Gospel Story Finder

The Church experienced the appearance of false spirits in Kirtland, Ohio shortly after the Gospel was established there. The Prophet Joseph Smith recorded the following,

Soon after the Gospel was established in Kirtland, and during the absence of the authorities of the Church, many false spirits were introduced, many strange visions were seen, and wild, enthusiastic notions were entertained; men ran out of doors under the influence of this spirit, and some of them got upon the stumps of trees and shouted, and all kinds of extravagances were entered into by them; one man pursued a ball that he said he saw flying in the air, until he came to a precipice, when he jumped into the top of a tree, which saved his life; and many ridiculous things were entered into, calculated to bring disgrace upon the Church of God, to cause the Spirit of God to be withdrawn, and to uproot and destroy those glorious principles which had been developed for the salvation of the human family.

Among the Christmas experiences that are etched most sharply in my memory are the ones spent away from home and loved ones while serving in the mission field or in military service. Each Christmas when I was in the military in World War II, I wondered when the terrible suffering and agony of war would end and we could all go home. And as we sang, “Peace on earth, goodwill to men,” I wondered if the Germans and the Japanese who were Christians were also singing this familiar refrain with the same yearnings in their hearts. Then it all ended 59 years ago after the dropping of two atomic bombs on Japan. Mankind had never before seen such destructive power. There was a concern in our hearts about the beast that had been unleashed.
I would like to recount a story told by Kenneth J. Brown, who was serving as a U.S. Marine in Japan following the dropping of the bomb. His moving story about a Japanese Christian he met at Christmastime in Nagasaki is as follows.
“I watched him turn from the street and climb the path leading to our shelter. He was groping, hesitating. As he came near he folded his umbrella and stood quietly a long moment. His thin coat soon dampened from the cold rain that was falling from the same sky that had brought death to nearly half his townspeople three short months before. I concluded that it must take some special courage to confront one’s conquerors without invitation. It was little wonder that he hesitated.
“His polite bow to me was no bow of submission. Rather his squared shoulders and lifted head let me feel as if I were looking up at him even … though I towered over him a foot or more. I recall being disturbed that I hadn’t yet become used to the near sightless eyes of those who had looked heavenward that morning when the bomb dropped. …
“… I respectfully asked if I could be of service. [In his clear English] he introduced himself as Professor Iida. …
“‘I am Christian,’ he said. ‘I am told this is the head minister’s office. Are you a Christian? It is good to talk with a follower of Christ; there are so few Christian Japanese.’
“I took him to the inner office of the division chaplain and waited while the two men conversed. Professor Iida stated his request briefly. He was a teacher of music in a Christian girls’ college until it was closed by imperial command. … He had been imprisoned because of his professed Christianity. After being released he had returned to Nagasaki and continued his music instruction in his home even though it was forbidden. He had been able to continue a small chorus and would be pleased if … they [could] sing a concert for the American Marines.
“‘We know something of your American Christmases,’ he said. ‘We should like to do something to make your Christmas in Japan more enjoyable.’
“I felt sure the chaplain would give a negative reply. Our unit was one of hardened fighters, four years away from home, who had fought the enemy from Saipan to Iwo Jima. … Yet there was something about the man that bespoke sincere desire to do a good deed so that … permission was granted. The concert would be Christmas Eve.
“The rains had stopped and a calm settled over the atomic bowl reminiscent of the calm that night long ago. The concert was well attended; there was nothing else to do. The theater … had been cleared of its fallen roof and men were sitting on the jagged walls. The usual momentary hush fell over the audience as the performers filed on stage. …
“The first thing we noticed was that they were singing in English and we became aware that they didn’t understand the words but had memorized them for our benefit. Professor Iida had taught his students well; they sang beautifully. We sat enthralled as if a choir from heaven were singing for us. … It was as if Christ were being born anew that night.
“The closing number was a solo, an aria from ‘The Messiah.’ The girl sang with all the conviction of one who knew that Jesus was indeed the Savior of mankind and it brought tears. After that there was a full minute of silence followed by sustained applause as the small group took bow after bow.
“Later that night I helped Professor Iida take down the trimmings. I could not resist asking some questions that propriety forbade but curiosity demanded. I just had to know.
“‘How did your group manage to survive the bomb?’ I asked.
“‘This is only half my group,’ he said softly, but seemed unoffended at my recalling his grief so that I felt I could ask more.
“‘And what of the families of these?’
“‘They nearly all lost one or more members. Some are orphans.’
“‘What about the soloist? She must have the soul of an angel the way she sang.’
“‘Her mother, two of her brothers were taken. Yes, she did sing well; I am so proud of her. She is my daughter.’ …
“The next day was Christmas, the one I remember best. For that day I knew that Christianity had not failed in spite of people’s unwillingness to live His teachings. I had seen hatred give way to service, pain to rejoicing, sorrow to forgiveness. This was possible because a babe had been born in a manger [and] later taught love of God and fellowmen. We had caused them the greatest grief and yet we were their Christian brothers and as such they were willing to forget their grief and unite with us in singing ‘Peace on earth, goodwill to all men.’
“The words of Miss Iida’s song testimony would not be stilled, ‘Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows.’ They seemed to echo and re-echo over the half-dead city that day.
“That day also I knew that there was a greater power on earth than the atomic bomb.”

