Gospel Story Finder

In 1846, more than ten thousand Saints left their “City Beautiful” and struck off into the wilderness of the American frontier. They did not know exactly where they were going, precisely how many miles lay ahead, how long the journey would take, or what the future held in store for them. But they did know that they were led by the Lord and His servants.
The first company of pioneer families to leave Nauvoo drove their laden wagons and their livestock down Parley Street—a street that became known as the “Street of Tears”—to a landing where they were ferried across the river to Iowa. Chunks of ice floating in the river crunched against the sides of the flatboats and barges that carried the wagons across the Mississippi. A few weeks later, temperatures dropped even farther and wagons could cross the river more easily over a bridge of ice.
On the first of March, the advance company began its push westward across Iowa. Hardships caused by cold, snow, rain, mud, sickness, hunger, and death challenged the faith of these hardy pioneers. But they were determined to follow their leaders and to do, no matter the cost, what they believed fervently to be the will of God.

“My father isn’t a member and wouldn’t let me go to FSY or be baptized,” says Jesiana, 16. “But then branch members fasted for me, and my grandmother talked with my father. After that he said I could go!”

At FSY, she experienced many firsts, such as, “participating in the lessons and activities and bearing my testimony helped me understand what it is really like to feel the Holy Ghost. I had never felt the Spirit like that before, and I was so happy and excited. I bore my testimony for the first time.”

When I was a child growing up and learning about life, I did not have the security of my father and mother telling me who I was, how I could find lasting happiness, and what would happen to me if I were to die. My parents did not have the gospel of Jesus Christ, so my childhood was very uncertain in many ways and often full of fear.
But in all the memories of my childhood, there is at least one of peace and joy. This is the memory of Christmas.
Christmastime was celebrated in the traditions and customs of my home country of Germany, and it was specifically for the children.
Four Sundays before Christmas Day, preparations for something holy and beautiful could be felt in our home. A little wreath with four candles on it was placed on the family table.
On the first Sunday, the first candle was lit. As a family we sat around the table, singing Christmas songs and preparing little gifts that each of us would give to each member of the family.
On the fourth Sunday, the last candle was lit, and expectations for the coming joyous events were growing extreme.
A Christmas tree did not appear in our home until December 24. On that day, we children had to stay outside, go on errands, and play by ourselves. I still remember how time seemed to not pass at all.
We children were taught that the Christmas tree and all of its glory and beauty, along with presents and food and cookies, came from the little Christ Child.
This lack of logic did not bother us children. We believed that there was a Christ-child person of a supernatural existence who cared for us in such a way that once a year He would come in person to fulfill all of our hopes and dreams.
In preparation, we cleaned the rooms where we slept. We put on our best clothes. We had our gifts ready to give. When the sun started to set on that special day, we were invited to get ready to enter the living room.
As was the custom, the doors to the living room had been locked because we children were not to go into that room. It became a place of great mystery. Once in a while we heard some rustling of papers, and once in a while the more courageous of us tried to peek in the keyhole—only to learn that the key was in it from the inside and the door was locked.
When Mother finally decided that we were clean, orderly, dressed, our hair groomed, and had our rooms in order, we were asked to listen carefully. Suddenly we heard a little bell ringing, and our hearts beat close to explosion. This was it! This was the moment when the doors were unlocked and we were allowed to go into the living room. And there it was—a Christmas tree standing from the floor to the ceiling! We became aware of its beautiful, fresh-cut smell and that it was glowing with candles. Our father, who happened to be already inside the room when we walked in, was watching it carefully so that nothing caught on fire.
The Christmas tree had many decorations that we as children would see only at Christmastime. In the center of the tree was a wax sculpture of a little Christ Child surrounded by glowing angels of gold paper and silk.
Our family gathered around the tree and sang four or five Christmas songs. Then we children were invited to find our own corner of presents, which had been covered by a blanket.
This Christmas Eve tradition developed in us powerful feelings of holiness, joy, love, gratitude, and security. These feelings, radiating from the symbols of the little wax figure of the Christ Child, which we saw only at Christmastime, had a great influence on all of us.

