Gospel Story Finder

Milly’s invitation to Jonathan was followed by many more invitations from Jonathan to others—other members of the Young Men who were not attending church. He and the other active young men in the ward called their invitations “Operation Mormonation.”
Not only did they get on the phone at the start of Young Men class to invite everyone on the roll who wasn’t there to come to church, but they also assigned those young men responsibilities. Those responsibilities helped the young men feel welcome and useful.
Quorum presidencies worked with the bishop to remind people of activities, and each young man was given the opportunity to help teach lessons, organize activities, set up for Mutual, and teach with the full-time missionaries. They also had to call and report on the status of their assignments.
“It was basically just learning how to serve each other and to delegate. The Church is really run through quorums. Everyone has an important role in each quorum, not just the presidents,” Jonathan says.
Serving in their quorum made the young men of the Boston First Ward more dedicated to the gospel. “I know that loving each other and teaching each other and serving each other in the Church will bring us closer to the Savior,” Jonathan says.

One of President Taylor’s sons, Moses W., described his father’s character through sharing family memories. He wrote:
“When gathering the fruit in the fall, father would come and inspect the baskets and selecting the largest and best fruit would say:
“‘Take the tithing out of this and be sure and pay it in full.’
“When planting trees, he was very careful to make the rows straight, each tree had to be plumb. When filling the dirt around the roots we were required to take great care of the little fibres and carefully lay each one in its place. He would remark:
“‘Take care of the little roots and the large ones will take care of themselves.’
“The first time I left home, father called me in and gave me the following counsel:
“‘Do what is right. Live your religion and the bad men will honor you for it as well as the good.’
“That is all he said, but it made such a strong impression on me, that it has saved me many a time from falling into temptation. At other times, he would say:
“‘Take the high stand and always live so that others can see that you are on a high plane.’
“He had a strong desire to keep his children under the family influence and provided play grounds for us. Even when he was past seventy years of age he would join us in our games. …
“… He was held in such high esteem by his children that to please him seemed to be their greatest desire.”20

I served in the United States Navy toward the end of World War II. I was a seaman, the lowest possible rank in the navy. Then I qualified to be Seaman First Class, after which I qualified to be Yeoman Third Class.
World War II ended, and I was later discharged. But I made a decision that if ever I went back into the military, I wanted to serve as a commissioned officer. I thought, “No more mess kitchens for me, no more scrubbing the decks, if I can avoid it.”
After I was discharged, I joined the United States Naval Reserve. I went to drill every Monday night. I studied hard that I might qualify academically. I took every kind of examination imaginable: mental, physical, and emotional. Finally, there came the beautiful news: “You have been accepted to receive the commission of an ensign in the United States Naval Reserve.”
I gleefully showed it to my wife, Frances, and said, “I made it! I made it!” She hugged me and said, “You’ve worked hard enough to achieve it.”
But then something happened. I was called to be a counselor in my ward bishopric. The bishop’s council meeting was on the same evening as my navy drill meeting. I knew there was a terrible conflict. I knew that I didn’t have the time to pursue the Naval Reserve and my bishopric duties. What was I to do? A decision had to be made.
I prayed about it. Then I went to see the man who was my stake president when I was a boy, Elder Harold B. Lee (1899–1973), then of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. I sat down across the table from him. I told him how much I valued that commission. In fact, I showed him the copy of the letter of appointment I had received.
Illustration by Paul Mann
After pondering the matter for a moment, he said to me, “Here’s what you should do, Brother Monson. You write a letter to the Bureau of Naval Affairs and tell them that because of your call as a member of the bishopric, you can’t accept that commission in the United States Naval Reserve.”
My heart sank. He added, “Then write to the commandant of the Twelfth Naval District in San Francisco indicating that you would like to be discharged from the reserve.”
I said, “Elder Lee, you don’t understand the military. Of course they will decline to give me that commission if I refuse to accept it, but the Twelfth Naval District isn’t going to let me off. With a war brewing in Korea, a noncommissioned officer will surely be called up. If called back, I would rather go back as a commissioned officer, but I won’t if I don’t accept this commission. Are you sure this is the counsel you want me to receive?”
Elder Lee put his hand on my shoulder and in a fatherly way said, “Brother Monson, have more faith. The military is not for you.”
I went home. I placed a tear-stained commission back in its envelope with its accompanying letter and declined to accept it. Then I wrote a letter to the Twelfth Naval District and requested a discharge from the Naval Reserve.
My discharge from the Naval Reserve was in the last group processed before the outbreak of the Korean War. My headquarters outfit was activated. Six weeks after I was called to be a counselor in the bishopric, I was called to be the bishop of my ward.
I would not hold the position in the Church I hold today had I not followed the counsel of a prophet, had I not prayed about that decision, had I not come to an appreciation of an important truth: the wisdom of God ofttimes appears as foolishness to men.1 But the greatest single lesson we can learn in mortality is that when God speaks and His children obey, they will always be right.

