In section 84 of the Doctrine and Covenants, verses 98-102, the reference is made to a new song that will be sung in the day when the Lord reigns on the earth. I have been blessed to hear and know that song and will be sending it to the Church as a gift. For your blessing, here is that song:

D&C 84: 95-102

The Lord Hath Brought Again Zion

The Lord hath brought again Zion, according to His grace;
He hath freed His people Israel, as brought to pass by faith.
The Lord hath gathered all in one, above and from beneath;
By cov’nant with our Fathers, His people hath redeemed.

The earth hath ended her labors and now brings forth her strength.
With the truth established in her, Heaven smiles upon her reign.
With Satan bound and time no more and all see eye to eye,
Let us lift our voices together, here never more to die.

Our God hath shown us His mercy and all now know His way.
The earth clothed in His glory and men behold his face.
God’s glory, honor, power and might, within his people’s midst.
Through justice, grace and mercy, His truth hath brought us peace.

Words and music: Steven G. O’Dell, b.1951

This is not meant to be an example of good writing, I'm not ready to hope for that! This story is true and important to me. I wrote it for my personal history and I share it here in hope that someone may find value in it.

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My name is Dan Crites and I hope to explain in this writing how I came to know that God lives and that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is Christ’s true church.

I grew up in Portland, Oregon where my parents lived following my fathers return from World War II. Mom and Dad had met each other when my father was stationed at Topaz Camp in Central Utah. My mother was born and raised in Fillmore, Utah about 50 miles from Topaz. My mother’s family were members of the Church but had quit attending by the time my mom was old enough to be baptized. My dad was not a member of any Church.

While I was growing up we always made a summer vacation trip to Fillmore. I had aunts, uncles, and many cousins there. I loved it as we would go up Chalk Creek Canyon to fish, out to my uncles farms to see the livestock, up in the mountains in a jeep, or out to the desert to hunt jack rabbits. It was great adventure and fun for a young boy and I always enjoyed going there.

My Mom died after a long illness when I was 11 years old. I loved her as much as any boy loves his mother, she was so good to me. My Dad, a good man, died 3 years later when I was in the 9th grade. After that, I lived with my brother, Gary, and his family.

When I graduated from high school I went to college at Oregon State University for one year. I was lost, not knowing right from wrong really. I was searching, searching without knowing I was searching, for the meaning of life and what was worth pursuing. I didn’t go back to school the following year but got a job working for a landscaping company where I stayed for several years.

Just after my 21st birthday I took a trip to Fillmore to see my extended family there. I can’t explain why I made the trip, I hadn’t seen any of them for 6 or 7 years, but I had good memories of Fillmore and used my vacation time to go. I took my dog, Beorn, with me and left in my Volkswagon Beetle early one morning a little before Thanksgiving. My car broke down near Bliss, Idaho and I had it towed to Burley where I learned that the engine repair would be major. I decided to sell the car there and I got a ride to Fillmore. This is where my story really begins.

I enjoyed being in Fillmore, enjoyed visiting with my extended family. I stayed with my Uncle Londo and Aunt Edith. Londo was my mom’s oldest brother. Edith was a woman of great faith and always attended church meetings, read scriptures, listened to recorded inspiring talks and music, and lived a life of service. She invited me to go to church with her, and though I really didn’t want to, I felt an obligation to do so, knowing that it would make her happy. I remember going with her, arriving a bit late, and having to sit on the first row. On another day I went with Errol and Joyce and their family to a Church road show. It was great fun and I enjoyed being with them.

I went to say goodbye to Errol’s family the night before I left Fillmore. My plan was to drive all the way from Fillmore to Portland, a trip of over 900 miles taking about 14 hours. When leaving Errol’s, he asked me if I’d like to stop on my way home at the Visitor’s Center at Temple Square. I didn’t have any interest in stopping there, knowing what a long trip home it would be. I said no, that I couldn’t do it and explained my reasoning. He tried to talk me into it and asked again. I said no again. He asked again. He told me that I would enjoy it, and that he would bring his family and meet me there. He suggested having his brother Lon, who had recently returned from serving a mission in Germany, meet us there. I don’t remember how many times he asked, but I do know that he asked one more time than I said no.