Performance of duty, regardless of the sacrifice involved, is a part of dealing justly with oneself and others. Early in the history of this valley Joseph W. McMurrin was placed in charge of guarding some of the leaders of the Church. At a meeting in Social Hall in Salt Lake City, an intruder under a claim of authority tried to enter the hall; and Joseph W. McMurrin, being true to his trust to guard the servants of the Lord, restrained him from going through the door. President Heber J. Grant relates that the intruder “finally got his hand loose and took his pistol and, pressing it against Brother McMurrin’s body, fired two bullets … through his vitals. Those bullets lodged just under the skin in his back. He was attended by Dr. Joseph Benedict who told Joseph W. McMurrin that no man could live after two bullets had passed through his vitals, and then added: ‘If you wish to make a dying statement you should do so immediately.’

“I went with John Henry Smith to Brother McMurrin’s home and saw where the flesh was burned away around those terrible gaping wounds. I saw where the bullets had gone clear through him. I heard John Henry Smith say, ‘By the authority of the Priesthood of the living God which we hold, and in the name of the Lord, Jesus Christ, we say that you shall be made absolutely whole, and that there shall be no physical weakness left upon your body because of these terrible wounds that you have received while guarding the servants of the living God.’”

On November 21, 1931, President Grant concluded, “Joseph W. McMurrin is alive and well, and has never had any physical weakness because of those terrible wounds.” (Gospel Standards, Salt Lake City: Improvement Era, 1969, pp. 310–11.)

Marlene Harris was ironing a skirt for the Halloween dance planned later that night when a knock thundered at the door. “Quick, get out, the building’s on fire!”
Her first reaction was, “Just a Halloween trick.” Then she smelled smoke. “Fire! Fire!” she yelled to her four roommates. The five began madly scrambling in seven directions as they scooped up various items to rescue from the flames before stumbling through the doorway and down the stairs.
Moments later Marlene, a bundle securely in her arms, was standing in the cold with 50 other college students. “At least I saved something,” she thought to herself as the firemen arrived. A chill wind caused her to shiver; she’d forgotten her coat.
Walter Steele, who lived in one of the basement apartments, stood next to her, apparently toasty warm in his overcoat, gloves, and winter hat. He was munching on pieces of a large bar.
“At least you’re prepared,” she commented, envying his coat.
“Yeah, it runs in the family. My great-grandfather used to hitch his mules each morning facing east, just in case he got the call for Jackson County. Have a bite?”
“What is it?”
“Survival ration bar, made for emergencies. Quite good, really. Here.” He broke off another chunk and handed it to her. Marlene shifted her bundle and took the piece. She mumbled her thanks as she nibbled the concoction.
“Made from oatmeal, powdered milk, sugar, honey, and flavored gelatin,” he commented. “Good emergency ration, about 1,000 calories, in one of these,” Walt added as he tried another bite. “Not really hungry, but this is the first time I’ve been in an emergency, and I’m going to make the most of it.”
“Not bad, I mean the bar.”
“Part of being prepared.”
“I guess you got that from your great-grandfather,” she answered, trying to break his smugness.
“Naw, I even flunked Scouting.”
Marlene smiled.
“It’s true, though. I’ve been prepared for emergencies for years. I have a couple of bundles of food and supplies on the closet floor. They’re good for three days. Then I have a two-week supply stashed under the bed. Now I’m working on my year’s supply. I’m ready for fire, flood, earthquake, famine, and just about anything else.”
“A flood here in these mountains?”
“Never know; it only takes one. Look at Idaho and Colorado. Anyway, I also rehearsed what I would do in case of different emergencies, and when the alarm came tonight, I was able to calmly evaluate my needs for this situation. I had enough time for my overclothes, this bar, and this knapsack of legal papers and genealogical research.”
Walt looked around at the crowd. “Nobody else here is prepared. Even the landlord failed to install product-of-combustion alarms in the complex. Fortunately I had a smoke detector with me, and I put it in my room. That’s how we learned of the fire.
“Look at that girl in the bathrobe, slippers, and wet hair. Then there is Art over there shaking in his shirt-sleeves, but he rescued his skis, boots, and poles.”
Marlene joined in the inventory. “My roommate there has all her books for the semester, Laura brought clothes from her closet, and Becky’s holding her record collection.”
“A real help in an emergency,” he commented dryly. “By the way, what’s in your arms?”
Marlene looked down and took stock for the first time. She blushed. “Ironing.”
He laughed, then apologized, unslung his knapsack and pulled off his coat. “Here, wear this until we can go back inside. I still don’t see any flames.”
“That’s fair enough,” she replied, mollified, “if you’ll wrap these around your bare feet.”
The fireman came out of the downstairs laundry room. The cause of alarm had been a pile of clothes left against the gas water heater. Marlene, Walt, and the others were able to return to their apartments and continue preparations for the evening’s activities. The emergency was over.

