Gospel Story Finder

3 Joseph worried about his family. One of the things he did to take care of them was to plant crops so that they would have food.
4 Joseph also worried about the Church. Wicked people were making trouble for the Saints, especially for the Church leaders. Joseph’s help and advice were needed constantly.
5 Whenever Joseph had to leave home to help the Saints, he felt sad about leaving his family. But he knew that it was necessary. Emma often worried about him.

When I was almost eleven, Papa was badly hurt in a mowing machine accident. He had been hurrying to put up his last cutting of hay so he could take a bricklaying job on the new library building. Papa was pleased when they offered him the job. He knew the extra money would come in handy, especially around Christmastime.
Now here he was in traction, one leg suspended from a pulley. But at least he was alive. Whenever he started feeling sad about losing the library job, we’d remind him of how glad we were to have him home.
“Harry, Francis!” he said to Mama. (Harry was papa’s favorite word for emphasis) “I had such wonderful plans on what I was going to do with that extra money.”
“Now, George, there’s no need to worry,” Mama consoled. “You’re alive and getting well, and we’re mighty glad for that. We got along without anything extra last year and the year before that and all those other years. Things are going to be all right.”
“But, Francis, I’d planned to put in those new kitchen cupboards you’ve been wanting for so long. This will put a crimp in Christmas.”
Mama silently regarded Papa’s leg hanging from that ridiculous contraption above his bed. He was a real Christmasy man, and he and Mama always went shopping together. When Mama realized that he wouldn’t be able to go this year, she said, “I’ll tell you what, George. This year we’ll do our Christmas buying right here in this room.”
“Harry, Francis!” Papa shouted. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
Mama went to the book cupboard and got out the mail-order catalog. “This will be a mail-order Christmas, and you, George, will be the shopping supervisor.”
We weren’t the kind of folks who got lots of presents, but what we did get, we really enjoyed. After supper that night, we drew names for gifts, and Mama told us how much each one of us could spend.
Teena, who was only four, held up her slip of paper and asked, “Whose name did I get, Mama?”
Mama looked at the paper and then whispered something in Teena’s ear. Teena giggled.
This was in mid-November. For the next week or so the mail-order catalog was pored over every minute that we were out of school. When our minds were finally made up, we went, one at a time, to the chair beside Papa’s bed. With a clipboard propped up in front of him, he made out the order, then told Mama the total amount so that she could make out a check. Only Papa knew what the order contained.
The envelope was sealed and mailed just before Thanksgiving. When nothing arrived within two weeks, we became anxious. Days came and went, but still no package.
The week before Christmas Papa had his cast removed, and he was able to hobble about on crutches. Uncle Ed brought us a tree, and we decorated it. The day before Christmas we received a notice from the mail-order company saying that our letter had been missent and that they had just received it. They were sorry about the delay but assured us our order would arrive within a few days.
What a disappointment! My sisters and I felt like sitting down and bawling. We knew now that there would be no presents on Christmas morning. Mama and Papa felt just as bad as we did, so there was no use making a scene. Instead of just moping around, we decided to decorate the house extra special with evergreen boughs sprinkled with glitter.
As we prepared to leave the house to climb the hill after the boughs, Teena begged to go with us.
“You’re too little,” I said.
Her face crumpled like she was going to cry, so Francene said, “Ah, let her come. She’ll be all right.”
Later as we were returning down the steep trail with our arms full of boughs, Teena skidded on a pebble. She couldn’t stop, and fell over the embankment onto a pile of rocks. Francene, Mary Ellen, Doris, and I scrambled down to where she lay, limp and lifeless. Blood from a small cut was already matting the curls on her forehead.
“Oh, Teena! Teena!” Francene sobbed as she pressed her mitten against the cut. Tenderly she lifted her into her arms.
Mary Ellen tied her scarf around Teena’s forehead, and we sorrowfully picked our way down the last little pitch of the hill to the house. None of us spoke, because we were all silently praying.
Mama met us at the door. As Francene laid Teena on the bed, Papa and Mama bent over her.
“Her breathing is shallow,” Papa said.
“We’d better call the doctor,” Mama’s voice quavered.
The doctor said to bring Teena to the emergency room at the hospital. Papa stayed with us, and Mama and Francene took Teena to the hospital. After what seemed hours, Francene came home alone. Mama and Teena would be staying at the hospital overnight.
What a Christmas Eve! I sat in front of the fireplace with my chin cupped in my hands and a lump in my throat. I was certain that in all the world no one had so many things go wrong as we did. Then Papa sat down in his reclining chair, and Mary Ellen, Doris, and Francene pulled their chairs up beside mine. Quietly, Papa began to tell us again about a Christmas Eve almost two thousand years ago when a little baby was born in a stable, because there was no room at the inn.
As Papa talked, I thought about how differently we lived. We had never had to sleep in a stable. The lump in my throat began to go away, and as Papa told about the wicked king who wanted to destroy Baby Jesus, our troubles grew smaller and smaller. A peaceful feeling filled the room. Then Mary Ellen played the organ and we sang until bedtime. After kissing Papa goodnight, we snuggled down in our beds to sleep.
Christmas morning, Francene and I went after Mama and Teena, while Mary Ellen and Doris fixed dinner. Never could there have been a more uncluttered Christmas day—no wrappings and no litter. It was just a beautiful, relaxed, and happy time because all of us were together. Teena was a bit woozy, but the doctor said she would be just fine. And we discovered that day that the very greatest gift of all was love. Oh, how much we enjoyed each other! Papa even clowned around on his crutches to make Teena laugh. We felt more than ever before the love of our Savior and gratitude for His gift of everlasting life.
The mail-order package? It arrived four days after Christmas. But even the excitement of opening those long-awaited gifts couldn’t compare with the memory of our unforgettable Christmas just a few days before.