Mommy stopped at Austin’s bedroom door. She looked around the messy room. There were books, trucks, puzzles, blocks, and stuffed animals scattered all over. Mommy stepped over the clutter and into the room. “Austin, did you make this mess?”
Austin looked up from his stack of blocks. “Not me, Mommy.”
“Then who made this mess?” Mommy asked. She knelt down next to a large dump truck. “Dump truck, did you make this mess?”
“Mommy!” Austin giggled. “Dump trucks can’t make a mess. Trucks can’t even talk. But I can.” He snatched up his truck. “Brrrm. Brrrm.” Austin drove the truck into the toy box.
“Who made this mess?” Mommy asked. She scooped up a handful of puzzle pieces. “Puzzle, did you make this mess?”
Austin said, “Puzzles can’t make a mess. Puzzles don’t have fingers to use. But I do. I can pick the pieces up like this.” Austin dumped all the puzzle pieces into their box on the shelf.
“Who made this mess?” Mommy asked. She stood up and leaned over the bookcase. “Books, did you make this mess?”
Austin rolled his eyes. “Books can’t make a mess. Books can’t even jump from high places. But I can.” Austin climbed onto a chair and jumped into Mommy’s arms. She put him down. Austin bent over and picked up some books. He climbed back onto the chair and set the books on the shelf.
“Who made this mess?” Mommy asked. She gathered together three teddy bears. “Teddy bears, did you make this mess?”
“Teddy bears can’t make a mess,” Austin said. “Teddy bears can’t even turn somersaults. But I can.” Austin crouched low, tucked his head under, and flipped over. He stood up, gathered the bears in his arms, and laid them on the windowsill.
“Who made this mess?” Mommy asked. She picked up a stuffed lion. “Lion, did you make this mess?”
Austin said, “The lion can’t make a mess. The lion can’t even give hugs. But I can.” Austin gave Mommy a hug. He took the lion and gently placed it on the bed.
“Know what, Mommy?” Austin said. “Toys can’t make a mess, but I can. I made this mess.”
Mommy leaned over and gave Austin another hug. “Austin, you made this mess. But you cleaned it up, too. You are my big helper.”
Mommy’s face grew serious. “You did something besides making a mess, Austin. You told Mommy a lie. But you cleaned that up, too, by telling the truth. Toys can’t tell the truth. But you can.”
Austin smiled. Being a big helper felt good. Being a truth-teller felt even better.

Years ago, I was asked to meet with a man who, long before our visit, had had a period of riotous living. As a result of his bad choices, he lost his membership in the Church. He had long since returned to the Church and was faithfully keeping the commandments, but his previous actions haunted him. Meeting with him, I felt his shame and his deep remorse at having set his covenants aside. Following our interview, I placed my hands upon his head to give him a priesthood blessing. Before speaking a word, I felt an overpowering sense of the Savior’s love and forgiveness for him. Following the blessing, we embraced and the man wept openly.

I am amazed at the Savior’s encircling arms of mercy and love for the repentant, no matter how selfish the forsaken sin. I testify that the Savior is able and eager to forgive our sins. Except for the sins of those few who choose perdition after having known a fulness, there is no sin that cannot be forgiven. What a marvelous privilege for each of us to turn away from our sins and to come unto Christ. Divine forgiveness is one of the sweetest fruits of the gospel, removing guilt and pain from our hearts and replacing them with joy and peace of conscience. Jesus declares, “Will ye not now return unto me, and repent of your sins, and be converted, that I may heal you?”

