Gospel Story Finder

While I was serving as president of the Guatemala Guatemala City North Mission, we received several new full-time missionaries. As I introduced myself to these missionaries, I told them the story of my conversion and baptism.
After I had related my story and was interviewing the new missionaries, one of them, Elder Benjamin Pixton, told me that David Tree was his grandfather. What a wonderful surprise! Elder Tree had baptized a nine-year-old boy in Glendive, Montana, and nearly 50 years later that boy was called as his grandson’s mission president.
When Elder Pixton’s parents and grandparents came to pick him up at the end of his mission, I had the pleasure of meeting David Tree again. During our visit, I showed him the Book of Mormon—with a message and promise he had written—that he had given to me the day I was baptized.
Elder Pixton’s mother told him that her father hadn’t talked much about his mission. He felt that he hadn’t been very successful because he baptized only two people: a single woman and a nine-year-old boy.
In gratitude I told him that because of his efforts, the rest of my family had eventually joined the Church and that my brother and I, along with our nine sons, had served full-time missions. Because of his missionary service, I said, countless people had been taught the gospel and had joined the Church.

God is anxious to help us feel His love wherever we are. Let me give an example.

As a young missionary I was assigned to a small island of about 700 inhabitants in a remote area of the South Pacific. To me the heat was oppressive, the mosquitoes were terrible, the mud was everywhere, the language was impossible, and the food was—well, “different.”

After a few months our island was struck by a powerful hurricane. The devastation was massive. Crops were ruined, lives were lost, housing was blown away, and the telegraph station—our only link to the outside world—was destroyed. A small government boat normally came every month or two, so we rationed our food to last four or five weeks, hoping the boat would come. But no boat came. Every day we became weaker. There were acts of great kindness, but as the sixth and seventh weeks passed with very little food, our strength slipped noticeably. My native companion, Feki, helped me in every way he could, but as the eighth week commenced, I had no energy. I just sat under the shade of a tree and prayed and read scriptures and spent hours and hours pondering the things of eternity.

The ninth week began with little outward change. However, there was a great inward change. I felt the Lord’s love more deeply than ever before and learned firsthand that His love “is the most desirable above all things … yea, and the most joyous to the soul” (1 Nephi 11:22–23).

I was pretty much skin and bones by now. I remember watching, with deep reverence, my heart beating, my lungs breathing, and thinking what a marvelous body God has created to house our equally marvelous spirit! The thought of a permanent union of these two elements, made possible through the Savior’s love, atoning sacrifice, and Resurrection, was so inspiring and satisfying that any physical discomfort faded into oblivion.

When we understand who God is, who we are, how He loves us, and what His plan is for us, fear evaporates. When we get the tiniest glimpse of these truths, our concern over worldly things vanishes. To think we actually fall for Satan’s lies that power, fame, or wealth is important is truly laughable—or would be were it not so sad.

I learned that just as rockets must overcome the pull of gravity to roar into space, so we must overcome the pull of the world to soar into the eternal realms of understanding and love. I realized my mortal life might end there, but there was no panic. I knew life would continue, and whether here or there didn’t really matter. What did matter was how much love I had in my heart. I knew I needed more! I knew that our joy now and forever is inextricably tied to our capacity to love.

As these thoughts filled and lifted my soul, I gradually became aware of some excited voices. My companion Feki’s eyes were dancing as he said, “Kolipoki, a boat has arrived, and it is full of food. We are saved! Aren’t you excited?” I wasn’t sure, but since the boat had come, that must be God’s answer, so yes, I was happy. Feki gave me some food and said, “Here, eat.” I hesitated. I looked at the food. I looked at Feki. I looked into the sky and closed my eyes.

I felt something very deep. I was grateful my life here would go on as before; still, there was a wistful feeling—a subtle sense of postponement, as when darkness closes the brilliant colors of a perfect sunset and you realize you must wait for another evening to again enjoy such beauty.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to open my eyes, but when I did I realized that God’s love had changed everything. The heat, the mud, the mosquitoes, the people, the language, the food were no longer challenges. Those who had tried to harm me were no longer my enemies. Everyone was my brother or sister. Being filled with God’s love is the most joyous of all things and is worth every cost.

