Gospel Story Finder

President Monson tells a story about a mother who had a special treasure box. When her children opened the box, they found pictures of themselves. The mother’s treasure was her family!

Their hand of fellowship and brotherhood is extended to a special member of their quorum. Nick Schwan was recently baptized. He is mentally challenged and attends the special education classes at their high school. Both at school and at church, he’s one of them. They treat him with kindness and listen to what he has to say. “At first,” says Joe Carson, “we didn’t think Nick really knew what was going on around him, but after a while we realized that he picked up on things and he doesn’t really forget anything. He’s just a normal guy. He’s just a little …” Joe is at a loss for words. He knows how the quorum feels about Nick, and the feeling is good and supportive.

“Don’t you think that ice ax is really more than you need for a little snow hike?” Steve chided. “Where do you think we are—on Mount Everest?”
Billy looked at his ax and shrugged. “How do we know what’s ahead?”
Steve and Billy were up early on the Saturday morning of their outing. Every year they went on a winter camp-out in the mountains.
The boys gradually snowshoed upward. It had snowed heavily overnight, and they watched the sun come up, glistening now on the fresh powder. Every few minutes they stopped to catch their breath because of the steep ascent.
“Boy!” panted Steve. “It’s easy to get winded at this altitude.”
The ski slope lay within yards of the route the boys had chosen through the trees, but no skiers were up yet. Stopping to rest, they heard the ski patrol fire several shots. If the snowpack were unstable, the rifle shots would cause an avalanche, then the snow could settle before the skiers started their runs. Usually it was only a precautionary measure, as the snowfall was most often wet enough to pack down. So the shots ordinarily just signalled the start of the skiing day.
But today was unusual.
The boys sensed the avalanche before they heard it. Then its low rumble reached their ears, and they looked up before they’d even had time to think what it was. When they saw it above them—rolling, tumbling, and spraying like a tide—their minds went blank. Soon they were running—Billy to the left toward a dense group of trees and Steve back down their upward trail.
The avalanche reached the trees just a second before Billy did. He sucked the white, snow-filled air into his lungs and dived against a tree trunk, barely able to see it. The weight and pressure of the tumult pulled his legs out from under him, and desperately he swung his ax toward the tree—it caught!
Another wave hit him. Swallowing snow with each breath, he slowly pulled himself up and grasped the trunk with one arm. Then he grabbed at the branches above him and pulled with all his strength. Waves of snow engulfed him and he had to bury his nose against his sleeve to breathe.
Climbing higher into the tree, he was soon out of the worst of the cascading snow. But Steve! Where’s Steve? he wondered frantically. Looking down from the tree was like looking through dense, white snow rapids.
Thirty feet downhill, Steve had plunged into an air pocket and fallen just as the avalanche overtook him. Like a giant fist, it had punched the air out of his lungs, tumbling him feetfirst, headfirst, and then sideways. Finally he tried swimming motions and managed to stay near the top of the engulfing snow.
His face burned and ached, and in panic he stopped swimming and put his gloves over his face for protection. Now he was tumbling faster, like a feather in a tidal wave. Then the speed of the advancing snow slowly decreased … And finally there was nothing but a deathly silence.
Steve tried to push the snow away from his face, but it was too heavy to move. All he could see was darkness, and all he could feel was a tremendous weight pressing in from all sides.
When the last of the flying snow had sifted down, the air cleared and Billy could distinguish between the snow mass and the air. He stared below him at the clean, brilliant snow that measured five or six feet higher on the tree trunks now than it had before. There was no sign of Steve. “Oh, Heavenly Father … ,” he started to pray, but then decided there was not time for that.
Billy dropped his ax and saw the heavy end disappear into the powder. Then he climbed down the tree and sank up to his shins in the freshly churned snow.
He’d stumbled twenty yards when a ski patrolman came gliding slowly through the trees, stopping in amazement when he saw Billy. “You mean you were on this hill all through that avalanche?” he asked incredulously.
“I was up in a tree back there. But my friend, Steve … he’s lost in it somewhere.”
Instantly the patrolman was unclasping his skis. “Where did you see him last?” he asked.
“By those trees. He tried to outrun it.”
The patrolman shook his head and spoke angrily, as though Steve should have known better. “No one can outrun an avalanche. That snow moves 200 miles an hour!” He leaned one ski against a tree and took up the other to use as a probe. “You use the handle of that ax. Push it into the snow and call out if you hit anything. It just might be your buddy.”
“How long could he live buried in this?”
The patrolman was driving his ski into the snow every two feet. “Maybe an hour … maybe not … there’s not time to discuss it.” His voice was gruff, and he didn’t raise his eyes from the snow.
“Oh, please, Heavenly Father, let Steve be alive and help us find him.” Suddenly Billy realized that he was praying aloud and had been praying aloud all along. In a flash he understood that there is always time to pray.
A short time later the patrolman stopped to rest for a moment to catch his breath. Then in a rough voice he ordered: “Let’s keep going. There’s still a chance.”
With the next thrust, Billy drove his ax handle into the snow and stumbled sideways. Struggling to his feet, he pulled on the axhead. But it held fast. He pulled harder and still the ax stayed in the snow. “Hey!” he shouted to the patrolman.
Together they pulled the axhead, and when it surfaced, Steve’s bare hands were holding tightly to the spike.
Falling to their knees, they dug furiously, forcing the mountain to release its victim! The snow was bloodied. Steve’s face and hands were cut, scraped, and bleeding. But he was alive! He gasped the cool, fresh air, and his bluish face flushed red.
Billy trembled now as the realization of the near-disaster washed over him. He slipped down to sit in the snow next to Steve, and as he did, he saw the tight-lipped patrolman start to grin.
“What’s the matter, kid? Didn’t you know about the power of prayer? In my job, we use it all the time.”