When I was called as president of the Young Women organization in my branch, I was afraid I would not be able to get close to the girls or to help them. I knew I would have to become more sociable and overcome my shyness.
At first, I was overwhelmed and didn’t know how to begin. Quite a few of the girls in my branch, the Simón Bolívar Branch, Valledupar Colombia District, were not active. The small group of active girls was not difficult, but they seemed distant and a little indifferent. I feared that nothing was going to go well.
Then one day, not long after I began serving, Nora, one of the young women, came up to me, hugged me, and told me she was happy that I was going to work with her and the other girls. I felt my Father in Heaven’s love in that hug. My doubts turned to confidence, my shyness to security, and my fears to sincere love for those young women.
Little by little, I learned to understand them, to accept them as they are, and to be proud of each of them. I earned their trust and acceptance, which gave me the courage to reach out to those who were less active and to help plant in them a more positive feeling toward the Church.
Not long ago Nora received her Young Womanhood Recognition award. She has a strong testimony of the gospel and gives unqualified support to her Church leaders. Thank you, Nora, for living so well the principles the Young Women medallion symbolizes!

Every day that Cheya Wheeler’s friend picks her up for school, the same thing happens. They drive by a stately red brick building, one tower topped by a golden figure, and Cheya’s friend starts singing, “I Love to See the Temple.” Cheya usually joins her. “It brings a good spirit,” she says.
Cheya and her friend live in Vernal, Utah. The temple, created from the old tabernacle, has brought a whole new spirit into their valley. The Vernal Temple has stood as a building for more than 90 years, but during its first 90 years, it served as a tabernacle, a meetinghouse for a local ward and stake, a lecture hall, a place for musical recitals, a gathering place for the community. This great old building eventually fell into disuse and was closed. Most teenagers in Vernal had never actually been inside the tabernacle.
“When they first announced that we were going to have a temple at stake conference,” says Jeff Ross, 15, “I was there. It took forever for the meeting to go on. Everyone was turning and talking to each other. It was great.”
The Vernal Tabernacle had always been a prominent landmark and favorite spot in the town. Growing up, most young people in the area have ridden their bikes around the block containing the building and had picnics on the tabernacle lawn. It was a great old building, but it was no longer feasible to hold church functions there any more. What would become of it?
In 1907, after seven and a half years of work, the Vernal Tabernacle was completed and ready for dedication. A little seven-year-old named Porter Merrell was there, ready to attend the dedication with his parents. His father had worked as a carpenter on the tabernacle.
Approaching his 98th birthday, Brother Merrell remembers that day. “When it came time for the dedication, there were too many people to fit inside. They rounded up all of us kids about the ages from seven to ten and took us down to the east of the tabernacle. Before I left, I looked down from the balcony. All the ladies wore hats. They decorated their hats, and looking down it looked just like a flower garden.”
President Joseph F. Smith had made the long journey from Salt Lake City to dedicate the tabernacle. Brother Merrell was in the group of children chosen to greet the prophet as he arrived in their city. President Smith also visited every ward in the Uintah Stake. Porter was seated with the other children on the little chairs in front of the prophet. He still remembers what the prophet with the flowing snow-white beard said.
“He told us,” says Brother Merrell, “that he wanted us all to remember. The Spirit of the Lord was going to be poured out upon the world. There would be more development and more progress in the world during the next 30 to 40 years than there had been in the history of the world. He looked at us and said, ‘I want you little fellers to remember that and see if there won’t start to be progress.’”
Once again, 90 years later, Brother Merrell attended a dedication in the Vernal Tabernacle, only this time it was a temple, the house of the Lord.
It has always been difficult traveling in the area that is now the temple district of the Vernal Utah Temple. It includes parts of Utah, Wyoming, and Colorado. It is a country where the weather is unpredictable and the winters can be downright dangerous. Several youth choirs that were planning to sing for the Vernal Temple open house had to cancel at the last minute because winter storms had closed roads, preventing them from traveling.
One group, the Smart family choir, was asked to sing an additional hour in the cold morning hours of the temple open house because another choir had been prevented by the weather from making the trip.
The Smart family chose to hold a family reunion and form a family choir to coincide with the open house of the Vernal Temple. They have a particularly warm feeling about the tabernacle building itself. Their relative William H. Smart was the stake president of the Uintah Stake when the tabernacle was dedicated. For the teenagers attending the reunion, the trip to Vernal meant learning a little more about their heritage and about temples.
“There’s always a special feeling in the temple,” says Michelle Maddocks, 20, from the Salt Lake Grant 12th Ward, and a member of the Smart family choir. “You feel the Spirit there.”
Another Smart descendant, Hales Swift, 15, from the Academy Ward of the Colorado Springs North Stake, was looking forward to going through the Vernal Temple after the family choir’s performance. For Hales, his knowledge about the truthfulness of the Church came from his family. “Prayer is a peaceful time for me. I have always accepted the gospel as being true, partially because I was brought up in it, and also because it makes sense.” In a serious moment, Hales tries to explain what the Spirit of the Lord feels like. “It’s something hard to put your finger on. It’s overpowering. It testifies of the truthfulness of the gospel. It’s sort of like when you hear something that is really truly good. It’s the same sort of feeling.”
Also singing in the family choir, JoAnnie Everett, 14, from the Grove Creek Fifth Ward in Pleasant Grove, Utah, was looking forward to going inside the Vernal Temple. She has been to several temples, including the Mount Timpanogos Temple near her home. She had the opportunity to go when her brothers and sisters were sealed to their family after their adoption. “The temple is special before it is dedicated, but it has an even better feeling after.”
The Young Men and Young Women of the Vernal Third Ward have a unique outlook on the new temple. In Sunday School class, they just have to glance out the window to see the temple. They can’t be rowdy in the parking lot after Mutual, because it somehow doesn’t feel appropriate when it’s right next to the temple.
“I live right across the street. The angel Moroni looks down on my house,” says Curtis Ogden, 17. “It’s just a reminder every day when I walk outside and I see the temple. It makes my day a lot better.”
Emily Malouf, 15, says, “I think with the temple being next door to our church house, it’s brought a level of reverence to our ward. When you drive past it every day, you have to strive for the goals you know are right so that one day you can get married there.”
“When I went through the open house of the temple, something occurred to me,” says Jeff Ross, 15. “It’s perfect. It sets the standard. It’s kind of a wake-up call to me that we need to strive to make our bodies, our minds, and our homes like the temple, perfect like that. It sets the standard for everything else in our lives.”
These young people watched the transformation take place. An old, dilapidated tabernacle was turned into something heavenly—a temple. They heard the stories of the miracles that took place during the construction. They saw the dedication of those who worked on the project. They noticed as their friends and neighbors started reconstructing their lives to be worthy to enter the temple.
“The building was in bad shape,” says Leslie Richards, 16. “It’s the same kind of thing with our lives. If you get off track and wicked, it takes a lot of work and time. No matter how long it takes, you can still come back to the temple.”
The Vernal Temple brought a spirit of change. “A lot of that is taking place in this valley,” says Sam Malouf, 17. “There are a lot of people who have changed so they can attend the temple. I’ve seen a lot of kids our age quit drinking, quit doing a lot of things so they can be worthy to attend the temple.”
For most of the young people in this ward, the most impressive and memorable moment of the temple open house was when they entered the celestial room and saw the welcoming portrait of Christ. “It took my breath away,” says Cory Hunter, 17. “It was just like, this is where it is. This is where it happens. He’s here. It was amazing.”
The Vernal Temple is the 51st temple in operation. It is also the first temple ever made from a building originally built for a different purpose. But somehow it seems appropriate that it should be put to use serving the Lord again. The Vernal Temple quite literally stands as a monument to change. Just as a decaying building can be rebuilt, we each can rid ourselves of the rubble of sin in our lives and change, change into something worthy of heaven.
Restoration of the Vernal Temple went carefully, brick by brick. However, some of the native brick was damaged and needed to be replaced. What’s more, additions to the building itself needed to match. A long-time Vernal resident had a pioneer home built of the same brick as the tabernacle. Though not a member of the Church himself, he graciously agreed to donate it to the temple. So two years before the temple was completed, youth groups from all the wards in the four stakes surrounding Vernal spent service time dismantling the house and cleaning the brick. Each small effort toward the restoration gave joy and satisfaction to those who helped.

