Gospel Story Finder

What a wonderful magazine the New Era is! I have been reading it for only nine or ten months, and every time I read it I learn some great lessons which I can immediately take into my daily life. I would just like to say thank you for sending them to me all the way to Japan every month. I am also grateful to Bishop Wight of the Parkland Ward, Puyallup Washington South Stake and the people of the ward for giving me a year’s subscription. I am delighted to receive this great gift. I met these good people while staying in Tacoma, Washington, on the student exchange program.
Takanori MochizukiKanagawa, Japan

—Susi Hayden-Smith, 12, of the Pennant Hills Ward, says that from the moment she entered the temple, “I felt really special, like Jesus was watching. One of the main things I was thinking about was that when I go to heaven, the people I was baptized and confirmed for will thank me. That’s a really special feeling.”
Susi had a long talk with her father before she came to the temple. “He told me how grateful he felt when my brother was baptized for my grandpa,” she says. “He told me how blessed we are to grow up as members of the Church.”

“Rosie!” called Mama. “It is time for you and Heman to take Papa his dinner.”
We needed no second call, for this was one errand we delighted in doing. Mama filled a plate with hot food, covered it with a soup dish to keep in the warmth, wrapped it carefully in a large napkin, and placed it in a basket. Then she handed the basket to us with final instructions: “Carry it carefully, don’t play on the way, and hurry home after Papa has eaten.”
It was ten blocks from our home on East Third South to Salt Lake Temple Block where Papa worked as a stonecutter. But it didn’t seem that long to us as we talked of the fun we’d have while Papa ate his dinner. It was interesting to watch the huge granite blocks being brought in from the canyon quarry by ox-drawn wagons. While the wagons were unloaded, the oxen stood patiently switching at flies with their tails. After the rough blocks were cut and smoothed to the required shape and size, they were tilted and placed in rows like dominoes, leaving the sharp edges protruding like saw teeth. We enjoyed running back and forth on top of these stone dominoes in our bare feet. Shoes were saved for Sunday and for school.
Sometimes we would watch as skilled workmen cut sun, moon, and star designs into certain stones. Each held a small iron chisel in his left hand and a hard wooden mallet in his right, tapping gently so as not to chip out too much rock and spoil the pattern.
Today Papa had a special surprise for us. He said, “The men who are making the circular staircase (there was one in each corner of the building) say you may go up as far as it is completed, but you must be very quiet, because this is the Lord’s house.”
I took Heman’s hand, and together we climbed the huge stone steps—up, up, up until we were out of breath. It was easier going down. Then Papa took us into the carpenter shop where wood for the building was sawed. On the floor was a heap of clean sawdust and Papa told us that the foreman said it would be all right for us to take some home so Mama could show us how to make a pincushion. “Someday it will be a fine thing,” Papa said, “to have a pincushion made with temple sawdust.”
Eagerly we filled the basket with fragrant sawdust and hurried home. But Mama had no time right then to help with a pincushion. She was trying to finish the washing and ironing for Sister Young, who lived next door, and the baby was cross. I rocked the baby to sleep, then helped Mama prepare supper.
In the evening, after the dishes were washed and put away, Mama found a piece of strong, durable brown cloth on which she drew a large fig leaf. She showed me how to embroider green lines for veins and outline the edge with a blanket stitch. A matching piece for the back was sewed to the front, leaving a hole near the top to pour in the temple sawdust until the leaf would hold no more. Then we sewed the hole shut so none of the precious sawdust would be lost. When the pincushion was finished I proudly showed it to Papa for his approval, then placed it on top of Mama’s dresser with my other special treasures.
Sometime later Mama was called to Idaho to help with a new grandchild, leaving me to do the cooking and housekeeping. Heman helped Papa with outside chores, while our little sisters Aggie and Birdie played together under the trees. One morning I noticed how faded and worn Birdie’s hand-me-down dresses were and asked Papa for a quarter to buy material to make her a new dress. At McMaster’s Store I bought a piece of lovely pink gingham. Laying it on the floor, and using pins from the temple-sawdust cushion, I pinned one of Birdie’s old dresses to the cloth for a pattern, then cut around it carefully, and sewed the pieces together. Birdie looked as sweet as a rosebud when Papa came from work that evening.
When I was older I found work in a dressmaking shop, and learned how to make nice clothes for myself and for Mama and my little sisters too. Soon after this Jody, my childhood sweetheart, asked me to marry him. Looking closely at the temple-sawdust pincushion one day, I knew I wanted to be married in the temple. But after nearly forty years in building, the temple still was not completed, so Jody’s father solved the problem by giving us railroad tickets to Logan. On a beautiful June day we were married in the Logan Temple for time and all eternity.
The pincushion made from temple sawdust traveled with us to our home in Salt Lake City. It went with us wherever we lived. And it has been a reminder to each of our eight children that the temple is a sacred and important place. Papa was right. It has, indeed, been “a fine thing to have a pincushion made with temple sawdust.”

