As a
young man of Primary and Aaronic Priesthood age, I attended church in
the grand old St. George Tabernacle, construction for which had begun in
1863. During very lengthy sermons I would amuse myself by gazing about
the building, admiring the marvelous pioneer craftsmanship that had
built that striking facility. Did you know, by the way, that there are
184 clusters of grapes carved into the ceiling cornice of that building?
(Some of those sermons were really long!) But most of all I enjoyed
counting the window panes—2,244 of them—because I grew up on the story
of Peter Neilson.
In the
course of constructing that tabernacle, the local brethren ordered the
glass for the windows from New York and had it shipped around the cape
to California. But a bill of $800 was due and payable before the panes
could be picked up and delivered to St. George. Brother David H. Cannon,
later to preside over the St. George Temple being built at the same
time, was charged with the responsibility of raising the needed funds.
After painstaking effort, the entire community, giving virtually
everything they had to these two monumental building projects, had been
able to come up with only $200 cash. On sheer faith Brother Cannon
committed a team of freighters to prepare to leave for California to get
the glass. He continued to pray that the enormous balance of $600 would
somehow be forthcoming before their departure.
Living
in nearby Washington, Utah, was Peter Neilson, a Danish immigrant who
had been saving for years to add on to his modest two-room adobe home.
On the eve of the freighters’ departure for California, Peter spent a
sleepless night in that tiny house. He thought of his conversion in
far-off Denmark and his subsequent gathering with the Saints in America.
After coming west he had settled and struggled to make a living in
Sanpete. And then, just as some prosperity seemed imminent there, he
answered the call to uproot and go to the Cotton Mission, bolstering the
pathetic and sagging efforts of the alkali-soiled, malaria-plagued,
flood-bedeviled settlers of Dixie. As he lay in bed that night
contemplating his years in the Church, he weighed the sacrifices asked
of him against the wonderful blessings he had received. Somewhere in
those private hours he made a decision.
Some
say it was a dream, others say an impression, still others simply a call
to duty. However the direction came, Peter Neilson arose before dawn on
the morning the teams were to leave for California. With only a candle
and the light of the gospel to aid him, Peter brought out of a secret
hiding place $600 in gold coins. His wife, Karen, aroused by the predawn
bustling, asked why he was up so early. He said only that he had to
walk quickly the seven miles to St. George to give $600 to Brother David
H. Cannon.
As
the first light of morning fell on the beautiful red cliffs of southern
Utah, a knock came at Brother Cannon’s door. There stood Peter Neilson,
holding a red bandanna which sagged under the weight it carried. “Good
morning, David,” said Peter. “I hope I am not too late. You will know
what to do with this money.”
With
that he turned on his heel and retraced his steps back to Washington,
back to a faithful and unquestioning wife, and back to a small two-room
adobe house that remained just two rooms for the rest of his life. (See
Andrew Karl Larson, Red Hills of November, 1957, 311–13.)
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