Gospel Story Finder

Some time ago, I presided over a regional conference in La Paz, Bolivia, high in the Andes Mountains. Members came to the conference from small towns and villages scattered throughout the area of La Paz and the Altiplano.
Before the leadership training session, I stood in front of the stake center and greeted the brethren as they gathered. One older brother told me through an interpreter that he lived a long way from La Paz. I noticed that his shirt was a different color from about the middle of his chest down. The upper portion of his shirt was white, while the lower portion was a brownish-red color.
I learned that he and three other Melchizedek Priesthood holders had taken more than eight hours to travel to these meetings. They had walked most of the way and had to ford two rivers, where the brownish-red water came up to their chests. When they came to the main road to La Paz, they stopped a truck to ask for a ride. The four men stood in the back of the truck for the last two hours to the stake center.
I could hardly believe that anyone would have such commitment, faith, and courage. When I expressed my deep concern for this dear brother, he said, “Brother Ballard, you are an Apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ. I would walk as long as required, ford as many streams as required, to come and hear from you what the Lord wants me to do as a priesthood leader in the Church.”
This response brought tears to my eyes. We embraced one another in the special brotherhood of the priesthood of God. I also learned that he and his companions had not had anything to eat. Nor did they have a place to stay that night. Through the goodness of the Saints of La Paz, they were taken care of during the conference weekend.

“When I was a little boy, each December we would go to the home of the bishop—Father and Mother and each of their children. The bishop didn’t have an office in the meetinghouse. We had to go to his home. And then he would call us in individually and find out how much tithing we had paid and how much we wished to pay. It was a very small amount for the children. I think it cost more to keep track of than it was worth, but it did something. When we were little tiny children we were on the tithing records of the Church, and it has never been a difficult thing to pay tithing ever since then.”5

Some years before he was called as an Apostle himself, Elder Robert D. Hales recounted an experience that demonstrated his father’s sense of that holy calling. Elder Hales said:

Some years ago Father, then over eighty years of age, was expecting a visit from a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles on a snowy winter day. Father, an artist, had painted a picture of the home of the Apostle. Rather than have the painting delivered to him, this sweet Apostle wanted to go personally to pick the painting up and thank my father for it. Knowing that Father would be concerned that everything was in readiness for the forthcoming visit, I dropped by his home. Because of the depth of the snow, snowplows had caused a snowbank in front of the walkway to the front door. Father had shoveled the walks and then labored to remove the snowbank. He returned to the house exhausted and in pain. When I arrived, he was experiencing heart pain from overexertion and stressful anxiety. My first concern was to warn him of his unwise physical efforts. Didn’t he know what the result of his labor would be?

“Robert,” he said through interrupted short breaths, “do you realize an Apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ is coming to my home? The walks must be clean. He should not have to come through a snowdrift.” He raised his hand, saying, “Oh, Robert, don’t ever forget or take for granted the privilege it is to know and to serve with Apostles of the Lord.”

I think it is more than coincidence that such a father would be blessed to have a son serve as an Apostle.