I’ve been on the receiving end of the constant friendship of the New Era for far too long. Finally I’ve decided to give something back. Thank you for being sensitive to the promptings of the Spirit by knowing what to include in each issue. You’ve helped me many times and also been a help to my nonmember friends. One friend loved the New Era so much that I got her a subscription for her birthday. Keep up the good work, and you’ll gain even more friends across the globe.
Rachel KentPlymouth, Devon, England

Elder Packer said that recently he heard of a young woman who stood and shared her testimony of family history work. “This is a whole lot more fun than what the old people said it was going to be,” she said.

When I was a little girl, I lived in the small town of Eau Claire, Wisconsin. In town was a school for the deaf. Each school year, deaf children from the surrounding farming communities would live with families in town so that they could go to school. One year, Tom, age ten, and Bernie, age eleven, lived with our family. We didn’t have much money, but we had a lot of love to share.
The boys came with a limited amount of clothing, but it did include a warm jacket and hat for the bitter Wisconsin winters. However, neither boy had mittens or gloves. It just so happened that Mom was famous for her hand-knit mittens. She had made them for years as gifts for family, friends, and neighbors.
Mom asked the boys if they would like to have a pair of her mittens for themselves, and they both smiled and nodded. She had them trace their hands on a piece of paper and choose a color for their mittens. They both chose red. The mittens were completed in a few evenings, and Tom and Bernie wore them to school the following day.
After school, they returned home and excitedly told Mom that some of the other children at the school also needed mittens. They asked her if she would make some for them. Mom agreed and asked the boys to have each child who needed mittens trace his or her hands on a piece of paper and write the color of mittens wanted.
Tom and Bernie came home from school the next day with 137 pieces of paper, all requesting red mittens! Mom looked a little surprised, but she was undaunted. It was the end of September. She figured how long it would take to knit each pair and decided that she could have all 137 pairs finished just before Christmas.
At this point, I became involved in the plan. Yarn did not come ready to use, as it does now. It came in skeins that needed to be wound into balls. I spent many evenings for the next few months with my elbows propped up on several books, a skein of yarn stretched between my wrists, and Mom winding the red yarn into balls.
December 22 was a crisp winter day. Outside a light snow was falling. On this day, Tom and Bernie proudly took 137 pairs of red mittens to school. Mom had made it!
Many years have passed since that day in December. Dad died, my brothers grew up, and Mom eventually moved to Oregon. Through the years, Mom lost track of Tom and Bernie. When she grew old and became ill, she moved back to Wisconsin to live with my brother John. Shortly afterward, she died.
We held a small graveside service for family members in the cemetery, where she would be buried next to Dad. It was December 22—a crisp winter day. At the cemetery, a light snow was falling.
As the short service ended, I noticed two figures coming toward us in the distance. I didn’t recognize the man or the boy, who looked to be about ten. As the two came closer, I noticed that the boy was wearing a pair of red mittens. Then the man smiled, and my brother and I recognized him. It was Bernie!
“I read about your mother’s death in the newspaper yesterday,” he said. “I had to come. She was very important in my life.”
I noted the red mittens on the boy’s hands. “Surely those aren’t the same red mittens that Mom knitted for you?” I asked in surprise.
“They are,” he assured me. “My five sons have all worn them, too. They are a symbol of a loving, caring, and sharing woman whom I have never forgotten. I will treasure these red mittens forever.”

When Elder Marcos Antony Aidukaitis’s oldest son was eight, he drew a picture of his family for a school assignment. At the time, Elder Aidukaitis was putting in long hours as general manager of a company in São Paulo, Brazil. “I was working a lot and was traveling to many places around the world,” he recalls.
Elder Aidukaitis was noticeably absent from his son’s illustration. “Where is your father?” the teacher asked the boy. “Oh, he’s working,” he replied.
For Elder Aidukaitis, the experience was a wake-up call. “I changed jobs and fixed what had to be fixed,” he says, renewing his efforts to put family first.

Sometime after this, Tommy was so sick with black canker that his mother was afraid he was not going to get well. Unexpectedly, Chief Big Head came to their door and handed Tommy’s mother some horseradish. “Grind this,” he said, “and make tea for boy. Tea will make him well.” Without even waiting to be thanked, the Indian turned and was soon out of sight.
The horseradish did help Tommy. Afterwards, many who had black canker, a form of scurvy, were given horseradish tea as medicine, and it helped to save their lives too.
“Chief Big Head didn’t forget, did he, Mother,” Tommy asked one day.
And his mother answered, “No, Tommy, and neither will we.”