In 2010, Andre Sebako was a young man seeking for truth. Though he had never offered a heartfelt prayer before, he decided to try. Shortly afterward he met the missionaries. They gave him a pass-along card with a picture of the Book of Mormon. Andre felt something and asked if the missionaries would sell him the book. They said he could have the book for free if he would come to church.
Andre attended the then-recently created Mochudi Branch in Botswana, Africa, alone. But the branch was a loving, tight-knit group consisting of about 40 members. They welcomed Andre with open arms. He received the missionary lessons and was baptized. It was wonderful!
But then what? How would Andre stay active? Who would help him progress along the covenant path? One answer to that question is his priesthood quorum!
Every priesthood holder, regardless of his situation, benefits from a strong quorum. My young brothers who hold the Aaronic Priesthood, the Lord would have you establish a strong quorum, a place of belonging for each and every young man, a place where the Lord’s Spirit is present, a place where all quorum members are welcome and valued. As the Lord gathers His children, they need a place to belong and grow.
Each of you quorum presidency members lead the way as you seek inspiration and develop love and brotherhood among all quorum members. You give special attention to those who are new members, who are less active, or who have special needs. With priesthood power, you build a strong quorum. And a strong, united quorum makes all the difference in the life of a young man.
When the Church announced the new home-centered focus on gospel learning, some thought of members like Andre and asked, “What about the young people who come from a family situation where the gospel is not studied and where there is not an environment of learning and living the gospel at home? Will they be left behind?”
No! No one can be left behind! The Lord loves each young man and each young woman. We, as priesthood holders, are the Lord’s hands. We are the Church support to home-centered efforts. When there is limited support at home, priesthood quorums and other leaders and friends watch over and support each individual and family as needed.
I have seen it work. I have experienced it. When I was six, my parents divorced and my father left my mother with five young children. My mother began working to provide for us. She needed a second job for a period of time, as well as additional education. There was little time for her to nurture. But grandparents, uncles, aunts, bishops, and home teachers stepped up to help my angel mother.
And I had a quorum. I am so grateful for my friends—my brothers—who loved and supported me. My quorum was a place of belonging. Some may have considered me a long shot and an underdog because of my family situation. Maybe I was. But priesthood quorums changed those odds. My quorum rallied around me and blessed my life immeasurably.
There are long shots and underdogs all around us. Perhaps we all are in one way or another. But each of us here has a quorum, a place where we can both receive strength and provide strength. The quorum is “all for one and one for all.” It is a place where we instruct each other, serve others, and build unity and brotherhood as we serve God. It is a place where miracles happen.
I would like to tell you about some of the miracles that occurred in Andre’s quorum in Mochudi. As I share this example, watch for principles that strengthen every priesthood quorum that applies them.
After Andre was baptized, he accompanied the missionaries as they taught four other young men, who were also baptized. Now there were five young men. They began strengthening each other and the branch.
A sixth young man, Thuso, was baptized. Thuso shared the gospel with three of his friends, and soon there were nine.
Disciples of Jesus Christ are often gathered this way—a few at a time, as invited by their friends. Anciently, when Andrew found the Savior, he went quickly to his brother Simon and “brought him to Jesus.” Similarly, soon after Philip became a follower of Christ, he invited his friend Nathanael to “come and see.”
In Mochudi, a 10th young man soon joined the Church. The missionaries found the 11th. And the 12th young man was baptized after seeing the gospel’s effect on his friends.
Members of the Mochudi Branch were thrilled. These young men “were converted unto the Lord, and … united unto the church.”
The Book of Mormon played a significant role in their conversion. Thuso remembers, “I began reading the Book of Mormon … every time I was free, at home, at school, everywhere.”
Oratile was drawn to the gospel because of the example of his friends. He explains: “[They] seemed to change in the snap of a finger. … I thought it had … to do with the little … book they started carrying around … school. I could see what good men they had become. … [I] wanted to change too.”
All 12 young men were gathered and baptized within two years of each other. Each was the only member of the Church in his family. But they were supported by their Church family, including President Rakwela, their branch president; Elder and Sister Taylor, a senior missionary couple; and other branch members.
Brother Junior, a quorum leader, invited the young men to his home on Sunday afternoons and mentored them. The young men studied the scriptures together and held regular home evenings.
Brother Junior took them to visit members, people being taught by the missionaries, and anyone else who needed a visit. All 12 young men piled into the back of Brother Junior’s truck. He dropped them off at homes in companionships of two or three and picked them up later.
Even though the young men were just learning about the gospel and didn’t feel they knew much, Brother Junior told them to share one or two things they did know with the people they visited. These young priesthood holders taught, prayed, and helped watch over the Church. They fulfilled their priesthood responsibilities and experienced the joy of serving.
Andre said, “We played together, laughed together, cried together, and became a brotherhood.” In fact, they call themselves “the Band of Brothers.”
Together they set a goal that they would all serve missions. Since they were the only Church members in their families, they had many obstacles to overcome, but they helped each other through them.
One by one, the young men received mission calls. Those who left first wrote letters home to those still preparing, sharing experiences and encouraging them to serve. Eleven of the young men served missions.
These young men shared the gospel with their families. Mothers, sisters, brothers, friends, as well as people they taught on their missions, were converted and baptized. Miracles occurred and countless lives were blessed.
I can hear some of you thinking that perhaps such a miracle could happen only in a place like Africa, a fertile field where the gathering of Israel is hastening. However, I testify that the principles applied in the Mochudi Branch are true anywhere. Wherever you are, your quorum can grow through activation and sharing the gospel. When even one disciple reaches out to a friend, one can become two. Two can become four. Four can become eight. And eight can become twelve. Branches can become wards.
The Savior taught, “Where two or three [or more] are gathered together in my name, … behold, there will I be in the midst of them.” Heavenly Father is preparing the minds and hearts of people all around us. We can follow promptings, extend a hand of fellowship, share truth, invite others to read the Book of Mormon, and love and support them as they come to know our Savior.
It has been almost 10 years since the Mochudi Band of Brothers started their journey together, and they are still a band of brothers.
Katlego said, “We may be separated by distance but we are still there for each other.”
It is my prayer that we will accept the Lord’s invitation to be united with Him in our priesthood quorums so that each quorum might be a place of belonging, a place of gathering, a place that grows.
Jesus Christ is our Savior, and this is His work. I so testify in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

This truth is illustrated in the experience of two young missionaries serving in Europe, in an area where there were few convert baptisms. I suppose it would have been understandable for them to think that what they did wouldn’t make much of a difference.

But these two missionaries had faith, and they were committed. They had the attitude that if no one listened to their message, it would not be because they had not given their best effort.

One day they had the feeling to approach the residents of a well-kept four-story apartment building. They started on the first floor and knocked on each door, presenting their saving message of Jesus Christ and the Restoration of His Church.

No one on the first floor would listen to them.

How easy it would have been to say, “We tried. Let’s stop right here. Let’s go and try another building.”

But these two missionaries had faith and they were willing to work, and so they knocked on every door on the second floor.

Again, no one would listen.

The third floor was the same. And so was the fourth—that is, until they knocked on the last door of the fourth floor.

When that door opened, a young girl smiled at them and asked them to wait while she spoke with her mother.

Her mother was only 36 years old, had recently lost her husband, and was in no mood to talk with Mormon missionaries. So she told her daughter to send them away.

But the daughter pleaded with her. These young men were so nice, she said. And it would take only a few minutes.

So, reluctantly, the mother agreed. The missionaries delivered their message and handed a book to the mother to read—the Book of Mormon.

After they left, the mother decided she would read at least a few pages.

She finished the entire book within a few days.

Not long after, this wonderful single-parent family entered the waters of baptism.

When the small family attended their local branch in Frankfurt, Germany, a young deacon noticed the beauty of one of the daughters and thought to himself, “These missionaries are doing a great job!”

That young deacon’s name was Dieter Uchtdorf. And the charming young woman—the one who had pleaded with her mother to listen to the missionaries—has the beautiful name of Harriet. She is loved by all who meet her as she accompanies me in my travels. She has blessed the lives of many people through her love for the gospel and her sparkling personality. She truly is the sunshine of my life.

How often have I lifted my heart in gratitude for the two missionaries who did not stop at the first floor! How often my heart reaches out in appreciation for their faith and work. How often have I given thanks that they kept going—even to the fourth floor, last door.

In our search for enduring faith, in our quest to connect with God and His purposes, let us remember the Lord’s promise: “Knock, and it shall be opened unto you.”