It was one year ago today, in a solemn assembly, that we had the privilege of raising our hands to sustain the authorities of the Church, much as we have done this morning. It was on that April morning that I heard my name read as one presented for your sustaining vote as a member of the Quorum of Twelve Apostles. It became my obligation to stand with those other living men who have been called as special witnesses of the Lord Jesus Christ upon the earth.
You must have wondered, as I did, why this call should come to me. It seemed accidental at times, that I was preserved in worthiness, yet there was always the constant, quiet, lingering feeling about being guided and being prepared.
It has been our privilege this morning to raise our hands to sustain the President of the Church. I count that a great privilege and special obligation, for I have a witness about him.
Some weeks before the meeting of last April, I left the office one Friday afternoon thinking of the weekend conference assignment. I waited for the elevator to come down from the fifth floor.
As the elevator doors quietly opened, there stood President Joseph Fielding Smith. There was a moment of surprise in seeing him, since his office is on a lower floor.
As I saw him framed in the doorway, there fell upon me a powerful witness—there stands the prophet of God. That sweet voice of Spirit that is akin to light, that has something to do with pure intelligence, affirmed to me that this was the prophet of God.
I need not try to define that experience to Latter-day Saints. That kind of witness is characteristic of this church. It is not something reserved to those in high office. It is a witness, not only available but vital, to every member.
As it is with the President, so it is with his counselors.
North of us in the Wasatch Range stand three mountain peaks. The poet would describe them as mighty pyramids of stone. The center one, the highest of the three, the map would tell you is Willard Peak. But the pioneers called them “The Presidency.” If you should go to Willard, look to the east, and up, way up, there stands “The Presidency.”
Thank God for the presidency. Like those peaks, they stand with nothing above them but the heavens. They need our sustaining vote. It is sometimes lonely in those lofty callings of leadership—for their calling is not to please man, but to please the Lord. God bless these three great and good men.
Occasionally during the past year I have been asked a question. Usually it comes as a curious, almost an idle, question about the qualifications to stand as a witness for Christ. The question they ask is, “Have you seen Him?”
That is a question that I have never asked of another. I have not asked that question of my brethren in the Quorum, thinking that it would be so sacred and so personal that one would have to have some special inspiration, indeed, some authorization, even to ask it.
There are some things just too sacred to discuss. We know that as it relates to the temples. In our temples, sacred ordinances are performed; sacred experiences are enjoyed. And yet we do not, because of the nature of them, discuss them outside those sacred walls.
It is not that they are secret, but they are sacred; not to be discussed, but to be harbored and to be protected and regarded with the deepest of reverence.
I have come to know what the prophet Alma meant:
“… It is given unto many to know the mysteries of God; nevertheless they are laid under a strict command that they shall not impart only according to the portion of his word which he doth grant unto the children of men, according to the heed and diligence which they give unto him.
“And therefore, he that will harden his heart, the same receiveth the lesser portion of the word; and he that will not harden his heart, to him is given the greater portion of the word, until it is given unto him to know the mysteries of God until he know them in full.” (Alma 12:9–10.)
There are those who hear testimonies borne in the Church, by those in high station and by members in the wards and branches, all using the same words—“I know that God lives; I know that Jesus is the Christ,” and come to question, “Why cannot it be said in plainer words? Why aren’t they more explicit and more descriptive? Cannot the apostles say more?”
How like the sacred experience in the temple becomes our personal testimony. It is sacred, and when we are wont to put it into words, we say it in the same way—all using the same words. The apostles declare it in the same phrases with the little Primary or Sunday School youngster. “I know that God lives and I know that Jesus is the Christ.”
We would do well not to disregard the testimonies of the prophets or of the children, for “he imparteth his words by angels unto men, yea, not only men but women also. Now this is not all; little children do have words given unto them many times which confound the wise and the learned.” (Alma 32:23.)
Some seek for a witness to be given in some new and dramatic and different way.
The bearing of a testimony is akin to a declaration of love. The romantics and poets and couples in love, from the beginning of time, have sought more impressive ways of saying it, or singing it, or writing it. They have used all of the adjectives, all of the superlatives, all manner of poetic expression. And when all is said and done, the declaration which is most powerful is the simple, three-word variety.
To one who is honestly seeking, the testimony borne in these simple phrases is enough, for it is the spirit that beareth record, not the words.
There is a power of communication as real and tangible as electricity. Man has devised the means to send images and sound through the air to be caught on an antenna and reproduced and heard and seen. This other communication may be likened to that, save it be a million times more powerful, and the witness it brings is always the truth.
There is a process by which pure intelligence can flow, by which we can come to know of a surety, nothing doubting.
I said there was a question that could not be taken lightly nor answered at all without the prompting of the Spirit. I have not asked that question of others, but I have heard them answer it—but not when they were asked. They have answered it under the prompting of the Spirit, on sacred occasions, when “the Spirit beareth record.” (D&C 1:39.)
I have heard one of my brethren declare: “I know from experiences, too sacred to relate, that Jesus is the Christ.”
I have heard another testify: “I know that God lives; I know that the Lord lives. And more than that, I know the Lord.”
It was not their words that held the meaning or the power. It was the Spirit. “… for when a man speaketh by the power of the Holy Ghost the power of the Holy Ghost carrieth it unto the hearts of the children of men.” (2 Ne. 33:1.)
I speak upon this subject in humility, with the constant feeling that I am the least in every way of those who are called to this holy office.
I have come to know that the witness does not come by seeking after signs. It comes through fasting and prayer, through activity and testing and obedience. It comes through sustaining the servants of the Lord and following them.
Karl G. Maeser was taking a group of missionaries across the Alps. As they reached a summit, he stopped. Gesturing back down the trail to some poles set in the snow to mark the way across the glacier, he said, “Brethren, there stands the Priesthood. They are just common sticks like the rest of us … but the position they hold makes them what they are to us. If we step aside from the path they mark, we are lost.”
The witness depends upon sustaining his servants as we have done here in sign and as we should do in action.
Now, I wonder with you why one such as I should be called to the holy apostleship. There are so many qualifications that I lack. There is so much in my effort to serve that is wanting. As I have pondered on it, I have come to only one single thing, one qualification in which there may be cause, and that is, I have that witness.
I declare to you that I know that Jesus is the Christ. I know that he lives. He was born in the meridian of time. He taught his gospel, was tried, was crucified. He rose on the third day. He was the first fruits of the resurrection. He has a body of flesh and bone. Of this I bear testimony. Of him I am a witness. In the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

As I reflected upon this subject, a story that I had recently heard by an unknown author came to my mind.
Many years ago in the foggy city of London a young man supported his widowed mother and five brothers and sisters by going to the train station at night and meeting people and then guiding them to their various destinations with his lantern through the narrow, foggy streets. On one occasion the young man was approached by a stranger who asked to be taken to a particular area of the city. It was extremely foggy and the cobblestone streets were dangerously slippery. The boy agreed to the proposition, even though it meant placing his own life in jeopardy. The two of them started out, the boy, lantern in hand, leading the gentleman. After hours of walking they arrived at their destination. Once there the gentleman gave the young man the promised reward. The lad graciously accepted his earnings and walked briskly back to the station. He no sooner arrived at the station than several people came forward out of the fog, each giving the young man a like amount of money. At first the boy refused to accept the money because he felt he had not earned it. Finally one of the strangers explained: “We were all lost in this fog and had no idea where we were. Then we saw your lantern and followed your light in the distance. We only wish to repay you for guiding us to safety. Had we not followed you, we would still be lost out there in the fog.”

Despite the work, Rebecca continued faithful and served willingly. The Prophet Joseph Smith and his family lodged in the Williamses’ home for a time when the Smiths first moved to Kirtland. Rebecca proved loyal to the Prophet and his family as she cared for them through trying times. Once a mob came and surrounded the home looking for Joseph. Rebecca disguised Joseph in her bonnet and cloak. Joseph was able to leave the house and pass through the crowd to safety.

In March of 1832, Rebecca again provided invaluable aid to the Prophet when a mob burst into the John Johnson farm in Hiram, Ohio, and brutally assaulted Joseph Smith and Sidney Rigdon. After beating Sidney senseless and attempting to pour poison down Joseph’s throat, the mob tarred and feathered the Prophet. When Emma Smith saw her husband, she thought the tar was blood and fainted.5 Rebecca and Frederick spent that night peeling tar from Joseph’s bleeding and torn body and caring for the Smith children. Their succor was helpful, as Joseph found the strength to preach the next morning.