A few days after the May 2006 Friend arrived, my six-year-old daughter, Kari, leaned over to me and whispered, “Dad, I have a secret. Let’s mow the word Mom into our lawn and surprise her.” I had seen the May cover illustration and knew how the seed had been planted. Kari and her sisters had a giggly sense of excitement all the next week and a half. I made sure my wife was gone the Saturday morning before Mother’s Day while my girls and I mowed those three wonderful letters into our front lawn. Kari told me she wanted to do this to make her mom happy and tell her she loved her.

Many of the early Saints didn’t have much food or clothing. The Church also needed money to build a temple and print scriptures. Joseph Smith prayed and asked God what to do. God told him that Edward Partridge should be the first bishop. Families gave their extra supplies to the bishop, who put them in a storehouse to help others. Bishop Partridge was also in charge of collecting tithing. Bishops are still in charge of tithing and making sure their ward members are taken care of. Now there are bishop’s storehouses around the world!

Try a simple game to introduce your topic. For example, you could whisper a sentence about your lesson subject to one class member. That class member whispers the sentence to the next person, and so on to the next until everyone has participated. Have the last person recite the sentence aloud. It will most likely be garbled. Tell them what the sentence started out as, and you will have the attention of the class as you begin.

Vea W., age 11, Maryland, USA
I saw an idea from #LighttheWorld to write a letter to a friend and tell them why I was thankful for them. I wrote it to my friend who goes to another church. When I gave him the letter, he smiled and I felt happy.

Grace S.

“My first day in Young Women was my birthday,” says Grace S. of Arizona, USA. “They made a fuss about it, but then they kept being kind. They made me feel welcome.”
Her adviser also welcomed her. “She tells us about things she did when she was in Young Women,” Grace says. “And she goes through the Personal Progress booklet with each of us, to make sure we understand.”

As Emma approached her eighth birthday, she was allowed to choose the day of her baptism. She chose her birthday. She did not know that her birthday fell on the last day of an important meeting her father was to attend in Finland. When he came home from work, Emma dashed happily down the stairs to meet him and asked, “Daddy, will you come to my baptism on my birthday?”
“Of course, I shall be at your baptism,” Brother Lund said with a smile. Emma ran away happy, and her father called his boss to say he would miss the last day of the meeting.
Emma remembers clearly her feelings when she was baptized and confirmed by her uncle, Richard Bruvik. “My heart felt so warm. When I was confirmed, I felt so peaceful.”

