Choctaw legends tell of their migration from their old lands, where they had been persecuted. A prophet had told them of a land waiting for them, where they would be safe. Two brothers, Chataw and Chickasaw, led the people out of the old land.
The people followed the “leaning pole,” a sacred pole placed in front of the leaders’ camp each night. Some legends say that a sacred medicine bag was tied to the pole. Each morning, the people traveled in the direction the pole leaned. They carried their ancestors’ bones with them.
When they reached the area that is now Northern Mississippi, there was a tremendous rainstorm. The people thought that in the morning they would find the sacred pole flat on the ground because of the rain. Instead, the pole stood straight, its shaft buried deep in the mud.
That is where the people stayed. In the new land they held a great council to decide what to do with their ancestors’ bones. The decision they made was to build a large mound and bury them there. This mound, called the Nanah-weya, means “leaning mountain,” or “mother mound.”
I asked a Choctaw from Oklahoma if he knew the meaning of the word Nanah-ku-chi. He told me that it means “to bring out of the mountain.”
“You have said it just the way the Choctaw would say it,” he told me. “Nanah means mountain; Ku-chi means to bring forth.” I concluded that the words I had heard must have meant that the names of the Choctaw dead should be brought out of obscurity so that the Choctaws’ temple work should be completed.
My trip to Mississippi bore great fruit. There, in a courthouse, a woman gave my aunt and me a copy of some family records. Later, when I read through it, I was amazed. Before, I had had only three names on that particular family. Now I had more than sixty pages of information! There, at the beginning of the line, was the name of Ikenaby, an Indian chief who had lived during the early 1800s and who had married a white woman by the name of Kearney.
I continued to help with the work on the Choctaw-Armstrong Roll. Lorraine Nievar of Ardmore, Oklahoma, whose ancestors are Choctaw and French, also helped with name extraction work on the record. When the work was complete, 1,500 names from the record were sent to the temple in Dallas, Texas, so that Sister Nievar and her family could help perform their ancestors’ temple work. Another 1,500 names were sent to the Logan Utah Temple, where many of my friends and neighbors have helped with the work.
I believe that many members of the Choctaw Nation who lived during the early 1800s have accepted the temple work completed in their behalf. As I participated in baptisms for the dead one Saturday morning, I felt their gratitude. During one particular temple session, I was asked to speak to the members of a Logan ward. While we sat together in the temple’s chapel, I told them the story behind the names they carried that night. I remember that temple session as one of the most sacred I ever attended.
I recall feeling a vivid sense of light and joy at one particular point in the session. I thought of my son’s dream. My friends and neighbors were now giving the “bread of life” to those who had asked for it. I again felt that those whose work we were performing, though unseen, were grateful for the opportunity to accept the gospel. Though they had once walked the “Trail of Tears,” now they could walk the straight and narrow path of joy that leads to eternal life.
Many native American records have been compiled by various organizations. It is now possible to do more temple work for native American ancestors than ever before; many of them are eager to receive the saving ordinances of the gospel.
I learned just how eager they were one spring day while driving to Salt Lake City to talk with a woman there. Suddenly, I felt that I could hear the sound of drums beating. I seemed to see an Indian woman, dressed in an oversize plaid shirt, a Navajo skirt, and a silver medallion belt. The seat beside me was empty, but I could sense her presence.
When I arrived in Salt Lake City, I felt prompted to ask the woman with whom I had the appointment whether she had any Indian ancestors. But Carolyn doesn’t look Indian; she’s blonde and blue-eyed, I thought to myself. She’ll think I’m crazy.
When I met Carolyn in her office, the prompting for me to ask was just as strong as it had been in the car. So I asked if she had Indian ancestors.
“Yes,” she said. “My grandmother was Cherokee and was adopted by the Navajo.” She told me about how her “Granny” had worked as a nurse for many years with the Navajo in Arizona, Oklahoma, New Mexico, and Texas. Later, I asked Carolyn about the clothing her grandmother had worn, and she described to me the clothing I had seen the woman wearing.
I told Carolyn about the temple work we had done for the Choctaw. She was thrilled about the possibility of doing the same work for the Cherokee. The Cherokee were the second nation to walk the “Trail of Tears”; there is a record of the tribe in its entirety from 1835—before they had settled in Oklahoma. Carolyn is now doing extraction work on that record, preparing names for the temple.
I know that my Choctaw ancestors desired the blessings of the gospel. My love for my ancestors has grown as I have learned about them. Though they suffered great hardship in mortality, they are now receiving the great blessings of the temple.