A caravan is like a camper or RV.
One Easter holiday I went to Scotland with my mum, my two sisters, and my grandparents. We stayed in a caravan just a few metres away from a large field with trees and some friendly horses. Every day my sisters and I would go and feed the horses. It was fun. Mum didn’t mind because she could see us and knew we were safe.
One day, though, I went on my own to the play area, which was quite far from our caravan. Mum had told me to never go there on my own, but I went anyway.
When I finished playing, I started back towards the caravan, but I didn’t know which way to go. All the caravans looked the same. I walked all over the place but could not find my way; every way seemed to be a dead end with bushes. What I did not know was that my mum and granddad were looking all over for me and getting worried.
After a while I was very frightened, so I thought to myself, I should pray to my Heavenly Father. After I finished my prayer, I knew I had to go through the bushes. I pushed through them and could see the trees up ahead and knew that was where the field and horses were. I knew I was near the caravan and ran as fast as I could. I said another prayer thanking my Heavenly Father for showing me the way back.
When I got back, my mum and granddad were still looking for me. They were so pleased to see me. They hugged me, and I told them what happened. They were cross because I had gone away but very happy I had prayed when I was lost and afraid.

“Time for bed, Ethan.”
“Just five more minutes, please, Dad?”
“You’ve been studying that word list all evening.”
“But I have to know every word to beat Blake in the spelling bee tomorrow. He’s the best speller in class, and he’ll be sure to wear his lucky socks.”
“Lucky socks?” Dad questioned.
“He has the ugliest pair of socks I’ve ever seen—red with little gray and white diamonds. He wears them every Tuesday when we have our spelling test, and he’s only missed one word all year.”
Ethan’s father laughed. “And you think that it’s because of his socks?”
“It must be,” Ethan said. “Blake even says so.”
“Well, you won’t do well at the spelling bee if you’re tired, so off to bed now.”
“All right. These words are all beginning to look alike anyway.”
The next day after lunch Mrs. Miller said, “Class, today is the first round of our spelling bee. The words that you draw from the box today are from past tests. Tomorrow we will use the new words from the list I handed out yesterday. Cindy drew number one, so she will be first.”
Cindy stirred the folded slips of paper in the box, picked one, and handed it to her teacher. Mrs. Miller removed the tape, unfolded the paper, and read, “Official.”
Cindy smiled. “Official,” she repeated. “O-f-f-i-c-i-a-l. Official.”
“Correct,” Mrs. Miller said. “Blake, you’re next.”
“Come on, socks, do your stuff,” Blake muttered, handing a word slip to the teacher.
“Community,” Mrs. Miller said.
“Community. C-o-m-m-u-n-i-t-y. Community.”
“Correct.”
Ethan drew special and spelled it correctly. By the end of the seventh round, only Mary Ann, Blake, and Ethan had spelled all of their words correctly.
“Time’s up,” Mrs. Miller said. “We’ll start tomorrow with the new words.”
After school Blake asked Ethan if he wanted to play baseball.
“Aren’t you going to study for the spelling bee?” Ethan asked.
“Nope.”
“But the new words are a lot harder than our old test words were today,” Ethan said.
“I don’t have to study. I’ll just wear my lucky socks again. They worked for me today, didn’t they?”
“Well, I suppose, but …”
“You’ll see,” Blake said.
At supper that evening Ethan asked, “Dad, do you think that lucky socks can really help someone spell well?”
“Are you kidding!” Ethan’s sister chortled. “Socks have nothing to do with spelling well.”
“That’s true,” Ethan’s father agreed. “Let’s set up a hypothetical situation: All the students have studied and know the words, and one student has a special good-luck charm—”
“Like Blake’s lucky socks?” Ethan broke in.
His father nodded. “This student really thinks that the charm will help him, and because he believes that he has more ‘luck’ than anyone else, he has more confidence and he does do better.”
Ethan thought for a minute. “But what if he doesn’t learn the words and only counts on his lucky socks?”
“What do you think, Ethan?”
“I think that he’s in a lot of trouble.”
“I think that you’re right,” his father agreed, smiling.
“Today,” Mrs. Miller explained the next morning at the beginning of the spelling bee, “all of you will take part, but yesterday’s three finalists may each miss two words before being disqualified. The rest of you may only miss one. The winner will go to the all-city contest next week.”
“Blake, you will be first,” Mrs. Miller said.
“Go, socks,” Blake said, grinning as he picked a word out of the box.
“Definition,” Mrs. Miller read.
“Definition,” Blake repeated, his smile fading. “D-e-f-a-n-i-t-i-o-n. Definition.”
“I’m sorry Blake,” Mrs. Miller said. “That’s incorrect.”
Blake sat down and tugged on his socks. If he missed one more word, he would be out of the competition.
Blake and Ethan both advanced to the third round, along with four other students. When it was his turn, Blake stirred the words in the box twice before finally handing one to Mrs. Miller.
“Vegetable.”
Blake looked confused.
“Vegetable,” Mrs. Miller repeated.
“Vegetable. V-e-j-t-a-b-e-l. Vegetable.”
“I’m sorry.” Mrs. Miller shook her head. “I don’t understand it, Blake. You’ve always done well before. Didn’t you study the word list that I gave you?”
“Well, no,” Blake admitted. “I didn’t think I needed to this time.”
“Why did you think you didn’t need to study this time?” Mrs. Miller asked.
“Because I’m wearing my lucky socks,” Blake said impatiently, pulling his pant legs up so that Mrs. Miller could see his red socks. “My mother washes them every Monday, I wear them every Tuesday, and I always do well on my spelling tests.”
“Blake, don’t you think that studying the workbook every Monday is what really helped you to learn the words for the test on Tuesday?” Mrs. Miller asked.
Blake dropped his pants legs back down over his socks and slowly nodded in agreement.
Only Ethan and Mary Ann remained after the fourth round, and Ethan drew the word apothecary. He couldn’t remember if the sixth letter was an e or an a. He spelled it with an a, and because he had missed poinsettia earlier, Mary Ann was the winner.
“I’m sorry you didn’t win, Blake,” Ethan said on their way to lunch.
“Thanks, Ethan, but I should have studied. I’m sorry that you didn’t win.
You must have worked hard on those words.” “I did,” Ethan admitted. “But so did Mary Ann. She won fair and square.”

About three months into my mission to France, I was at the point where I realized missions are hard. We were working very hard without much success. I could speak just enough French to realize little children were making fun of my accent. I was a little down. One evening, my companion, Elder Miner, gave me a simple compliment: “Elder Schlag, your French is really improving.” I could tell he was sincere. He didn’t say it was amazing. He didn’t embellish the truth. He just said something nice. To this day, 34 years later, I can remember how that positive comment filled me with hope. I had hope that I would continue learning French. I had hope that I could be what God wanted me to be. That hope reminded me that God called me on a mission, and I could do anything with His help. My hope was shining brightly before me that evening because my companion said a nice thing.