Will we give up after knocking on a door or two? A floor or two?

Or will we keep seeking until we have reached the fourth floor, last door?

God “rewards those who earnestly seek him,” but that reward is not usually behind the first door. So we need to keep knocking. Sisters, don’t give up. Seek God with all your heart. Exercise faith. Walk in righteousness.

I promise that if you will do this—even until the fourth floor, last door—you will receive the answers you seek.

On 21 July 1847, Orson Pratt and Erastus Snow went down Emigration Canyon ahead of the others to scout out the area. They had only one horse, so they took turns walking and riding. A few miles from the mouth of the canyon, Erastus realized that he had lost his coat. He took the horse and turned back to find it. Orson walked on alone and was the first of the pioneers to set foot in the Salt Lake Valley. He and Erastus returned to camp, and the next day the advance company entered the Salt Lake Valley and headed north.

My daughter is a musically talented young woman. For many years I felt that this talent would not be developed unless I stood over her at the piano and insistently supervised her practice like a slave driver. One day, sometime in her early teens, I realized that my attitude, probably once useful, was now visibly affecting our relationship. Torn between a fear that she would not fully develop a God-given talent and the reality of an increasingly strained relationship over that very issue, I did what I had seen my own mother do when faced with a serious challenge. I closeted myself in my secret place and poured out my soul in prayer, seeking the only wisdom that could help me keep that communication open—the kind of wisdom and help that comes from the tongues of angels. Upon arising from my knees, I knew what action I must take.
Because it was just three days before Christmas, I gave to Mary a personal gift and a small note. It read: “Dear Mary, I’m sorry for the conflict I have caused by acting like a sheriff at the piano. I must have looked foolish there—just you and me and my pistols. Forgive me. You are becoming a young woman in your own right. I have only worried that you would not feel as fully confident and fulfilled as a woman if you left your talent unfinished. I love you. Mom.”
Later that day she sought me out, and in a quiet corner of our home, she said: “Mother, I know you want what is best for me, and I have known that all my life. But if I’m ever going to play the piano well, I’m the one who has to do the practicing, not you!” Then she threw her arms around me and with tears in her eyes she said, “I’ve been wondering how to teach you that—and somehow you figured it out on your own.”
As Mary and I reminisced about this experience a few years later, she confided in me that my willingness to say “I’m sorry, I’ve made a mistake, please forgive me” gave to her a great sense of self-worth, because it said to her that she was worthy enough for a parental apology, that sometimes children can be right.

Susan tossed a newspaper onto the Clarks’ front porch. As she started to walk to the Arnolds’, she heard an odd squishing noise and quickly turned around. Her little brother, Harold, was standing in the Clarks’ flower bed. Harold’s yellow boots were deep in the mud.
“I’m stuck!” he cried plaintively.
Susan set down her newspaper bag, put her arms around Harold’s middle, and pulled hard. Squoosh! The yellow boots rose from the mud. Harold and Susan fell backward.
When Susan stood up, she scraped the mud off her pants. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
Harold picked up the newspaper bag, but it was too heavy. Newspapers spilled into the mud. “I wanted to help you,” he mumbled.
“You’re too little to help. Go home,” ordered Susan.
“Let me walk with you, please,” Harold pleaded.
“You’re too slow.”
“I want to come! I can hurry.” Harold stomped his feet. Mud spattered off his boots and landed on Susan’s jacket.
“Go home!” roared Susan. She bent to pick up the muddy papers. When she stood up, Harold was gone.
At dinner that night Harold said nothing and ate very little. He went to bed early. Susan wanted to play checkers, but she had no one to play with. Dad was shining his shoes, Mother was doing the dishes, and Harold was in bed.
Susan sighed. Teaching Harold to play checkers last summer had been fun. She had enjoyed showing him how to rake the autumn leaves too. And they had had a great time last winter building his first snow fort. Now it was spring, and Susan decided that since she had nothing to do, she would think of something new to teach Harold. A few minutes later Susan had an idea and raced into the kitchen to tell her parents about it.
“What a fine idea!” exclaimed Mother.
Dad patted her shoulder and said, “Good luck, Susan.”
At breakfast the next morning, Susan said, “Harold, I’m sorry for yelling at you yesterday. Meet me here after school. I have a surprise for you.”
As soon as Harold got home that afternoon, he asked, “Where’s the surprise?”
“Come with me,” Susan answered. “I’ll show you.”
They walked to the Clarks’. Susan handed Harold a newspaper and said, “Put this on the Clarks’ porch.”
“OK,” Harold replied. He carefully put the newspaper inside the screen door.
Susan smiled at him.
They walked to three more houses. At each house Susan gave her brother a newspaper to deliver.
“This is fun,” said Harold.
Susan grinned and asked, “Do you want a job?”
Harold looked at Susan. “A job? Me? What kind of job?”
Susan gave Harold another newspaper. “This kind of job.”
Harold’s mouth fell open. “You mean your job?”
“Well, part of it. You can bring newspapers to these five houses every day. These houses are close to our house. Do you want to do it?”
Harold clapped his hands and shouted, “Yes!”
“Good,” said Susan. “Tomorrow I’ll teach you how to fold the newspapers. I’ll teach you other things too. I’ll show you how to put the papers in little plastic bags on wet days.”
“I can learn to do those things,” Harold assured his sister.
“There’s one more important thing to remember,” Susan told him.
“What’s that?”
“Stay out of the mud!”
They laughed together; then Harold raced home to tell his parents about his new job.