While I was walking off the playground one late afternoon, after several weeks of helping out at the school, the principal pulled me off to the side.

The children were playing on the playground equipment they had earned by collecting Campbell’s Soup labels.

“See that little girl over there?” he asked, pointing to a skinny, olive-skinned, dark-haired girl sitting on the steps.

I nodded.

“She came to us last year from the public school system. The teachers said she was slow, uncooperative and noncommunicative. No one could reach her to teach her. So they sent her here as a last resort. She has really come out of her shell here with these kids.”

I noticed the girl was hugging a young student after he had fallen down.

“But she won’t respond to any adults. As soon as one of the teachers tries to engage her in something, she clams up and stares and won’t respond.

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.

“Because we’ve tried everything we know and she still won’t respond. I’ve even worked with her myself.”

Then the principal paused.

“And there’s something else,” he said. “I was going through her records today. When she was tested—when she first entered school—she had a very high I.Q. By the time they sent her to us, her I.Q. had dropped to an infantile level. Her hands are deformed, and she has a wooden leg. The records report that she was treated badly by the other public students. But the kids here don’t make fun of her. They adore her. She is everyone’s second mother.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I asked again.

“I thought maybe you could reach her somehow.”

“I’ll try.”

From that time on I made it a point to observe this little girl every chance I got. I read her records and found out her name was Monica. She was 12 years old. A mother was listed on her records but no father. I noticed Monica spent a lot of time by the piano in the classroom. Because her fingers were deformed and small, she would sometimes start banging on the keys with her palms until all the other children were laughing and stomping their feet. At this point, the teacher would drag her away from the piano and take her to the principal’s office.