As I have reflected on my friends and my life experience, I have concluded that there was not just one special friend that made a difference. Rather, my life has been lifted and sustained by relatively large numbers of people. As I mention one particular friend, I would wish for no one to be confused that he was any more my “best friend” than were all my other “best friends.” He was just one of the guys in my ward and school “gang” (when that was a positive term!). Whatever else we did, or whatever else our other divergent activities, we were always good friends.
Jim was more than a year older than I and a year ahead in school. One of the things I appreciated about him is that age or school grade didn’t seem to make any difference to him. Jim was not necessarily always the best behaved until his later teens. He did, however, constantly have a good heart.
Jim is a talented musician and his natural aptitudes declared themselves quite early. He was a skilled saxophonist who did things seemingly much easier than did I, who also tried to play, but in a very ordinary way. Even when we were young boys, Jim was always patient with my musical deficiencies and those of others and built our self-esteem with his tolerance and good-natured support. One interesting observation about Jim is that as a teenager, he had more than a few people who were sure that he was their “best friend.”
One of Jim’s greatest accomplishments, in my judgment, was his dramatic change for the good when he entered the army after high school graduation. Recognizing that for perhaps the first time in his life his behavior would reflect not only on himself but on his family and the Church, he quickly became exemplary to his mainly non-LDS associates and qualified to serve a mission.
After his release from military service, he was called on a mission, which he successfully served. He then graduated from the university and married in the temple. He has served with distinction in the Church as a bishop, teacher, and in other assignments.
In all of this he continues to be a great friend to many and to me.

Let me share a recent experience. As I have indicated, we have done a lot of traveling the last six months. As we travel we take a lot of airplane rides under all conditions, where we have an opportunity of mingling and meeting with people and sharing events that are new. Horizons open up for us to grow and develop if we will use them properly. I am thankful for this experience that I will share with you this morning. It gave me an opportunity to practice and to learn tolerance and appreciation.

Returning from an assignment in the Los Angeles area recently, I boarded a plane and took the only remaining seat on the aisle, front row, in the nonsmoking section. I sat down, fastened my belt, and the plane was soon taxiing out for takeoff. After we had reached a certain altitude, the sign went off and we were allowed to unfasten seat belts. The general overhead no-smoking sign was removed. Still being seated in the no-smoking section, I noticed when the signal went off that the woman seated next to me opened her purse, took out a cigarette, lit it, and was in the process of smoking. I looked up at her and looked at the sign overhead which said, “No-smoking Section.” Immediately the thought came to me, “Perhaps I could bump her in the ribs and say, ‘Can’t you read? Can’t you see where you are?’” Then, on second thought, it came to me that perhaps she thought I needed a little bit of it too, so I allowed her to finish that one and hoped that would be the end. But as soon as that was out, she lit another one. While I was trying to read and appear to be not too disturbed, I was boiling just a little bit because my rights and privileges were being abused by someone next to me. It went on and on until we arrived in Salt Lake City. I think because I was so annoyed I kept track of how often she smoked. She had eight cigarettes between Los Angeles and Salt Lake. We had no conversation of any significance except, “Isn’t it nice on the plane?” Once in a while it was a little bumpy, and we exchanged that thought. I hadn’t used the opportunity to be much of a missionary; I spent my time being annoyed and thinking how much right I had to tell her to stop smoking. Finally, as we were making an approach to land in Salt Lake, she leaned over to me and said, “I hope we have a soft landing.”

And so I said, “Any particular reason why you would like us to have a soft landing?”

She said, “Yes, under the seat I have some china items that I am bringing to Salt Lake City for my daughter’s trousseau.” She said, “My daughter is being married tomorrow.” (This was on a Sunday.)

I said, “Where is your daughter being married?”

She said, “In the Mormon Tabernacle.”

I said, “Oh, are you going to the Mormon Tabernacle to see your daughter married?”

She said, “No, I can’t go to the Mormon Tabernacle because I am not a member of the Mormon Church.”

I said, “Oh, how long has your daughter been a member of the Church?”

She said, “About two years. She was attending the University of Utah and became acquainted with the Church and was baptized about two years ago.”

I said, “Who is your daughter marrying?”

“A returned Mormon minister.”

(For you missionaries listening in, this is not what they tell you on page 17 about how to give the lessons or how to approach people, but this was my way of doing it on this occasion.)

About this time we had landed, the plane had come to a stop, the gates had been opened, and the runway was prepared for our departure. As we made our way down, being the first ones on the front row, I followed her down the steps. We opened the door and went into the departure gate. Two good-looking young people, a handsome young man and a beautiful young woman, ran up. The girl greeted her mother with open arms and hugged her. Then she looked past her mother, saw me, and said, “Oh, Mother, I would like you to meet Elder Ashton, one of the apostles of our Church.” About then the thought crossed my mind, “Why, I had the right to bump her in the ribs and say, ‘Can’t you see? Can’t you read? Can’t you understand you’re violating my rights?’” I would like to just indicate this morning that I appreciate the fact that for once I was tolerant and able to learn and understand from a person who sat next to me—someone whom I could possibly have abused verbally because I had the right to.

As we walked out of the terminal together, just the four of us—the mother, the daughter, the prospective son-in-law, and I—I said to this young couple, “Congratulations on being married in the Mormon Tabernacle.” The girl smiled, “Who told you that?”

I said, “Your mom.”

She said, “Mom, you misunderstood. I’m being married in the temple.”

Her mother said, “What’s the difference?” For the next three or four minutes I heard a daughter tell her mother the difference between a tabernacle marriage and a temple marriage. How proud I was of her, the way she was able to explain to her mother where she was being married, not on the tabernacle grounds, but in the temple for time and all eternity. I walked out very pleased for that experience of having an opportunity to learn and possibly teach tolerance and to appreciate people more fully.

