Gospel Story Finder

Not too long ago, I was working on our farm with my nephew Nash. He is six and has a pure heart. He is my favorite nephew named Nash, and I believe I am his favorite uncle speaking in conference today.
As he helped me come up with a solution for our project, I said, “Nash, that is a great idea. How did you get so smart?” He looked at me with an expression in his eyes that said, “Uncle Ryan, how do you not know the answer to this question?”
He simply shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and confidently said, “Jesus.”
Nash reminded me that day of this simple and yet profound teaching. The answer to the simplest questions and to the most complex problems is always the same. The answer is Jesus Christ. Every solution is found in Him.

David Archuleta, a 17-year-old from Murray, Utah, a town centered in the Salt Lake Valley, made it as one of the top two on American Idol, a television singing competition.
In one interview given while in the middle of the competition, David was wondering about the changes that were coming with the fame of performing for millions of viewers each week. He said that he still felt like “I’m just David from Murray.”
The nation may have been surprised to hear such a pure, clear voice coming from one so young, but David’s classmates at school, and especially those in seminary, were not surprised at all. They already knew he had an amazing voice because they get to hear him sing at school programs and for seminary devotionals.
“Every time it’s his turn to do the class devotional,” says Brother Justin Harper of the Murray High Seminary, “he asks if he can sing. Then the other teachers will bring their classes in just for devotional to hear him. It really sets a wonderful spirit for class.” Even while busy and involved with the television show, Brother Harper said David reported on his daily scripture reading to keep up with his seminary class.
Mietra Aarabi, one of David’s close friends, says that David did not enter the competition to become a celebrity. She says, “David understands that he has a talent and that his voice affects people. He’s not arrogant about it. He is as humble and thankful to those who help him as you saw on the show. That’s how he really is.”
Was David the popular guy in school? Jessica Judd, another of David’s friends says, “If by popular you mean people like him, then yes, everyone likes him. At lunch, you know how everyone has their own group to sit with. You can never find David because he’s going around talking to people. He cares about you.”
The Church is a major force in David’s life. “He is so strong,” says Mietra. “He is the one that reminds us of what is right. He will keep on doing what he believes.”
“Even while he was so busy in Hollywood, he asked about the meeting schedules of wards in the area and went to church,” says Jessica.
David Archuleta is not just David from Murray anymore. The music world now knows about a great guy with an amazing voice that has a quality they can’t quite describe. Those at home in his ward, in his seminary class, and his hometown know what that is. What he believes shows.

Part of self-assessment involves learning from experience. You might ask yourself, What have been the five best periods of my life? the five worst periods of my life? Then analyze that information. What are the common themes in the best periods and the worst periods? In this analysis you need to be careful that you don’t draw the wrong conclusions from your experience. For example, when I returned from my mission, an insurance agent came to see me and offered me a job selling insurance. He convinced me that having filled a mission I was prepared to be a good insurance salesman. I accepted the job and worked part-time for a year. To my surprise I did not like the work at all. When I thought back on my mission experience, I realized that I didn’t enjoy contacting people for the first time. I loved teaching them the gospel, but not the first contact. Unfortunately, the insurance job was all first contacts, and it was painful for me.

