Gospel Story Finder

Nauvoo
Our most important work is to build a temple.
Joseph worked hard alongside the Latter-day Saints to build the Nauvoo Temple.
This will be a beautiful building when it’s finished.
Not just a building but the house of the Lord.
Joseph was killed before the temple was finished. But the Saints worked day and night to finish it. They wanted to receive in the temple the spiritual gifts that the Lord had promised them.
We must give all we can to finish this temple.
The Saints enjoyed the Nauvoo Temple for only a short time. The temple was destroyed, but not before many Saints received temple ordinances.

I had just celebrated my eighth birthday and my baptism into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Grandma gave me a CTR ring. It meant a lot to me.
One evening after a big snowstorm, I went to the barn to do my chores. Then I had a friendly snowball fight with my brother. It was getting dark when I saw that my CTR ring wasn’t on my finger anymore. I ran into the house, crying, and told my mother.
My whole family prayed, asking Heavenly Father to help us find my ring. Then we all took lanterns and flashlights and searched everywhere I had been. We couldn’t find it, and we decided that with the snow so deep, it would be weeks before it melted enough for my ring to be seen. But when I went to bed, I was still hoping Heavenly Father would help me find it.
The next morning, Nathan, my older brother, came running into the house, shouting, “I found Natalie’s ring!” We went to see where he had found it. The snow was still everywhere, except where a ray of sunshine had melted it around the ring. It was a miracle! I have a strong testimony of prayer, and I know that Heavenly Father loves me and wants me to know that He does answer my prayers.

I was told about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints by my friend, who was a lapsed member of over 10 years, and she started to tell me about the great love that you get from church. At that time in my life, I was feeling very despondent, and I felt that I needed to find God again. I used to be a member of the Church of England and I taught in a private Christian secondary school, however, in 2013 I became the victim of a crime and the perpetrator was never brought to justice. As a result of this I felt very angry with God and I turned my back on Him, which I now know was the greatest mistake I could have made.

Illustration by Robert T. Barrett
Joseph Fielding Smith learned to work hard as a young man. His mother took care of women who were giving birth, and Joseph drove her carriage when she visited patients. As he grew, Joseph developed a love for the scriptures. He wrote many books about the doctrine of the Church. As President of the Church, he dedicated the Provo Utah Temple.

Amelia W., 8, Taiwan, was asked to construct a building as a school project. She immediately came up with the idea to construct the Washington D.C. Temple. It turned out beautifully! Amelia is a big support to her family and is kind to her brothers.

Except perhaps one thing. Consider the fate of Boabdil, last Caliph of the Moorish kingdom of Granada. On the second day of the year 1492, he stood looking down on the fair white houses and lofty minarets of his beloved city for the last time. The Christian armies under the banners of Isabel of Castile and her husband Ferdinand of Aragon were pouring through the sunny streets, invading the beautiful mosques, schools, and marketplaces, possessing the quiet patios and well-wrought pleasure gardens. Boabdil, a man of culture and learning and taste, looked down on his earthly paradise and wept. He may have thought of Adam looking back on the garden or Abraham turning away from the cool green valleys and deep wells into the desert.
Legend says that Boabdil’s mother looked upon her heartbroken son with contempt and said bitterly, “You do well, my son, to weep as a woman for what you could not defend as a man!” But the citizens of Granada, wiser than that mother, have always felt a deep sympathy for Boabdil. How hard would be the heart that could not weep for Granada!
Boabdil watched as the Christian troops marched through the city to a hill that thrust into the heart of Granada like the prow of a mighty ship. Climbing through groves and gardens, they came to the walls of the royal fortress and palaces. For Boabdil this must have been the bitterest moment of all because this was the symbol of all he was losing, the Alhambra, renowned then and now as one of the chief wonders of the world and one of the most beautiful places on the earth. Built by his ancestors Muhammed Al-Ahmar, Muhammed II, Abul Yusaf I, and Muhammed V, it was a wonderland of courts and patios and airy passageways, fountains and gardens and towers in which an earthly king could anticipate paradise. Turning away, Boabdil and his men continued their retreat out of Spanish history. For the first time in centuries, Spain was once again totally under Christian control.

Following the organization of the Church, persecution soon raised its ugly head. A decision was made to move to Kirtland, Ohio.
There the early members built their beautiful temple, and in its prayer of dedication the young prophet invoked [called on] the powers of heaven that the Church “may come forth out of the wilderness of darkness, and shine forth fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners” (D&C 109:73). But the fulfillment of that prayer would not come quickly. The peace of Kirtland was shattered by insults, financial distress, the tarring and feathering of their leader.