The following morning Lon and I met at the Visitor’s Center. We started our tour by looking at the large murals that depicted scenes from the old and new testament. It felt good there and I enjoyed hearing about what was depicted in the murals. Lon was a great guide, perfect for me, able to show and explain gospel principles. We then went to a diorama depicting Joseph Smith kneeling in prayer in a grove of trees. It was at this diorama that the story of the First Vision of the Father and the Son was first explained to me. I had never heard before a credible explanation of a modern prophet, and this opened up a whole new world of possibility. I believe it was just after that that we met up with Errol and his family. We went to a room that describe the Family Home Evening program and purpose. It was both entertaining and heart warming to hear of the importance of families and of a practice to help them be close and protected.

As I was driving home I decided that I needed to learn more about what I heard at the Visitor’s Center that day. I had a copy of the Book of Mormon that Aunt Edith had given me and a pamphlet or two from the visitor’s center. When I got home, around the 10th of December, I started reading the Book of Mormon. I liked it. I wasn’t reading very fast, only having read 30 or 40 pages when I got bogged down in the events surrounding Christmas. It was then that Lon called to see if he could come, just after Christmas, to visit me and see some of the sights of Oregon.

Though he has never said so, I have to think that Lon had a more noble purpose than just visiting me and seeing Oregon. We went to the beautiful Oregon coast, to Mt. Hood to go cross country skiing, and into the Columbia River Gorge. Because I had been thinking about what I had heard at the Visitor Center, and the things I had read in the Book of Mormon and church pamphlets, a few questions had arisen in my mind. I would occasionally ask Lon questions while we drove. His answers were always given in a very good manner. His responses made me very comfortable in asking more questions because they were always taken well, answered well, and were never “preachy”. He never gave more than what I asked for which left me wanting to ask more.

On Saturday he let me know that he wanted to attend church. We went to what was my home ward, it was the ward that I would have attended had I been a member while growing up. There I found people I knew, including two young women that I went to school with who had since joined the Church. Lon was instrumental in my introduction to the gospel and early learning of it. Looking back, I doubt that I would have taken the steps I needed to continue reading from the Book of Mormon and request missionaries had he not come and spent those three days with me.

We had a great time traveling and playing, but for me it was worth much more than that. By the time I took Lon to the airport I was determined to learn more about the church and this religion that had the ring of truth to it. I had had some concerns about talking with the missionaries, but had gotten to the point that I needed and wanted to. After I got back to the house where I was living I asked a roommate, Chris Kendall, a member of the church who no longer attended, if he knew how to find the missionaries. He said that he did and that night he arranged for them to come.

The missionaries, Elder Grant and Baker, came at the appointed time a day or two later. After a brief “get-to-know-you” discussion they asked for permission to offer an opening prayer and began to teach. They first told me about Joseph Smith’s First Vision. I loved it. I had heard it at the Visitor’s Center and I enjoyed hearing it again, it had the ring of truth. They then told me about the coming forth of the Book of Mormon. I had previously heard that too. Then they told me about the restoration of the Savior’s true church, as it was originally organized, and through His authority. They ended by teaching me how to pray.

As a boy I remember my dad asking me to offer a blessing on a Thanksgiving day meal when my Aunt Eva and Uncle Pratt were visiting. I didn’t want to because I didn’t know how. We never had prayers in our home and I really had not heard someone pray very many times. One of the missionaries asked me if I would like to offer the closing prayer. I didn’t. I had only prayed one time previous to this in my life, just after my mom died. I definitely did not want to pray in front of them. They told me they would leave their flip chart open showing an outline of how to pray and asked if that would help. I told them that I didn’t need it, that I did not want to pray then but would do so in my own room after they left. They asked again, and I reluctantly agree to pray.