Driving one of the 40 wagons in the Joseph W. Young wagon train, Zeb rolled out of Salt Lake City around April 23, 1861. Three other trains left too, making 200 wagons total heading east that week.
The Utah trains did not travel empty. “In my wagon,” Zeb wrote, “I had a couple of ladies to take East; they are going to Boston.” But his delight in escorting the ladies was short-lived. A westbound company brought news from “the States” that civil war had broken out, so the ladies decided to return to Utah with that company.

We have been a missionary church from the beginning. I thank the Lord that we will always be a missionary church. The first conversions in this dispensation came through the humble testimony of the Prophet Joseph Smith. His efforts were directed first to those he loved most. He converted his father, his mother, and his brothers and sisters. He converted his wife, his neighbors, then Martin Harris, and the schoolteacher, Oliver Cowdery, as well as the Whitmer family. They all felt of the truth and power of his simple testimony.
“On Sunday, April 11th, 1830, Oliver Cowdery preached the first public discourse that was delivered by any of our number,” wrote the Prophet Joseph Smith. (Documentary History of the Church, vol. 1, p. 81.) Then it was recorded that six were baptized following the service.
Joseph Smith and Oliver Cowdery, under divine instruction, began to preach, teach, expound, exhort, baptize, and set the pattern for our modern missionary service. Now, over 140 years later, we see the fruits of missionary efforts in our own families, in our wards, in our branches, and, of course, in this tabernacle today.

What would you do if you were really good at karate and other kids made fun of you? Would you use your skills to get back at them? Maybe teach them not to pick on you anymore?
Eleven-year-old Eduardo Dourado knows what he would do—nothing. Although some of his schoolmates make fun of him for keeping the standards of the Church, he chooses the right and refuses to fight. “I could beat them,” he says, “but I don’t want to hurt anyone. Sometimes I’ve had to protect myself, but I try other things first to keep from fighting.”
As Jesus taught, Eduardo ignores insults. But it isn’t always easy. Because he won’t swear and do other bad things, kids make fun of him. Sometimes he feels lonely. But he knows what Jesus wants him to do, and that is what he chooses to do.

What I noticed immediately as we entered the ice cave was how cold it was. And the farther we went into the cave, the darker and spookier it got. Surprisingly, despite the darkness and gloom of the cave, the time I spent there during a girls’ camp hike gave me a chance to think about the direction my life was taking. And I decided there were some things I wanted to change.
We soon reached an area where we had to climb over boulders to reach our destination. I thought about how those boulders are like my own personal obstacles. I found myself asking whether I climbed confidently and carefully over my problems, or if I struggle, as I was now doing, to get to the other side.
Lagging behind, I looked up and saw the lights of the girls in front of me, moving forward almost as if the rocks weren’t there. It seemed their faith was so strong that I felt a new burst of strength that carried me on.
When we reached the end of the cave, one of the leaders had us turn our flashlights off. When all was dark, it struck me that this cave might be like the place where Satan lives—cold and dark. I decided right then and there that I would set new goals to return to my Father in Heaven and live with my family for all eternity.
The lights came back on, and we all headed out. Toward the beginning of the cave, there was a hand-painted sign that read, “Remember This Place.” That, I decided, I would always do, for it had helped me want to do what’s right.

Yearning to find the truth, Wilford Woodruff attended many religious meetings in the area around his home. At one such gathering, permission was given for anyone in the congregation to speak. Young Wilford stood, knowing that 40 or more ministers of various churches were in attendance. He stepped into the aisle and said:

“My friends, will you tell me why you don’t contend for the faith once delivered to the Saints? Will you tell me why you don’t contend for that Gospel that Jesus Christ taught, and that His Apostles taught? Why do you not contend for that religion that gives unto you power before God, power to heal the sick, to make the blind to see, the lame to walk, and that gives you the Holy Ghost and those gifts and graces that have been manifest from the creation of the world? Why do you not teach the people those principles that the ancient Patriarchs and Prophets taught while they were clothed with the revelations of God? They had the administrations of angels; they had dreams and visions, and constant revelation to guide and direct them in the path in which they should walk.”