One Sunday while I was serving as mission president in Vladivostok, Russia, a rather amazing thing happened. I had gone to my office to gather some materials when a 13-year-old young man, Vladimir, whose friends call him Vova, knocked on the door. Vova is a deacon in the Vladivostok First Branch. He asked to visit with me in my office. He was accompanied by Sister Olga Vyachyeslavna Dryagunova. This sister speaks wonderful English, and the boy had asked her if she would act as his interpreter. Vova speaks no English, and I speak only a little Russian.
Vova had been an orphan, abandoned at birth because he was born with a cleft palate. The birth defect has since been partially repaired, leaving a scar. He was adopted by a wonderful woman who has treated him as her son. The boy is always happy. He has a smile on his face and a wonderful countenance when he passes the sacrament. He wears the mantle of a deacon as well as any boy I have ever known. He regularly bears a sweet and brief testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel. He is everything that a deacon ought to be.
At our meeting Vova spoke Russian and Sister Olga interpreted. She told me that Vova had come to fill out his application to serve as a full-time missionary. I asked, without a hint of a smile, “How old is he?”
She asked and he answered, “Nearly 14.”
Retaining my composure, I said, “Does he understand that he needs to be 19 before he can serve a mission?”
She responded, “He does, but he does not want to be tardy in getting his application in.”
I assured them that there was still time before we needed to send his missionary application to Moscow and then on to Salt Lake City. Neither the branch president nor I would forget when it was time for him to fill out his forms. I walked to the wall displaying pictures of the 44 missionaries then serving in the Russia Vladivostok Mission. I told Vova I was worried that the missionary papers might be returned if it appeared that I was recommending a 13-year-old boy for a mission.
Then I explained that since he was in my office where I conducted interviews with the missionaries, I thought it appropriate to ask him the questions that will be asked of him when he is 19, just to make sure that he was currently worthy to serve a mission. I then went through all the worthiness questions as though Vova were one of my full-time missionaries but tactfully passed over the boy-girl questions, thinking them premature. Besides, I didn’t want to embarrass Sister Olga.
Vova answered all my questions with the appropriate responses and with the wisdom of a boy twice his age. Upon further reflection, I guessed that he may have even asked one of the elders what interview questions he might anticipate from the mission president. I then told Vova that he could come back every six months, and we would repeat the interview process.
He then asked with some concern what he should say to let me know he was ready for another interview six months from now. I said to him, through Sister Olga, that it was time for him to have his first English lesson. I then said slowly, “This is what you should say to me, ‘President, I am ready for my missionary interview.’”
He repeated the important words he needed to know three times.
As I was ready to end the interview, Vova asked Sister Olga to ask me one last question. “President,” he said, “what advice do you have for me to prepare for my mission?”
I was a bit taken back. Few of my mature elders would have the wisdom to ask such a timely question. I pondered for a moment and then told him to do three things: First, I told him to read the scriptures each day. Second, I suggested that he pray to his Heavenly Father each morning and evening. Third, I told him to practice his English.
I confess the last suggestion was a little selfish on my part, as I was thinking how I would enjoy speaking with him in English and asking him questions about the things of his heart. I suggested he attend the free English classes taught by the missionaries, but he said his mother would not allow him to be out after dark. We agreed that he would work harder each day in his English class at school.
Later, when I saw the deacons in the hall after church, I asked Vova if he would like to repeat the phrase he needed to use to ask for his next interview. This he did in a fine manner. Then to my great surprise, I learned that each of the other deacons in the branch had also learned the magic words. Each one repeated while looking right at me, “President, I am ready for my missionary interview!”
Oh, the power of example! The joy of one willing to open his mouth and share the things he had learned with another was something I was trying to get all of my missionaries to experience! These Russian deacons were on the road to perfection.

During the tears and other hubbub of leaving from the airport, I paid little attention to all the words of advice and caution everyone was giving me. All I could see was the jet pulling up to the gate and visions of converting the entire countries of Guatemala and El Salvador. Finally, we were told to board. There was a rush of last minute hugs, kisses (from my parents and sisters), and, of course, that special handshake from a smiling beauty with a quivering chin.
When I reached the door leading to the boarding area, my father said, “Son, obey all the rules, and you’ll be happy in life.” I nodded a hurried “Sure, Dad” and was off. As I walked to the plane, I laughed to myself. “Dad, you got your ‘mords wixed’ again. You meant to say, ‘Obey all the rules, and you’ll be happy on your mission.’” With that, I tossed his advice into the oblivion of my memory, filed under “Parental Counsel.”
Seven months later, my father was dead.
In those first wavering hours after my mission president told me of the tragic plane accident, I found myself much like the cartoon character who has a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. The devil said: “What are you doing here? All that life after death bit is a bunch of bunk. You go on a mission and what happens? You break your foot; go to the hospital; come to a strange land, with strange people and strange customs; and your father gets killed. Sure it’s the happiest two years of your life. Two thousand miles away from home, and you’re all alone.”
Such thoughts were foreign to me. I had been a faithful member of the Church all my life; yet, the thoughts were there.
The angel on my other shoulder said: “Stand tall, Elder. You had a great father you can be proud of, a mighty patriarch who taught you the gospel in all things. You know eternal life is a true principle of the gospel, and you know your father will be waiting for you. You’ve had a testimony of the gospel since you were old enough to cry. This is no time to start doubting.”
In the midst of this struggle between doubt and reality, my father’s last words at the airport came echoing into my mind: “Son, obey all the rules, and you’ll be happy in life.” Dad hadn’t mixed his words up at all. Those final words to me were inspired counsel that would guide me for the rest of my life. My father lived as he taught, and a few weeks following his passing, the full testimony of his life was made manifest to me.
Finances became a major concern. I had enough money in the bank to cover 11 of the remaining 15 months of my mission and hoped Mom could get enough together for the remaining four. My plans for college were now pushed back into the realm of hopes and dreams. However, the Lord takes care of his missionaries.
I received a letter from my mother telling me that I needn’t worry about finances anymore. A man had contacted my bishop and asked if he could support me for the rest of my mission. This is not too unusual, since there are many good-hearted men in the Church, but the twist in this instance was in what the man told my bishop: “I’m not a member of your church, but out of the love and respect I have for Horace Rappleye, I’d like to support his son for the rest of his mission.” And he did. For 15 months the money was placed regularly in my bank account by the anonymous benefactor.
He remains anonymous to this day.
My father’s life of obedience brought blessings to him even after he died. His death became the highlight of my mission. That may be a strange thing to say, and I wish my father were still alive, but my mission thereafter became a living testimony to my father’s life. I soon found how precious it is to live “all the rules.” No matter how small or insignificant the rule seemed, if I obeyed, I was happy.
We are told by the Lord, “There is a law, irrevocably decreed in heaven before the foundations of this world, upon which all blessings are predicated—
“And when we obtain any blessing from God, it is by obedience to that law upon which it is predicated.” (D&C 130:20–21.)
This scripture is true. Whenever I find myself slipping into depression or unhappiness, I usually find it is because I am not being obedient in all things as I should. At these times a comforting echo reverberates in my head: “Son, obey all the rules, and you’ll be happy in life.”

