Gospel Story Finder

My legs felt like gelatin and there was a knot in my stomach as we approached the door. I was sure that I was going to faint as my companion told me that this was my door.
No, I wasn’t a new missionary. I was a 15-year-old home teacher climbing the stairs to the apartment of Sister Rice, a widow living in the Bountiful (Utah) First Ward. Don Gabbott, my companion, was to teach me a great lesson that night about the nurturing role of priesthood bearers to shut-ins who are cut off from the mainstream of Church activity.
Brother Gabbott had given me a topic to present to the five families assigned us, and I was frightened. Inexperienced, I was prepared with some notes on a paper, but I was unsure of how to take the lead in the presence of a high priest.
The response to our knocking was slow in coming. Even though we could see through the storm door window, I was about to suggest that no one was home. Then the shrunken figure of a frail, aged sister, came around a corner in the hallway. She seemed uncertain of what waited her answer at the door. Her face brightened as she recognized Brother Gabbott. We were invited into her living room and asked to take a seat.
After a short greeting, Brother Gabbott looked at me as if to say, “Okay, Bob, it’s time to give our message.” The knot in my stomach tightened as I began to speak. I cannot recall what I said—it doesn’t really matter—for I was the pupil in the classroom of priesthood duty and responsibility. As I glanced up from my notes at the conclusion of my remarks, my eyes fell upon the tear-stained cheeks of that sweet, sensitive sister. She expressed her gratitude for the presence of priesthood bearers in her humble home.
I was speechless. What had I done? What had I said that had been so profound? What could I do? Fortunately, Brother Gabbott came to my rescue by bearing his testimony and asking if there were any needs in the home. There were.
Sister Rice said that she had not been feeling well and asked that she be remembered as we offered our prayer before leaving. She then turned to me and asked if I would offer that prayer. By that time, I was so overcome by the spirit of the occasion that the request numbed me. I was surprised that I was asked to pray when someone older and more experienced and trusted was present. Automatically, I consented and offered a benediction upon that home teaching visit, asking that a special blessing of health and strength be given to that faithful sister whom I barely knew but quickly came to love and respect.
Twenty-five years have passed since my introduction to home teaching in the home of Sister Rice, and she has long since passed away. But I cannot pass that orange-brick fourplex on Bountiful’s Main Street without thinking about the experience provided by Brother Gabbott and a faithful sister who knew the appropriateness of calling upon the powers of heaven embodied in an obedient high priest and an insecure, frightened teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood.