While serving in Finland, I learned that my mission president’s wife, Sister Lea Mahoney, was a native of Finland. As a young girl she had grown up in the eastern portion of Finland in a city named Viipuri. As the ravages of war engulfed Finland and other countries during World War II, she and her family left their home, and Viipuri became part of the Soviet Union and was renamed Vyborg. In our zone conferences, Sister Mahoney would tell us of those left behind in Viipuri and of her desire that the gospel be taken to them. Following President Kimball’s challenge, we unitedly prayed that the hearts of the leaders of that nation would be softened so that the gospel could be taken by our missionaries into the Soviet Union.
We would go to the border between Finland and the Soviet Union and see the guard towers and the fences, and we would wonder who those brave young men and young women would be and when they would cross that border to take the gospel to the people there. I must admit, at that time it seemed like an impossible task.
Three years ago, our son Eric received a mission call to serve in the Russia St. Petersburg Mission. In his first letter home, he wrote something like this: “Dear Mom and Dad, I have been assigned to my first city in Russia. Dad, you may have heard of it before. It is called Vyborg, but it was previously a Finnish city named Viipuri.”
Tears came to my eyes as I understood that Eric was in the very city we had prayed about 32 years earlier. Eric found a chapel there and a branch of faithful Saints. He was living and serving in a place that to me as a young man had seemed impossible to enter.
I did not realize those many years ago, as we prayed for the borders to open and the missionaries to go in, that I was praying for our son. Most importantly for you of the rising generation, our son Eric did not realize that he and his companions were the answer to the prayers that had been offered by thousands of faithful Saints so many years ago. You of the rising generation are the fulfillment of prophecy that in our day “the truth of God will go forth boldly, nobly, and independent, till it has penetrated every continent, visited every clime, swept every country, and sounded in every ear, till the purposes of God shall be accomplished, and the Great Jehovah shall say the work is done” (Joseph Smith, in History of the Church, 4:540).

Yellow Leaf was lying on a moss-covered boulder that overhung a deep, clear brook. Dreamily, she watched a huge speckled trout nosing among the pebbles on the bottom of the deep pool. Olive green, with iridescent flecks of color on each side, the trout was so beautiful, Yellow Leaf had no desire to catch it. A pale golden moth fluttered too near the surface. The trout spun upward with incredible speed. “Aiii,” the Indian girl sighed in sorrow as the moth vanished.
A strange squealing sound startled Yellow Leaf and drew her to the top of the hill. Dropping flat, she watched in amazement as a clumsy, bargelike wagon drawn by a pair of oxen pulled to a stop below. The squealing sound she had heard was the iron-bound wheels, badly in need of grease.
Judging from the clouds of dust still hanging in the air, the wagon had come out of the arid, boulder-strewn badlands. The people in the wagon must have traveled all night to have survived; it would have been impossible to travel during the heat of the day.
The wagon had no cover; only charred pieces of canvas clung to the metal hoops across the top of the wagon. There were no water barrels lashed to the sides. Creeping closer, Yellow Leaf saw a telltale arrow piercing the wagon bed.
This family was probably all who had survived from a wagon train. Indian tribes to the east, who were also enemies of her tribe, were on the warpath because of a broken treaty. These Indians must have attacked the wagon train.
Yellow Leaf felt pity for the little family. “They will have little chance of survival here,” she murmured. Yellow Leaf watched the woman, carrying a small baby, herd two other children to the meager shade provided by a large boulder. The man, bent with fatigue, moved about among the rocks, searching.
“Water! They’re dying of thirst!” the girl whispered as she remembered the missing barrels. “If they had horses instead of oxen, the horses would sniff out the water and lead the people to it.”
Yellow Leaf yearned to help, but she didn’t dare. Even if she could speak their language, it wouldn’t help. The man had a gun, and she would almost certainly be shot if she approached. Regretfully she turned to leave.
A feeble wail from the baby stopped her. It sounded like her baby brother. Looking back, she saw that the man was some distance away, still threading his way through the barren rocks. There was water out there, but he wouldn’t know where to find it. He was even going in the wrong direction and would soon drop in his tracks from thirst and weakness.
There was another weak cry from the baby, and Yellow Leaf raced back to the brook. Spilling the lush purple berries from the earthenware pot, she filled it with icy water. Hesitating for only a moment, Yellow Leaf glided silently down the steep slope.
The woman was lying there, curled protectively around her children, her eyes closed, and her lips cracked and swollen. Forgetting all danger, the Indian girl knelt and scooped up water in her hands, letting it splash on the woman’s face. Her skyblue eyes reflected disbelief as they fluttered open and stared into Yellow Leaf’s dark eyes. For a long moment, the girl held her breath, expecting the woman to begin screaming; that would bring the man running with one of the long guns feared by Yellow Leaf’s people.
But the woman’s panic was overcome by concern for her children. Taking a metal cup from the wagon, the mother watched carefully as the older boy and girl drank, making certain they didn’t drink too much. She cared for the baby, and then she wet cloths to cool the heads of the children. Only then did she drink herself.
Preoccupied with watching the children, Yellow Leaf didn’t hear the man approach. She wasn’t aware of the danger until the woman cried out, “No, Frank. No! She brought us water.”
The man seemed dazed as he lowered his rifle. “Water? Where could she find water in this dried-up land? There’s not a sprig of grass anywhere!”
When he too had quenched his thirst, the tall, gaunt man pointed to the clay pot and asked, “Where?” His tired face fell as Yellow Leaf pointed to the bluff.
“We could never get the wagon up there,” he sighed, motioning toward the heavy wagon and the thirsty oxen.
Yellow Leaf understood. Standing up, she walked to the wagon and stood waiting. “She wants us to get in. Maybe she knows a way!” the woman said hopefully.
Walking ahead of the oxen, Yellow Leaf led the way around the barren hills to a gentle slope that led up and then down into a green valley where the brook wound like a silver thread.
“It’s the most beautiful spot I’ve ever seen! It’s exactly the place we’ve dreamed about,” the woman cried in delight.
“Yes. There are trees to build a cabin, and the land wouldn’t take too much clearing. It’s rich ground, too, Sarah. Almost anything should grow here,” the man said softly, his eyes bright with excitement and hope.
Neither noticed when the Indian girl slipped away. Turning for a last glimpse, Yellow Leaf felt tears sting her eyes as she watched the man and woman, hand in hand, lost in their brave dreams for the future. They were the first white people who had ever seen the fertile valley hidden away behind the desolate rocky hills. Would they ever know the anguish Yellow Leaf suffered at giving them her beautiful green land?
A chill swept over Yellow Leaf. Suddenly she felt like the fluttering golden moth.