I closed my eyes and bowed my head. I’m sure I followed the outline, it was a very short prayer though I don’t remember what I said. After I closed the prayer in the Savior’s name I experienced something I never had before. It was a most amazing combination of feeling and intelligence. The feeling came as a warmth, though not physically warm, and accompanied with it was the knowledge that what I had just been taught was true. I sat there enjoying the feeling and being amazed by it when Elder Grant thanked me for saying the prayer. I thought, “Oh, let’s just sit here and feel this”.

We arranged for another visit and I started pouring through the Book of Mormon. I read it every chance I had, in the morning, during work breaks, at lunch, and in the evening. I found so many great things in it and I knew it was true. I continued with the lessons and was invited to be baptized on January 28, 1978.

My baptism occurred on the appointed day. I was confirmed a member of the Church by a childhood friend, Terry Walworth, who had returned from a mission a few months earlier. While hands were on my head, and the words “Receive the Holy Ghost” were pronounced, I had a similar experience to what had happened after praying at the end the first missionary discussion. I felt that I had received the promised Gift of the Holy Ghost, and though I know that there is much to receiving that gift, I did receive it that day.

That was 29 years ago. Since those days I have been greatly blessed in many ways and am so grateful to God and all those who helped me begin to learn the Gospel of Jesus Christ and gain membership in His Church. I have read the Book of Mormon over 30 times now. Prayer has become an essential part of my life. Church attendance has been a regular part of my life since joining and I have felt the Spirit many, many times. But, I still remember the unique feelings of the Spirit that came to me as I started to have, as it were, the scales of darkness fall from my spiritual eyes, and the Holy Ghost begin to communicate with me in ways that I could understand.

I know that God lives. His Son, Jesus Christ, is the Savior of the world, the Savior of every person who ever lives in it, if they will follow Him. He is greater than I have the ability to understand, yet I know something of his personality. I have heard his voice. I seek to live my life better by following Him, though I frequently have cause to be disappointed in my actions. I know that the Book of Mormon is literally true. It is what Joseph Smith claimed it is, an ancient book of scripture written by men of old for the people of today, translated by the gift and power of God. It was written for me. I know that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is Christ’s church, the only one authorized to administer the ordinances of the Gospel. It brings peace to the hearts of man in this life and salvation and exaltation in the life to come.

I am so grateful.

I’ve seen Capra’s “It’s a Wonderful Life” at least a dozen times, but I’d never experienced a holiday miracle of my own until one dark December night a few years ago. On that almost-Christmas eve I encountered an angel—a couple of them, in fact—and learned a lesson in faith, prayer, and God's love that I will never forget.

This is a true story. Only the names have been changed—and not all of them!

Angels Bending Near the Earth

“It’s Christmas,” I reminded myself under my breath. “Peace on earth. Goodwill to men.” Supposing the heavenly exhortation extended to children as well, I looped the piece of cloth around a little shepherd’s head instead of tying it around his mouth as I’d have liked to.

It was already December twenty-something, and I had yet to bake a tray of cookies or wrap a single gift. Instead I’d spent most of the month writing a Christmas pageant, assigning parts, sewing and refurbishing costumes, building a stable, affixing a star in the cultural hall firmament, and directing twenty-some kids who were all now sugar-filled and giddy at the thought of Santa’s imminent arrival.

Despite being a nervous wreck I was pleased. It was our night of nights at last and we were ready. By the time the bishop stood to welcome the audience and announce the opening prayer, the set was decorated, the choir assembled, and the characters in place. Everyone and everything looked wonderful—if I did say so myself.