Bruce eased his paddle into the lake water, slicing the dark substance noiselessly, watching the droplets drip from the end of his wooden blade, interrupting the rhythm of his strokes to observe the shimmering return of water to water. Wet diamonds, Bruce thought, as he watched the droplets recombine with the lake.
For the moment, they were the richest and loveliest jewels he could know.
It was late September, and the predusk air was just beginning to acquire the distinctive and leafy mustiness of early autumn. The Connecticut evenings were chilly already, yet Bruce sensed the first morning of frost was still weeks away. When he was younger, the coming of the frost mattered little to him, for September meant only one horrible and inescapable event: the removal of freedom. He was not conscious of beginnings then, as he was today; he was aware only of endings. He smiled as he pushed the paddle deep into the water again, for he could still feel the horrible cringe in his mind that haunted him during the last weeks of summer every year. How he hated to relinquish the freedom of his summer to the walls of a school.
And they had been extraordinary summers. After finishing his job at the pet shop or completing his gardening assignments at Geysmar’s estate, he would hop into his beat-up VW, pick up Bob at the gas station, and they’d rumble and downshift their way over the winding roads to the lake. A few cans of soda, some bug repellant and fishing tackle, and they were set at least until dark. Sometimes longer.
Again Bruce smiled, this time more to the familiar back that occupied the forward seat of his canoe than to the endless water. He had picked Bob up tonight at his gas station, both of them curious to try out the old fishing spots one more time before Bruce took off for Utah and then Germany. They had left the station at 4:30, and when they arrived at the lake, there still were a few hours of daylight left.
“You really think there’s fish left in this puddle?” Bob asked, as he and Bruce lifted the canoe off the roof of the Bug and carried it over their heads to the water’s edge. “Bet the acid rain has just about wiped this place out.”
“Sure there’s fish. How can you doubt it? You just have to find them.” But they had found none so far, Bruce had to acknowledge, though the reawakening of memories had been well worth the trip.
“Hey Bruce, can’t you remember those stars?” Bob said. The silent onset of dusk had begun to slip in over the lake. “Don’t you remember those nights?” He was silent for a moment, then continued. “It really isn’t that long ago—just two years since the last time we were up here, right? But man! Those stars. Sometimes when I work the pumps at night now, I remember those stars.”
How could anyone forget them, Bruce thought, checking his line for bass as Bob spoke. They had been trolling the lake for about a half hour now, but still no luck. Sometimes it was like that.
“Those stars, Bruce.” Bob laughed. “Man, I still can’t say what they make me feel.”
They stopped paddling, then floated freely, words stuck in the stuff of their memories. Suddenly it seemed to Bruce that he was 14 again, and he and Bob were lying on their backs on the seats of their old rowboat, their lines limp at the side of the boat.
“Hey Bruce, do you think there’s ever an end to those stars?” Bob had asked. And Bruce had felt it then, as surely as he knew it again this evening, that the stars stretched on forever.
“Can’t you imagine a wall out there, Bruce? Can’t you feel it? You know, all of a sudden you reach the end of the space, and then there’s this big giant wall. Bam! That’s it. The big end.” And they had laughed.
But Bruce had found that he had to stop laughing that night. The waters licked softly at the base of the boat; a peeper sounded from the shore. There was nothing but blackness in the middle of the lake, all that black and silent water. Bruce shook his head vigorously, shutting his eyes, sitting up so suddenly that he hurt the bones in his back on the seat of the boat.
“No way, Bobby,” Bruce said, still shaking his head. “I just can’t handle that. It’s like something cracks—snap!—in my head. You know what I mean? I just can’t handle a wall in space. I just can’t handle it ending. Things have got to go on. Don’t you think, Bobby?” But it was more feeling than thinking, he knew.
Nights like that had made it easier to believe the missionaries, Bruce realized, when they had come knocking on his parents’ door. Nights like that had helped his new faith to seem almost reasonable. If space was endless, then life was endless, and endless life demanded a God. And if there was a God, Bruce just couldn’t imagine any other church being truer than the one that the missionaries had taught to him. He’d felt it as sure as he felt the warmth of the sun. And so he’d done it. He’d slipped gently into the bright waters of baptism, knees bending, his white clothes clinging to him as he felt his body going down and then up, lifted from the wetness by some power much greater than skinny old Elder Larsen. He had felt himself rising from the waters, a new person.
Water. It was always water for him. Once, when he was ten, he had tried to walk on the lake water. Lying on his back on the dock near his parents’ old cabin on the lake, he had become curious with the possibilities of faith. He had heard the story countless times in his Methodist Sunday School of the Savior walking on the water, but now his wondering made him restless. If he had enough faith, would the substanceless substance become firm beneath him? He stepped confidently out, then fell clumsily into the water.
“You caught any fish back there?” Bob asked, snapping Bruce back into the present.
Bruce looked at his line; it hung lifelessly in the dark.
“Maybe it’s time to head back,” Bob suggested.
Bruce said nothing. It was hard to stop fishing. He was always filled with the wild hope of just one more minute, just one more moment of patience, and then the tiniest movement of the line would come. If you weren’t careful, you would miss that gentle sign of interest, and the hope would be gone.
“Another 15 minutes, Bob. Let’s wait till it’s real dark. Then we’ll go back.”
Bruce reeled in his line, then pulled the pole back and cast out with one final hope for success. Setting the rod in the bottom of the canoe, he turned in the seat to get more comfortable and bumped his pole in the process. It jerked precariously, the line getting caught under the bow of the canoe. Impulsively, Bruce reached his hand into the black and unknowable water, the dark liquid now fused with the dimming horizon that was tentatively lit by a few of the earliest stars. Bruce tugged at the trapped line with his hand, freeing it, and then, for some reason, felt reluctant to let it go. Unexpectedly, the line raced through his enclosing fingers, pulled taut with certain promise.
“Hey Bob!” Bruce called softly, carefully pulling his hand in from the water, unwilling to disturb the pulse of the line. “I think I’ve got something, my friend.”