Before my baby sister was born, my mom had to stay in bed until the baby came. So we helped Mom every day. Dad, Laynie, my brother, Willie, and I did all the housework. We were excited when Josie was born.

Long years ago a severe drought struck the Salt Lake Valley. The commodities at the storehouse on Welfare Square had not been of their usual quality, nor were they found in abundance. Many products were missing, especially fresh fruit. As I was a young bishop, worrying about the needs of the many widows in my ward, my prayer one evening is especially sacred to me. I pleaded for these widows, who were among the finest women I knew in mortality and whose needs were simple and conservative, because they had no resources on which they might rely.
The next morning I received a call from a ward member, a proprietor of a produce business situated in our ward. “Bishop,” he said, “I would like to send a semitrailer filled with oranges, grapefruit, and bananas to the bishops’ storehouse to be given to those in need. Could you make arrangements?” Could I make arrangements! The storehouse was alerted, and then each bishop was telephoned and the entire shipment distributed. Bishop Jesse M. Drury, that beloved welfare pioneer and storekeeper, said he had never witnessed a day like it before. He described the occasion with one word: “Wonderful!”
The wife of that generous businessman is today a widow. I know the decision her husband and she made has brought her sweet memories and comforting peace to her soul.

The final blessing of the sealing is one that we never see in this life. On a recent fast Sunday, a sister named Sharon told of her little son, Paul. Paul had drowned in an irrigation ditch near their home, and Sharon told of how she and her husband, Max, had felt a sinking hopelessness almost to the point of despair. They had been childless for years; Paul had come only after several miscarriages and much prayer. From the beginning they felt his love and intelligence and his strong obedient personality. Paul’s presence in their family had been much sought; his death brought great suffering.

Three weeks after the tragedy, Sharon stood before her ward telling how she had responded to this test. Her eyes were dry, but those close to her knew that she was crying inside.

“Brothers and sisters, I want to thank you all for the help and support you have given us in these past few weeks. It has been very difficult—” she paused and looked down at the pulpit. When she began again her voice caught and she had to struggle to speak clearly. “But I want you to know that I know more than ever before that our Father in heaven loves me. It’s very special to us to know that little Paul has already attained the goal that Max and I have been working for all our lives. I’m just comforted to know that we have been sealed as a family by the holy priesthood. If we hadn’t been, all this would have been impossible to bear. But instead I know that if we’re worthy, we’ll be together again.”

In June, my dad encouraged everyone to not watch TV or be on the computer as much, so the family would hang out more. I really liked it, but it was hard sometimes. But I love hanging out with my family so much more than watching a TV show or movie!
—Alyssa M.

Before its publication, he allowed twelve modern American citizens of good repute to examine the golden record so that they could bear witness of having seen or handled it.