The youth in this photo probably look a lot like the youth in your own photo collection from your last youth conference, but there’s something a little different about this youth conference picture. Although the conference wasn’t very big—about 30 young people attended—it was a big deal since it was the first youth conference in Poland.
The youth had strength even if their numbers were small. The day after the conference, the Poland Warsaw Mission office received several calls from people who had seen the youth during their activities (wearing their T-shirts with the Church’s name on them) and wanted to know more about the Church.

It was a true gift to play in the NFL for a coach who shared my faith. Andy Reid came to BYU as a junior college transfer offensive lineman. He was part of the team that won the 1980 “Miracle Bowl” in which Jim McMahon threw the last-second, forty-one-yard bomb that was caught by Clay Brown to beat SMU. Andy was planning to go into the medical field and become a doctor like his mom, but LaVell Edwards saw something in Andy and told him that he would make a great head coach.

When he came to Provo, Andy was not a member of the Church. At BYU he met a girl named Tammy who changed his life. As they started to fall in love, she let him know that she wanted to be married in the temple. Andy wondered what the temple was all about. He loved Tammy enough to find out. Because she was willing to share her faith with him, he studied the gospel, embraced the teachings of the Restoration, and joined the Church. They were married in the temple, and they raised their five kids in the light of the gospel.

Andy’s whole career has been defined by hard work, dedication, and treating others with the utmost respect. Like LaVell, Andy made no distinction between the quarterback, the janitor, the tight end, or the secretaries. He lifted the entire organization. He made sure the workplace was professional and clean, with no evidence of pornography. I thought I was the luckiest football player on earth to have been coached by LaVell in college and Andy in the pros.

For example, Andy did not allow bad movies to be played on the plane or the bus when we traveled. That was different from how many other teams operated. I even took some gentle ribbing from my teammates, who would ask, “What are we going to watch this week? Bambi? ”

I told them, “If you’re lucky!”

After 9/11 Andy spoke to our team about grief and love. It was powerful. The next day he pulled me aside and mentioned how much he enjoyed watching me and my teammates quote Bruce R. McConkie on the news when we didn’t even know it. I asked him what he was talking about. He said, “Yeah, grief and love—I found an old conference report and plagiarized the whole thing!” It was no accident that when he left Philadelphia to become the Kansas City Chiefs’ head coach that he hired Emmitt Thomas as his defensive back coach. Birds of a feather flock together.

I’ve always known that I needed to go on a mission. I also knew that the prophets had commanded every worthy young man to serve. I just wasn’t sure if I could do it. My family, not being well off, had to struggle when my older brother served his mission. It just didn’t feel right to cause my family to suffer for me.
I started to read the Book of Mormon again, but this time 1 Nephi 3:7 [1 Ne. 3:7] impressed me in a way that it had not before. I must have read or heard the story of Nephi getting the plates from Laban a hundred times. It was his reply to his father’s request that moved me. “The Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them.” My answer was that the Lord would prepare the way, and I must then walk it.
How would He do it? The only answer I could come up with was by “small and simple” means (Alma 37:6). It wasn’t much to go on. I decided to put my trust in the Lord and let Him use me to further his work.
After this, I began to feel a desire to finish our garage. I could not understand the reason for this desire, nor could I ignore it. It was a task I felt had to be done right then. I set about the steps for completing the task.
I started putting the insulation in the walls. This helped the work progress faster, but soon I was in need of another roll of insulation. I purchased the insulation, put it up, and rested.
A couple of days later I was out there with my drill and a bag of screws. My task now was to finish the walls with some scrap pieces of plywood. The wood required very little cutting and soon all of the walls were done.
I knew that the ceiling needed to be done, and I did not have the money for that. The Lord, however, saw to it that the funds were made available. My dad received a surprise bonus check from work that covered the cost of the sheetrock and insulation for the ceiling of the garage. I worked with my dad and younger brothers for the next few nights putting up the sheetrock. It took a little time and a lot of patience, but we finished the job. I was then able to look and admire the completed work.
A couple of months later, I received my mission call. I went to the missionary training center and then to the Arkansas Little Rock Mission. The work done on that garage was forgotten as I now worked for the Lord. Winter came as it always does, and my mom was surprised at the utility bill. It was very low for that time of year. The drop in the electric bill in our all-electric house in Provo, Utah, was the result of the work done on the garage.
I have paused to look back and see how the Lord led me. He placed a desire in me to finish the garage and would not let me rest until the work spread to those in my family. It was only by a joint effort that it was ever completed. The money saved by this work now helped support me on my mission.
I now truly know that the Lord will prepare the way. Still, the principle is the same for us as for Nephi. We must listen to the Spirit, even if we are told to do something as trivial as finishing a garage. The Lord knows what will make things work out for the best. We need to have the faith to follow.