Mateo and his dad walked to their family’s fruit stand together. Mateo’s dog, Zeus, followed them.
“Did you ask the bishop about my baptism?” Mateo asked. He was already eight, but he hadn’t been baptized yet because of the pandemic.
“He said you won’t be able to get baptized this month,” Dad said. “Maybe next month.”
“OK.” Mateo frowned. He really wanted to be baptized and receive the gift of the Holy Ghost. But it seemed like it would never happen!
Dad unlocked the stand. Mateo helped carry out boxes of oranges, lemons, mangoes, and bananas. Then he helped put them on the shelves.
Mateo kept thinking about the Holy Ghost while they worked. “What does the Holy Ghost feel like?” he asked.
“The Holy Ghost comforts me when I’m sad,” Dad said. “And He makes me feel good when I help someone.”
“I can’t wait to be baptized so I can feel the Holy Ghost too!”
“Even before you are baptized and confirmed, you can feel the Holy Ghost,” Dad said. “You can feel His comfort now. Like when you pray or do something kind for someone. Then after you are confirmed, you can always have the Holy Ghost with you.”
Mateo thought about that. Had he felt the Holy Ghost before?
Soon they had unloaded all the boxes. “Are you ready to help the Sosas?” Dad asked.
Mateo nodded. Mr. and Mrs. Sosa both had a hard time walking. So Mateo went to the market for them. Sometimes he helped them do chores too.
Mateo and Zeus walked to the Sosas’ house. Mrs. Sosa waved from the front porch. “Good morning!”
“Do you need groceries today?” Mateo asked.
“Yes. I need bread, potatoes, and beef.” Mrs. Sosa counted out some coins. “That should be enough.”
Mateo took the money. He saw a bag of trash by the door. “Can I take that out for you?” he asked.
“Yes. Thank you!” Mrs. Sosa said.
After he took the trash out, Mateo bought the food. He thought about all the things he’d done that morning. He helped Dad at the fruit stand. He helped the Sosas buy food. And he did have a good feeling inside. He was feeling the Holy Ghost, just like Dad said!
Mateo hoped he wouldn’t have to wait much longer to be baptized. He wanted to have the Holy Ghost with him all the time!
This story took place in Uruguay.

Other happy memories for Jared and his mom took place in April and October 1990 when the family attended general conference in Salt Lake City. Only one family member could sit in the special section of the Tabernacle with Sister Anderson, and Jared was chosen. Sister Anderson sat in her wheelchair near the railing, and Jared was assigned a place on the front row. He attended her every need, including wrapping her legs and shoulders in shawls for warmth and quietly massaging her feet when they went into spasms.
In the last session of conference in October, Sister Anderson began having a seizure. Jared saw her distress and immediately put her medicine in her mouth, averting a problem. One of the hosts in the Tabernacle said, “I’ve played a lot of football in my day, but I’ve never seen a bigger man than you were in the way you showed compassion to your mother today.”

Mindy Bradley of Farmington, Utah, likes to dance.
Mindy’s spirits were high as she looked forward to her first regional youth dance. She and her friends spent time carefully getting ready and approached the dance anticipating the possibility of meeting new people, making new friends, and having a great time. She didn’t let the fact that she is confined to a wheelchair dampen her enthusiasm.
“Sometimes people don’t realize that, just because I’m in a wheelchair it doesn’t mean I can’t do these things,” she says. “Usually people just stand in front of me and we hold hands and sort of sway back and forth.”
Still, Mindy’s wheelchair can make it difficult for her to mingle with other people, especially ones she doesn’t know. Several people at the dance realized that and decided they would approach her instead of waiting for her to talk with them.
“Just as we finished a fun line dance, I noticed a group of kids on the other side of the room walking up to me.
I was sitting there thinking it was a little odd, but before I could do much, there they were, placing their chairs in a semicircle in front of me.”
The group of guys and girls asked her where she was from, what school she attended, and what she liked to do for fun. After several minutes of conversation, one of the boys asked her to dance.
“It was really fun, and it sort of got the ball rolling,” says Mindy. “After that, a bunch of other people asked me to dance. Before, I don’t think they knew I could.”
Being a friend can sometimes be difficult, requiring lots of time and energy. Sometimes, though, being a friend can be as simple as saying, “Would you like to dance?”