Anthony Antelope was so absentminded, he thought he was an anteater. That was because his last name began with ANT.
He became as angry as an alligator when he couldn’t catch any ants. He aimed at ants, but he wasn’t able to gather any amount of them. Although he was amazingly agile, as soon as he advanced against ants, he found those active insects absent.
Ambitious Anthony was not able to eat. His ant-catching acts always caused accidents. Afterwards, Anthony was usually ailing and always hungry!
In the afternoon Amy, the Angora cat, said, “Anthony, allow me to alert you that you are an authentic African antelope and absolutely no relation to any anteater.”
“I’ve always been an anteater,” replied Anthony. “I adore ants, but I can’t catch any. Aren’t you aware that I must appease my angry appetite with ants?”
“You should be ashamed, Anthony! You aren’t an anteater. I advise you that you are an admirable antelope,” answered Angora Amy. “My advice to you is to admit you aren’t an anteater. All the animals will stand aside to watch an active, alert antelope. No one stands aside for an antelope acting as an almost anteater.
“Instead of ants, which you admit you aren’t able to catch, try some grass. Other antlered antelopes eat huge amounts of grass and they are still alive,” added Amy.
Anthony accepted an ant-sized amount of grass from Amy. He apologized after eating it, and admitted that it tasted altogether different from how he thought grass would taste.
“It appears that my antelope appetite has been aroused for this food,” announced Anthony. “Thanks to you, Angora Amy, I am able to be an actual antelope and not an artificial anteater who found it awfully awkward obtaining ants.”
There are over 125 words beginning with A’s in this story. How many do you remember?

You may have heard of Elder Green, as he has accumulated some fame during his two years of full-time missionary service as one of the first service missionaries in the UK. Despite this, he is a very humble young man.
Missionary service has had its challenges for Elder Green. But his mission has been a transformative experience, changing forever the life of Elder Green and his family.
In those two years (half of which was during the COVID-19 lockdown), Elder Green served at the Batley Food Bank. Not only did he help in the food bank, but also in the collecting of and shopping for food and items they needed. In his last year, he also volunteered at the Oxfam warehouse, in addition to his Church callings with young single adults and as a Young Men’s advisor. Oxfam have offered him a full-time paying job now that he has ended his service mission.
His greatest love was the BillionGraves project, and in his last three months he felt he could achieve the transcribing goal of 100,000 graves. When he reported at the end of his mission on 8 January 2023, he had transcribed 112,000 graves. Even though he has finished his mission, he plans to continue this work.