Several decades ago, when I was a student on holiday, I had the privilege of working in the kitchen of the London England Temple. On my first day, I was set to peel and chop a mound of vegetables.
The brother in charge of the kitchen came to speak to me and said, “Helen, there’s something you must understand about working in this kitchen. We have a rule; if you drop anything and it breaks, or if you spill anything—” I thought I knew what was coming, but no, “— you don’t clean it up. Someone else will clean it up. We have this rule so that people won’t feel bad about any mishap or mistake they make. You see, Helen, this is the temple, and we live according to a higher law here.”
I found that everyone in the kitchen followed this rule. If anyone spilt or dropped anything, whoever was at hand would immediately shoo them out of the way and cheerfully clean up the mess.
I never heard a cross word, a complaint, or a grumble in all my time there. All was bustle, kindness, and good cheer. Since then, I have often thought of those dear souls.
I came to know of some of their trials and pains. I don’t think any one of them had any great claim to education, social standing, wealth, or anything the world values. But they had learned something a great many people never know: The Saviour’s higher law of kindness, forbearance, and love.

7. Strive for Moderation
Part of the spirit of the Word of Wisdom is moderation in all things, except those things specifically forbidden by the Lord. It is well to avoid extremes in dress, hairstyles, makeup, conduct, speech, and music. Extremes may attract the attention of some, but they are more likely to turn off those you really want to impress.
When I was a young man, my friends and I went to an amusement park, where we rode the flying saucer. It was shaped something like an upside-down plate that went round and round. Most of us tried to get to the middle so we wouldn’t be thrown off by the centrifugal force as the saucer picked up speed. Sometimes those on the edge would grab a friend who was closer to the middle, but that would pull them both completely off the saucer. I soon recognized that the centrifugal force was far less powerful in the middle. I was quite safe in the center even though the saucer was still spinning. But it was risky when someone on the fringe latched on to me. I learned that safety comes from staying close to the center.

After earning his PhD, the family moved to Bristol, England, where Christophe worked as a computer science professor for six years. He left academia for a time to accept a manager position at ELCA Informatique in Lausanne, Switzerland. In Switzerland, they were just two hours from family for the first time in nearly 13 years. They loved living in Switzerland.

BYU had regularly asked Dr. Giraud-Carrier if he would consider accepting a professorship at the Provo campus. The answer was always no. When the Giraud-Carriers traveled to Utah in 2004, the Computer Science department chair asked them again, “What would make you stay in Utah?” Both Christophe and Isabelle had a strong impression that they should accept a professorship at BYU. They said yes and moved resolutely forward with the direction the Lord was revealing to them.

When I was six years old, my family moved to California for my dad’s new job. I had not made any new friends in my new city. After a few weeks, my family went out and delivered some of my dad’s special homemade bread to our new neighbors. It made me feel good inside. I knew that special feeling was the Holy Ghost. It made me feel like the Holy Ghost was saying, “Hailey, you were very brave to move to California, and you will make friends!”
Hailey B., age 7, California, USA

When the mission age changes were announced, I felt excitement reverberate throughout the meetinghouse where I was watching it. Yet when I considered serving a mission, I felt hesitant and knew I needed to truly ponder the opportunity. Soon after graduating high school, I realized I could start my mission papers and began to feel that almost every lesson in church focused on either missionary work or discovering the will of the Father. The Spirit was prompting me to seek answers to my questions concerning a mission.

I began to pray for courage to accept God’s will for me. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment of decision, but after studying the scriptures, continuing to pray for guidance, talking with my parents, and pondering in my heart, I felt that serving a mission was not the right path for me. I inquired of the Lord to receive confirmation of this choice and was blessed with peace.
Katie G., Idaho, USA

I remember, when very young, helping my mother and dad in our movie theater in Raymond, Alberta, Canada. I enjoyed it because we were together—selling popcorn or tickets. When it came time to clean the big theater, I had the privilege of doing it with my dad. We each had our own jobs to do and yet we did them together. I noted later in life that I had retained the desire to keep things neat and orderly.

The Beehive girls of the Provo East Stake have become better babysitters because of the workshops they attended on child care. Besides learning how to care for and entertain children, the Provo girls learned basic first aid and what to do in an emergency. Each girl made a babysitting kit that included simple games, portable party paraphernalia, puppets, and musical instruments made out of cans. The kit also included a plastic apron with pockets for bandages, towels for cleanup, scissors, paper, and crayons. Crystal Ashton enjoys using her Kiddy Kare Kit. “The children I tend like the parties and the puppets the best. They love everything we do with the kit.” The gift of caring was added to the basket.