Brigham Anderson, a 52-year-old Whanganui resident, is debuting his first art exhibition that combines traditional M?ori tukutuku (geometric paneling art) with values from “The Family: A Proclamation to the World”.
Anderson’s exhibition titled “Ng? tukutuku o te k?inga,” (The home of tukutuku) opened at the Space Gallery in Whanganui on 1 December ran through 18 December.
Anderson’s art is what he considers faith based. He quoted President Brigham Young (1801–1877), who taught the principle that truth can be found everywhere, including in art and culture. He said the family values and truth that are found in M?ori culture are similar to those found in the gospel, and so representing both in his art is important to him.
“There are lots of similarities in all people and religions, we have more in common then we have in differences, and I hope my pieces can bridge some of those gaps,” Anderson said. He hopes his paintings can be a reminder to live the gospel of Jesus Christ.
Although not a full-time artist, Anderson started focusing more time on his art during the pandemic which led him to create story-telling tukutuku paintings that symbolize principles and values from “The Family: A Proclamation to the World.”
When people see these paintings, Anderson hopes it leads the viewer to reflect on where they are in life and what improvements they can make in regard to their own family relationships and faith.
In nine of the tukutuku panels in the exhibition, he specifically highlighted these principles for families: faith, prayer, repentance, forgiveness, respect, love, compassion, work and having fun together.
Hours of research and planning went into designing, crafting and picking symbols he used in each painting to portray its story. The colours, shapes, lines, and M?ori words he used to represent each principle all have special reasoning behind why he chose them.
In the faith panel painting, he included the word “rongo” at the bottom, which describes four of the five senses, excluding sight. With the increased influence of social media, Anderson said many rely too heavily on seeing to believe, but that isn’t how faith works. He used “rongo” to capture and symbolize the idea of not needing to see, to still exercise faith. “The word rongo also can mean peace, especially after a challenging time in our lives. The gospel of Jesus Christ brings that peace,” he said.
The panel titled “Inoi,” portrays the principle of prayer. He used the colour blue to depict Heavenly Father because “it is a peaceful colour.” The words Anderson painted mean to call out to Heavenly Father and the shapes were meant to represent someone praying and God bestowing blessings upon them. Anderson said this painting symbolizes how the further a person seeks light, the more God will give them because “everything Heavenly Father does is for our benefit.”
Anderson based the forgiveness “Muru” panel on a talk by President James E. Faust (1920 –2007). In the talk, Faust told a tragic story about a group of Amish people who forgave and served the family of someone who had killed multiple Amish children. Anderson said that story of forgiveness inspired him to create shapes that look like the white foam on top of rapids to parallel the importance of forgiving and moving on.
“If you don’t forgive, you can get caught up in the rapids, and can drown, but as you forgive, you move into more peaceful, calm water,” he said.
The colours, shapes and lines in his art are so exact, that many at first perceive his art to be digitally made and printed. But every piece of the exhibition he painted with acrylic paint. He said the precision of the paintings comes from his culture where they originally weaved tukutuku panels out of flax. If one part wasn’t done correctly, they would cut the flax off and start over completely.

From the time my husband and I started our family, our choices about how many children to have and when to have them have often come into public question. The decision to have our first child was not a logical one, at least not according to the standards of the world. We were still in our early 20s. Having just recently graduated from college, my husband was searching for a “real job.” We had a meager income and no insurance. Still, the impression was undeniable that spirits eagerly waited to come to our family, so we proceeded with faith.
We were blessed with a healthy pregnancy, a beautiful baby girl, and a stable job with a career track. I was grateful to be able to stay at home with my daughter and the three children who followed. All were brought into our family after strong divine impressions that the time was right, but that didn’t make it easy to explain to others why we would have so many children so close together.