Having just completed my last task—shoving a crown on a wise guy’s little head for the umpteenth time—I slumped against the wall in the back of the cultural hall to enjoy the fruits of my labors. Just then a door flew open and an excited, windblown little girl ran into the room and grabbed my hand with her icy fingers. It was Earlene. As if the name alone wasn’t enough for a ten-year-old to contend with, this little girl was painfully thin, wore thick glasses, and had incredibly prominent teeth. She also had one of the strongest, sweetest personalities I’d ever encountered. I wondered if that was the reason she’d been sent to the family she had—one that seemed to have more than their share of trials in life.

“How do I look?” she asked breathlessly. “Where do I go for my part?”

She looked like she’d just tumbled off a hayride, but I didn’t tell her that. Nor did I mention that she might have known what was going on if she’d made it to even one practice.

After assuring Earlene she looked beautiful, I nudged her toward a children’s choir that was assembled around the piano. At least I tried to nudge her. She wouldn’t move.

“No!” she cried, pushing her heavy glasses back up the bridge of her nose. “I’m an angel!”

People in the last few rows forgot that Brother Crawford was now pronouncing a blessing upon the proceedings and turned to look at us instead.

“You’re not an angel,” I whispered. I had no idea where she got the idea in the first place. Then I added encouragingly, “But you’re a very important part of the choir.” Never mind that she wouldn’t know any of the songs since she attended Primary too seldom to learn them.

I’d dragged her about six inches closer to the choir before she yanked her hand from mine. “You said!” she insisted. “You said in church that I’m supposed to be an angel!”

My mouth opened, but no words came out of it. I was trying to remember just what I’d said to her and when. I seemed to recall speaking to Earlene in the hallway a couple of weeks previously. I’d been in a rush to get to Sunday School before my students and had practically knocked her into a wall. Whatever I said had said then had been an apology . . . and perhaps a platitude.

“You said I’m an angel!” Earlene wailed.

The audience uttered a resounding, “Amen!” I hoped it was in response to the end of the prayer.

I looked down into two myopic little eyes and knew it was possible—probable, even—that I had called Earlene an angel. But I certainly hadn’t meant she was a Christmas-pageant angel. I’d meant she was a . . . well, you know.

Earlene didn’t know. She knew only that as director of the pageant, God had given me the right to appoint little girls to be His heavenly messengers for ten or fifteen minutes in that particular ward on that particular night. Clearly, being chosen as an angel for the Christmas pageant—or believing that she had been—was the best thing that had ever happened in her short and surely difficult life.

Earlene clasped my hand again with both of hers and her eyes shone. “I’ve asked Heavenly Father every night to help me be a perfect angel in His pageant. He will help me. I know He will.”

The thought of Earlene’s sweet, fervent prayers brought tears to my eyes, but there was nothing I could do. The pageant would begin any second. I prayed for words to explain to the little girl that she had misunderstood, but there were no words in any language that could fix this. No matter what I said, Earlene would still believe in her heart that God had handpicked her to be an angel.

She looked from me to the softly-lit stage and back again, wondering when I’d produce that white robe and silver garland worn by the other pageant angels.

Any minute the welling in my eyes was going to run down my cheeks. There was no doubt in my mind that this misunderstanding would drive her parents even further from the Church. Worse, might the awful disappointment cause Earlene to wonder if God heard her prayers? To wonder, if He did hear them, why He would ignore her hopes and happiness—and at Christmas?

Despite my fears of a family’s impending apostasy and a child’s crisis of faith, I simply didn’t have an angel costume—or any way to come up with one in two minutes or less. My thoughts raced. Earlene wore a dirty orange sweatshirt and tattered blue jeans. No way could I slip her onstage with the robe-clad girls without evoking stares and giggles that would break her heart. I looked frantically around the room, hoping to spot a shirt or a sweater or anything white that I could strip off an unsuspecting ward member. While everybody looked festive, nobody looked angelic.

The Relief Society room was locked or I would have ripped the tablecloth out from under their pot of poinsettias and improvised. At that point I might have considered packing Earlene in snow but we were in Arizona, so I didn’t have any of that either.

Heedless of Longfellow’s bells tolling despair back here in the corner, the pianist broke into “Joy to the World” and the first narrator entered. The play had begun.