Basketball season came. Everybody knew Billie by now. Everybody knew he would be playing. The referees knew what to do when he tried to dribble. The teams made certain allowances. He was really part of things.
Stake championship again. We worked our way through the teams in the stake, and the final game was between us and—you guessed it—them.
Well, it was close the first half, but then we fell apart. The coach could see what was happening, and by the third quarter it was pretty obvious that nothing was going to work for us that night. While we were looking for some way to get even with the same guys that beat us in volleyball, something unique was happening on the basketball court.
Billie was playing. He really couldn’t shoot. One arm and hand was withered, and he couldn’t give much direction to the ball. But every time he got the ball, their coach yelled for someone to foul Billie. That was the end; I was fighting mad. Even the people in the crowd couldn’t believe their ears. Why was our bishop smiling? Then one of their players gingerly went out and tapped Billie. One referee was so mystified by what was happening that he just stood there. In fact everybody just stood there for several silent seconds. Then the other referee blew his whistle, and when he did everyone understood. Billie got to shoot a foul shot. In fact, he got to shoot two foul shots (intentional foul), and when he missed those, one of the boys on the other team was standing with his foot over the line and Billie got to shoot again, in fact several more.
The crowd was clapping and cheering for Billie; we were cheering for him, but so was the other team. Was this really losing? Everyone was pulling together. No one seemed to care what the score was; everyone was helping Billie. Both teams were helping and cheering and pulling for Billie.
Billie shot a lot of free throws that night. We all cheered; we laughed a little; and Billie went home the star of the evening. Who won? They did, we did, and the stake did.

Moving can be a scary thing, especially when you go from sixth grade in an elementary school to sixth grade in a middle school, as I did.
My mom took me to school on my first day to get me enrolled. After a quick tour of the school with the school counselor, we were taken to my classroom. My teacher wasn’t there when we arrived, so the counselor said he would find her and let her know I was new in the class. Then he left us with a class full of kids busy with schoolwork.
I was becoming nervous when one boy turned around and said, “Are you new?”
I said, “Yes.”
He stood up, walked over, stuck out his hand, and said, “Hi, I’m Chase.”
“I’m Zack,” I said, shaking his hand. To my surprise, several other boys lined up with outstretched hands and introduced themselves. I didn’t dare look at my mom because I thought she might be crying because these boys made me feel so welcome. I felt good the rest of the day because a group of boys noticed someone who needed a handshake.
After school, my mom asked me how it felt to have a welcome like that. “It felt good!” I said. She told me that if I ever noticed a new person, I would know what to do to make them feel good, too.

I was touched by the journey of one brother who asked himself, “When the Lord calls, will I hear?” I will call this fine brother David.
David converted to the Church some 30 years ago. He served a mission and then attended law school. While he was studying and working to support a young family, he came across some information about the Church that confused him. The more he read these negative materials, the more unsettled he became. Eventually he asked to have his name removed from the records of the Church.
From that time on, like Alma in his rebellious days, David spent a great deal of time debating with members of the Church, engaging in online conversations with the purpose of challenging their beliefs.
He was very good at this.
One of the members he debated with I will call Jacob. Jacob was always kind and respectful to David, but he was also firm in his defense of the Church.
Over the years, David and Jacob developed a mutual respect and friendship. What David did not know is that Jacob was praying for David and did so faithfully for more than a decade. He even placed his friend’s name for prayer in the temples of the Lord and hoped that David’s heart would be softened.
Over time, slowly, David did change. He began to remember with fondness the spiritual experiences he once had, and he remembered the happiness he had felt when he was a member of the Church.
Like Alma, David had not completely forgotten the gospel truths he had once embraced. And like Amulek, David felt the Lord reaching out to him. David was now a partner in a law firm—a prestigious job. He had developed a reputation as a critic of the Church, and he had too much pride to ask to be readmitted.
Nevertheless, he continued to feel the pull of the Shepherd.
He took to heart the scripture “If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.”13 He prayed, “Dear God, I want to be a Latter-day Saint again, but I have questions that need answers.”
He began to listen to the whisperings of the Spirit and to inspired answers of friends as he never had before. One after another, his doubts turned to faith, until finally he realized that, once again, he could feel a testimony of Jesus Christ and His restored Church.
At that point, he knew that he would be able to overcome his pride and do whatever it took to be accepted back into the Church.
Eventually, David entered the waters of baptism and then began counting down the days until he could have his blessings restored.
I am happy to report that this past summer, David’s blessings were restored to him. He is again fully participating in the Church and serving as a Gospel Doctrine teacher in his ward. He takes every opportunity to speak to others about his transformation, to heal the damage he caused, and to bear testimony of the gospel and the Church of Jesus Christ.