As the parents of four sons, my husband and I always seek ways to help our children feel the Spirit and gain a testimony. We had a breakthrough in understanding in an unusual way. I was standing in a store when the prompting came.
Our oldest son’s grades in his social studies class were declining. We had talked with him about it, encouraging him to study harder, but there was still no improvement. We had been praying for ideas to help him. One day in a bookstore, I had a strong impression to buy a book from a pile of books that were on sale.
The book was about how each of us has distinct learning styles. Many people are visual learners, meaning they learn best by what they see. These learners often love art and reading. Some learn best aurally. They process information most effectively when they hear it. These people often love music. Finally, some learners are kinesthetic learners. They learn best when there is motion or activity involved. These learners sometimes struggle in school when teachers insist on them sitting still. They learn best when they’re moving around.
There was the answer! Our son was obviously an aural learner—he loved music and talking! We discovered that he was often being pulled out of class for other activities during social studies and was then told by the teacher to go home and read the material. He was struggling because he wasn’t hearing the class discussion. Once we understood this, we encouraged him to read his assigned material aloud and then discuss it with us. His grades shot back up.
But our understanding of learning styles didn’t stop there. We realized as we studied this more and observed our children that the Holy Ghost often teaches our children in the ways they learn best. The Prophet Joseph Smith taught that the Spirit talks to us in our language and in ways we can understand. The Holy Ghost adapts His language to be understood by all, even little children. “Our Heavenly Father is always available to us. He adapts to our level of understanding. ‘If He comes to a little child, He will adapt himself to the language and capacity of a little child’ (Joseph Smith, in History of the Church, 3:392).”1
Knowing that the Spirit adapts His communication for our understanding can encourage parents to create opportunities for their children to hear teachings from the Holy Ghost in ways they will understand best. “All thy children shall be taught of the Lord; and great shall be the peace of thy children” (Isaiah 54:13).
As I mentioned, our oldest son’s primary method of learning was aural. Both he and our third son love music, so in our home we often played beautiful music by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir as well as classical music. They felt the Spirit deeply in this environment. We also had many lively discussions regarding the gospel, and this helped them learn truths that were reinforced by the Spirit as they heard them.

In September 1977, I was nineteen years old and studying in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala, to become a school teacher. One afternoon while walking home, I noticed a little stream of rain water running down the street toward my apartment. It was carrying a piece of paper. Just to entertain myself, I decided to keep pace with that piece of paper. When I got to my apartment, I picked it up.
It was a pamphlet. I will never forget its title: The Church as Organized by Jesus Christ. At one time I had been very interested in finding the church that Jesus Christ had set up. I had investigated many churches, but I had joined none. I had finally given up my search. But now as I read the title on the pamphlet, somehow I knew I had found the true church. On the back of the pamphlet was a name—The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I determined to find that church.
School resumed in January, and I went back to Quetzaltenango. Although I had lived in that city for three years, I had never seen a Latter-day Saint church there. One Sunday I decided that if one existed, I was going to find it. I got up early and began asking everyone I met if they knew the location of the church. At first, no one did. Others sent me in the wrong direction. But after three hours, I finally located the meetinghouse and literally ran toward it.
The building was beautiful. I wondered if this was a church just for the rich. Because I am a shy person, I quietly took a seat in the back of the chapel. I knew no one there, and nobody spoke to me, but I loved the meeting. There was a feeling in my heart that I had never felt in any other place on earth.
The next Sunday I returned, thinking that if the preacher asked people to come up front and accept Christ, I would be the first to go. But nobody called us to go up. Three members shared short messages. How different this church is! I thought. But I liked it. Unfortunately, the members still did not notice me, and I decided I would go back only one more week. I couldn’t keep attending if I had no one to talk to. At least I would have a beautiful memory to cherish.
The meetings were equally pleasing on the third Sunday. When they were over, everyone began leaving, talking happily. I sat on a bench in the entryway, almost in tears at the idea of not coming back. Then a well-dressed young man with blond hair sat down next to me. In broken Spanish, he asked how long I had been a member of the Church.
“I’m not a member,” I said, “only visiting.” He instantly took out a little book and asked for my address.
“Why do you need my address?”
“We would like to get to know you and teach you more about the Church,” he explained.
With great pleasure I accepted his invitation, and the missionaries began teaching me the gospel. I asked a great many questions, which they could not always answer, but they always came back with the answers the next day. People at school ridiculed me when they learned what I was doing, and family members who belonged to other churches kept trying to argue with me. But I kept learning, and in time I was baptized.