At first I found Personal Progress to be time-consuming. One thing that helped me become more motivated was to receive my own testimony. Once I focused on receiving that testimony, everything fell into place.
Adriana F., 17, Arizona, USA

From the pulpit, Elder Wirthlin enjoyed sharing lessons he had learned as a football player. One important lesson came at the bottom of a pile of 10 players during a conference championship game. After attempting to score what would have been the winning touchdown, Joseph was tackled just short of the goal line.
“At that moment I was tempted to push the ball forward. … I would have been a hero,” he recalled. But then he remembered the words of his mother: “Joseph,” she had often said to him, “do what is right, no matter the consequence.”
Joseph wanted to be a hero in the eyes of his mother more than in the eyes of his teammates. So, he said, “I left the ball where it was—two inches from the goal line.”6

“Before I was baptized, I asked in prayer if I was doing the right thing,” says 16-year-old Paola. “I felt a great joy in my heart. After that, I was baptized and felt the Spirit dwelling inside me. I know this is the true Church. I do not doubt it. I feel happy when I do what is right.”

In the early days of the Church, missionaries were sent into other states, into Canada, and in 1837 across the sea to England. It was in the Kirtland Temple that the Prophet Joseph Smith spoke to Elder Heber C. Kimball: “Brother Heber, the spirit of the Lord has whispered to me: ‘Let my servant Heber go to England and proclaim my gospel and open the door of salvation to that nation.’”

Although a man of faith, Elder Kimball was afraid that he lacked the ability to preach. Humbly, he said:
“O, Lord, I am a man of stammering tongue, and altogether unfit for such a work; how can I go to preach in that land, which is so famed throughout Christendom for learning, knowledge and piety; the nursery of religion; and to a people whose intelligence is proverbial!” (Quoted by Orson F. Whitney, Life of Heber C. Kimball, Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1945, p. 104.)

But he and his associates went to England. While the language they found was essentially the same as their own, many of the customs of the people were different. However, they paid little attention to these. Their message was the gospel of salvation. They spoke of little else. And history bears remarkable testimony of the success of their labors. In the years that quickly followed, the message of the restored gospel was taken to the isles of the sea where entirely new and unique cultures were encountered. It was so in the lands of Europe with new languages to be learned and new customs to be dealt with.

While watching a Mormon Message for Youth, I witnessed another bedroom that had become a holy place. The video shows Ingrid Delgado, a young woman from El Salvador, sharing her feelings about the temple. She says, “It is good to know we have a place where we can get away from the things of the world and receive sacred ordinances and help those who couldn’t receive them in this life.” As she speaks, the video shows Ingrid reading her scriptures, surrounded by Mormonads, quotations, a Personal Progress book, pictures of her family and the temple, and yes, her favorite stuffed animals.5 Perhaps without even realizing it, she has created her holy place away from the things of the world. I wonder how many times Ingrid has read her scriptures, felt the Spirit, and received answers to her prayers in her holy place.

I stormed into my house, eyes flooding with tears after yet another disappointing piano lesson. It was my fourth year taking piano, and I had barely improved past “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” My teacher had tried to find something positive to say about my horrific playing, but I only felt worse. My parents were paying money for piano lessons that I didn’t want and had no hope for.
I wanted my parents to let me quit. “Please,” I begged. “I’ll do anything. What will it take?”
After discussing it between themselves, they said, “If you learn 50 hymns, we will let you quit.”
I started practicing right away. I wanted to quit so badly I was willing to spend extra time on the piano. The first hymn, “We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet” (Hymns, no. 19), took nearly a month to master. I was still intent on quitting, so I continued practicing.
An interesting thing happened: the hymns got easier to master. I felt happier throughout the week. I found myself humming hymns during the day and singing louder in sacrament meeting.
Eventually, I stopped keeping track of how many hymns I knew. As I became more skilled on the piano, I realized I could learn a new hymn almost perfectly in less than 30 minutes.
When I finally did add them all up, I had learned way over 50 hymns. And there was no way I was going to quit playing piano. I had become much more confident in my abilities to play and had felt the power of the hymns in my life.
Hymns are like scriptures; they speak truth. When I play the hymns, I feel like I am immersing myself in the scriptures. Learning how to play the hymns has been a kick start to building my testimony and learning truth. I find myself going through the words of different hymns to help me throughout my day. Playing piano has strengthened my testimony and has opened doors for me wherever I go.

