Part I : The Snow Queen

There are yet a number of fragments of enchanted glass floating about in the air, and now you shall hear what happened with one of them.
(The Snow Queen, Story the First: Which Describes a Looking-Glass and the Broken Fragments, Hans Christian Andersen, 1845)

(This story is based on a true experience)

“I’d like to close our Family Home Evening lesson tonight with my testimony of prayer. I know that Heavenly Father hears and answers our prayers and I’m very thankful for prayer,” Dad said. He turned to Mom and said, “Time for family business. What’s on our schedule for this week?”

Mom pulled out the calendar. After talking about a home teaching appointment, a choir concert, and piano lessons, Mom said, “And, we have our trip to Mesa, Arizona this weekend so Dad and I can attend the temple. Since it’s a seven hour drive from here, we’ll need to stay overnight.”

Angela played with her braids. She looked over at Dad and said, “Do you think we’ll ever have a temple closer to us, Daddy?”

“That’d sure be nice. The Mesa Temple is wonderful, but it’s so far away. Maybe we should pray to Heavenly Father and ask Him to bless us with a temple closer to our home. Then we could attend more often and not have to spend the weekend.”

Angela nodded.

That night by her bed, Angela knelt down for her own prayer. She remembered what Dad said about praying for a temple. She thought about her favorite song, “A Child’s Prayer,” and the words to the second verse,

“Pray, he is there; Speak, he is list’ning.
You are his child; His love now surrounds you.
He hears your prayer; He loves the children. . .” (CS 12 )

She bowed her head and asked Heavenly Father for a temple closer to
where she lived in Southwestern Colorado.

When she finished her prayer, she froze like a statue. Her eyes moved from side to side. “Is someone there?” she called out. Finally, she jumped up and rushed into the living room to find Mom and Dad.

“What’s wrong, Angela?” Dad said. .

Between breaths she said, “I was saying my prayers and I asked for a temple.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Dad looked puzzled.

Angela jumped up and down. “Something happened.”

“What?” Mom asked, reaching her hand out to grab Angela’s.

“After my prayer, I heard someone say, ‘A temple will be built here.’ I looked all around my room, but no one was there.” Angela’s eyes grew big.

“Hmmm. Sounds like you had a direct answer to your prayer,” Dad said.

Mom gave her hand a squeeze.

“I think so, too.” She pulled her mom and dad close to her and gave them a tight hug. She skipped back to her room and wrote all about her experience in her journal. That night, she thought about what happened until she drifted off to sleep.

About a month later, on April 4, 1997, she was watching General Conference at her ward building. President Hinckley stood at the pulpit and announced plans for a temple in Albuquerque, New Mexico, a four-hour drive from Angela’s house.

Angela felt tingles all over. Heavenly Father had really, truly answered her
prayer for a temple closer to her house.

Even more exciting, was the announcement at the next General Conference, on October 4, 1997, about plans for a smaller temple in Monticello, Utah because that meant there’d be a temple within two hours from her home.
She looked at her dad and said, “Now Heavenly Father has given us a temple even closer to our house and has answered my prayer again.” She grinned. “Sometimes, He answers prayers in more ways than one.”

***Angela and her family attended the open house for the Albuquerque, New Mexico Temple and the Monticello, Utah Temple. Her family has been blessed to regularly attend the Monticello, Utah Temple because they can now travel home the same day.

I had an opportunity to view a marvelous painting the other day titled O'
Jerusalem. It was beautiful, the artist is Greg K. Olsen. These words
seemed to come out of it to me... Please forgive me if this doesn't qualify
as a poem. ray

Through the streets of the city, I silently made my way. Past closed
doorways, and shuttered windows, thick walls offering the comfort of
protection to those within; some followers, some not, that's not important,
I'll do what I came to do.

The wall of the city is just ahead now, but I won't be gone long. Just
a little while, a time for relaxing, and reflecting about what has happened,
and will soon be.