Members of the Pennsylvania Historical Society hushed as Thomas L. Kane rose to address them. Colonel Kane,7 son of a prominent judge, and member of a highly respected Pennsylvania family, read to them a formal paper about his experiences in the West among the Mormon refugees from Nauvoo. Eloquently he described the exodus from Nauvoo, the poverty and hard circumstances of the refugees, their ready response to the government’s call for a Mormon Battalion, and then told of their beginning efforts in Utah.
The address was so well received that Colonel Kane, at the prodding of a Mormon elder, published it as a “very handsomely gotten up” book of 84 pages titled The Mormons. The Kanes paid for the printing of two editions of 1,000 copies each, then mailed a volume to every United States senator, most of the congressmen, the President, government department heads, and other influential people.
Why his concern for the Saints? Colonel Kane became interested in Mormons four years earlier when he dropped in at a Mormon conference in Philadelphia. Afterwards he talked for hours with Elder Jesse C. Little about Mormonism. He then wrote letters to aid Elder Little in Washington, D.C., circles, and later rode west with the elder to visit the Mormon refugee camps. Near one, he happened to overhear a Saint in earnest private prayer. While listening, the Colonel shed tears. “I am satisfied your people are solemnly and terribly in earnest,” he told Elder Little.
In the camps Colonel Kane became deathly ill. Carefully nursed by Saints, he recovered, but not before witnessing much of the everyday life of Mormons. On his return east he stopped to see the near-ghost City of Nauvoo. At Albany, illness nearly killed him. Fearing death he instructed his father, a judge, to never suffer any evil to come upon the Saints from the federal government, if he had the power to do so. The Colonel survived, and then drew on his first-hand knowledge for his address to the historical society.
Colonel Kane’s published address, some critics said, seemed too sympathetic about the Mormons. With critics in mind he inserted a preface in The Mormons’ second edition to reinforce his conclusions:
“I have been annoyed by comments this hastily written discourse has elicited. Well meaning friends have even invited me to tone down its remarks in favor of the Mormons, for the purpose of securing them a readier acceptance. I can only make them more express. The Truth must take care of itself. I not only meant to deny that the Mormons in any wise fall below our standard of morals, but I would be distinctly understood to ascribe to those of their number with whom I associated in the West, a general correctness of deportment, and purity of character above the average of ordinary communities.”
During his lifetime Colonel Kane became the Church’s “Sentinel in the East.” He advised Church leaders on political matters in Washington, D.C. Once, on his own initiative, he traveled to Utah via Panama to serve as a mediator between the Mormons and the federal army sent against them by President James Buchanan. In 1873 he visited Utah again, this time with his wife. While they accompanied President Young on a long trip south through dozens of Mormon villages, Mrs. Kane wrote down her honest reactions in letters home and in her journal. In 1874 her father published a book based on her Utah writings, Twelve Mormon Homes, “with the design of commanding sympathy for Mormons, who are at this time threatened with hostile legislation by Congress.”8

Yet a disquieting feeling persisted. This was a “one-man church,” entirely centered on the leader’s doctrines and directives. I was sent out to start congregations, but something inside me resisted. I could not move forward unless I knew, without doubt, that God Himself was directing me, not just a man. I stayed in my role, waiting for a clarity that never came in that place.
A professional crossroads coincided with this spiritual searching. My security company, impressed with my skills, was placing me at a new contract with Sankofa Spices, with a promise of a permanent, high-paying position as a security coordinator. I was ready to accept. Then, my friend, the operations manager, mentioned a temporary opening at the “Latter-day Saints” mission office. The pay was less than half of what Sankofa offered, so I wasn’t interested. But when the Sankofa start date was delayed, I agreed to fill in for two weeks. It was a decision that would alter the course of my life.

Gladys Guerrero, 16, was the only Latter-day Saint attending a military high school in Maracaibo. During the first week of school, she was forced to stand in front of all 500 students and explain why she wouldn’t drink coffee. Although many students ridiculed Gladys for her lifestyle, others started watching her closely. “When they saw that I didn’t do certain things, such as drink alcohol or go to some parties, some of them became interested in the gospel,” she says. “The missionaries passed by the school one day, and I called to them. I introduced them to some of the students, and they got many referrals.” Ten of Gladys’s classmates were baptized during the next several months.