Dad caught me as I was going out the door. “What’s behind your back, Son?”
“School stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Uh, marbles.”
“Since when are marbles considered school stuff?” Dad asked, holding his hand out toward me.
Reluctantly I handed him a worn leather pouch tightly packed with marbles. The drawstring was tied into a large bow that threatened to unravel at any second from the pressure of the marbles crammed inside. Bulging from the top of the bag was my favorite shooter, a green speckled moonglow with a chip out of one side.
“Why carry so many?” Dad asked. “If you plan on winning, you’d better leave a little room for the take. Right?”
I shrugged and stared at the floor. I knew Dad wanted me to agree with him, but he didn’t understand. I needed all my marbles so I’d look as impressive as possible on my first day at the new school—a city school. At the Pine Bluff country school the kid with the most marbles had always been a big shot. After hundreds of marble games I had become that kid. By the time our family moved to the city, nobody would even play me. Now if these city kids saw how many marbles I was carrying, they would realize I was somebody special.
Dad began to chew his lower lip as he stared down at me. Whenever he was going to tell me something “for your own good,” he would chew his lip. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “Mom’s been wanting some marbles to put in her aquarium. Give her a few of yours, and you can take the rest to school.”
Even after I gave him twelve of my scroungiest, beat-up marbles, my leather pouch still swelled magnificently. As I was leaving, Dad told me things might be different in the city, but I figured school was school, and playing marbles was playing marbles. What could be different about that?
A couple of blocks from home I saw a kid carrying a brown shoe box. I heard the unmistakable clackity-clack of marbles jostling against each other. Walking up behind him, I faked a loud cough and started to rummage through my marble bag.
The kid stopped walking. He turned, and I saw a round face covered with splotches of freckles. His glasses had lenses thick enough to stop bullets. His red hair was oiled and combed into a tall bump above his forehead. Eyeing my bag of marbles, he set his shoe box down. “Play you a game,” he said.
I pulled out my green moonglow. “Where do we play?” I asked.
“Right here,” he said, pointing to the ground beneath our feet.
“How can we play here? It’s all grass and cement.”
“Where do you want to play, man, up a tree?”
I couldn’t believe how dumb this guy was. “We have to play someplace where there’s dirt, or we can’t draw the circle.”
“Circle?”
“Yeah, circle. Can’t play marbles without a circle.”
The kid gave me a strange look, then suddenly he laughed.
“What’s so funny?” I asked him.
“Nobody plays marbles in a circle anymore,” he replied with a smirk, “except sissies. Maybe we’d better forget the whole thing.”
“Everybody uses a circle in Pine Bluff,” I told him.
“Pine Bluff!” He laughed. “No wonder you don’t know anything. Pine Bluff School is a school for turkeys.”
“No, it’s not!” I yelled.
“Then how come they play marbles in a circle?”
My face was burning as the kid reached down to pick up the shoe box. “Show me how they play marbles here,” I said, grabbing his arm.
“Nah,” he said. “I don’t have time.”
“You’re scared to play me.”
“Sure I am,” he said in mock fright. “Scared to death.”
“Then show me.”
“It would take too long, and there are too many rules.”
“Forget the rules,” I pleaded. “Just show me what I have to do to win.”
The kid squinted at his watch. “All right! I have time for one game before school. Let’s play sixty-six, with anything goes.”
“How do we start?” I asked, rubbing the green moonglow between my palms for good luck.
“First, count out thirty-three marbles,” he said.
“Thirty-three!”
“Yeah, that’s why it’s called sixty-six, because both of us put thirty-three marbles on the line. ’Course if you’re afraid, we could always play dolls or hopscotch.”
“I’m not afraid of you or your dumb game,” I said, grabbing a handful of marbles from my pouch. “Just keep explaining.”
“It’s easy—one of us throws out his shooter, and the other guy tries to hit it. First one to make a hit gets all the marbles.”
It sounded simple enough. I counted out thirty-three marbles. The redheaded kid shaped his marbles into a V. “What’s that for?” I asked.
“Victory,” he said with a cocky grin. Quickly I formed a B with mine. “What’s that for?” he asked.
“Baloney!”
The formalities were over. I agreed to go first and rolled my green moonglow down the sidewalk about thirty feet, feeling confident I was out of range. Then the kid walked right over to my marble without tossing his own! “Eye drops,” he said nonchalantly.
“What in the world is ‘eye drops’?” I demanded.
“I’ll show you,” he said.
I watched as he planted himself directly over my moonglow, one foot on either side. With great deliberation, he lifted his shooter until it rested against his left nostril just below his eye. Slowly he spread his thumb and index finger, allowing the marble to land squarely on top of mine.
“That isn’t fair!” I yelled. “I didn’t know anything about eye drops.”
The redheaded kid walked over to my B and began dismantling it. “You’re the one who wasn’t worried about learning the rules,” he reminded me.
I was determined to get the best of this guy. “Play me again,” I challenged.
“Count out thirty-three more marbles,” he said.
I insisted he go first. As soon as his marble quit rolling, I called out, “Eye drops,” and positioned myself the same way the freckle-faced kid had done previously.
But just as I prepared to drop my shooter, he yelled, “Covers!”
“Now what?”
“A simple defensive maneuver,” he explained, cupping his hands over his marble until it was completely hidden.
“That’s cheating!” I protested.
The redheaded kid squinted up at me. “It’s legal,” he said.
“Oh, yeah? Well, maybe I’m starting to figure out this crazy game.” I gave my marble a casual flip into the front yard of a brown stucco house. “You chase me awhile,” I said.
Immediately he called, “Eye drops.”
I countered with “Covers.”
He hit me with “Substitutes.”
“Substitutes?”
“That’s what I said!”
Somehow I knew I was in trouble as I watched the kid walk back to his shoe box and drop his marble inside. Then he pulled out the biggest steel shooter I ever saw in my life! It was the size of a small apple. “This is my ‘cover breaker,’” he said. “Never saw a marble stay covered when this baby cuts loose.”
He had to be bluffing. He wouldn’t cripple a guy for a few crummy marbles. I kept my moonglow covered.
The redheaded kid raised the big steelie high above his head. “Move ’em or lose ’em,” he threatened.
Bent over at his feet, I felt like a human sacrifice about to be offered up to a freckle-faced marble king.
“I’m counting to three,” the kid said. “One.” I saw him grit his teeth. “Two.” I was beginning to take him seriously. “Three!” he yelled, going up on his tiptoes to gain every available ounce of power.
Deciding I would rather lose thirty-three marbles than my fingers, I rolled sideways in sheer panic. Facedown in the grass, I waited for the sound of the big steelie smashing my moonglow to green dust. Instead, I heard laughter. The redheaded kid no longer held the big steelie over his head.
“Guess I fooled you,” he said, taking the now-familiar eye-drops position.
Realizing my mistake, I crawled frantically toward my exposed shooter, but the big steelie fell, and I was poorer by another thirty-three marbles. My moonglow was smashed!
As the redheaded kid plodded down the sidewalk toward school, his shoe box was considerably heavier, and my leather pouch looked like a collapsed lung.
Dad was sitting on the porch steps when I got home after school. He stared at my depleted marble bag. “How’d it go today, Son?” he asked.
“OK.” I wanted to tell him everything, but I was too ashamed.
“Glad to hear it.”
I was relieved that he didn’t press the issue any further, and yet I was disappointed too. He had to know something was wrong.
Until I was ready for bed, nothing more was said. Then I heard Dad coming up the stairs. He walked into my room and sat down on the bed. He was chewing his lower lip. “Learn anything today, Son?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Like what?” Dad asked.
There was a lump in my throat that wouldn’t swallow away. “I learned I had better listen to you sometimes,” I told him.
For a second I saw a strange look come over his face. He blinked a couple of times, then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a dozen wet marbles. “Might as well take these back,” he said. “Your mother says they make the fishbowl look junky. Maybe when you get that bag filled up again, you can give her some better ones.”