An awful understanding began to creep onto Earlene’s face. The census was going forth from Caesar Augustus and she was going nowhere. “Hurry!” she said. “I need my costume now! I have to go be with the angels!”

I wanted to “go be with the angels” too, but my wish was metaphorical. I simply wanted to die before I had to witness Earlene’s heart shatter.

Just then Sue McGurr appeared in a doorway not six feet from where Earlene and I stood. If she had been the Angel Moroni materializing with a golden trump in hand I couldn't have been more surprised. In her hand was a hanger, and on the hanger was a clean, white angel costume that was exactly Earlene’s size.

Earlene had her shoes off, her jeans rolled to the knees, and the robe on before I managed to draw a single breath. With a dazzling smile on her face, she raced across the room and hoisted herself onto the stage. Although clearly surprised at her sudden arrival, one of the “regular” angels ripped half the garland from her own belt and used it to adorn Earlene’s long, hopelessly-tangled hair.

Angels are like that. Bless their little hearts.

When the program ended, I was still standing in the same spot and I was crying in earnest. It was the best Christmas pageant ever. Mary and Joseph had made it all the way to Bethlehem without bickering as they had done in every rehearsal. The shepherds had neither dueled with their staffs nor played keep-away with their stuffed sheep. The wise men had found their way from the East without a detour to the drinking fountain. And above them all stood the angels—beautiful, bright, beatific—with Earlene in the very front. You don’t have to believe this final line if you don’t want to, but I will always believe there was a surreal glow—and maybe an extra angel or two—around her.

When I could speak again I sought out Sister McGurr. Sue had no idea she’d just pulled off the biggest Christmas miracle since Clarence earned his wings. When I asked her where she’d come up with the costume she reminded me that I’d given it to her daughter the year before. Only then did I remember being impressed to let the little girl keep the robe when she begged, but I also remembered that I'd never expected to see it again.

Several times during the year, Sue told me, she’d almost thrown away the angel costume, but “something” made her stuff it back in the closet instead dropping it into the wastebasket. The same something had urged her to find it after dress rehearsal and wash and press it. In the end, she’d left it behind in her haste to get her children to the church on time, but that stubborn, blessed “something” intervened one last time. Sue had got up out of her seat, hurried home to grab the costume, and then returned just as the pageant began.

I was awe-struck at the heavenly machinations. I had been prompted to give away a costume I wanted to keep. Sue had been impressed to keep a costume she didn’t want. These minor miracles, set in place hundreds of days before, wouldn’t impact the world. They were all for the benefit of one little girl—a child who loved her Heavenly Father and put her trust in Him. Because of her prayers, Earlene was a perfect angel that night. Or at least she was a pageant angel . . . with perfect faith.

The real miracle, of course, is the one of which prophets and apostles testify: the infinite love God has for each of His children. Elder Jeffrey R. Holland said, “I do not know exactly how He does it, but I testify to you that He knows us and loves us individually and that He hears our prayers. My testimony is that nothing in this universe is more important to Him than your hopes and happiness.”

I gained this testimony firsthand one beautiful, blessed near-Christmas night. Our Father—who loved us all enough to send His Son—loved odd, little Earlene enough to send her an angel robe. He had known her prayers months and months before she uttered them and had set in motion a plan to reward her innocent faith before she exercised it.

And so it is with us. Each year when children sing, “Be near me, Lord Jesus, I ask thee to stay close by me forever, and love me, I pray” I feel the warm, prickling confirmation of the Spirit and think of Earlene. I don’t know where she is now, but I suspect that she is still a perfect angel, still close to her Heavenly Father, and still looked over and loved by He who blesses each of us so perfectly.

I like to think that she still has her white robe. I gave it to her, of course. It’s all she asked Santa for that night when she sat upon his lap. Besides, “something” told me that angel costume had been made and preserved and protected just for her.

Just like her.