Hola! I’m Elena. It’s my first time going to the temple.
A few weeks ago, I met with my bishop. He asked me some questions to help make sure I was ready to go to the temple. (You can read the questions on page 35!) Then he gave me my own temple recommend.
We’re getting ready to go. I get dressed in my Sunday best. I also pack some things to fix my hair after it gets wet. And I make sure I have my recommend. Now we’re off to catch the bus!
There’s the temple! It’s so beautiful.
When I walk inside the temple, I feel peaceful. I show my recommend to the nice temple worker at the front desk. Another temple worker gives me a white jumpsuit. I go to the locker room to change.
Now I wait for my turn to be baptized. When it’s my brother’s turn, I stand by the font to be a witness. I make sure he goes all the way under the water.
It’s my turn now! The water is warm. I’m baptized for several people in a row.
When I get out, a temple worker hands me a towel. I rinse off in the dressing room and change back into my Sunday clothes. When I come out, a temple worker takes me to be confirmed for several people.
My time in the temple was really special! I’m happy I could help others by being baptized and confirmed for them. I can’t wait to come back again soon.

When our children were young, our family spent a few days at a beautiful lake. One afternoon some of the children put on life jackets before jumping off a deck and into the water. Our youngest daughter watched with hesitation, carefully observing her siblings. With all the courage she could muster, she plugged her nose with one hand and jumped. She immediately popped up and with a bit of panic in her voice yelled, “Help me! Help me!”
Now, she was not in any mortal danger; her life jacket was doing its job, and she was floating safely. We could have reached out and pulled her back on the deck with little effort. Yet from her perspective, she needed help. Perhaps it was the chill of the water or the newness of the experience. In any case, she climbed back onto the deck, where we wrapped her in a dry towel and complimented her on her bravery.

Because of the social injustices and conditions in which my parents grew up in the 1940s in New Zealand, education for M?ori was not an easy path, particularly in higher education. In fact, my father, Benjamin Turi Hippolite, only went to school until his freshman year of high school. Unfortunately, at the end of that year, the principal of the school forced him to leave because the principal refused to approve of the financial funds for one more M?ori. My dad reflected on this experience decades later saying, "I really did want to go to school. I would have stayed only if there was half a chance."

After this sad ordeal, dad worked so hard and helped his other siblings afford schooling. You could say my dad received a PhD- a PhD in the “School of Hard Knocks.”

I will add that although both my parents had very little formal education, they could read people and had emotional intelligence. They were hard workers! Despite the hardships and challenges, dad became the first M?ori City Councilman in Nelson city. He went on to be a regional manager at one of the largest insurance companies in the country. He was a manager at the Department of Conservation. How did he do this? He learned invaluable skills as a labor missionary, and he was actively engaged in the gospel and served in several callings in the Church such as a gospel doctrine teacher, teacher development leader, district president, stake president, and so on. Although his formal education was limited, dad continued to embrace the gospel and learn from the inspired programs of the Church. My mother, Emma Hippolite was continually learning. She read Church publications from cover to cover. She became a renowned seamstress, developed her creative talents in multiple areas. She took night classes to eventually qualify and become a residential social worker. My generation is the first to accomplish higher education at all levels (bachelors, master's, and PhD).