After graduating from high school, they both felt impressed to serve a mission—although neither of them had ever felt a desire to serve before.
For Sister Tuala, it took time to align her will with the Lord’s will. “I was 21 when I made the decision to act on the prompting,” she says. “I was pretty much fighting it until I was on the plane.”
Sister Tuala arrived on her mission in New Zealand during the COVID-19 pandemic, and although it has been difficult, she is very grateful she decided to serve.
“I can’t imagine being the same Sister Tuala that I was when I was 21. I really feel like I’ve grown.”

When I was going to law school, we lived 2,200 kilometers from the nearest temple. We had very little money, and it was difficult to provide for our schooling and care for our small children. My wife and I attended the temple each summer when we returned to visit Utah, but at no other time. I am glad my priesthood leaders did not make me feel guilty that I did not attend the temple more frequently. A few years later I worked in Washington, D.C., and was able to use the great library resources there. During that year, I chose to concentrate my personal efforts (in addition to my Church calling) on family history research. When we moved to another city, I was called as a stake missionary, and my priorities shifted from family history research to missionary work.

The principle of encouraging members to prayerfully determine what they can do “in wisdom and order” in their present circumstances is an important principle of Church administration and individual growth. Quotas or assignments violate an important principle. In the past, most of us have observed a local leader make assessments for each member of a ward to contribute exactly the same amount of money for a particular financial need. Such assignments or assessments take no account of individual circumstances or the spirit of voluntary offering. Assessments deny everyone the blessing of making a voluntary offering.

King Benjamin did not say “all things should be done by mathematical division even if this requires some members to run faster than they have strength” (See Mosiah 4:27). The Prophet Joseph Smith did not say “I teach the people correct principles and then I give them an assessment.” (See Journal of Discourses, 10:57–58.)

In summary, we should understand and apply these principles:
(1) All things should be done in wisdom and order. We should recognize that our members have many individual circumstances. Considering these, we should promote the mission of the Church in such a way as to accomplish the work of the Lord, not to impose guilt on his children.
(2) There is a time to every purpose under the heaven. There are many tasks to be performed in temple and family history work. We should encourage our members to make prayerful selection of the things they can do in their individual circumstances and in view of their current Church calling, being “diligent unto the end.”
(3) Each member should think about the three dimensions of the mission of the Church—proclaiming the gospel, perfecting the Saints, redeeming the dead—as a lifelong personal assignment and privilege. Each should gauge his or her personal participation from time to time according to his or her own circumstances and resources, as guided by the Spirit of the Lord and the direction of priesthood leaders.
There are family organizations to be formed, family projects to be planned, hearts to be touched, prayers to be offered, doctrines to be learned, children to be taught, living and dead relatives to be identified, recommends to be obtained, temples to be visited, covenants to be made, and ordinances to be received.
As we fulfill our responsibilities to teach and show our brothers and sisters how to help bring to pass the eternal life of man, we will all be blessed, for this is His work and His glory.

During the first three years after my mission, I took and passed three entrance examinations, but I wasn’t readmitted to medical school. During those same three years, I couldn’t find a job. I was tempted to believe that some of my friends and family members might have been right and that it was a mistake to have forfeited my admission to medical school.
On my mission I learned to cast my burden on the Lord, so I let Him direct my life according to His will. As soon as I did, things started working out for me—but not as I had planned.
One fast Sunday I decided to fast and intently pray for the Lord’s help. That evening a knock came at the door. When I opened the door, I was astonished to see an acquaintance I had met during security training I had attended six months before. He told me that an opportunity for a security operative had opened in a company his elder brother worked for and that the company urgently needed to fill the position. I was the only person who came to his mind.
The next day the company hired me. That singular experience confirmed to me that Heavenly Father had not abandoned me and that I needed to trust in Him. The job proved to be a springboard to other jobs.

In April of 1950, my wife, Frances, and I were in attendance at the Sunday afternoon session of general conference, held in this building. President George Albert Smith was the President of the Church, and in closing the conference, he delivered an inspiring and powerful message concerning the Resurrection of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Before he concluded his remarks, however, he sounded a prophetic warning. Said he: “It will not be long until calamities will overtake the human family unless there is speedy repentance. It will not be long before those who are scattered over the face of the earth by millions will die … because of what will come” (in Conference Report, Apr. 1950, 169). These were alarming words, for they came from a prophet of God.
Two and a half months after that general conference, on June 25, 1950, war broke out in Korea—a war which would eventually claim an estimated 2.5 million lives. This event prompted me to reflect on the statement President Smith made as we sat in this building that spring day.
I attended many general conference sessions in the Tabernacle, always being edified and inspired by the words of the Brethren. Then, in October of 1963, President David O. McKay invited me to his office and extended to me a call to serve as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. He asked that I keep this sacred call confidential, revealing it to no one except my wife, and that I be present for general conference in the Tabernacle the next day, when my name would be read aloud.
The following morning I came into the Tabernacle not knowing exactly where to sit. Being a member of the Priesthood Home Teaching Committee, I determined that I would be seated among the members of that committee. I noticed a friend of mine by the name of Hugh Smith, who was also a member of the Priesthood Home Teaching Committee. He motioned for me to sit by him. I couldn’t say a thing to him about my call, but I sat down.
During the session, the members of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles were sustained and, of course, my name was read. I believe the walk from the audience to the stand was the longest walk of my life.
It has been nearly 44 years since that conference. Until the year 2000, when the Conference Center was dedicated, it was my privilege to deliver 101 general conference messages from the pulpit in this building, not including those given at general auxiliary conferences and other meetings held here. My remarks today bring the total to 102. I have had many spiritual experiences over the years as I have stood here.
During the message I delivered at general conference in October 1975, I felt prompted to direct my remarks to a little girl with long blonde hair who was seated in the balcony of this building. I called the attention of the audience to her and felt a freedom of expression which testified to me that this small girl needed the message I had in mind concerning the faith of another young lady.
At the conclusion of the session, I returned to my office and found waiting for me a young child by the name of Misti White, together with her grandparents and an aunt. As I greeted them, I recognized Misti as the one in the balcony to whom I had directed my remarks. I learned that as her eighth birthday approached, she was in a quandary concerning whether or not to be baptized. She felt she would like to be baptized, and her grandparents, with whom she lived, wanted her to be baptized, but her less-active mother suggested she wait until she was 18 years of age to make the decision. Misti had told her grandparents, “If we go to conference in Salt Lake City, maybe Heavenly Father will let me know what I should do.”
Misti and her grandparents and her aunt had traveled from California to Salt Lake City for conference and were able to obtain seats in the Tabernacle for the Saturday afternoon session. This was where they were seated when my attention was drawn to Misti and my decision made to speak to her.
As we continued our visit after the session, Misti’s grandmother said to me, “I think Misti has something she would like to tell you.” This sweet young girl said, “Brother Monson, while you were speaking in conference, you answered my question. I want to be baptized!”
The family returned to California, and Misti was baptized and confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Through all the years since, Misti has remained true and faithful to the gospel of Jesus Christ. Fourteen years ago, it was my privilege to perform her temple marriage to a fine young man, and together they are rearing five beautiful children, with another one on the way.