Fabiola R., age 12, from Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil, likes to listen to conference with her family. She cannot read or speak but feels the peace and love from the conference messages. Her favorite part is listening to her friend, President Henry B. Eyring.

Even some of our prophets have developed their testimonies slowly instead of all at once. President Joseph F. Smith (1838–1918), as a boy, would pray all the time asking to see a miracle so that he could have a testimony. “But,” he explains, “the Lord withheld marvels from me, and showed me the truth, line upon line … until He made me to know the truth from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet. … By the whisperings of the still small voice of the spirit of the living God, He gave to me the testimony I possess.”3

As a sophomore in high school, I felt like I was starting to understand who I was and who I wanted to be. I felt pretty good about myself. I had friends and participated in several activities. Even in gym—a class I usually dreaded—we were playing volleyball, something I wasn’t half bad at.
One day we were playing an intense game of volleyball. My team was doing OK, but sometimes my teammates would run into each other because no one called for the ball. I tried to encourage them by saying, “Call it!”
One girl on my team got annoyed and told me to stop. I told her I was just trying to help the team, but she still wasn’t happy. And she started finding ways to make me miserable.
She spent the next several months openly criticizing me, saying mean things, and bumping into me in the hallway. My emerging self-esteem quickly took a tumble. And because this young woman didn’t hang out with a good crowd, I was scared of what she and her friends might do to me. I didn’t know what to do except to avoid her when possible.
One night I was in my room alone, crying and praying about what to do. I felt like I should read my scriptures. I opened up to Matthew 5:44: “Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.” That night I prayed for the strength to be kind and that her heart would be softened.
After my prayer, I noticed the Valentine’s Day candies I’d purchased to give to my friends. I immediately knew what to do.
The next day, I went to class with my bag of valentines. I handed a few to my friends and then walked over to the young woman, placed one on her desk, said, “Happy Valentine’s Day,” and walked away. My heart was racing as I sat down at my desk.
She never did say thank you, and we did not become best friends. But the teasing stopped. With the help of the scriptures, my prayer had been answered.
I know that as we strive to love, serve, and pray for our enemies, the Lord will bless us.

When I was called to be a General Authority twenty-three years ago, my response in this beautiful Tabernacle was: “I have love in my heart this morning, President McKay, for you and my brethren that are presiding over the affairs of the kingdom of God, and I have love in my heart for my fellowmen. I can truthfully say that I have no enmity nor hatred toward any man, and I pray that the Lord will sustain me in this position.” (In Conference Report, Oct. 1960, p. 47.)
Yes, the Lord has truly sustained me in this position, for which I am truly grateful.

“It’s Saturday! Everybody up!” Dad calls from the hall.
I open my eyes. Mommy kisses me and opens my curtains to welcome the morning sun.
“How would you like to go for a drive today?” Daddy asks with a smile.
“Yes, yes,” I say as I quickly jump out of bed. After Mommy helps me get dressed, we go downstairs for breakfast. Pancakes with sweet maple syrup! “Yum!” I say.
After breakfast we get in the car for a drive to Hood River. It is autumn, and the leaves on the trees are many different colors. I draw leaves that are yellow, red, and orange on the big pad of paper with the crayons that Mommy brought.
Finally we stop at Mr. Draper’s farm. Mr. Draper is a big man with a tall hat. We walk over to see his turkeys and chickens. “Would you like to feed them?” he asks, handing me a cob of corn.
“Yes, thank you,” I reply. Mr. Draper shows me how to hold the corn so the turkeys will peck at it and not my finger.
“How about a hay ride?” Mr. Draper calls as he drives his tractor from the barn. Behind the tractor is a flatbed trailer with bales of hay to sit on. Many of the other visitors want to come on the hayride, too. We wait until everyone is seated; then we start to move. The ride is bumpy and makes me laugh!
Mr. Draper tells us how the farm has belonged to his family for many generations. He shows us different kinds of apples and pears as we ride under the trees. Daddy points to some horses nearby.
Mr. Draper stops his tractor, puts a bale of hay on the ground, and helps us all step down. He shows us a big patch of strawberries and raspberries near the horses, and tells us we may pick some. Daddy picks me up so I can reach some raspberries, then Mommy takes me over to pet the horses.
Mommy takes a picture of Daddy and me on the trailer before it is time to go. “Smile,” Mommy says. I smile as big as I can. Then everyone climbs back on the trailer for the trip back.
The tractor starts to move again. Mr. Draper drives us by his bee boxes, where the bees make honey for him. Then we drive under his plum trees. He tells us we can reach up and pick one. Daddy helps me grab a plum. “Mmm—it is so juicy!” I say.
As we come to the pond, many ducks fly into the air. They quack very loudly. Almost as loud as the tractor engine. We drive by the house where Mr. Draper lives and see his big sunflowers and vegetable garden. As we come back to the front of the farm, the tractor slows down and then stops.
Mr. Draper helps us all down. Mommy buys some of his shiny apples and pears, and Daddy gives me an apple to eat on the way home. I take a big bite, and the sweet juice runs down my chin.
“Good-bye Farmer Draper, I hope I see you again!” I call as I get into the car. Mr. Draper waves back.
Autumn is my favorite time of year!