Thirty years ago, while I was serving as a mission president in Austria, a bright young man came to see me in the mission office. He had received a few of the missionary discussions and was concerned that the missionaries promised him if he would read the Book of Mormon and pray about it he would know it was true.

"Well, Herr President," he said, "I've started to read the Book of Mormon, but to tell you the truth that book is drier than the Vienna telephone directory."

I replied, "Michael, perhaps we could try reading a sample from the middle of the Book," and I opened up the Book of Mormon to Third Nephi Chapter 17, the moving account of the Savior's healing of the sick, blessing of the little children, and praying to the Father in their presence. I suggested that I read a verse and then we could alternate and he would read every other verse. As we proceeded to read that chapter, tears began to trickle down his cheeks, and as we concluded the chapter he said, "I'm going home to read the whole book." And he did. A few weeks later he was baptized and he has remained faithful to his covenants.

The kind of tasks given to the girls and young men were calculated to give them not only a sense of responsibility but a feeling of self-confidence. Among the Saints no distinction was made between the mistress of a house and a servant girl working for her. The girl ate with the family, prayed with them, played with them. The kind of tasks they were assigned unquestionably gave them a feeling of accomplishment. I mentioned Mamie Woolley earlier. In 1889 her father bought a home in Kanab and took Mamie with him to Salt Lake City to select furniture. They shipped it to Salina, Sevier County, the end of the railroad line, and then freighted it from there—an eight-day trip. There were two big wagon loads of it, both stacked high. Mamie drove one wagon and her father the other. They camped out every night and slept on the ground. Mamie hitched and unhitched the teams, curried the horses, and fed and watered her own team. Obviously, this was not the stereotype of “woman’s work.” Girls were asked to do what had to be done and what they were resourceful and courageous and skilled enough to do.

A few years ago in Italy, LDS missionaries were harassed by some Italian youths. Among the group on two occasions was a young man named Felice Lotito. He was challenged by a bold elder to come to the local LDS branch so that he could judge for himself. It was a dare which Felice accepted. He came. He heard. He studied. He believed. He was baptized. Later he was sent on a mission to England where he increased his faith and his facility with English. He served honorably, came home, married a lovely Italian girl in the Swiss Temple, and became one of the directors of the seminary and institute program in Italy, which now serves nearly 1,000 students.

In July of 1980, Felice Lotito left at age 32 to be the mission president in the Italy Padova Mission of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints! God saw in Felice possibilities that Felice did not see in himself. When the gospel was presented to him, Felice had the integrity of heart and intellect to believe it, even though he had been hassling the missionaries just days before. The Lord reached out for Felice Lotito who will now reach out to thousands of his countrymen and touch hundreds of missionaries—missionaries like those of whom he was so critical just a few years before.

Illustration by Andrew Bosley
“I want to be a veterinarian when I get older. What do you want to be, Kelsee?”
“I want to be a stay-at-home mom and an author,” I proudly said. To me, there was no better job than mom, but clearly my friend didn’t agree.
“You want to be a stay-at-home mom? You’re going to make your husband support you?” My friend wasn’t a member of the Church and didn’t understand the importance of a mother’s role.
“Well, I’m going to write as well. And even if I don’t become an author, I want to marry a man who believes what I believe, someone who wants to support our family,” I said.
“Writing doesn’t get you anywhere. You’ll be poor.”
I was getting irritated. Couldn’t she just be OK with my choice and move on?
“Why do you work so hard in school if you’re not going to do anything with your life? Are you going to go to college? You’re too smart to be a stay-at-home mom.”
This hurt me a lot, but I tried to explain: “I work hard in school because I know how important education is. In my Church, we believe that we’ll take all of our knowledge with us to the next life.1 And I’ll get an education just in case I’m not able to get married or something happens that doesn’t allow my husband to work. Plus, I’ll be able to teach my children more. Just because someone’s a stay-at-home mom doesn’t mean she’s not smart.”
“Do you think your kids will get tired of being around you after awhile?”
“When I’m a mom, I’ll be responsible for taking good care of my children and nurturing them,”2 I said. My friend still didn’t understand. “Families are important,” I said. “They’re essential to the lives of members of my Church. And they should be to everyone else too.”
The school bell rang, and my friend turned away angrily. A pained look came over my face. My teacher must have seen it, because she called me over to her desk.
“Is she mad at you because of your choice?” she asked. “Yes,” I said. My teacher called out and motioned to my friend, who was heading out the door. My friend came back with a look of anger on her face. “Why are you so upset?” my teacher asked.
“Because she could do so much more—be a doctor, something!”
“If Kelsee would be happy being a mom, then she should do it,” my teacher said. “And besides, the world needs good mothers.” My teacher gave me a kind smile, and my friend hurried out. I was grateful for my teacher’s words.
I thought about this experience for a long time. It had given me a sense of doubt. What did I truly believe? Did I really think families were important? I prayed that I could increase my testimony of the importance of families.
For the next two Sundays, my Young Women leaders prepared lessons about families—without knowing what I was thinking about. I felt that these lessons were Heavenly Father’s way of showing me that what I’d told my friend is true—families and motherhood really are important.
I will be eternally grateful for this experience and the lessons that increased my testimony. Families are important, and I love mine deeply.