I watched the teachers and aids approach Monica with games, papers, blocks, and books. But she wouldn’t respond in any way.

Sometimes I’d sit down at the piano and play a couple of tunes. Monica would stand near the piano and listen. Once I noticed her squatting down at the side of the piano and placing her ear up against the wood.

One afternoon as I was playing, she came over to the bench and sat down next to me. Then she pushed my hands off the piano and began pounding on the keys with her palms. I gently took her hand and rolled it into a fist. Then I guided her hand to the piano and showed her how to play a simple tune that my mother had taught me as a child. It was a tune that she could play by rolling a fist down the black keys.

Monica quickly caught on and played the tune over and over. From that moment, she seemed to sense that I was her friend.

One morning during recess, I noticed Monica crouching beside a bush near the entrance to the school. I walked up behind her and could see that she was studying a chrysalis hanging precariously on a twig. The butterfly inside was almost free, struggling desperately to free its wings.

“You know,” I said whispering next to her ear, “that used to be just a funny looking caterpillar. Now look at it. In a few minutes it will be a beautiful butterfly.”

Monica didn’t say a word. In a moment the butterfly was separating its damp wings, and the gentle breeze soon dried the bright orange and black pattern. Moments later the breeze lifted the delicate wing expanse and the butterfly was gone. Monica cupped her hands and with them she followed the butterfly into the air as if attempting to follow.

Then she turned and looked at me. She looked me directly in the eye. Deep, dark, and brown, her eyes were wet and soft and imploring. In that brief instant, I knew. Monica was not mentally retarded. She was trapped somewhere deep inside.

“I want …” she said.

Then her eyes darted to the ground, and she ran up the stone stairs and into the school.

I suddenly realized that Monica had found some kind of security and love with the mentally retarded children that she could not find in the public school system and at home. Her infantile behavior was simply her way of making sure she could stay here. If she responded to any adult and showed her intelligence, she knew she would be put back into a system where she had been abused.

Weeks grew into months, and soon Monica and I were good friends. But whenever I questioned her about her home, she would avoid the questions and change the subject.

“I like the way you smile at me,” Monica said to me one day. “My mother never smiles at me.”

Later I found out from the principal that Monica lived alone with her mother. Her mother was on welfare and spent most of her days sleeping and most of her nights going from bar to bar. She often had different men living with her. Much of the time there was little or no food at the house.

When Monica had progressed sufficiently that the principal thought she was ready to return to the public schools, he asked me to speak to her about it.

After I talked to Monica, she pulled away from me and told me she would do or act any way she had to to stay at the school.

I spent a lot of sleepless nights wondering what to do. Finally, one morning it came to me. That afternoon I talked to Monica about my idea. She agreed enthusiastically, so I went to the principal.

We worked out a plan where Monica could obtain the regular public school textbooks and materials for her age level and remain at the special school. Then Monica would spend each day doing her regular school work with a little help from the teacher and student aids.

The teachers and principal were amazed at how quickly she grasped her subjects and how quickly she progressed.

My course work became more and more difficult at college, and my hours at Monica’s school became less and less.

Four years later, after my graduation, I walked down to the special school to say good-bye. Most of the same students were there, but they were older now. Monica had developed into a strikingly beautiful young lady.

She had gone through her class work so quickly and well that she had taken her college entrance exams earlier that spring and had been admitted to college on scholarship at the age of 16 for the next fall.

Monica’s teacher was still telling Kenny to “Shh!” when he told his corny jokes. The principal was a little balder and plumper.

The children gave me a going-away party with cake, streamers, hugs, and tears. Monica proudly showed me her college scholarship and admission papers.

The principal put his arm around Monica’s shoulder and said, “You know I’ll be retiring in a few years. I think Monica would make a great replacement for me, don’t you?”

I don’t know what happened to Monica after that. After college I moved away, married, and had children of my own. But I have often thought about her.

In February 1846, more than three thousand Latter-day Saints fled nauvoo, crossing the Mississippi River into Iowa. Many left without adequate food and shelter, and suffered terribly from cold and hunger.
One of those Saints was Aurelia Spencer. When her family had traveled only thirty miles, Aurelia’s mother died. The grieving family returned to Nauvoo to bury her before continuing their journey west.
Aurelia’s father, Orson, was called to preside over the Church in Great Britain, so she, her three sisters, and her two brothers spent the next winters in Winter Quarters with only kind neighbors to keep an eye on them. During the first, harsh, winter, their horse and seven of their eight cows died. Most of the money their father sent never reached them, and they suffered great poverty.
They left for the Salt Lake Valley in May 1848 with President Brigham Young’s company. In the Valley, they lived in a log room their uncle built for them, until their father’s return.
In 1851 Aurelia married Thomas Rogers. They settled in Farmington, sixteen miles north of Salt Lake City. There Aurelia gave birth to twelve children, only seven of whom lived to adulthood.
Concerned because Farmington’s boys were often getting into mischief, Aurelia asked Eliza R. Snow, the sister of Lorenzo Snow, if there should not be an organization to help little boys grow into good men. Sister Snow relayed the suggestion to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, the governing body of the Church following the death of Brigham Young. John Taylor, the President of the Quorum, gave his approval, and Sister Rogers was called upon to organize and serve as the president of the first Primary in the Church. She wisely decided that girls should also be part of the organization, and the first Primary was held in Farmington Ward on August 25, 1878.