One summer I took my son and his friends through some canyons in southern Utah. On the last day of our trip, we hiked through Muddy Creek, a narrow, water-carved sandstone canyon. Muddy Creek has the greatest mud on earth! It was simply wonderful!
Skating and sliding along the creek bank was sheer delight to those boys. Though they did not dwell on the majesty of the setting, I think their reactions revealed something just the same. I watched the boys sliding wildly across the mud, saw their fascination with the sound it made as they pulled their feet out of it, and watched the exhilaration of their races over it. Occasionally in life we get the feeling that we are being watched; there is a certain silence that causes us to look around. That day I felt that silence and sheepishly looked to see if anyone was watching. No one was there, but Someone was watching. I could feel his delight in our delight.

As we planned on using the article, “Michaela and the Marshmallows,” it caused a discussion about just what homemade marshmallows would be like. We found a recipe for homemade marshmallows and tried it out. They were good, not as stiff as those you buy, but interesting especially if you roll them in a variety of toppings. We are posting the recipe online for you.

The Pepperell youth take a different approach than at Nashua. The students choose to entertain their teachers with a play and music before they hand out certificates. The play, a comedy about a class who is given a robot teacher to substitute for a human teacher, is a big hit. “Super Teacher,” written by Rebecah Davis, 15, illustrates that for the students, there is no substitute for the individual technique, enthusiasm, and humor of their teachers.
Rebecah says that most of the kids in her ward were skeptical of the appreciation night idea, but the teachers were so excited when they received their invitations that the youth lost their anxiety. “We couldn’t believe how excited our teachers were,” she adds. “Nobody had ever done anything like this for them before.”

In the years immediately after the war, the most pressing tasks of local Church leaders were to find and care for scattered members and to build up the remaining branches. This latter work needed the strength of young priesthood holders and full-time missionaries, but it had to be carried on by women, children, and older members. However, as soon as priesthood holders began returning from the war and from prisoner-of-war camps, they were called to missionary service.
Walter Krause was released from prison on 2 July 1945 in Cottbus, near the Polish border. Several Church members lived in a refugee camp there. Toward the end of November, mission president Richard Ranglack asked Brother Krause what he would think about going on a mission, as there were many branches that needed help. “If the Lord needs me, I will go,” Brother Krause replied.
“On December 1, 1945, I set out with 20 Marks in my pocket, a piece of dry bread, and a bottle of herb tea. One Brother had given me a winter coat that had belonged to his son who did not return from the war. Another Brother who was a shoemaker gave me a pair of shoes. And so I set out on a mission with two shirts, two handkerchiefs, and two pair of socks,” Brother Krause recalled. (In an unpublished collection of autobiographical sketches edited by Manfred Schutze, page 3.)
Transportation was either difficult to obtain or nonexistent. Brother Krause reported that it was common to walk twelve or thirteen hours, for distances of up to fifty kilometers, to visit various branches of the Church. But many members, like Sister Elli Polzin, still had to be found and cared for.