My father was our bishop, but he died before I received the priesthood. I remember so clearly being ordained a deacon. A new world opened up for me. I was now living on a higher plane. As I would hear people say, “You hold the priesthood,” it was not easy to fully comprehend. But with humble leaders, we began to understand that as deacons we had been given blessings and authority to do sacred things.
As quorum officers we accounted for all of our members and would see that they were all at church. We enjoyed being together. We helped the elderly and the widows. We cleaned the meetinghouse and raked the grounds. We made sure that the sacrament trays and sacrament cloths were clean and fresh. We were part of the Church, and the Church was part of us. We knew it; we felt it! We held the priesthood of God! Understanding leaders guided us and helped us broaden our vision and our ever-expanding role as young men; but more important, they helped prepare us to be called in our youth to be servants of our Savior. He needs every one of you young men.

As a boy, David O. McKay was one of the youngest players on his baseball team. They played their rivals on a holiday—American Independence Day—so the grandstand was packed.
During the game, one of David’s teammates was injured.
David: Hey, are you OK?
Coach: He’ll be fine, but you’ll take his place at bat.
David was excited and nervous. The score was tied. When it was his turn to bat, the crowd cheered. But David soon had two strikes. One more strike would put him out.
Umpire: Strike two!
The pitcher stormed toward David and picked up a baseball bat.
Pitcher: That was strike three. Get out of here, kid, or I’ll hurt you!
The field went silent. David stayed calm.
David: The umpire called only two strikes. Go back to your pitcher’s mound and try to get me out; you still have one more chance!
The pitcher saw the determination on David’s face and returned to the pitcher’s mound. David’s bat smacked the ball, and he ran to second base. The next batter sent David to home plate; it was the deciding run of the game.
Even though the crowd cheered David for his winning run, he knew they were also cheering for his courage in standing up to a bully.

We have some great experiences as General Authorities. We don’t feel worthy to have them; we wish everyone could have them. For example, one of the most delightful experiences of the Spirit, wherein we feel the guidance of our Heavenly Father, is every time we create a new stake or change a stake presidency. We know beforehand that the Lord has already picked the man and we have to find out through the spiritual guidance of the Holy Ghost who the man is that he has already chosen.

Some of us who have the blessing of working in Latin American countries have the opportunity to create new stakes frequently. You are worried, nervous, and tremble all of the time, knowing that you must pick the man that the Lord wants to preside over that stake. The Lord is so wise and we have such limited knowledge. He seems to tell us in a different way every time, so the nervousness and the trembling go on.

Sometimes you know the instant the man walks into the room. Sometimes you know before you even commence your interviews. And sometimes you don’t know until the very last second when you are offering the final prayer to receive his approval. Sometimes in the prayer you’ve entirely forgotten the name of the one you had chosen and the name of another man comes visibly before your mind. You then express it and feel his influence upon you.