On the evening of 4 April, TV Successo in Mozambique aired a show that they had never run before. Instead of the usual lineup of evening television programs, the station aired uplifting musical items and inspiring messages from Church leaders around the globe. For the first time ever, this local TV station aired the Sunday morning session of general conference.
It was close to midnight on the same evening when President Russell M. Nelson addressed members of the Church to end the conference. It was then that he announced that several more temples would be built.
“We want to bring the house of the Lord even closer to our members, that they may have the sacred privilege of attending the temple as often as their circumstances allow,” said the prophet.1
“And then,” says Freeman Dickie, who is currently serving as the Beira Mozambique Stake president, “They announced that we were getting a temple in Beira!”
Despite the late hour, “messages were being sent around on the WhatsApp groups. People were awake and celebrating! First, we were able to watch general conference live on TV for the first time, and then the same night came the temple announcement! You can imagine how exciting it was.”
Sister Emilia Cristina Chaimane Paulino, a member of the Macuti Branch in the Beira Stake, says she felt “overwhelmed with happiness,” when she heard the news. “The moment I heard, I started crying with gratitude for this blessing. I don’t even know how to express what I felt.”
Her husband, Ernesto Paulino, was out of town for work and feeling ill the night the announcement was made. Sister Paulino woke him from a deep slumber by phoning him with the exciting news.
“Truly speaking, I suddenly recovered from my illness!” says Brother Paulino. “When I heard the news, I thought, ‘I’m feeling better now!’
“I felt that amazing grace of the Lord,” he says. “This is a day of celebration for us. It is something very special.”

Some who profess to be followers of Christ insist that members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints are not Christians. Indeed, there are those who make their living attacking our church and its doctrines. I wish all of them could have the experience I shared.
A friend who was making his first visit to Salt Lake City called on me in my office. He is a well-educated man and a devout and sincere Christian. Although we have not discussed this with each other, we both know that some leaders of his denomination have taught that members of our church are not Christians.
After a short discussion on a matter of common interest, I told my friend I had something I would like him to see. We walked over to Temple Square and into the North Visitors’ Center. We viewed the pictures of Bible and Book of Mormon Apostles and prophets. Then we turned our steps up the inclined walkway to the second level. Here Thorvaldsen’s great statue of the risen Christ dominates a setting suggestive of the immensity of space and the grandeur of the creations of God.
As we emerged and beheld this majestic likeness of the Christus, arms outstretched and hands showing the wounds of his Crucifixion, my friend drew a sharp breath. We stood quietly for a few minutes, enjoying a reverent communion of worshipful thoughts about our Savior. Then without further conversation, we made our way down to the street level. On the way we walked past the small diorama showing the Prophet Joseph Smith kneeling in the Sacred Grove.
As we left Temple Square and took our leave of one another, my friend took me by the hand. “Thank you for showing me that,” he said. “Now I understand something about your faith that I have never understood before.” I hope that every person who has ever had doubts about whether we are Christians can achieve that same understanding.

I love the joy of learning. For example, I have always enjoyed words. When I was a boy, and I would encounter a word I didn’t know, sometimes I would ask my father what it meant. He would often reply, “Look it up.” My father usually knew the answer, but he wanted me to learn how to look words up. So I would open the dictionary on the bookshelf and look the word up.

Later I wanted to learn more words. One summer a friend and I worked as groundskeepers at the Oakland California Temple. On some days we would each write five words and their definitions on a 3-by-5 card, and put the card in our shirt pocket. Then, we would share the words and use them in sentences during the day. My favorite word from that summer was “halcyon.” It means calm, peaceful, tranquil, or golden. As we pulled weeds and performed other physical labor, we would exclaim, “Oh, those halcyon days of youth.” Now, as I look back, I see that they really were halcyon days.

I visited this beautiful small country, also known as “the mountain kingdom,” to see a Church district preparing to become a stake. Following a Saturday of meetings, I attended Sunday services in one of their branches in a rented house. The sacramental room was overflowing, with people standing outside the door to participate. I told the branch president that he needed a bigger house. To my surprise, he informed me that this was only half of his membership. The other half would attend a second sacrament meeting after the second hour. Again, there were no complaints—only smiling faces and grateful hearts.

