Virtuous, lovely, or of good report

I shared my thoughts on storytelling and why I am doing it in my last blog post. My initial thought about writing a blog or posting on social media was this: Who would want to read what I write? No one would, because I don’t have any reputation, credibility, or influence.

But I don’t tell stories for myself. And I confirmed that this feeling was real and sincere this summer. 

I visited Winter Quarters in Nebraska. The place was a temporary settlement for early pioneers of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. After leaving Nauvoo, Illinois, to escape persecution, approximately 7,000 Saints stayed in Winter Quarters from 1846 to 1848 to survive the harsh winter. 

The Church made agreements with local Native American tribes and established a temporary settlement. They built log houses to protect themselves from the snow and cold. They operated stores to supply their needs. They tended gardens to provide food. But their lives were far from easy. They struggled with the cold and disease while working to create a place of security. Many people died.  

In 1848, the last group left Winter Quarters, leaving behind much of what they had built.

As someone who appreciates convenience, cost-effectiveness, and efficiency, I couldn’t help but question why the Saints had done that. I might have criticized their efforts as a waste of resources and energy. I might have asked, “Why are you building a house, a garden, or even a town if you can’t own it?” 

During the tour, the senior missionary at the Mormon Trail Center at Winter Quarters explained something that changed my perspective. 

The Saints were anxiously engaged in building a settlement. They did it not just for themselves but for the Saints who would come after them and spend the winter there. They were thinking about the people traveling behind them. The earlier groups didn’t want those who came after them to experience the same hunger and hardship they had faced. 

It was a labor of love. 

They didn’t mind spending their scarce resources and energy helping people they might never meet. They were living the covenant to love God and their neighbors. 

I have been blessed by that kind of devotion so many times in my own life. Particularly, when my husband was in graduate school and our children were still young, we received so much support. They helped us financially, physically, and emotionally. Some babysat our children. Others gave their time and resources when they had no obligation to do so.   
Someone had built something for me before I arrived.

The story of Winter Quarters did more than touch my heart — it awakened in me a desire to become like those Saints. I found myself longing to live with the same generosity they showed: to give freely of my time and energy for the sake of others, even when I might never be there to see the difference it made.

As I reflected on their example, I realized how often I had measured things by what I would gain from them or whether they were worth my time. I wanted to let go of that way of thinking. My heart yearned to be anxiously engaged in a good cause, willing to give without calculating what I would receive in return. I wanted to learn how to give simply because someone else might need what I had to offer.

The tears I shed during the tour were more than an emotional response to their story. They confirmed a conviction in my heart: I wanted to change the way I live. I wanted to carry that same spirit of generosity into my life — to give without needing to know whether my efforts would be noticed or remembered.

It doesn’t matter whether people like my writing or whether sharing it benefits me. But I want to ask myself, “Could this do something good for someone who comes after me?”

That is the conviction I want to live by: to seek after things that are “virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy,” as Article of Faith 13 teaches.

My writing and storytelling will not be in vain if I create them with that purpose. The Saints at Winter Quarters gave me the courage to keep building, even when I may never know who will find what I leave behind.