“There’s no way you’re going on that youth convention, Thomas, and that’s final.” Dad’s voice came loud and curt, bloodshot eyes narrowed, flashing danger signals. His lean, weather-beaten frame straightened to full height, his mouth clamping in a hard line.
I bit my lip, digging the heel of my boot into the dirt with sharp jerks.
“And if I hear any more on the subject, you can tell that James lad to stop picking you up for church Wednesdays. You’re slow enough at school without that … that … seminary stuff taking your time.”
He stomped off past the hen sheds, muttering and shaking his head. “Should never have let you join in the first place. Not been the same since. Always trying to change things, do things.” He tore down a dead branch overhanging the path, swishing it violently. “As if I haven’t got enough problems without you pestering. I’m sick of it, do you hear? Sick of it!” His words ended on a shout as he snapped the branch across his knee.
The hens scattered in all directions, squawking, flustered. One rushed panic-stricken into a pile of loose wire netting. I’d left it there this morning when the school bus arrived before I was ready. (Okay, so I was late—same thing.) Anyway, I never finished the job properly.
“Now look what you’ve done,” Dad yelled. “Can’t you do anything right? That’s all we need, a hen with a broken wing.” Grabbing the screeching hen, he marched back toward the house.
“Get on with the chores,” he flung over his shoulder, “and keep out of my way.”
The twisted, choking feeling in my stomach swam up my throat and stuck there. I hadn’t cried since Mum died in a car accident nine years ago, and I wasn’t about to begin now. We used to live on a Devonshire farm back then, but after the funeral we moved north to Yorkshire. It’s been so cold up here. Seems like Dad’s forever mad at someone for taking Mum, and I’m the one who gets it every time things go wrong.
I think he could use a few of those scriptures my teacher’s always quoting—especially the “forgiving” ones. I’m getting an idea what they’re on about.
I had really thought today would be a safe time to ask about the youth convention, though. I’ve never been to one before, and a boy’s 16th birthday should stand for something, surely?
But no such luck. In fact, the only bright moment was getting that card at breakfast. No one had ever bothered before. Come to think of it, no one had ever believed too much in me at all—that is, before this new seminary lady moved in to the branch. She seems to understand that I’m not as slow as I look. Probably because she’s an artist too.