“When the children awoke on Christmas morning in 1849, not a doll was to be found in all the land, no, not even a stick of candy, or an apple was found in the cabins. But the children and their parents were happy for all that. They were glad that they still had a little to eat, and prospects before them in their new homes were beginning to grow brighter every day. But, if there were no dolls or toys for the children, the fathers and mothers could not forget Christmas, and before the day was over they all had a jolly time.
“In the evening they met at the cabin of John Rowberry. This was the house where the first meetings were held. There they had an old fashioned dance to wind up the day, and it was the merriest crowd that ever met in a Christmas gathering. … But the great drawback was music. Not an instrument of any kind was to be found. Cyrus Call was a very good whistler and he whistled tunes while the merry pioneers danced.”

Sarah Tolman, in Kate B. Carter, comp., Treasures of Pioneer Heritage, 6 vols. (1952–57), 4:197–98.

I just read “Back to the Fold” in the September 1986 New Era. I think it’s a great article.
I have a friend at school who’s not active, and I’ve been trying to think of ways to help her become active again. I invite her to activities, but she always refuses. The suggestions in that article really helped me to figure out what I should do. Thanks a lot. And wish me luck!
Jenny RossoBangor, Maine

Tonight the missionaries came for dinner. The dog barked when they rang the
doorbell.
“Stop that barking, Fifi!” my brother, Malcolm said. He opened the door, still
muttering, “Honestly, that dog thinks she’s human! I, Malcolm the Magnificent,” he
said to the elders, “welcome you to our splendid meal tonight.”
“Hello, young men. Come in out of that chilly air,” Uncle Otto said. “Pay no atten-
tion to Fifi, Elder Brown. A bark and a sniff is her way of saying hi.”
My sister, Ernestine, came in with a tray of burnt little sausages and dried-up
vegetables. “First are the appetizers!” she said proudly. The elders ate them up.
“Now, everyone,” Mom said, “please allow the elders to sit down at the table.”
“Even though I’ve seen the main course, I don’t know exactly what tonight’s
entree is. Mom likes unusual things,” Malcolm said.
“Especially when the missionaries come!” I added.
“Yes, this should be fun,” Uncle Otto said. “I think I heard a moo now and then in
the kitchen this afternoon.”
The elders laughed.
When my sister brought out the dessert, she tripped and the lime gelatin splatted
across the table.
“Look at that green goo flow, Ernestine!” Uncle Otto chuckled. “May I ask you for
that recipe?”
By the time the elders left, not a bite of food was left. Elder Gomez said, “This was
the best meal we’ve had this month so far! I very much hope that you’ll invite us
again soon.”

He married Glenda Zelmira Zea Diaz on March 25, 1995, in the Guatemala City Guatemala Temple. Sister Cordón had intended to serve a mission herself, but her plans changed when she met Valeri. Later she recognized him as the young man who had caught her eye when she saw his photo in a Church magazine years earlier. They have three daughters.

Eight years after I was born, I learned something about the great principle of repentance by which we can clear out our D.F.T. files and be born again. And so, on August 27, 1911, I was born of the water and of the Spirit in the exact manner prescribed by the Savior of the world. I became a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and had the gift of the Holy Ghost officially conferred upon me.

Isaac Ernsten pulls on a pair of rubber gloves while one of the other young men in the quorum helps tie a hospital gown over his white shirt and tie. They all put on surgical masks and make sure they have both the sacrament trays before they walk into the hospital room. The man in the bed is one of many who has requested that the young men bring the sacrament to him.
Most of the young men will admit that sometimes it makes them a bit nervous to be around people who are seriously injured or dying, but they feel it is their duty, and they enjoy doing it. And even though the man in the hospital bed does not feel well, he is happy to see them come in.