Shellie and her friends were sitting on her front porch talking.
“My daddy makes people well,” Cindy said. “He’s the most important daddy in the whole world!”
“Oh, no,” answered Robert. “My daddy’s the most important daddy in the whole world. He puts out fires!”
“Well, I think my daddy’s the most important,” said Henry. “He teaches school!”
Shellie sat and listened to her friends talk about their dads, but she didn’t say anything.
My daddy must be important, she thought, but I don’t know why.
That evening after supper Shellie’s daddy sat down on the couch to read the newspaper.
Shellie went over and cuddled up next to him.
“Daddy, is your work important?” she asked.
Daddy thought for a moment. “Yes, Shellie, my work is very important.”
“Is it more important than making people well or putting out fires or teaching school?”
Daddy thought again. “Let’s just say it’s as important,” he replied, “but not more important.”
Shellie frowned a little bit. She wanted her daddy to be the most important daddy in the whole world.
“Hey, I see a frowny face,” said Daddy. “It looks like this.” Then he made a big frowny face that was so funny Shellie laughed out loud.
“Do you know what I do to people who have frowny faces?” asked Daddy. “I tickle them.”
Shellie tried to wiggle away, but she was too late. Daddy tickled her ribs and then he tickled her chin.
“What happened to that frowny face?” Daddy asked.
Shellie laughed and laughed. She looked at Daddy’s happy face and thought, My daddy is the most important daddy in the whole world because he makes me happy!
Then Shellie put her arms around her daddy’s neck and said, “I love you!”

As I grew up, I heard the testimonies of many members and especially of my mother. I asked my mother how I could gain my own testimony, and she encouraged me to read the scriptures and the Tambuli (now Liahona).
From then on, I tried my best to read the scriptures and the Church magazines. Doing so has helped me to have faith and doubt no more. Also, I now desire to go on a mission when I reach the age of 21.
Carpio Dhareen,Placer Branch, Philippines Cagayan de Oro Mission

In a few languages, translations have been made by people who were not Latter-day Saints, but whom the Lord inspired and guided to accomplish the work. For instance, the Afrikaans Book of Mormon was translated by such a man, who was eminently qualified and highly recommended by local leaders. He commented that when he had difficulty with a given passage, he searched the Book of Mormon carefully in other languages for help. If that failed to produce something he could feel right about, his only recourse was to kneel and ask the Lord what the passage should say in his language. He was never disappointed.

“Please tell me a story,” Jeff said to his granny.
Granny began, “Once upon a time there was a boy.”
“He was a little boy,” Jeff said.
Granny began again. “Once upon a time there was a bad little boy.”
“No, Granny. That isn’t the way the story goes,” Jeff said. “He was a good little boy.”
Once more Granny started the story. “Once upon a time there was a good little boy.”
Jeff nodded his head up and down. “That’s the right story.”
“This good little boy was going to town.”
Jeff shook his head. “No, no, Granny. Don’t you remember? That very good little boy was going to his granny’s house.”
Granny smiled at Jeff. “That’s the same old story. Wouldn’t you like to hear a new one?”
“I like the old story,” Jeff insisted.
So Granny told it. “Once upon a time there was a very good little boy. His daddy took him in the car to see his granny. When they got to Granny’s house. Daddy stopped the car in the driveway. He smoothed Jeff’s hair and tucked Jeff’s shirttail in. ‘Be a good boy,’ Daddy said.
“Jeff climbed out of the car and waved good-bye to Daddy. Then Jeff rang Granny’s doorbell.
“When Granny opened the door, she pretended that she didn’t know him. ‘Good morning,’ Granny said. ‘Are you selling something? I don’t think I need anything today.’
“Jeff began to giggle. ‘Don’t you need a good little boy?’
“Granny made her face look surprised. ‘How did you know? That’s the only thing that I need.’
“Jeff laughed out loud. ‘I’m just what you need!’ he said.”
Granny stopped telling the story and hugged Jeff. “It’s the same old story,” she said.
“That’s why I like it,” Jeff told her. “Could we have a glass of milk and a cookie for that very good little boy? That comes next in that same old story.”