Monday morning is usually taken up with washday chores. But on the Monday before Christmas my thoughts were on the lovely Christmas centerpiece display I wanted to make for the table. I felt compelled to drop everything and make the journey to purchase the materials.
Preparing to cross the road to the bus stop, I suddenly changed my mind and decided to walk. I had gone two-thirds of the way when I saw a woman in a self-propelled wheelchair. She was not a member of the Church, but I recognized her as the spokesman for the elderly citizens of the borough in thanking our ward for the yearly concert we presented for them.
I greeted her, and as we chatted I learned that she would be alone at Christmas. So that was why I had felt prompted to go out that morning! I invited her to join with our family. The decorations were unimportant now, though I did continue on and purchase them.
Then, having committed myself to an extra guest, I panicked. What would my nonmember husband say? We had already invited six relatives to come (two were elderly and two were children), in addition to our household of four. How would they all respond?
At first my husband was not comfortable with the idea at all. Christmas is a time for family, he reminded me, and this lady was a complete stranger. Yet I felt she had been sent to us by inspiration, so I fasted and prayed about it and asked my Relief Society visiting teachers to do the same. By the next day there was a sunny atmosphere in our home again, and the coming of our special guest was accepted by all.
We enjoyed sharing our Christmas with her. She brought a sweet spirit into the house with her testimony of the Savior. As she testified to our nonmember relatives of her belief in the second coming of Christ, I was able to concur with her faith and to explain much more of the gospel than had ever been possible before. Our new friend had paved the way.

I was given the chore of cleaning up our large playroom by myself. I looked at the mess all over the floor and felt sad because I knew I would be cleaning for a long time. My mom teaches me to pray when I feel sad, so I knelt down and asked Heavenly Father to help me clean the playroom and not feel sad. I stood up and had the idea of singing Primary songs as I cleaned. As I sang, I felt much better and was able to clean the whole playroom very quickly. I know that Heavenly Father answers prayers sometimes by giving us ideas in our minds.

Elizabeth thought about that as they continued packing. Before she was baptized, she’d asked her father how he knew the Church was true.
He’d taken his time in answering. “I knew that we had found the true church when I learned of the temple.” He’d paused then, and tears had filled his eyes. “And I knew because I felt it here,” he said, touching his heart. “I still do.”
A warmth settled around Elizabeth’s own heart at the memory.

I used to compare myself to others who I thought were far ahead of me, particularly people who were more financially stable. Whenever I prayed to Heavenly Father, He gave me confidence in myself. I knew that no matter the challenge, God would help me because He does not give us a duty save it be that He prepares way for us to accomplish it (see 1 Nephi 3:7; 17:3).
Joshua O., age 19, Lagos, Nigeria

To introduce people to the Church, the São Paulo Brazil Stake celebrated its 30th anniversary in 1996 with a missionary open house showing what the Church has to offer families. Those who attended were able to experience Relief Society, Young Women and Young Men, or Primary lessons; in the Primary section, for example, visitors learned to sing “I Am a Child of God” and created a picture to take home.
Stake mission president Norberto Carlos Lopes, a dynamic man who was on crutches at the time because of a leg injury, says the event literally kept him hopping from place to place. Some 616 people were introduced to the Church at the open house, and for several weeks afterward missionaries averaged one baptism per day. Brother Lopes says the many members who brought guests or helped with the event typify the perseverance Brazilian Saints show in sharing the gospel with others. “We can’t quit working with people,” he says, “because we never know the day someone’s heart will be open.”

Truman studied architectural design and innovations in building. The constant pressure of being the Church’s architect was a strain on his health, so Brigham Young called him to serve a mission in Europe, where he was to not only preach to the people but also visit the great buildings and study the architectural styles there. He had been on his mission for thirteen months when he was called to return to help with the Salt Lake Temple.