First Presidency devotional. One of my favorite Christmas experiences took place when I had been a member of the Church for a year and a half. I listened to the First Presidency Christmas devotional. It’s always great to hear from the prophet, but during the Christmas season it was especially fantastic.
As we sat in the chapel and listened to the prophet’s words, we felt the Spirit very strongly. His words were meaningful, and I was able to better understand the true spirit of Christmas and the importance of loving our neighbors and rendering service. Even more important, my testimony of Jesus Christ grew stronger that day.
When I was a child, I always got the gifts I wanted on Christmas, but I have never received a better gift than hearing from a prophet that Jesus Christ lives and that this is His true Church.Alvaro M., Uruguay

Every year, my family does what we call a “Christmas Ceremony,” where we review the events surrounding Christ’s birth and His atoning sacrifice. Each year the ceremony is exactly the same, but I learn something new. Our tradition brings such a wonderful experience into our home that brings our family together.
I love this tradition because we talk about the love of God and Christ for us. It brings the Spirit to the Christmas season. We celebrate Christ’s birth and the great gift He gave to us through His Atonement. The tradition reminds me of that gift and how I can use it to become like Him.
I’ve gained a greater perspective from this tradition. At the very least, it has shown me that Christ loves me more than I can imagine. Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ are always there and always listening.
Matthew W., 16, Texas, USA

Father was a longshoreman. He worked on the docks, long hours, loading and unloading cargo from ocean-going ships. The work made him strong. His friends from the docks often came to our home. They’d sit me on their laps, muss up my hair, and always say the same thing, “Your dad is the best worker there. He does the work of two men.”
Work was important to my father. His parents were immigrants to America from Italy. They set up a small produce market in Boston, and it was there my father learned to work. He hosed the vegetables, swept the sidewalks, and carried groceries to the old wood homes of the neighborhood. He joined the navy after high school and was stationed in California where he met my mother. She worked as a waitress in a little restaurant not far from the base. Father came into the restaurant, night after night. After two weeks of taking his order, my mom said something about how much he must like the food. Father blurted out that it wasn’t the food that kept him coming back; it was the pretty waitress who was helping him. They began courting. Six weeks later, Father complained to her at the restaurant that there was something in his soup. My mother sifted through it with a fork and pulled out a diamond ring. She looked at him and said, “Yes.”
After his discharge from the service, he found his job on the docks, bought a home, and settled in. My sister Paula was born, and I followed four years later. My parents seemed content, but even as a child I recall them discussing their plans and their lives—what our family needed and what they wanted to become. Inevitably they came to the same conclusion: something was missing, but they didn’t know what.

A boy in my class at school has a hard time learning. I stick up for him when people tease him, and I help him in class when he needs it. My teacher said this is the only year he feels a part of his class.