One such project took place on Idugo Island, off the coast of Mozambique. Most of the 15,000 people who live on the island work on family farms, fish the surrounding waters of the Indian Ocean, or work at evaporation ponds to gather salt from seawater. The island has no running water, electricity, roads, or vehicles. Access to the island is by handmade boats or dugout canoes.
For centuries, the only drinking water sources on Idugo have been shallow wells dug by hand. The wells are continually filled with silt and debris. They provide muddy, hard-to-access water. During the rainy season, water becomes polluted, causing cholera, diarrhea, and other diseases.
When Church humanitarian missionaries heard about the conditions on Idugo, they met with community leaders there. Together they worked out a plan for Church Humanitarian Services to provide materials, tools, and instructions to build 10 cement-lined wells with steel lids, each capable of serving 1,000 people. The missionaries would provide hygiene and sanitation training, and villagers would provide all necessary labor for building and maintaining the wells.
From a staging point on the mainland, four dump truck loads of gravel, 300 bags of cement, two loads of sand, steel rebar, and custom-made steel cement forms were ferried over to the islands. Supplies were then carried across the island on foot or by handcart. Several Church members from Quelimane, Mozambique, camped out on the island for three months to help with teaching and construction.
Wells were designed to allow rainwater drainage, eliminating contamination. In some communities, residents built wooden fences and brick pathways around the wells, using brick they learned to make themselves with materials donated by the Church.
At official ceremonies, ownership of the wells was turned over to the people of each village. Several residents who had worked on the wells expressed gratitude that their newly learned skills—making bricks, working with cement and reinforcing it with steel, and using tools—would enable them to find additional work. Others expressed appreciation for the opportunity to learn leadership skills.
Following the next rainy season, no waterborne diseases were reported in the villages with wells.

As the years passed, we were blessed with many children. They grew up feeling that Matthew was as much a part of our family as they were. One of our children, the oldest, has felt an unusual closeness to him and has at times sensed his presence. Once, while traveling to work through a storm, she felt him with her, watching over her. One night she awoke and saw a young man standing by her bed. He seemed to sense that she could see him, and appeared to “melt” in the air like a burning film. This experience frightened her, and she prayed to know who the young man was. A few years later, she again felt Matthew’s influence—when her sister-in-law lost a baby and needed comfort and understanding.