The story of Joseph’s life is the story of a miracle. He was born in poverty. He was reared in adversity. He was driven from place to place, falsely accused, and illegally imprisoned. He was murdered at the age of 38. Yet in the brief space of 20 years preceding his death, he accomplished what none other has accomplished in an entire lifetime. He translated and published the Book of Mormon, a volume which has since been retranslated into scores of languages and which is accepted by millions across the earth as the word of God. The revelations he received and other writings he produced are likewise scripture to these millions. The total in book pages constitutes approximately twice the volume of the entire New Testament of the Bible, and it all came through one man in the space of a few years.
In this same period he established an organization which for 175 years has withstood every adversity and challenge and is as effective today in governing a worldwide membership of some 12 million as it was in governing a membership of 300 in 1830. There are those doubters who have strained to explain this remarkable organization as the product of the times in which he lived. That organization, I submit, was as peculiar, as unique, and as remarkable then as it is today. It was not a product of the times. It came as a revelation from God.

Accept help from others. The next important point is to be willing to ask for help from those around you. Sometimes help comes from unexpected sources. A few years ago I stood in line in Chicago waiting to put my baggage on a plane. Behind me was an older man. After a few minutes he said to me, “Where are you going?” I said that I was heading for Salt Lake City. He said, “I’m going there too. Are you a Mormon?” I responded by saying I was. He said that he had been a Latter-day Saint all his life and had prepared himself finally to go to the temple. While waiting for the plane, he opened his suitcase to show me all the missionary pictures that he had collected through the years. After some minutes, we were on our way and had a wonderful talk as we flew toward Utah. Upon arrival, we left the plane quickly. I made sure he knew where he was going and said good-bye.

Some weeks later I received this card in the mail: “Dear Brother Christensen, I lost your address and then found it. So I’m writing you a card. When I met you in Chicago, it was a prayer answered. I never travel anywhere. I wanted to be with someone. I have thought of you many times. I really enjoyed myself in Salt Lake City at the temple. Hope to see you someday. Thanks many times for the help you were to me.” I wasn’t planning to be useful that day, but I’m grateful for this brother who sought for extra help and I was nearby to assist.

Illustrations by David Malan
As a young man, I looked forward to the day when I would serve a full-time mission. When I finally entered the mission field, I discovered that missionary service was not what I had expected—it was better. It was harder than I thought, but the satisfaction that came from doing what the Lord asked of me was indescribable.
Never before had I experienced the joy of helping someone attend church. Never before had I felt the thrill of hearing someone say, “Sure, come on in” so that they could hear the restored gospel. Never before had I sensed the reality of the power that came as we declared repentance. Never before had I prayed with such real intent. Never before had an hour of scripture study gone by so fast. Never before had I been brought to tears by the realization of my imperfections. Never before had I experienced the devastation that comes with the words, “Elders, please don’t come by my house anymore.” Never before had I gotten a blister on my foot the size of my thumb. Never before had I felt so protected. Never before had I felt so much responsibility for my actions because I wore the name “Jesus Christ” on my chest.
Never before had I been so close to my Heavenly Father as I came to be during my full-time mission.

3. A young man heard a missionary tell of Jesus Christ,
And felt a burning in his heart that told him it was right.
He asked the man to be baptized and come into the fold.
The light of Christ shone in his face, the Savior touched his soul.

A Little Princess When Sara goes to the boarding school, she is rich—and she is treated like a princess. Then, when her father dies and she is left a penniless orphan, she is treated like a slave. But even as a slave, she acts like a princess, even sharing her last bit of bread with a beggar.Frances Hodgson Burnett8–12 years

Emmeline’s talent for writing soon led her to contribute to the Woman’s Exponent. Later she became its assistant editor and then editor in 1877. She served as an editor for almost forty years. This nationally recognized publication was the second woman’s magazine to be created in the United States and the first one in the West.
While editor of the Woman’s Exponent, Emmeline felt that its major purpose was to educate women about all subjects and to encourage them to be active in public affairs, particularly politics. Women were encouraged to write their thoughts down and to submit them to the magazine.