“President Lee once told of a woman in New York who approached him concerning her nonmember husband. Her spouse wanted her to attend parties that were far below Church standards. President Lee advised her that whereas a woman should follow her husband, she need not follow him to hell. The husband, upon hearing this from his wife, was, like your parents, extremely resentful.

“Let your parents know how much you love them and appreciate their offer but also that the Lord has said that sacrament meeting is the most important meeting we have to attend. Being the only member or active member of a family is sometimes a lonely ordeal. But if we seek to do the Lord’s will over the conflicting desires of loved ones who don’t or won’t understand, he will bless us. He certainly blessed the lady from New York. A few months after she had revealed the advice of the prophet, her ‘resentful’ husband was baptized.”

Working with horses also taught me to be patient and never to give up. Progress comes a little at a time. Once I had a colt named Planchet. Someone said, “That horse is weak. He will never be worth anything.” But someone else told me if I would be patient and exercise my colt’s muscles, he would someday be a good horse. I fed Planchet and took care of him and loved him. For one whole year, I walked him to strengthen his muscles. I worked and worked with him. And, sure enough, this weak colt won the Brazilian championship in a three-day competition.

At the end of his mission, Edward Angeles’s mission president encouraged him to pursue higher education when he returned to the Dominican Republic.
“I started BYU–Pathway right after I got home, and it was without a doubt one of the best decisions of my life,” he said. “I am on my first certificate in web and computer programming. I already had a job as a web developer. I got a salary increase, and I have been offered jobs at many other companies.”