Quietly the ten-year-old girl tiptoed toward the big oak tree. Her bare feet stepped lightly on freshly fallen leaves. A twig snapped. The girl stopped a moment, hoping the boy on the other side of the tree had not heard. There was no sound.
The girl moved closer. Soon she stood beside the boy and, without warning, grabbed the slate shingle he held in his lap.
“Hey, what—”
Before the boy could say another word, Sarah Lincoln waved the shingle high in the air. “Look at this, everyone,” she teased. “This is my worthy brother and his shingle for writing. You ask what my worthy brother is worth? Why, look at his shingle. He has written his name again and again. Surely he must fancy he is worth a giant treasure.”
Eight-year-old Abe jumped up and grabbed his shingle board. “You are always teasing!” he scolded. “You might do well to practice your own writing.”
Sarah laughed. “If I did, I’d write something better than my name—or yours. Vanity brings pain, dear brother.”
Still smiling, she ran off into the Kentucky woods. Abe sat down again, looking at his name on the shingle board.
“That Sarah,” he said to himself. “She’ll always be a tease.”

In 1976, I was here in Rexburg with President Spencer W. Kimball. Among my assignments then was supervising the Church in Idaho. On a beautiful Saturday morning the ordinary things were going on in this area. Here on the hill at Ricks College all was as it should be. Then the bells and sirens started to ring. They wondered what was the matter.

One man, who was a professor here at Ricks College, had come in on a Saturday to do some work. He went to find out what was the matter and learned that the Teton Dam had broken. The Teton Dam up the valley had sprung a leak. A man with a large Caterpillar was trying to make repairs on the dam when it broke loose. He ran for his life. That large DC Caterpillar--which is a very large and very heavy piece of equipment--was found many miles down the valley.

This college faculty member, I suppose, inside turned pale, because he knew that his wife and children were in Rexburg shopping except for one of the younger girls who was sick. She was upstairs at home, right in the path.

Interesting things happened. There were 11 deaths. One was a fisherman who was fishing just below the dam. Another was a 90-some-year-old woman who died of a heart attack. Another was a couple who were warned.

This old man said, "I have lived here for 60 years. Nothing like that has ever happened. You are not going to scare me." In due course, they could hear the thundering and the rumbling of the water coming down the valley. Seventeen miles of deep water had backed up behind that dam. Then they got in their car. They were among those that were lost. They found their bodies in their car, after digging it out of the mud.

We had a lot to do with the emergency personnel in the United States. By their rule of thumb--time of day, population, size of the catastrophe--they estimated that there should have been 5000 casualties, and there were 11. Why? Because they were warned.

Many of them told us that they were unusually on edge. When the warning came, they responded immediately.

We held the meeting in this room with President Kimball. He had talked to me. He said, "I understand you are going to Idaho. Do you think I could go with you?" And I let him come--he being the President of the Church!

We held a meeting here with the survivors, the refugees. There were two meetings, in fact. One meeting and then another later, in order to get them all in. Here they were with whatever they had on. A lot of them were very muddy. None of them were in Sunday clothes. It was Sunday, but no one was dressed in Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes.

President Kimball leaned over and said, "I cannot see an unhappy face among them." I looked, and that was true--not one unhappy face! Why?

There is a scripture that says, "If ye are prepared ye [need not] not fear." There are other scriptures, more than one, that speak of warning, that we will be warned of danger.

As we visited with the people on that and other occasions, there were some things that emerged. They were alerted and had very little time, but they had the feeling. The thing they grabbed first was their family records and photographs. Think of that!

One of the questions was, How did they react? Speaking literally: someone heard about it, they stopped at their neighbors and knocked on the door, knew they were home, could not get them to answer. They took a chair off the porch, and threw it through the window to get their attention to say, "Run! Run!" They warned one another. That girl upstairs in that house was saved.

There were something like 900 homes that were destroyed or severely damaged. Many were washed for miles and miles down the Snake River Valley. There was a warning, and they heeded the warning.

Why did they heed the warning? Why did they warn their neighbors? "It [behooveth] every man who hath been warned to warn his neighbor" (D&C 88:81). Have you ever read that in the scriptures? They acted on that! It was just natural for them to warn the others.

And so, before the day was over, there were a large number of people here on the hill in Rexburg. The flood did some damage here in Rexburg, as well.

First we went to Wilford Ward and landed a helicopter there. Wilford Ward Chapel was at the mouth of the canyon. There were three bearing walls in the chapel, one in the middle and one on each end. Over the bearing walls was slung what was left of a roof.

As we went down the road from the chapel, there was a railroad. I marveled at the fact that it had bent those rails. The force of the water had literally bent them.

We stopped at the stake center in Sugar City. The water had come in one side, picked up all the benches and furniture and used them as an abrasive to churn the interior out of the building, and went out the other side.

Across the street we looked at what once was a beautiful home. There was the roof and the bearing walls, and there was one ceiling left and a beautiful crystal chandelier hanging above mud in the house.

That was a great experience. We learned a lot from it. We learned one thing that may surprise you. We learned that in one way the Church did not work at first.

When the stake president got the warning, he went right to work without relying on all the help he had. A few days after it had happened, I had a call from one of the stake presidents. He was not making sense. He had been up night and day trying to help people and now was wandering around. He got the bishops busy, but he did not call his high council together; he did not call the priesthood together; he did not call the Relief Society. The stake presidents and the bishops were going to do it all themselves. They could not get it all done themselves.