For some people like Austin Corry, a university student and a member of the Logan University 15th Ward, Logan Utah University Fifth Stake, indexing has became a fun, relaxing experience.
“I found time to index 15 minutes here, an hour there,” said Brother Corry, who has indexed more than 17,000 names in his spare time. “It really isn’t an inconvenience but a great opportunity to bring the Spirit into your everyday life.”

Let me help you understand how this pattern of making early commitments can help you by relating the experience of one Church leader. As a young man he decided that he would always keep the Word of Wisdom and never use alcohol or tobacco. He does not remember what prompted him to make that important commitment at the time, but a crucial victory was won in his heart, and on his knees he made a commitment with the Lord to always keep that commandment. Over the years there were invitations to use these substances, but he learned that “no, thank you” was a good answer. There was no personal battle over the Word of Wisdom because years before he had made a commitment in his heart, and he had sincerely made a commitment to the Lord to obey that law.

Amid carefully tended flowers in my garden grows my favorite rosebush. Its lanky branches are wild and useless. Too heavy to support themselves, they creep across the grass. My father and my husband have encouraged me on numerous occasions to pull out the rosebush, but I simply will not do it. It was a Mother’s Day gift from my son, Jon.*

I remember the day he gave it to me. At first, I thought Jon had forgotten that it was Mother’s Day because he left early that morning without saying a word. I wondered where he was. It wasn’t like him to totally ignore a holiday. In spite of it, I enjoyed church, the lovely gifts others in my family lavished on me, and the nice dinner they prepared.

Finally, late that night, Jon arrived home with a beautiful, blooming rosebush in a small pot. He had planned to purchase the rosebush and then go to church with me as a special Mother’s Day gift, but like so many of his grandiose and thoughtful plans, this one had gone awry. In his search for the perfect rosebush, he had lost his car keys and become stranded. I listened to his explanation as I read the handwritten note he gave me. He promised to go to church with me next week. Tears blurred my vision. His eager words weren’t empty promises; he really planned to keep them. But something always interfered.

I mothered that rosebush in its small pot for more than a year. I followed the detailed directions that had come with it; I took it into the garage during the winter; I shaded it when the Arizona* sun was too hot. And I never stopped praying, along with everyone else in my family, that Jon would someday flourish and bloom as I hoped the plant he’d given me would.

When we moved from Arizona back to my Wyoming hometown, I took the rosebush with me in the car. Jon stayed behind because he wanted to try being independent. Since Wyoming was to become our permanent home, I planted Jon’s rosebush in our flower garden.

The first year, it did poorly—even though I fussed over it, read gardening books, and asked advice. I soaked the roots, fertilized it, and kept the aphids off it. I tried everything. It stayed alive, but it never flourished. Every time I tended it, I thought of Jon back in Arizona and prayed for him. He called occasionally and sounded confident: “Doing great, Mom. No problems.” But we worried. As I anxiously tended the rosebush, I hoped that next year it would do better.

In the fall, I pruned the rosebush back and packed manure around the roots to protect it. That winter was the coldest in forty years. I waited anxiously to see if my one special plant had survived. With my coat flapping in the whistling wind, I knelt in the snow and looked at the bare limbs of the rosebush. Was there any sign of life under the dirty snow? I couldn’t tell.

That winter I sensed that Jon’s life wasn’t going as well as he had hoped it would. Many a night, when the east wind blew and our windows rattled, I lay sleeplessly wondering if he was going to church, eating right, or still running around with friends who used drugs. Though Jon never told us in his phone calls, we felt that he was struggling with problems he could not handle. He sounded as though he was suffering from clinical depression. I reminded him that we loved him and missed him and that he was always welcome to come home. I told him we were willing to pay for him to get medical attention.

When spring finally came, my other rosebushes started sending out tiny red leaves, but my special bush stood bare and lifeless. I watered it by hand and brushed away the dead leaves that covered it, hoping that I could somehow revive it.