Fish Sticks appeared out of nowhere.
One late summer evening, just when I was beginning to think I might get a college dorm room all to myself, there he was, standing in the doorway and grinning like a self-satisfied explorer who’d found a lost tomb.
“Frank Calio,” he said, sticking out his hand into the room and willing me to get off my bed to shake. “You can call me Fish Sticks.”
I shook his hand and then he disappeared down the hall. A minute later he reappeared with two envelope-yellow suitcases and a laptop computer. He threw the suitcases on the bed and popped one open.
“What are you in for?” he asked, not looking up from his unpacking.
“Huh?”
He turned to me and spoke slowly. “What are you stud-eee-ing?”
“Oh. I don’t know yet. Maybe business.”
“Hmmm,” he said, “I’m music education. Gonna be a junior high music teacher.” He stood up straight and ruffled his hair like a mad scientist. “I’m going to be rich, I tell ya. Ha, ha, ha, ha.”
“Not,” I said.
He nodded, then rearranged his hair. It was long in the front, and he let it hang in his eyes.
“Why do I have to call you Fish Sticks?” I finally asked.
“You don’t have to,” he said.
“But that’s what people call you? Is it your nickname?”
He flipped his front hair to one side with a quick half-turn of his head. “Yep.”
“Why?”
“Oh, I may tell you about it one day,” he said. “If I like you.”
That first year, Frank spent most of his time at the music building—in class or teaching piano lessons to local kids. On Saturday nights, if there wasn’t a dance at the institute, we’d order pizza and watch TV in the lounge.
One night in January, when there was nothing good on, Frank finally started talking.
“You know, I taught myself to play the piano,” he said.
“I taught myself to whistle,” I added, spinning the empty pizza box on one finger.
“I’m serious,” he said.
“So am I.”
He rolled his eyes. “Fine. I was gonna tell you about Fish Sticks.”
I dropped the pizza box on the floor. “I’ll be quiet. Tell me.”
He pushed the remote to mute the TV. “I was about ten,” he said, “and I learned to play a few songs out of the Primary songbook. You know, just simple tunes. But that got me hooked. And after a while I figured out a few real pieces—classical pieces.”
“You like classical?”
“Love it,” he said. “Anyway, all that time I dreamed about something. You know how most kids dream about playing in the Super Bowl or the World Series? Well, I spent my teenage years inside at our piano playing Bach or Chopin. And I dreamed about playing at Carnegie Hall. You know, my fingers flying along the keyboard in a blur, the music rising to a crescendo, the crowd carrying me off on their shoulders.
“That is a pretty weird dream for a kid.”
“I guess.”
“So you must be pretty good … at the piano.”
“Uh, no. I started taking lessons when I was about 14, but I’ve never really gotten what you’d call good.”
“C’mon, you can’t be that bad. You got into music school, didn’t you?”
“I got in ’cause I know my theory.”
“Oh.” I tried to remember where the conversation had begun. Oh, yeah. “What’s this got to do with Fish Sticks?”
“Okay. One afternoon I was playing the piano. It was hot, the window was open, and a couple of my friends walked by and heard me. So they climbed up, you know, to look in the window—and they saw me playing. That’s when they laughed and called me Fish Sticks.” He shrugged. “And it’s true. When I play the piano my fingers move like stiff, frozen fish sticks.”
He held his stumpy fingers up and wiggled them for my benefit.
I nodded. “But why would you want people to call you Fish Sticks?”
“That’s another story. I’ll tell you one day if I get to liking you a bit more.”
Just before summer vacation, I bumped into Frank on campus. Looking for any diversion from studying for finals, I walked with him to the music building.
As we walked, Frank repeatedly flipped the hair out of his face. Sometimes, on a windy day, and in a frustrated attempt to free his face of hair, I’d seen Frank spin his head and body a full 360 degrees, often losing his balance and staggering to stay upright.
When we reached Frank’s practice room, a young girl was waiting. She was about ten, with long fingers and large brown glasses that sat awkwardly on her bony, high-cheeked face. She was quiet.
“Hey, Cheryl!” Frank said, barging into the room while throwing his book bag to the side of the piano. “You been practicing?”
An almost inaudible “Yes,” from Cheryl, like she was talking through a pillow.
“Fantastic,” Frank snapped back, holding up his hands like a triumphant boxer. Cheryl and I couldn’t help smiling at his enthusiasm.
“I just picked up a new book on alternating melodies. Just off the presses. You up for something a little challenging?” Frank asked.
Cheryl shrugged.
“Okay!” He made a show of pulling the book out of his bag, like it was a rabbit. Cheryl watched closely as the blue and gray cover emerged. “Looks fun, huh?” he added, sarcastically. “Those crazy people playing football in this spring weather don’t know what they’re missing.”
He cracked the book open and placed it over the keyboard. Cheryl swallowed at the intimidating lines and lines of black notes.
“Just ten minutes of theory,” he said. “Then we’ll learn a song. Okay?”
Cheryl shrugged again and placed her long fingers on the keys.
There was a dance that Saturday at the institute. Frank and I stood on the edge of the dance floor watching and waiting before we committed.
When two girls came in, Frank nudged me with his elbow. I’d seen them in church before, but hadn’t said anything to them or even smiled in their direction. They moved to the far edge of the dance floor and talked to each other as lively as two birds. Frank, bold as usual, walked over and I followed.
“What do you think of the dance?” asked Frank when he got to them. He was nodding too much. He wasn’t nervous very often.
They stopped talking and considered.
“We just got here,” one said.
“But it seems okay, I guess,” said the other.
“Good,” said Frank.
One girl reached behind her and began tapping her fingernail rhythmically on the wood molding of the wall.
I thought Frank would ask one of them to dance then, but he didn’t. Instead he put his hands in his pockets and leaned backward, reflectively, like a professor who thinks he has something really important to say.
“You know,” he said, “I’ve loved music since I was a kid—classical music, that is. And I’ve always wanted to play a concert. And next Saturday night at the auditorium I’m going to do that. And I’d like you both to come and bring any friends you want ’cause it’s free.”
They considered him for a few seconds. One pushed a few wisps of hair out of her face and smiled, nicely.
He repeated the request to about a dozen other people before the night was over.
I worried that week about Frank and the concert. Despite his love of music and his skill at teaching, I knew he wouldn’t lie about his playing. If he said his fingers moved like fish sticks, they probably did. I didn’t want to see Frank, so full of confidence, flattened by failure.
Then all of a sudden it was Saturday night, and Frank was walking out onto the stage. Under the lights and on the stage he didn’t look his typical fearless self. He seemed pale and wispy, like a crumpled tissue in a dark blue suit.
He raised his hands above the keyboard.
“You can do it, Fish Sticks,” I gasped under my breath.
He flipped the hair out of his eyes, mumbled something to the piano, and struck the first chord.
That night I walked with Frank back to the dorm. We were quiet for most of the way, but I knew it couldn’t last. Finally he asked.
“So, how was it?”
“What?” I played dumb, stalling.
“The concert, bozo. My concerto sans orchestra.”
“Oh, it was good,” I said quickly.
He grunted. “I got off tempo a few times,” he said.
“Ahh, no one noticed,” I lied.
“Seriously, I want you to tell me what you thought of it.”
I looked over at him.
“Well, I guess your playing could still use a little work,” I said.
“Yeah, I guess,” he admitted. He stuck his hands in his coat pockets. “It frustrates me sometimes—that I can’t play.”
“No, I didn’t say that.”
“No, I know. I can hear the music in my mind and I know how it’s supposed to come out, but it just doesn’t. Like tonight, Fish Sticks took over. I was halfway through and I wanted to climb up on top of that piano and jump up and down.”
I let out a little laugh and Frank looked over and began laughing too.
We rounded the bend and stopped under a streetlight, looking up at our dorm.
“So why didn’t you?” I asked.
He flipped his hair off his forehead to reveal raised eyebrows. “My students, most of them, were in the audience.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Well, tonight I shared something personal with them,” he said. “I showed them that Fish Sticks isn’t the greatest pianist in the world. And maybe that means they can mess up sometimes, too. You know, they can make mistakes. It’s okay.”
I waited for more.
“You remember the parable of the talents?” he asked.
I shrugged and nodded my head. “Sure. If you got it, use it—or lose it.”
“That’s the idea,” he said. “The servants who are given more talents use them, but the guy who gets only one talent buries it. And in the end, the Lord takes his talent away.
“Well, most of my students are around eight or nine, and if you ask them they’ll tell you they can play the piano—no problem. I bet if you ask them that same question in a few years—when they get into high school or college—they’ll probably say they can’t play. Most of them will lose their confidence, their belief in their talents.
“But I think the world needs more writers, and singers, and, uh, actors, and pianists. I want these kids to share their gifts with others. And I think they will if they know it’s okay to mess up once in a while on the way. That they don’t have to be the best.”
I smiled and told him, “You know, I was listening to music when I began to realize I really believed in God.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. I just realized that it was impossible for music as beautiful as Beethoven wrote to come out of nothing. There had to be something more to the universe. There had to be a God. It was soon after that experience that I started to investigate the Church.”
“And the people who were playing the music you listened to, well, someone had to believe in their talent. Someone had to be there when they played wrong notes to keep them going.”
Frank tilted his head, ready to sweep the hair out of his eyes, but stopped. Instead, he reached up and pulled his hair straight out.
“You know,” he said. “I just might get a haircut on Monday.”
I laughed. “You sure you feel okay?” I asked.
“I feel fine,” he said as he started to run toward the dorm. “Honest,” he called out. “I feel great.”
Frank Calio is a band teacher now. He lives in Idaho. When I called him to let him know I’d written his story he laughed. “Call the story ‘Fish Sticks,’” he said. “The kids at my school call me Old Fish Sticks. Every year I play a little at our school recital. I’m better than I was in college, but I still make mistakes and the kids get a good laugh. But they all know in my class it’s okay to mess up while they’re learning. I just want them to play music and to try hard. That’s all.”

As a brother with pornography concerns waits outside his stake president’s office, the stake president prays to know how to help. A clear impression comes: “Open the door and let the brother in.” With faith and trust God will help, the priesthood leader opens the door and embraces the brother. Each feels transforming love and trust for God and each other. Fortified, the brother can begin to repent and change.