“You want a ride home, Bryce?” Kendall asked as we left the Little League field. “I have my bike here. You can ride with me.”
“Sure. I’ll pedal partway, if you want.”
The field and bleachers were clearing fast because ours had been the last game. Kendall’s bike was chained to the back of the bleachers. A few feet away was another one, lying in the dirt. It was one of the nicest bikes I’d seen.
“I wonder whose bike that is,” I muttered.
“That’s Dusty’s,” Kendall grumbled, shaking his head disgustedly. “His dad bought it for him last month. Dusty just dumped it there before the game. I saw him leave with TJ. If I had a bike like that, I sure wouldn’t leave it lying around in the dirt like a pile of junk.”
I looked at the bike again. Its bright yellow-and-black paint was beautiful. Grabbing the handlebars, I hefted it to an upright position. For a moment I just admired it; then I swung my leg over and settled down on the seat.
I looked around. We were the only ones still there. I gripped the handlebars and hunched over, pretending to be flying down the road. I straightened up and told Kendall, “I’m going to ride it home.”
“Huh?”
“Dusty lives just a block from me. I’ll drop it by his place on my way home. He’ll thank me. Let’s go.”
Kendall and I had planned to go right home, but on the way, we passed the construction site of the new shopping center. Heavy equipment had been brought in for digging the footings. There were huge piles of dirt and sand everywhere. It was an awesome place to do dirt biking. The construction crew wasn’t around. …
We had meant to stay only five minutes or so, but once I got started, I couldn’t quit. “I’m going to try that big hill in the middle, where they’ve started digging the foundation,” I called to Kendall.
“You’ll kill yourself, it’s too steep.”
“I’ll make it easy on this bike!”
But from the top, it looked higher and steeper than it had from below. When I looked at Kendall, who stood at the bottom, gazing up anxiously, I almost chickened out. But I’d worked hard to get up there, and Kendall was watching, so I decided to give it a try.
“Watch out for that stack of rebar over to the side,” Kendall shouted.
Sucking in a deep breath, I pushed off. Immediately I wished I had left good enough alone. Dusty’s bike went down the hill as if shot from a gun. It was all I could do to stay on as the bike bounced and swerved down the rocky dirt.
A little past halfway down the hill, I lost my balance and took a tumble. I went in one direction; the bike went in another. Everything was a spinning, twisting blur. My flailing sprawl ended when I crashed against a rock at the bottom of the hill.
“Are you all right, Bryce?” Kendall was kneeling beside me, his face white.
I groaned and tried to sit up. A banging pain throbbed in my right knee. As I grimaced, my teeth ground on dirt and sand. I spit to clean out my mouth. “My leg’s killing me,” I moaned.
After I got up and walked around a bit, I felt better, even though my knee was still throbbing. I pulled up my pant leg and discovered a two-inch scrape. It was bleeding some, but it wasn’t too bad. “I think I’ll be OK,” I finally muttered. “Where’s Dusty’s bike?”
The bike was twisted on its side, next to the pile of iron rebar. As soon as I saw it, I knew that it was badly damaged. I pulled it up. The handlebars were bent at an angle.
Kendall and I were able to straighten the handlebars, but as we were doing it, we saw that two spokes were broken on the front wheel and its rim was crumpled. The tire had a small rip in the side. I had a sick feeling in my stomach.
“What are you going to do?” Kendall asked me.
I shook my head slowly, wishing that I had never seen Dusty’s bike. “Maybe we can fix it,” I said hopefully.
Kendall studied the front wheel more closely, then shook his head. “That thing’s totally wasted, Bryce.”
“Well, he shouldn’t have just left it lying there in the dirt,” I snapped, trying to blame Dusty for the accident instead of me. “He’s lucky somebody didn’t just steal it. I’m going to take it back to the ballpark. He can pick it up there—if he still wants it. Hey—he might even forget that he left it there.”
I didn’t tell anybody at home about my accident. I did my best not to limp. But every time I took a step and felt the pain, I remembered what I’d done to Dusty’s bike. I tried to rationalize that it was his own fault for leaving it there, but that didn’t get rid of the guilty feeling.
Before Primary the next day, I heard Dusty talking to some guys. “They trashed my bike,” he growled, hitting his clenched fist into the palm of his other hand.
“Well, why’d you leave it at the park in the first place?” Tyson asked.
“I forgot it—don’t you ever forget things?”
“I’d never forget my new bike. If I did, that would be the last time my dad ever got me anything.”
“Well, if I ever find out who did it,” Dusty muttered angrily, “I’m going to bust him in the nose.”
I looked at Kendall. He looked away and started down the hall for class. Ducking my head, I followed him.
I had a hard time thinking about the Primary lesson, and when sacrament meeting started, I tried to crowd thoughts of Dusty and his bike out of my mind. But as the priests were preparing the sacrament, I thought of a home evening lesson Mom had given. She’d talked about the sacrament and pointed out that we should always take it worthily. Taking it unworthily was mocking Jesus.