Everyone can find ways to offer Christlike service. My counselor Sister Carol F. McConkie recently told me about her 10-year-old granddaughter Sarah who, when she realized that her mother was ill, decided on her own to be of help. She got her little sister up, helped her dress, brush her teeth, fix her hair, and eat breakfast so her mother could rest. She quietly performed this simple act of service without being asked because she saw a need and desired to help. Not only did Sarah bless her mother, but I am sure that she also felt joy in knowing she had lightened the burden of someone she loved and, along the way, strengthened her relationship with her sister. President James E. Faust said: “Serving others can begin at almost any age. … It need not be on a grand scale, and it is noblest within the family.”4

I must have recited the Young Women theme more than five million times before I had an experience that helped me learn to appreciate its importance.
Usually in Young Women opening exercises, we all recited the 90-word theme without really thinking about what we were saying. But one particular day, during my junior year, those inspired words rang through my mind as I faced an important decision.
In my speech class, my teacher assigned group projects. Each group picked a scene from a play to perform for the class. As we spent the next four days preparing for our performance, rumors started that one group of boys had chosen a risque play dealing with morality issues. A lot of us were surprised when our teacher allowed them to keep their selection. He argued that it was a well-known play, and “for art’s sake,” he must allow them to perform it.
On the day of the performances, our teacher again discussed the controversial play. He agreed it may be offensive. Then he added, “Those of you who feel uncomfortable have my permission to leave the room.” Jokingly, half the class stood up and pretended to walk out. Who wouldn’t take advantage of going out to lunch an hour early?
I began feeling a little nervous as the boys started their performance. At first, several of my classmates blushed and giggled uneasily, but as the piece went on, people began to relax. I was shocked that no one was leaving the room. I looked over at a few of my LDS friends, watching for one of them to give the signal for all of us to walk out together. However, none of them seemed to be preparing for departure. I remained at my desk, holding my head down so no one could see my crimson cheeks. I felt very uncomfortable in the situation, but I was also afraid to leave. After all, it was art, right?
At this moment, the Young Women theme came into my mind: “We will ‘stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places’” (Mosiah 18:9). Immediately, I knew what I should do. “All places” meant everywhere, even in a classroom with my friends.
Quietly, I got up and left the room. That was it. No one got up and followed me. No one applauded my valiant act. No one was converted by my example. But inside I knew I had done the right thing, even though people teased me for the next two weeks. I felt good about standing up for my beliefs “at all times, and in all things, and in all places.”

Audrey liked to be awake. She liked to play with her friends Karen and Sue. Her mother and her grandmother were fun to be with too. Audrey liked to run and jump and chase her shadow. Some days she even liked helping with chores around the house.
The one thing Audrey didn’t like, though, was taking naps. Every afternoon when Mother suggested that Audrey lie down for a little while, Audrey would pout and say, “Do I have to?” Audrey was afraid she might miss doing something she enjoyed while she slept.
“Audrey, it’s time for your nap,” Mother announced shortly after lunch one day.
“Oh, Mother, could I skip my nap just this one time?” Audrey pleaded.
“But if you do, you’ll feel cranky and tired later on,” Mother warned.
“No, I won’t. I promise, Mother. Just let me skip my nap for today,” Audrey persisted.
“Well, OK, just this once,” Mother agreed, but Audrey noticed she didn’t look very pleased.
As Audrey raced over to Karen’s house, she felt very grown up.
“Where’s Karen?” she asked Karen’s mother.
“Karen is napping,” her friend’s mother answered.
Audrey felt disappointed as she walked next door to Sue’s house. She knocked on the back door and asked if Sue could play with her.
“I’m sorry, Audrey,” Sue’s mother said, “but she’s in her room taking a nap. Perhaps later.”
Unhappily, Audrey started home. Maybe Mother or Grandmother will play with me, she thought, rubbing her eyes.
When she was home again, Audrey looked up at Mother, who was busy sewing.
“Mother, will you play a game with me?” Audrey asked.
“Honey, I can’t now,” Mother told Audrey, glancing at the clock. “I’ve promised to hem this dress for your grandmother. She needs to wear it tonight.”
“Where’s Grandmother?” asked Audrey.
“She’s taking a nap,” Mother explained.
“But Grandmother is too old to take naps,” Audrey said in surprise.
“Audrey, people don’t take naps because of their age. They take naps because they’re tired and need to rest,” Mother explained, smiling.
Audrey knew what Mother said made sense, for already she was beginning to feel tired. She let out a yawn and then said, “Mother?”
“What, Audrey?” Mother asked.
“I don’t think I want to skip my nap after all. I think I’ll go lay down for a while like Grandmother. I’m sort of tired too.”
Then Audrey kissed her mother and hurried off to her room.