Christmas morning in our house came early. Who can stay asleep when there are such exciting things to look forward to? I was awake by 2:00 a.m. I knew I wasn’t allowed to wake up my parents then, so I lay in my bed and dreamed. I was eight years old, and my one Christmas wish was for a Molly doll, a doll with dark hair and glasses, which looked a lot like me. I had dreamed about the doll so much that by Christmas morning, I had no doubt I would receive it.
Slowly the minutes ticked by. At 6:00 a.m., just when I thought I couldn’t stand it any longer, my two younger brothers and I ran to wake up my parents. Then we stood at the top of the stairs and waited for my dad to say that he was ready with the video camera. My mom held my eight-month-old sister, Anna, in her arms.
My dad called up the stairs, “Okay, I’m ready,” and it was as if he had started a race. We all tumbled down the steps at a breakneck speed. I had my eyes trained on the place where I knew Molly would be sitting, but she wasn’t there. I stopped in my tracks and took in the whole family room in a single glance. No, she really wasn’t there. I was so disappointed I could have sat on the bottom step and just cried, but I didn’t. After all, it was Christmas morning. I found the present Santa had left me instead. It was very nice, and I played with it a lot, but I still longed to hold a Molly doll in my arms.
Fast forward nine years. I was 17. The doll-playing phase of my life had passed. It was October, and the whole family was gathered around the table for breakfast. Since that Christmas when I was 8, my family had added three more kids, with one more on the way.
“I need someone to clean out the flower beds,” my dad said amidst the general commotion made by seven kids and two parents. “You know, clean up the dead flowers and then plant tulips for next spring.” He was looking directly at my brother, leaving no doubt as to whom he intended that someone to be. “I’ll pay whoever will agree to do it.”
Ben did not seem fazed by the incentive of money, for he did not volunteer his services. Someone else did.
“I’ll do it,” Anna, who was now nine, said with determination.
Over the next several weeks, I vaguely noticed that Anna seemed to acquire a number of new jobs. I didn’t pay much attention. “She probably needs money for Christmas presents, or maybe she’s saving for something,” I thought.
One day she and I were cleaning the room we shared when she asked me a question.
“Amy, if you could have a doll, which one would it be?” she asked.
“Oh, I would still want Molly,” I said absently. I didn’t think too much about the question. She asked me questions like that all the time, and I knew she also wanted a Molly doll for Christmas this year.
Christmas morning came. I still got excited about what the day would hold, but I also liked my sleep. I could now see why my parents refused to let us get them up before 6:00 a.m.
When the time came, my little brothers and Anna were so excited they were practically dancing at the top of the stairs. At Dad’s command, we all ran down.
I took in the family room with a sweeping glance, and, wonder of wonders, Anna had received Molly! I was excited for her and surprised that I did not feel even the slightest twinge of jealousy. It didn’t bother me that she had received the doll I had once wanted so much. We shared the joy of her gift.
After an uneventful breakfast, we all wandered out to the living room to open more presents. Anna was jumping up and down and looked as though she were about to burst.
“I want Amy to open the present from me!” she exclaimed. She was so excited she could barely contain herself. I wondered what on earth it could be. “Maybe it’s something she made,” I thought.
From behind the Christmas tree, Anna pulled out a long, oblong box. I was confused.
“Is this from Anna?” I questioned. “Just from Anna?”
“It’s just from Anna,” Mom answered.
As I began to slowly remove the wrapping, I became even more confused. It was a doll box. Anna was enjoying every second of my confusion.
As I pulled off the lid, my breath caught in my throat. There, nestled snugly inside the box, was a Molly doll identical to Anna’s.
“Oh, my goodness,” I breathed. How could this be from Anna? I looked to my mom for an answer.
“Remember all of the work Anna did?” Mom questioned.
I did remember, and the tears ran down my cheeks. With sudden clarity I remembered all the jobs Anna had been doing that I had barely noticed. Even more than the gift, the impact of how much my sister loved me made me sob.
Anna ran up and threw her arms around me. I held her tight and continued to cry. Soon other family members were crying too. You could feel the love that was in the room. Gently, I lifted the doll out of the box. I had never dreamed that I would actually receive this doll—and from my nine-year-old sister, of all people! Anna’s smile was scattering sunshine all around the room. Everyone was smiling and grinning through their tears.
As I held my doll, I realized I would not have traded this moment for anything. If I had received the doll when I originally wanted it, I never could have shared this Christmas in this way with Anna. Isn’t it funny how things happen? Before, I just couldn’t understand why I didn’t get what I wanted. Now I had received an even more precious gift—my sister’s loving sacrifice for me.
I would think about all these things for years to come. But right now, two sisters were running off to play with their new dolls.

The city of Athens, capital of Attica (Greece) in 490 B.C. and center of Greek culture, was about to be attacked on two sides by the powerful Persian army. The enemy, numbering nearly 20,000, lay in wait on the nearby plains of Marathon. The Greek forces consisted of about 11,000 men.
Miltiades, the Greek commanding general, gave orders to prepare for combat. His men, armed with spears, shields, helmets, and breastplates, were assembled in groups. Common military practice at the time would have been for these groups to advance in one slow, uniform line. Miltiades, however, was a military genius. Distributing his men over as much territory as possible so that they wouldn’t be outflanked, he ordered them forward on the run.
The Battle of Marathon was on!
The Persians, who were fighting with inferior weapons, were outmaneuvered and outfought. They lost 6,400 men—the Athenians, only 192—as they were driven back to the ships that had brought them.
A young Athenian soldier named Pheidippides had been sent earlier to Sparta, about 150 miles (241 kilometers) away, to ask for their help. Then he had raced back to Marathon. At the end of the battle, Miltiades, afraid that the people of Athens would surrender because they didn’t know of the victory at Marathon, asked Pheidippides to deliver a message to the people of Athens, 25 miles (40 kilometers) away.
Without the slightest hesitation, Pheidippides took the note and ran mile after mile, without slowing down or stopping to rest, toward Athens, where the citizens were gathered in the streets and at the marketplace, awaiting news of the battle at Marathon.
Pheidippides quickly made his way to the center of a crowd of Athenians and, raising his arms in triumph, delivered his message: “Rejoice, we conquer!” Then he sank to the ground, dead.