The people at the meeting must have been surprised to hear such bold language from such a young man. Immediately, the presiding minister tried to discount the ideas Wilford Woodruff had shared. “My dear young man,” he said, “you would be a very smart man, and a very useful man in the earth, if you did not believe all those foolish things. These things were given to the children of men in the dark ages of the world. … Today we live in the blaze of the glorious gospel light, and we do not need those things.”

Unconvinced by this minister’s comments, Wilford replied, “Then give me the dark ages of the world; give me those ages when men received these principles.”3

“Even though it didn’t work out for me and the missionary I wrote to, it was a very good experience. I learned so much, and my testimony grew immensely. I know his did too. It was worth it!”
Dona ThompsonSalt Lake City, Utah

Alone I travel on trails unknown,
On untrod paths far from my home,
But never will I question why,
Never, friend, will I deny
The truth.
Though I’m chased by murderous bands,
Savage mobs with bloodstained hands,
Who threaten me with calls to die,
Friend, I swear, I’ll not deny
The sacred truth.
I’ll fight with all my strength possessed,
’Til heart and mind lose life and breath,
’Til under mounds of earth I lie.
No, friend, I will not deny
The Christ.
Now to thee, these words I pass,
On worlds where truth may always last.
From olden days and times I cry,
Please, my friend, do not deny
The Christ.

Is that you, Mandy?
Yeah.
Something wrong?
At school so many kids eat alone. Or stand by the playground alone. People aren’t very friendly.
What can you do about it?
Me? I try to include everyone, but I’m just one person. The student council should be doing something!
JJ says her old school had a friendliness campaign that made a difference. I wish …
Aren’t student elections coming up?
That night …
The next morning …
To be continued …

(See Doctrine and Covenants 11:13.) He can fill you with joy and help you know that you are progressing and becoming more like God.
Example: A loved one comes over to teach you their famous soup recipe. You feel joyful because of the time you spent together and because you learned something new!

Thank you for printing “The Different One” in the February 1994 issue. I broke up with some friends who are really popular but do things that make me feel bad about myself. I’m only 12, and it was hard even though it was something I meant to do for a while. When they pushed me to the limits, I had to say good-bye.
Name WithheldIdaho

Some of the bricks in the tabernacle were damaged and needed to be replaced. N. J. Meacher, who is not a member of the Church, donated a beautiful old home whose bricks matched those of the tabernacle. Matt Foley was assigned to supervise tearing down the house and salvaging the bricks. His three grandsons, Greg (7), Corey (10), and Dallen (11), volunteered to help him. The bricks had to be removed one at a time and carefully cleaned and tested for strength. The Foleys, along with many other volunteers, were able to save sixteen thousand bricks, which are now in the temple walls and the walls enclosing the grounds.
When the temple was completed, Greg attended the open house. “The Spirit was so strong!” he said.
“I’m eager to go back to the temple when I’m twelve,” Dallen stated. “I can’t describe how good it feels to know that we actually helped to build a temple.”
Their cousin Corey agreed. “It was a great experience, preserving the bricks for a temple. It’s a very special building that will help people for a long time.”

“When our oldest son was about three, he would kneel with his mother and me in our evening prayer. I was serving as the bishop of the ward at the time, and a lovely lady in the ward, Margaret Lister, lay perilously ill with cancer. Each night we would pray for Sister Lister. One evening our tiny son offered the prayer and confused the words of the prayer with a story from a nursery book. He began: ‘Heavenly Father, please bless Sister Lister, Henny Penny, Chicken Little, Turkey Lurkey, and all the little folks.’ We held back the smiles that evening. Later we were humbled as Margaret Lister sustained a complete recovery. We do not belittle the prayer of a child. After all, our children have more recently been with our Heavenly Father than have we.”(Ensign, October 1999, page 2.)