I stumble a little as I start up the path. It has been packed like the
rocks on the side by so many sandaled feet.

It is so peaceful on this mount just before dawn. No crowds, no jeering
or cheering, no pushing or shoving. I found an outcropping that overlooks
the city, and sat to watch as the lightening of the sky brought life to my
Jerusalem. The sun rose, it was so beautiful.

I could see the colors of the robes, the blankets as they hung out.

Oh, how I love these, my people, my children, my sheep. They know not
what they need, what only I can give.

What I do, I do for all, no one is excluded. If only they could
understand the gift, but no matter. If there is the slightest chance, if
only one in each million reaches out to grasp my hand, it is worth all this.
Oh, that all would accept freely of my gift of life.

My friends, my children, down there below in my beautiful Jerusalem,
soon you will waken; if only you would awaken to the love that I and our
Father have for you.

You have heard my words, how long shall you remember them? How long
after I go will you remember me? Will you care for my mother? For I will
leave you soon, but the time will come that we shall again hold each other
and express our joy for the reunion.

Ah, Jerusalem, such a grand city now, golden in the morning sun. How I
love thee, yet must I weep for what you face.

Look for me to return, and as I set my foot on this Mount of Olives, it
shall split in twain, and you will know it is I who stands before you.

Now I must rise, to return once again to the city below. I spend what
time I may among those I love, for I do love you all.

[Even so do I now look upon the earth, and I weep, for I know what is to
come. Reach out thine hand, and I shall be there.]

Kelly is in her last year of college and reluctantly moves into the home of her mother’s new husband, Malcolm. For the past year, Mitch Kimball has been living with Malcolm while Mitch’s parents are on a mission. The new living condition gets off to a rocky start as Mitch is annoyed by Kelly’s sloppy habits. Kelly has better things to do than pick up after herself; she is convinced that accused murderer Brett Jensen is innocent. Meanwhile, Mitch, a return missionary who takes pride in being a good Mormon, can’t help but judge Kelly for some of her choices. As Mitch begins to admire Kelly for qualities he had not readily noticed in her, Kelly begins to realize the importance of integrity in a mate. Kelly continues to delve into the Brett Jensen case, which could lead to dangerous results.

The following is copywrited material. Any use of this work or a portion of this work for any purpose including but not limited to reprinting, broadcasting, electronic transmission, or publication without the express written permission of the author is prohibited by law.

On the left hand side-bar and also at the end of this introductory section there are links transporting you to the opening chapters of Day of Remembrance. To read the entire manuscript, about forty chapters in all, you will have to wait until it is published which hopefully will be sometime this year.

You can read the author's notes below if you like (something I highly recommend) or skip directly to the opening chapters of this novel using the aforementioned portals. Thanks for reading and please consider providing some feedback, particularly along the lines of what is mentioned in the post below.

Overview of the Work
Day of Remembrance is the fourth volume in the Promised Land Series. It is written in a split novel form with the major story line introduced in chapter one which details the Book of Mormon events leading up to and including the taking of the brass plates out of Jerusalem. The secondary or split story line is introduced in chapter two and follows the four year period from Joseph Smith's first visitation by the angel Moroni through his reception of the gold plate record containing the Book of Mormon account.

Though seperated by more than 2400 years in time and thousands of miles in space, the Hebrew calendar acts as a bridge between the two stories, tying them together through the rare occurance of Joseph Smith's reception of the gold plates taking place on one of Jewry's most holy feast days--the Day of Remembrance--a day set apart for Israel to remember their covenants with God and for God to remember His covenants with Israel.

Below is the author's note that will likely appear before the first chapter when (and I should also add if) this work is published. I hope you enjoy the opening chapters.