Until that Sunday, the sacrament was just something we did Sundays. It was just bread and water that the deacons brought around. But that morning I couldn’t help thinking of the broken bike, and I knew that I wasn’t worthy to take the sacrament. Not until I made things right with Dusty.
I swallowed hard and bowed my head, feeling horribly ashamed. Heavenly Father knew about the bike, and I knew that I couldn’t take the bread and water and renew my covenants with Him while pretending that I hadn’t taken and damaged Dusty’s bike.
When Mom handed me the bread tray, I started to reach for a piece. Then that sick feeling inside me welled up bigger than ever. I pulled my hand back. Without looking at Mom, I slowly shook my head and stared down at my hands. When the water came a few minutes later, I shook my head again.
It was funny that as soon as the sacrament was over and the deacons and the priests had gone to sit with their families, I felt better. I didn’t feel good about what I had done to Dusty’s bike, but I was glad that I’d had the courage not to mock Jesus by taking the sacrament just so that people wouldn’t look at me funny. I also realized that I was going to have to tell Dusty what had happened.
I walked home after the meeting, reaching the house before the rest of my family did. I didn’t wait to change my clothes—I headed straight for the garage, grabbed my bike, and pushed it over to Dusty’s.
My hand shook a little as I rang the doorbell. Sister Baker answered it. “Is Dusty around?” I rasped nervously.
“Sure, Bryce,” she said pleasantly. “Why don’t you come on in?”
“I need to talk to him out here.”
A moment later Dusty came bounding out. “What’s happening, man?”
“Hi, Dusty.” I turned and nodded toward my bike. “I brought you my bike.”
“Oh, you heard mine got trashed. I couldn’t believe that anybody would do that to somebody else’s bike.”
“Yeah,” I gulped, stuffing my hands in my pockets. “I thought you could use mine until yours gets fixed.”
For a moment he stared at me and then at my bike and then back at me. “You don’t have to do that, Bryce.” He sounded surprised and really sincere. “Shoot, that’s nice of you, though. Thanks a lot!”
I shook my head and looked at the ground. “No, Dusty, I’m not all that nice. I wish I was. You see, I”—I swallowed hard and wet my lips—“I’m the one that smashed up your new bike.”
I looked up. Dusty was staring at me. He wasn’t angry, just shocked. “I was going to bring it home to you. I saw it at the park and figured I’d ride it here—you know, as kind of a favor.” I was speaking fast and furiously, wanting to explain before he decided to bust me in the nose. “Then I came to where they’re building that new shopping center, and I started riding the dirt hills. I wasn’t trying to mess up your bike or anything.”
I told him everything. I even showed him the scrape on my knee to prove that I wasn’t lying. Dusty didn’t say much. He just listened. “That’s why I brought you my bike,” I said sadly. “I’ll pay for what it costs to fix up yours, but it’ll take me a little while to earn the money. That’s why I figured you needed another bike until then. It’s not as good as yours, but it’ll get you around. I’m sorry, Dusty. I hadn’t meant for things to end up this way.”
Dusty stepped over to my bike and walked around it, looking it over.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you still wanted to bust me in the nose,” I muttered.
He shrugged. “I’ve thought better about that.” He cuffed my arm. “I still think this is pretty nice of you. Most guys wouldn’t even have told me.”
“Well, I am sorry. And I’ll make up for it.”
I turned and started down his driveway, leaving my bike behind. “Hey, Bryce,” he called after me. I stopped and turned. “Do you want to play a little catch tomorrow after school?”
I hesitated and then smiled. “Sure. I’d like that.”
As I returned home, I was smiling, both inside and out. That deep down sick feeling was gone, and I knew that next Sunday I’d be able to take the sacrament—and I’d appreciate it.

The business I own today was founded by my father nearly 60 years ago. He died in 1980, leaving me to take the helm of the company at the young age of 30.
In those early years, situations came up that required me to make decisions that affected the future of our frail business. I worked hard to act as my father would have acted, and I spent a great deal of time on my knees, trying to discern what to do. In all those decisions, I never felt a calming influence or any direction one way or another. I ultimately did what I thought was best and moved on. But I was disappointed I had not been able to get any confirmation of my actions.
One night my father came to me in a dream. I began to chide him for not helping me know what to do. He said he was aware of my situation but he was busy where he was and his former business was not terribly important. “Chris, we really don’t care about the business up here,” he said. “What we care about very much is what you become because of your business.”
That was a great lesson I hope I never forget. What we get during our life is inconsequential, but what we become in life makes all the difference.