One afternoon, my father, who is an expert gardener, inspected my rosebush and declared it dead. He stamped his cane at the gnarled, brown stub and said it was time to give up and plant another bush in its place. But I didn’t.

That spring I increased my fasting and prayers in Jon’s behalf. I went more often to the temple and always put his name on the prayer roll. Then one midnight, we received a phone call. Jon had decided to come home. He didn’t tell us why, but that didn’t matter; we were just happy that he was joining our family again.

Not long after that, while working in my roses, I noticed a tiny green shoot poking its way out from deep under the roots of my special rosebush. Despite the odds, it had lived! I was so thrilled that I insisted my father come over and view the miracle growth.

“It’ll be wild,” my dad said. Patiently, he poked at the manure-covered shoot with his cane. “That growth is a sucker, coming out from below the graft, so it’ll never bear roses. You’d be better off pulling it up now and planting a new bush.”

“Never,” I said. Tears rolled down my face. It had survived the winter, though we thought it was dead. I couldn’t give up now.

So I continue to tend my rosebush. Often I work in my flower gardens early in the morning. I treasure the tranquil feeling that comes over me as I kneel in the grass, tend my roses, and pray for Jon. I am grateful that he is home. Our family’s prayers for Jon continue. We’re all glad he has come back. At least we don’t worry whether he’s eating or not. My motherly intuition tells me that something is still not right. My husband and my father remind me that Jon is young and that eventually he’ll mature and straighten up. I hoard the morning’s quiet pleasures. Too soon the heat and frustrations and challenges of the day will disturb them. But not yet.

Working in my garden reminds me of my grandmother and of her faith in my grandfather. The clippers cramp my hand as I prune my wild, overgrown rosebush. I carefully lay the branches in a neat pile. A blast of loud music from a radio in Jon’s room in the basement startles me, but it is quickly squelched and quiet reigns again. Jon will be getting up soon.

By the time I finish pruning, the sun is up, warm on my face. The pile of branches is higher than I’d expected it to be. My hands and arms are scratched and torn as I force the thorny limbs into a garbage bag. Several strong thorns have pierced my hands, and they are bleeding. I hear a bird call as I kneel on the grass, and I wonder if birds feel anything as they watch their babies fly for the first time. My heart is as sore as my hands, and I know the heat will soon be so intense that I will have to go in.

I hear Jon’s motorcycle as he roars off to work, and I rest for a moment. My tears drop like rain as my heart follows him. Then I remember my grandmother. I remember watching her graft a branch from one of her most beautiful rosebushes onto an old, half-dead bush. Her voice echoes to me from years ago. “I won’t give up on this bush without a fight,” she had said to me on that long-ago morning. “It’s too precious not to try to reclaim.”

The sun stretches out from its mountain bed and showers its rays across me as I kneel next to my own special bush. I wonder if I can graft some branches from some of my father’s rosebushes onto the unproductive bush Jon gave me. Maybe then it could be productive. Perhaps my father’s garden even contains some roses that are descended from those in my grandmother’s garden. I close my eyes and see my grandmother working industriously in the dawn, tending her fragrant roses. I wonder if others tried to convince her that roses would never grow in Idaho’s arid soil. Did others ever suggest that Grandfather would never change during all those years that he was not a member of the Church? Did Grandmother listen to them? Or did she keep working and praying and hoping?

I don’t care if I’m not practical. I don’t care if we pray for miracles that to some seem unlikely. I’m going to go to my dad’s garden and cut some starts from his roses. I will not give up on my special rosebush.

Something that you can do to help your younger siblings be reverent during sacrament meeting is to prepare quiet activities for them to do. I made a little book with pictures of scripture heroes for my little brother to look at throughout sacrament meeting. Even if he doesn’t look at it all the time, my little sister does! Another option is to be friendly to your siblings. You can even just sit by them and make sure they’re comfortable or help them pretend to lead the music when you’re singing the hymns. Younger children tend to be more reverent and quiet when they’re not bored or uncomfortable.
Meredith S., 13, Utah, USA