I remember last week in Mexico City vividly. I had the pleasure of dividing a stake and forming the new Pachuca stake on the outskirts of the city. I remember all the men with whom we interviewed, and felt that it should be Brother so and so. The man who was chosen was right next in line, nearly equal to that man. But as to which one of these two or four was the very difficult question to answer. But, again, the Lord told us in his unique way who that man should be. Can you imagine the feeling of satisfaction you get to know that it seems to meet with his approval as unworthy as you are to be his instrument?

At Brigham Young University we have had some great athletic coaches. We have them now and we have had them in the past. One of these of long ago was Eugene L. Roberts. He grew up in Provo and drifted aimlessly with the wrong kind of friends. Then something remarkable happened. I read you his own words. He wrote:
“Several years ago when Provo City was scarred with unsightly saloons and other questionable forms of amusement, I was standing one evening on the street, waiting for my gang to show up, when I noticed that the [Provo] tabernacle was lighted up and that a large crowd was moving in that direction. I had nothing to do so I drifted over there and went in. I thought I might find some of my gang, or at least some of the girls that I was interested in. Upon entering, I ran across three or four of the fellows and we placed ourselves under the gallery where there was a crowd of young ladies, who seemed to promise entertainment. We were not interested in what came from the pulpit. We knew that the people on the rostrum were all old fogies. They didn’t know anything about life, and they certainly couldn’t tell us anything, for we knew it all. So we settled down to have a good time. Right in the midst of our disturbance there thundered from the pulpit the following [statement]:
“‘You can’t tell the character of an individual by the way he does his daily work. Watch him when his work is done. See where he goes. Note the companions he seeks, and the things he does when he may do as he pleases. Then you can tell his true character.’
“I looked up toward the rostrum,” Roberts continued, “because I was struck with this powerful statement. I saw there a slim, dark-haired fierce-eyed fighting-man whom I knew and feared; but didn’t have any particular love for.”
As he continued, “[the speaker] went on to make a comparison. He said: ‘Let us take the eagle, for example. This bird works as hard and as efficiently as any other animal or bird in doing its daily work. It provides for itself and its young by the sweat of its brow, so to speak; but when its daily work is over and the eagle has time of its own to do just as it pleases, note how it spends its recreational moments. It flies in the highest realms of heaven, spreads its wings and bathes in the upper air, for it loves the pure, clean atmosphere and the lofty heights.
“‘On the other hand, let us consider the hog. This animal grunts and grubs and provides for its young just as well as the eagle; but when its working hours are over and it has some recreational moments, observe where it goes and what it does. The hog will seek out the muddiest hole in the pasture and will roll and soak itself in filth, for this is the thing it loves. People can be either eagles or hogs in their leisure time.’
“Now when I heard this short speech,” said Gene Roberts, “I was dumbfounded. I turned to my companions abashed for I was ashamed to be caught listening. What was my surprise to find everyone of the gang with his attention fixed upon the speaker and his eyes containing a far-away expression.
“We went out of the tabernacle that evening rather quiet and we separated from each other unusually early. I thought of that speech all the way home. I classified myself immediately as of the hog family. I thought of that speech for years. That night there was implanted within me the faintest beginnings of ambition to lift myself out of the hog group and to rise to that of the eagle. …
“There was instilled within me that same evening, the urge to help fill up the mud holes in the social pasture so that those people with hog tendencies would find it difficult to wallow in recreational filth. As a result of constant thinking about that speech, I was stirred to devote my whole life and my profession toward developing wholesome recreational activities for the young people, so that it would be natural and easy for them to indulge in the eagle-type of leisure.
“The man who made that speech which affected my life more than any other speech I ever heard, was President George H. Brimhall. May God bless him!” (Raymond Brimhall Holbrook and Esther Hamilton Holbrook, The Tall Pine Tree: The Life and Work of George H. Brimhall [n.p., 1988], pp. 111–13).
That simple story, told by a great teacher, turned around the life of a drifter and made of him an able and gifted leader. I repeat it tonight because I think that most of us are constantly faced with a choice of whether we wallow in the mire or fly to lofty heights.