By Kenneth W. Long
The short December day has drawn to an end. My newspapers are not delivered, my hands are numb and my face is cold. The hand-me-down jacket I inherited from my brother who inherited it from my sister does little to fend off the chill. I am at the corner of 8th and Franklin, having just lobbed the Review-Journal onto the front yard of Jack Scholfield’s house. I have papers to deliver and homework to do, yet I am stopped because I am scared of something I do not understand.

I should not be scared. In the five years I have thrown newspapers in downtown Las Vegas, I have thrice been hit by a car and have been in more fights with the meanies on 9th Street than I can count. Something is lurking in the darkness of this December night and I do not feel I can escape it by going home. I bicycle to my scoutmaster’s house because he will give me a church key and not ask any questions.

“Ken?” Brother Mangani says from behind his screen.

“I need a key to the church” I answer. Without thinking he gives me his key.

“Are you OK?” He asked, sensing my shortness of breath.

“Yes.”

The year is 1983. I am 13 years old and church keys can be copied for $1.40 at
Thrifty. I have experienced a terrifying night on my bicycle, unusual since I have pedaled the same route for five years. I quickly pedal back to the corner of 8th and Franklin and enter the back door of the Church, walking the memorized steps to the light switch. At last I feel safe, despite being totally alone in a huge building. I have learned that within the walls of the 8th and Franklin Chapel I am safe.

The next year I became a Teacher and used my key to arrive early to prepare the sacrament. I cherished my hours alone, shining the silver trays in preparation for the bread and water. As I took my turn repeating the mistakes of youth, the 8th and Franklin chapel provided a constant refuge from the storm. The bishopric changed the locks every two years, but my father was a ward clerk and my mother was a primary president—keys were easy to duplicate. From the time I visited Brother Mangani’s house that cold December night until I married in 1993, I was rarely without a key. I carried a key throughout my mission and upon my return to Las Vegas, walked the familiar two blocks and reported my mission to the Lord.

Throughout my teenage years, the walls of the 8th and Franklin Chapel would see the best and worst times of my life. My grandparents’ coffins were placed in that church before being taken to Memory Gardens. Within those walls I took a long last look at my father’s remains before the coffin closed forever. It was there I was ordained a deacon, a teacher, a priest, an elder and a high priest. When I was told a small tumor in my mouth was malignant, I walked to the church to ask why and prepare for the challenges ahead.

When I dozed off on the track of Las Vegas High School after cross country practice, I walked to my Church and slept in the lobby. It was within the walls of the 8th and Franklin Chapel that my girlfriend and I played volleyball with friends after our senior prom. Eight years later, after that girlfriend became my wife via the Las Vegas Temple, we returned to the 8th and Franklin Chapel for the wedding breakfast.

My memories of that building are not all good. I burned my fingers learning how to use a camp stove, shocked myself trying to get the electronics merit badge, and let eggs boil dry until they exploded onto the ceiling while trying to cook for Pioneer Day. Older boys from the other ward raided the diaper pail in the ladies bathroom and pelted me with soiled diapers.

My intricate knowledge of the building’s layout caused me to try an exceptionally dumb stunt. At a choir practice I tried to hide. When I was discovered I was told I could not have refreshments. I devised a scheme to deprive everyone of refreshments except me. I shut off all the lights to the church, grabbed the tray of cookies, and headed for the side door. I managed to get two steps outside before I felt the firm grip of President Kendall Jones on my terry-cloth collar. The precious refreshments spilled onto the sidewalk. There were treats for no one and it was my fault.

The church’s proximity to Las Vegas High made it a tempting target for ditch days. There in the gym I wasted countless school hours playing basketball. On that same basketball court I learned how to square dance for a church play, extorted by my parents who swore I would not drive if I did not dance. I’m uncoordinated and shortly thereafter endured a brutal jeering at the performance. I never wanted to set foot in that building again, but I forgot about the shame the following month when I received my Eagle Scout award in the 8th and Franklin chapel. I went to my first youth dance there.

As most everyone that belonged to the Las Vegas First Ward has either moved or died, I treasured that building as something permanent, a part of my past that would never grow old. I visualized that building as an anchor, the place where I sought help from God when an unseen force scared me at age 13 and a place I celebrated my temple marriage, a place I said good-bye to friends and relatives.
Most of all, it was where I was taught to live and love the Gospel, week after week, month after month, and year after year. I would never depart from my faith because of what I learned within those hallowed walls.

‘When I entered the building many months ago to celebrate my uncle’s 50th anniversary, I realized that there was no place in Las Vegas I would rather be than within the walls of that Church. My childhood home is gone. My parents are gone.
My friends are likewise gone. Yet the 8th and Franklin Church was still there, and I assumed it always would stay.

One chilly September morning I drove by the 8th and Franklin chapel and saw nothing but barren ground and a large yellow bulldozer. I turned off the keys to my car and stared at the vacant lot in utter disbelief, feeling as though someone had punched a hole in my heart. I picked up pieces of the bricks that made up the building that served as my anchor for almost half a century. I was scared again, just like when I was 13, and now my permanent refuge was demolished.

Later that day I saw a picture of my Savior Jesus Christ. I remembered His discourse about a rock—one that never fails and never leaves, nor can ever be torn down. I realized that the 8th and Franklin Chapel was an inert mass of wood and brick. I have to anchor my soul to a rock that is not tangible and is known as the Gospel of Jesus Christ. I went throughout the day with the small pieces of brick in my pocket and as I headed home, threw them into the desert where they will never be found or noticed. After throwing the bricks into oblivion, I vowed to do more to anchor my soul to the intangible, yet just as real, Gospel of Jesus Christ.