During the spring, my husband and I attended our four-year-old grandson’s football game. Excitement was in the air as children ran in every direction chasing the ball. When the final whistle blew, the players didn’t know who won or who lost. They simply had played the game.
The coaches asked the players to shake hands with the other team. Then we saw something quite remarkable. Their coach called for a victory tunnel.
Parents, grandparents, and anybody who came to see the game stood up and formed two lines facing each other. Then they raised their arms and created an arch. The children squealed as they ran under the arms of the cheering adults and down the path.
Soon the children from the other team decided to join in the fun. All of the players were cheered on by the adults as they ran through the victory tunnel.
In my mind I could see another picture. I had the feeling I was seeing these children living the plan Heavenly Father created for every child. They were running on the strait and narrow path, under the arms of the people who loved them. Each child felt the joy of being on the path.
Jesus Christ has “marked the path and led the way” for each of us.1 If we follow His lead, we will all return to our heavenly home and be safe in Heavenly Father’s arms.

The group entered a beautiful basin where snow-fed lakes connected by small waterfalls descended like huge stairsteps. The trail faded and disappeared altogether as it led across flat, slick rock. By this time, the girls were gaining confidence and, instead of following the lead horse, they spread out in groups of twos or threes, picking their own ways across the rock. But they soon found that taking off on their own didn’t always work well. What looked like a good way to go often led to the edge of cliffs or into an impossible thicket of trees that forced them to turn back and retrace their routes.
A forest ranger had gone over the trail before and had marked the best way across the slick rock with small pyramids of stone. These markers, or cairns as they are called, were easy to spot and if followed led safely across the section where the trail was obliterated. The girls found they could not rely on their own instincts or observations to select a good path. They found they had to trust the one who had gone on before to show them the best way. The girls started talking about following the cairns. “This is like our leaders giving us lessons about how to live our lives,” said one. “Yes,” said another catching on to the symbolism, “it’s like learning to follow the prophet. By listening to him, we can follow the right trail even when we can’t see where it leads.”

June 18 and 19 also found another group of young Latter-day Saints from ten stakes in Spanish Fork, Utah, together in Santaquin Canyon. By 3:00 P.M. Friday many had already arrived. Registration continued until 6:00 P.M. with over 350 people signing up to spend the next two days together.
After a full day of registration and other activities, the youth filled the lodge to hear Elder Marion D. Hanks. Using the opening song as a springboard, he explained the difference between moving your arm up and down to the piano and really leading the music. “It’s all in the spirit of the song,” he said. “You need to feel what you are leading and make it a part of you. So it is with the gospel. We need to live it.” After Elder Hanks’ address, the youth cleared the lodge of chairs and made ready for a dance.
Six o’clock in the morning came too early, but everyone made it out of bed after some struggle. After the posting of the colors the Spanish Fork youth gathered in the fresh canyon morning to listen to one anothers’ testimonies. A breakfast of sausage, scrambled eggs, hot cakes, and hot chocolate was ready to eat as soon as the closing prayer was given. High councilors and their wives from all the stakes prepared the breakfast. It only took 30 minutes to fill all the plates once, but that didn’t account for the many return trips. The rest of the morning was jam-packed with workshops.
As the group finished lunch, a master of ceremonies took over, and a talent show was underway. Skits, songs, readings—many different talents were presented. Soon everyone in the lodge was laughing as hard as those on stage. As soon as the talent show ended, everyone got in on the act. Teams of ten were formed, and relay contests opened with nail driving. Three-legged races are common, but has anyone ever tried a four-legged race with three people tied together? As the last relay ended, so did the fun of the two-day conference.