I'm most interested in your coments as they relate to the split novel form. Is it easy to follow? Are you comfortably able to keep track of so many characters? Are there too many plot lines to remember? Is the split novel form confusing in some specific way? (Is that a generally specific oxymoronic question?) Does it jar you out of the story or draw you into it? And of course the usual questions like did the plot lines engage your imagination, did the characterizations create a sense of real people, and (with regard to historical fiction) was the setting realistically drawn? What say ye?

Author’s Note
Since the day Moses returned from the summit of Mount Sinai with the celebrated stone tablets, Jews have memorialized the first day of the seventh month on the Israelite calendar by blowing horns in memory of the receipt of revealed covenants from heaven and petitioning God, through prayers and the playing of trumpets, to awaken after many millennia to a remembrance of those ancient promises given the seed of Abraham.

Among the covenant-blessings revealed to Moses was an understanding that it was the work and glory of God to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of his children and preserve forever the eternal nature of family ties—a timeless principle lost for centuries after the Babylonian occupation of Judah, but kept alive in a lesser-known brass-plate record sequestered deep in the treasury of Laban, Captain of the Israelite guard at the turn of the sixth century before Christ.

Present-day Jews observe ha-Teurah, The Feast of Trumpets, on a day known as Rosh ha-Shanah, meaning the “turning of the year”—a holiday that has evolved within modern Jewry into a “Jewish New Year”. It was on that feast-day in 1827 that Joseph Smith Jr., like Moses before him, brought down from a hill in upstate New York an ancient record he refereed to as a New Covenant. The sacred text was etched on plates of gold by ancient Jews who migrated to the New World and later deposited in a subterranean stone box about four hundred years after the birth of Christ—sealed in the ground for centuries in a hill south of what would one day be nineteenth century Palmyra, New York. Fourteen hundred years later, Joseph Smith Jr. translated the record from its ancient reformed Semitic dialect and published the translation as the Book of Mormon, fulfilling ancient biblical prophecies that the God-given covenants revealed to Moses would, in the last days of the earth, speak out of the dust.

On September 22nd, 1827 the Jewish celebration of Rosh ha-Shanah marked the beginning of a prophetic call for Joseph Smith Jr. to do a work unlike any in the modern world. Early in the morning of the Jewish feast-day Joseph Smith ushered into existence additional Judeo-Christian scripture appropriately sub-titled Another Testament of Jesus Christ and began a dispensation of revelations destined to reach beyond the community of Palmyra Township and touch the lives of men and women across the earth who would listen to this modern prophet tell of a latter-day restoration when God remembered again his ancient covenants with Israel. The significance of ha-Teurah—The Feast of Trumpets—remains somewhat unfamiliar to readers of the Book of Mormon. The Hebrew Holy Day on which this feast is celebrated did not always bear the name Rosh ha-Shanah as it did in Joseph Smith’s time of the late 1820’s. When the prophet Lehi lived at Jerusalem six hundred years before the birth of Christ, the day set apart for celebrating the Feast of Trumpets was known among Jews as ha-Zikkaron—The Day of Remembrance.

The task of producing Day of Remembrance has drawn me to reflect on the establishment of the Church of Jesus Christ in our time and the modern-day restoration of ancient covenants through the prophet Joseph Smith that began with the coming forth of the Book of Mormon. May God bless your life as you come to appreciate living in the days of the fullness of times.

David G. Woolley
Springville, Utah
January 19th, 2007

Some story info...coming.

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.

The Real Summer is a fictional story loosely based on the experiences of the Martin Handcart company as they crossed the plains in 1856. I have often wondered what those faithful pioneers would think of the modern conveniences that we take for granted and what impact a real knowledge of their faith would have on us. This story is simply an excuse to explore both.

Through journals and narratives I have attempted to learn as much as possible about the actual experiences of the handcart pioneers. I chose to follow the Martin company because my great, great grandmother was a member of that company. However, I have combined the experiences from many companies into this story. In other words, some of the experiences included may never have happened to the Martin Handcart company. They either happened to another company or I made them up! I love fiction!

Please let me know what you think and share with your friends.

Enjoy!