Now, this is the message: The Church did not work then as it should have. The gospel did! The Spirit did! The Spirit was operative. It was the Spirit that warned them that they must act and that they must act quickly.

One young man came up to me. There he stood in some dirty old levis and a dirty t-shirt and some tennis shoes. He said, "I am supposed to leave on my mission tomorrow. This is all we own." His mother was standing by him. He said, "Everything is gone. My scriptures and everything else is gone." That was easy to fix. He was in the Missionary Training Center in Provo in a day or two, completely outfitted, because finally the Church worked.

Earlier that week the Valiant class had their farewell activity for Sister Stott. Travis knew that before the activity was over, his teacher would make sure she taught them something. She always did. The moment came as she set up a maze in the multipurpose room while they waited outside. Then, one at a time, she blindfolded them and guided them through the maze by telling them when to stop and turn.
It wasn’t always easy, but by listening carefully and obeying her directions, each class member was successful. Afterward, she talked to the class about how they need to have faith and trust in Heavenly Father and listen for His guidance—after their prayers, for instance—and follow His instructions in the scriptures and as given by their parents and Church leaders. She said that He would always do what was best for them. It was a lesson Travis would never forget.

Years ago while serving as a mission president, I received a phone call from the parents of one of our beloved missionaries informing me about the death of his sister. I remember, in the tenderness of that moment, that missionary and I discussed God’s marvelous plan of salvation for His children and how this knowledge would comfort him.

Although he was stunned and saddened by that adversity, this missionary—through his tears and with faith in God—rejoiced in his sister’s life. He expressed unwavering confidence in the tender mercies of the Lord. Resolutely, he told me that he would continue to serve his mission with all faith and diligence in order to be worthy of the promises that God had for him and his family. In this time of need, that faithful missionary turned his heart to God, placed all of his trust in Him, and renewed his commitment to serve the Lord with faith and with all diligence.

It’s something like the experience of a young girl who was walking with her grandmother. The song of the birds was glorious to the little girl, and she pointed out every sound to her grandmother.
“Do you hear that?” the little girl asked again and again. But her grandmother was hard of hearing and could not make out the sounds.
Finally, the grandmother knelt down and said, “I’m sorry, dear. Grandma doesn’t hear so well.”
Exasperated, the little girl took her grandmother’s face in her hands, looked intently into her eyes, and said, “Grandma, listen harder!”
There are lessons in this story for both the nonbeliever and the believer. Just because we can’t hear something doesn’t mean there is nothing to hear. Two people can listen to the same message or read the same scripture, and one might feel the witness of the Spirit while the other doesn’t.
On the other hand, in our efforts to help our loved ones experience the voice of the Spirit and the vast, eternal, and profound beauty of the gospel of Jesus Christ, telling them to “listen harder” may not be the most helpful way.
Perhaps better advice—for anyone who wants to increase faith—is to listen differently.

The “prison temple” involved a time of obscurity, adversity, irony, and testimony. W. W. Phelps had briefly faltered, being part of the betrayals that had placed Joseph Smith in Liberty Jail. Joseph was, at the time, indignant over Brother Phelps’ failures. Yet later on, Joseph was generous. The next year, 1840, when W. W. Phelps pled for readmission into the Church, Joseph Smith, who pledged from jail to act later “in the spirit of generosity,” wrote a powerful and redemptive letter, the closing lines of which were, “Come on, dear brother, since the war is past, For friends at first, are friends again at last” (HC 4:164; see also pp. 162–63).

No wonder a grateful Brother Phelps, soon after Joseph’s June 1844 martyrdom, wrote the text “Praise to the man who communed with Jehovah” (Hymns, 1985, no. 27).

Having earned some ready money with the orchestra on the ship, Howard bought a Ford roadster. It was neither fancy nor new, and it gave him trouble the day after he bought it. But being an excellent mechanic, Howard spent the next two days fixing it. He has been “Mr. Fix It” ever since. In the 1980s when he was in his midseventies, he drove a large white car that was reaching antique status, and as the parts would wear out, he could find no replacements. The car held great sentimental value, so he machined the parts himself with home equipment.

The first Sunday I attended church with the missionaries, I recognized people I had grown up with and knew from the community. I saw one of my best friends from school, the elementary and high school secretaries, a girl I had not been exceptionally nice to in the past, and even a young man I once had a crush on.
Each of these individuals had a lasting impact on me. My best friend was a young woman of great integrity, and because of her I chose to continue investigating the Church. The secretaries who remembered me from school helped me know that I am important. I learned about godly love and charity from the young woman who embraced me despite my less-than-kind behavior toward her in the past. My early teenage crush set such a good example, I recognized his light and wanted to be around him.
These experiences helped me learn that, even before my first exposure to the missionaries, Heavenly Father had prepared me to receive the gospel through the people He placed around me. From them I learned that the small things we do can have great effect. Most important, I have learned that missionary work starts with me.