The Primary children in the Willow Creek First Ward, Sandy Utah Willow Creek Stake, learned about the pioneers when they performed in a play for their ward. They acted out scenes from the building of the Kirtland, Nauvoo, and Salt Lake Temples, and some things that happened in between. It took them all summer to plan and to learn their parts, but on the night of the big pageant, they were ready.
Before the curtain opened, two children dressed as Joseph Smith and Brigham Young stood onstage and talked about building the Kirtland Temple. “The Lord has made it perfectly clear,” Joseph said to the audience. “He has commanded us to build a temple here in Kirtland.”
These early Church members donated their time, talents, and money to follow the Lord’s commandments. “I think they had to sacrifice a lot to build the temple,” says Kyle Esplin, 9, one of the narrators. “I’m paying my tithing now to help build up the Church.” When Kyle pays his tithing, he tries to remember the sacrifices the pioneers made.
The Latter-day Saints lived in Kirtland, Ohio, for eight years before they were forced to leave. They moved soon after they completed and dedicated the Kirtland Temple. When they arrived in Nauvoo, Illinois, they started to build another house of the Lord. Nauvoo became a large, prosperous city, and the people were happy there for some time. But soon they began to be persecuted, so the Nauvoo leaders formed a band of young men called the “whistling and whittling brigade.” The young men in the brigade looked for any suspicious-looking strangers and followed them, whittling sticks and whistling.
Jesse Fackrell, 10, one of the narrators, enjoyed watching the brigade on stage. “I thought it was neat that the boys went around and watched for troublemakers and protected the people,” he says.
Another sacrifice the early Church members in Nauvoo made was donating pennies to the temple fund. “I think they really felt good about giving something up for something else really important. It might have only been a little, but they felt thankful to be able to give their money,” says Mary Garbett, 10. One of Mary’s parts was being a harvester in the fields. In her role, she sold the vegetables she gathered so she could have money to donate to the temple.
Mary and other children in the ward also went to their stake center for the dedication of the new Nauvoo Temple in June 2002. Seeing the dedication helped the children better understand the sacrifices made by the pioneers for the original Nauvoo Temple.
After working hard to build the Nauvoo Temple, the people had to leave it behind after the Prophet Joseph was killed. Mobs forced many of them out of Nauvoo in the dead of winter. Brigham Young led them to a new home in the West.
Though life was very hard for the pioneers, and they really did walk and walk, they also managed to dance and sing during their trek west. The children in the play performed a quilt dance and had a hoedown with real fiddlers to show the audience that the journey was joyful at times. Many of the pioneer children had great adventures on their way to the Salt Lake Valley. They saw buffalo and mountains, and they preferred to walk a lot of the time because riding in the wagon was so bumpy.
Jeffrey Yee, 11, and his younger brother Ryan, 6, performed the parts of James and Joseph Kirkwood. James was one of the young heroes of the pioneer trek. He, his mother, and his three brothers had come from Scotland, and they set out together to cross the plains with their handcart. James took care of his four-year-old brother, Joseph. When Joseph was too tired to walk any farther on Rocky Ridge, James carried him. When they finally got to the camp, James set his little brother down safely by the campfire. James died beside the fire from the cold and exhaustion.
“I think that he was very responsible and brave. His little brother must have been grateful for a brother to look up to,” Jeff says about his character. “Because he was kind to his little brother, he helps me know it’s not nice to make fun of my little brother. He usually needs help because he is so young, so I try to help him.”
Though getting there was difficult, the Saints finally made it to the Salt Lake Valley, where Brigham Young dug his cane into the soil and said, “Here we will build the temple of our God.”
Davis Esplin, 11, learned a lot from performing the part of Brother Brigham. “I have a new respect for Brigham Young because I didn’t know how hard it was to build the temple.”
After dedicating the cornerstone, it took 40 years to complete the Salt Lake Temple. By that time, Wilford Woodruff had become President of the Church. He dedicated the temple on 6 April 1893. There was even a special dedication session for children under eight so that more Primary children could attend.
The Saints spent years building each of the three temples, suffering setbacks along the way. But they never gave up. Why did they do it? Zach Fackrell, 12, says it was because “they had faith and they knew it was important to get it done so they could do what the Lord wanted them to do.” Zach’s brother Jed, 10, says the temple is really important to him because “that’s where you can do baptisms for the dead, and that’s where you can get married so you can live with Heavenly Father again.”
Some children long ago had the right idea. After the Salt Lake Temple was completed, two boys brought their younger brothers to the temple so they could touch the walls. “We want them to know how great the temple is,” one of the older brothers says in the play.
“Yes,” the other boy says, “so they’ll want to go inside when they get big!”
Those children knew the importance of building temples, even though it required so much. They knew that just as they could touch the temple, the Spirit inside the temple could touch them, too. That was why they walked, and walked, and walked. …