One wintry day when I was eleven, Dad took me into the foothills between Blackfoot and Idaho Falls, Idaho, to buy a riding horse. We chose a coal-black yearling that fought and reared and was really wild. I was told that when he was roped by the cowboys, it was the first time he had ever been touched by human hands. We named him Champ.
I learned that Champ had royal blood in his veins. His grandfather was Man o’ War, the most famous thoroughbred racehorse of all time. Dad and I trained him patiently, and Champ and I became the best of friends and partners. He was swift and strong, and no local horse ever came close to winning a race with him. As I saw the qualities he had inherited from his famous grandfather, it really made me think about my own potential as a child of God.
In 1948 we moved from Idaho to Moses Lake, Washington. There was nothing beyond our farm for several miles in some directions. Range cattle ruled over the territory they had grazed on for generations. Now we were putting up fences around part of their range and growing lush and tempting alfalfa, potatoes, and corn. Our fences were good, but not always good enough to keep out the white-faced red Herefords.
Champ and I had the job of chasing away the cattle that invaded our fields. Together we learned some tricks of the cowboy’s trade, such as singling out one animal and chasing it from the herd. We developed an extraordinary oneness. Sometimes I would ride without saddle or bridle. But even without harnessing, we were in complete control. Just a touch on his neck would turn him. A shift in my posture would slow him down or speed him up. He was totally obedient, completely responsive.
One Sunday after sacrament meeting, I went out to feed Champ and found him gone. Searching for a black horse at night was not easy, and morning brought no comfort. There was no hungry, thirsty Champ at the corral gate. We searched all over the farm and far beyond with no success.
Heartsick, I asked my cousin Kay Lybbert to lend me a horse and go with me into the wastelands beyond our farm in search of Champ. I had caught glimpses of wild horses in this country, scattered bands of mares and colts led by dominant stallions.
We rode for hours into rocky and treacherous lands. We were tired, hungry, and discouraged and were talking of turning back when we saw a shape on the horizon. We pushed on and finally saw a herd of about fifteen wild horses. They were startled. Their nostrils were wide, pumping cool air into deep lungs. Heads high, tails flying, muscles tensed, they burst away in wild flight. To our amazement and joy, the magnificent Champ was before them all, leading the herd, as wild as the first day I saw him.
I have often thought about that vivid picture. Champ was rightfully mine. We had been the best of companions. He had been disciplined and responsive. But now he was undisciplined, out of control, and determined to stay that way. Though he was the group’s leader, he was really under the control of the wild horses he had chosen to run with.
We were off on a race across wild and rugged lands where a tired horse burdened with a rider could stumble and fall. At stake was Champ’s future.
I doubted our ability to stick with the wild horses, because we had been traveling half a day and they were fresh. But somehow we turned them eastward and stayed close. In time we slid over a steep hill down into Mae Valley within sight of our own fences. The herd soon thundered past our place, the steam from their bodies rising above them in a cloud. With the help of neighbors, we were finally able to channel Champ into our corral, safely behind secure barriers.
Dad was the first to get to Champ. He called him by name and approached gently, moving without disturbing gestures or sounds, easing up to him and putting his arms around the horse’s quivering neck. We were all relieved that this prized animal was back where he belonged once again and where he was loved, protected, and cared for.

“Dad was my hero when I was growing up and my best friend when I became an adult. He was the ward clerk and the deacons quorum adviser. He taught us that we don’t need to receive credit from other people for what we do. To provide examples to us children, Dad would often talk about how businessmen were handling their affairs. He and Mother both taught us to be honest. And they both supported us by attending any athletic contest or event at school that we were in.

“My favorite babysitter was my grandaunt Bertha Irvine, my grandmother’s older sister. She was a personal secretary to Wilford Woodruff, Lorenzo Snow, Joseph F. Smith, Heber J. Grant, and George Albert Smith. Sometimes I went to her office in the Church Administration Building and sat at her feet while she worked. Or I would play outside and climb on the building and around its big pillars. We’ve had twelve prophets, and I’ve known and shaken hands with six of them. I never even dreamed that I would ever have an office in that very building, but I serve today with a number of men who knew Aunt Bertha well: President Kimball, President Benson, and President Hinckley. She worked with Elder Joseph Anderson for years in the office of our wonderful prophets.

“My experiences with Sunday School and Primary teachers were important to me as I was growing up. I remember the little red chairs we used to sit in and how church was always an exciting and pleasant place to go. I looked forward to summer Primary, when we would make things out of wood and out of paper. I loved that. As I think back and remember Sister Condie and Sister Anderson and Sister Barnes and some of the other lovely teachers I had, I can remember them more clearly than I can my school teachers. I won a copy of Huckleberry Finn because I had the best attendance record. I still have that book. I appreciate the teacher who gave it to me.

“I had a great experience when I graduated from Primary. Back in those days we each had a green bandalo. I had lost mine. I looked everywhere, including under my bed and through everything in the closet. Finally my mother said, ‘Why don’t you pray about it. Ask Heavenly Father to help you find it.’ So I went to my room and prayed. Even as I was praying, a voice seemed to say, ‘In the dresser, caught underneath the drawer.’ The dresser was in the hall because there wasn’t enough room in my tiny bedroom. When I pulled out the drawer and reached up inside, there it was, caught on a silver! That was the first direct answer to prayer that I can remember receiving. I was proud that I could wear my bandalo when I stood next to Bishop Rulon Sperry as he nominated me to graduate from Primary and to be ordained to the office of a deacon.

“Many summers my family went to Cedar City and stayed on my uncle’s farm. There was no electricity or water in the house, so we carried buckets of water into the house from outside. I experienced farm life as it really was in those days. Now my assignment is with the people in that very same area. It is special to go there—it’s like going home. Some of the people there remember my uncle and aunt and other families I knew.

“A special message that I give to all the children in the world is this: First, love Jesus. He especially loves children, and if children can learn to love Him, then when they are older, they will continue to love Him and understand Him. I think that little children sometimes understand Jesus better than older people do because children forgive so quickly and love so easily.

“Second, live the commandments. The people I know who are truly happy are those who live the commandments. Whatever Heavenly Father wants us to do—such as paying our tithing and going to church and being nice to our brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers—that’s what we should do.

“Third, obey Church leaders. When I was a Primary boy, my parents would always talk about our wonderful bishop, Bishop Sperry. When I was a deacon, my bishop was Rex C. Reeve, Sr., a man with whom I serve today. I have always loved those men. When I don’t have a Church assignment on Sunday, which isn’t very often, I attend my own ward. My bishop there is Ole Johnson, and I love him today just as I loved Bishop Sperry and Bishop Reeve when I was young. If we love our Church leaders and obey what they tell us to do, then we’ll never make serious mistakes.”