One afternoon, shortly before I was baptized, I was at my grandmother’s house when she went to the basement to get something for our dinner. She tripped and fell and couldn’t get up. She called to me, but I was watching TV and didn’t hear her. After about 10 minutes, I heard my name quietly: “Tom!” I went to look for her and found her lying on the floor. I was not strong enough to help her up, so I ran to a neighbor’s house. She came and helped Grandmother up. Grandmother told me, “Tom, that was the Holy Ghost that you heard. I was too far away for you to hear me.” I know it was the Holy Ghost who whispered to me. Now I am baptized, and I am glad to have the gift of the Holy Ghost.
Tom R., age 8, Germany

A homely story contains a warning. I like this story because it translates easily into different languages and cultures.

Two men formed a partnership. They built a small shed beside a busy road. They obtained a truck and drove it to a farmer’s field, where they purchased a truckload of melons for a dollar a melon. They drove the loaded truck to their shed by the road, where they sold their melons for a dollar a melon. They drove back to the farmer’s field and bought another truckload of melons for a dollar a melon. Transporting them to the roadside, they again sold them for a dollar a melon. As they drove back toward the farmer’s field to get another load, one partner said to the other, “We’re not making much money on this business, are we?” “No, we’re not,” his partner replied. “Do you think we need a bigger truck?”

Mr. Z and the Time Clock Julie and Jerimy time-travel to 1,000,000 B.C. and to A.D. 3000. They become friends with their great-great-great-grandmother when she was just a little girl. And the time clock they use was made by … well, when you read the story to find out, you just may find yourself a lot more interested in genealogy than you think that you are.Bonnie Pryor9–13 years

On Thursday 19 May 2022, we had a temple trip for service missionaries. Sadly, not all the missionaries could attend—but for those that could, it was a wonderful time in a sacred place.
The sun was out, and the grounds were beautiful. Being new to the mission at the time, it was good for me to meet some more missionaries.
I still feel nervous every time I go to the temple and get left alone, or even with another person my age, almost as if we are left unsupervised! But I love the feeling I get when I’m in the temple with other service missionaries (though as wonderful as the elders are, I’d definitely like more sisters in the mission!).
The temple brings a peace to my heart, even when I don’t understand everything that is going on around me. I know that Heavenly Father has a plan for us, and we won’t understand everything in this life—but that we can also bring any questions we have to Heavenly Father. He loves us and He is there for us, no matter what.
Elder and Sister Kimberling, the service mission leaders, brought a picnic style lunch for us to have afterwards. I love that they are always there to take care of us missionaries, whenever we need. They are the best. I had a wonderful time with everyone and hope that sometime soon everyone in the mission can enjoy the temple together.

With only a few weeks left in the school year, one of my best friends wanted to have a party at his house to celebrate the end of school. Knowing I was LDS, he told me there would be no “bad things happening,” so I could attend. I told him I’d be there, but then two hours before the party started, I got a strong impression that I shouldn’t go.
It wasn’t easy, but I followed the feeling and told my friend I couldn’t come anymore for personal reasons. He was somewhat offended. He told me how other Mormons would be going and how I was just scared to go to a party. But I just thanked him for inviting me and said I hoped the night would be fun. Later I discovered that some kids came with alcohol, hookah, and even a “weed brownie.” I was told that I “missed a great night,” and since then, I haven’t been invited to another party like it—all because I followed the Spirit and put God and my standards before popularity. But because of that decision, I’ve been given a gift to see who my true friends are and whom I can trust.

In the late 1970s the Mauclairs moved back to metropolitan France, first to Auch (pronounced Osh) near Toulouse. In 1978, they moved to the Versailles ward, where the Mauclair and Giraud-Carrier families became good friends, and a young Christophe met an even younger Isabelle. That childhood friendship grew into dating, courtship, engagement, and marriage. After some time in the same ward and stake, the families moved apart, but Christophe’s and Isabelle’s developing romance continued to grow as they courted by regular letters, occasional phone calls and quarterly in-person connections.

Just weeks after Christophe returned from the Canada Montreal Mission, the two, who had met as children 10 years before, became husband and wife on July 16, 1988 in Cholet, France. Three days later, at the Bern Switzerland Temple, they became a forever union. Christophe was 22 and Isabelle was 21.