My mother says we came from Dublin, Ireland, with a bundle of clothes, a well-read Bible, and each other. And in our hearts we brought love and hope.
When I was barely ten, we moved to a small cottage with a plot of land near the junction of the Susquehanna and Juniata canals in Pennsylvania. Father, who was tall and muscular, pulled our plow. And Mother, small but determined, guided the prong as it turned the soil. They sang as they worked, and I was happy to follow behind and shove potato eyes into the rich black earth. Sometimes we gathered berries by the river in pails.
“I watched the canal boats today, Father,” I said, smiling. “They were full of all kinds of goods.”
“Yes, it’s a wondrous land we’ve come to, Michael,” Father agreed.
Although we sold the potatoes and berries in town, we never seemed to have enough money. When I was nearly twelve Father left for a time to look for work. Before he went, he kissed Mother and, smiling at me, led me to my cot where he raised the mattress and pinned a dollar to the ticking. “There,” he said, quietly. “I’m going away to find work. I don’t want to go, but a man must feed his family. Take care of your mother while I’m gone, and if you ever really need it, remember the dollar.” Father patted the mattress and asked, “Do you understand what I mean, Michael?”
I swallowed hard and nodded. “I understand, Father.”
Mother and I stood near the fence and waved until Father disappeared along Old Post Road. Then she wiped her eyes and turned back to the house. “While your father’s gone, Michael, we’ll plant potatoes and pick berries just as before.”
I nodded and went to the head of the plow, determined to do my part. But no matter how hard I tugged and pulled, the furrows never looked deep enough.
Time passed—mules pulled the canal boats, potatoes sprouted, I picked berries and chopped wood. But Mother no longer sang.
Then one afternoon I saw a canal boat loaded to the brim being slowly pulled along. The mule driver cursed and beat the lead mule, but the mule balked and brayed.
“You lazy mule!” the driver shouted, and he whipped the poor animal till it struggled forward. When they neared a bend, I saw the mule drop to its knees and move its head wearily from side to side. I thought of myself behind the plow and ran to where the driver was unfastening the mule’s harness.
“Lazy, worthless mule! You’ll be sold for glue now! That’s a fact!” the driver roared.
“Oh, no!” I pleaded. “Please don’t sell him for glue. He tried the best he could.”
“Go home, boy!” the driver growled. “I can’t leave a dead mule to block the path!”
“He’s not dead yet!” I cried, “Only tired.”
“He’ll be dead soon!” the driver said as he reached for his gun.
“Please!” I begged, raising my hands.
“Get out of my way, boy!”
“I’ll buy him,” I stammered quickly.
The driver threw back his head and laughed.
“I—I have a dollar.”
The driver stopped laughing and rubbed his chin. “A dollar? I suppose that’s all I’d get from the glue factory. All right, it’s sold!” he nodded. “Done!”
I ran home and lifted my mattress, wondering if Father would think it a foolish waste. I glanced toward the canal and thought of the mule. Surely any life is worth a dollar! I decided.
The driver laughed as he grabbed the dollar, then waved me away as he guided the mule train along the path. “Remember,” he shouted over his shoulder, “he’s your problem now! It’s your responsibility to get him off the path!”
I watched the canal boat disappear around the bend, then knelt and coaxed, “Come, you’ve got to come home.”
The mule rolled it’s big brown eyes up at me and my own eyes clouded as he stood and tried to walk, then fell into the high grass. After dinner I put a few carrots in a gunnysack and hurried back to the weak animal. Looking at me sadly, he ate just one carrot.
“It’s all right,” I sobbed. “Rest, old mule; I’ll not beat you.” I tried to cover his bony back with the sack and hurried home.
A week passed and I tended the mule in secret, praying he wouldn’t die. Then one day as I turned to go home, the mule stood on wobbly legs and brayed. I turned in surprise. “Come,” I urged. “Come home with me.”
The old mule pointed its ears, took a step forward, then stopped. I hugged its neck and whispered, “It’s all right, mule. Rest.”
I hurried home to plow a plot of land, and as I slipped my arms into the harness straps, Mother stood between the handles. Suddenly I heard the mule braying and looked up to see it coming straight across the field toward me! Gently it shoved me aside with its nose and took my place in front of the plow.
“Well, I’ve never seen anything like that! Whose mule is that, Michael?”
“He’s ours, Mother!” I laughed. “I bought him for a dollar!”
The mule plowed all morning—one straight, deep furrow after another—and never got tired. Mother smiled from the cottage window as she baked bread while the mule and I plowed.
Then one evening as we sat down to supper, we heard a knock at the door. Mother opened it, and the mule driver stood scowling. “You have my mule!” he shouted, wagging a finger at me. “I’ve come to take him back!”
“I bought him for a dollar!”
“That’s when he was dying!” the driver growled. “Someone saw him well and plowing! Here’s your dollar!”
“Mother,” I pleaded through my tears.
“My son does not want his dollar back,” Mother declared. “A bargain made is a bargain kept!”
The driver’s face turned purple with anger and he threw the dollar on the porch. “I’m taking my mule!” he shouted.
I ran to the shed and latched the door, but the driver shoved me aside and flung it open. He grabbed the mule’s halter and raised his whip, but the mule braced its feet and balked. Then from out of nowhere, I saw a tall shadow come round the house and a powerful hand twisted the whip from the driver’s grasp.
“Who threatens my family and home?” my father’s voice boomed angrily.
The driver looked at my father, then released the harness. “Ah,” the driver mumbled, “that ol’ mule never would work anyway!”
Father stood with his arm about Mother’s waist as the driver stumbled toward the canal. “Is it a useless mule, Michael?” Father asked.
“No. He’ll work for me,” I explained.
“Then you’ve used the dollar well,” Father assured me. “I worked and have only two weeks’ pay in my pocket, but I sorely missed my little family. I’m home to stay. We’ll get enough to live somehow,” he said, smiling hopefully.
“We’ll have enough to live just fine,” Mother agreed, beaming happily. “The mule does most of the hard work, and the garden’s bigger so there will be more potatoes to sell. I can bake pies with the berries, and you can build a cart for the mule to carry our goods to town.”
“Wait,” Father laughed. “First I want a hug from my family.”
There was still barely enough money, but we were together again. I knew for sure that all riches aren’t to be laid upon a table for counting, or carted to town for selling and trading. Some riches, like the love and honest work of my parents and the loyal, faithful work of my mule, cannot be bought with money. They are precious gifts, freely given when earned. And if the riches of the heart could be counted, then all the world would know how very prosperous we were as my mother and father sang and as I grew to be a man.

• When Laura Guerrero of Guayaquil invites you to sit down, watch out for her seminary manuals. She has not been able to have her broken table fixed, so she uses one of the chairs as a desk.
Except for the wooden chairs, there is little else in the living room of this adobe house where Sister Guerrero lives with six of her children. (Her nineteen-year-old son is away in Bolivia, working to save money for a mission.) There is no running water or plumbing in this section of Guayaquil, and the sleeping quarters are partitioned off by a curtain. But the large front room is ample for Sister Guerrero’s seminary classes.
Sister Guerrero works in a government job to support her family, and she is studying law so she will be able to better her income and living conditions. She also serves as second counselor in the presidency of the Relief Society for the Guayaquil Ecuador South Stake. But despite her workload, she still loves teaching seminary, once in the morning and again in the evening for those who cannot come earlier. “The happiest I’ve ever felt is in having the opportunity to help young people,” she says.