At a 20-year high school reunion, one of the graduates had a surprising conversation with one of her classmates that went something like this:
“I came to this reunion after all these years hoping you would be here so I could thank you. My high school experience was hard for me. You may not have known it, but you were the only friend I had in high school. I wondered if maybe the seminary teacher had assigned you to be nice to me. Did he?”
“No. He didn’t assign me.”
“Well, you didn’t know it, but every day I looked for you because I knew that you would talk to me. You made me feel better about myself. Now I am married and have a large family. During these past years I have thought many times of what you meant to me, and I wanted to tell you that.”

“Come on!” Stacy yelled out the jeep window, honking the horn.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I called, running out the front door with my arms full of treats for the road.
Stacy and I had been best friends since the sixth grade. We loved doing all of the same things, which led us to take the same digital photography class that year in high school. For one of our assignments, we decided to drive to San Francisco and take pictures of all the amazing buildings there.
The first part of the road trip was a blast. We listened to music and chatted. Suddenly Stacy pointed to a sign along the freeway that read, “Oakland: 10 miles.” Her eyes went wide. “Hey, should we visit the temple?”
The closest temple to where we lived was in Oakland, a two-hour commute from our town. “I guess we should, since we’re so close,” I replied. Excited, we took the exit off the freeway.
At the end of the ramp, Stacy asked, “Which way now?” We looked around. We had no idea which road the temple was actually on! We just assumed we would see it right off the freeway sitting on a hill. All we knew was that the temple was in the town of Oakland, and we were slowly realizing what a big town it was.
Stacy drove up and down random streets, hoping to see something that we would recognize, but we only found ourselves getting more confused and lost. “This was a bad idea,” Stacy muttered grumpily.
I was about to agree with her, when all of a sudden, I saw it: the golden tip of the temple! “Up there! On top of that hill. Do you see it?” I exclaimed.
“Yeah!” Stacy started to head in the direction of the spire.
We began the process of finding the temple simply by keeping it in sight. We drove up hills, only to come to a dead-end. But instead of getting frustrated like before, we simply reversed and backed up, keeping the temple on the hill in sight. Then, we would start down another path, hoping it would eventually lead us to our goal.
The feeling of hope that we had just by keeping the temple in sight was amazing.
We knew we were at least headed in the right direction, and that filled us with comfort. Eventually we found ourselves in front of the temple gate.
I think of that experience a lot in my life. When I find myself at a dark path and I feel lost or unsure of which way to turn, I remember that if I keep my destination in view, I can eventually reach my goal.

In September 1985, Julia received her endowment in the Johannesburg South Africa Temple. “When I first came into the temple,” she remembers, “I felt that I belonged. Before I joined the Church, when I would read the word Israel, I would throw the book aside and say, ‘It is for the whites. It is not for us. We are not chosen.’ Today, I know I belong to a royal family if I live righteously. I am an Israelite. When I was doing my ordinances in the temple, I captured the feeling that we are all on earth as one.

“Being sealed to my husband and my parents was one of the most touching experiences of my life. I feel that my parents are grateful that I have done their temple work for them. The Holy Spirit witnessed this to me.”

Julia continues to serve in the temple as often as she can. Within those walls she finds in joyful abundance the peace and love, the beauty and oneness of spirit she has cultivated in one corner or another of the Lord’s vineyard all of her life.*

For most of my life, I was an outstanding student and dutiful daughter. I prided myself on my ability to balance work, school, and family.
I struggled with anxiety behind the scenes but didn’t want anyone to realize how close I was to falling apart. This perfectionism hit an unbearable height during my junior year of college.
I was drowning in my course load. My grades weren’t as good as they were in high school. I was taking on extra hours at work. My Church calling slipped through the cracks.
I felt like a complete and total failure.
On top of that, I was too afraid to ask for help. I couldn’t admit—to myself, to others, and to God—that my life had gotten so far out of my control.
Elder Vern P. Stanfill of the Seventy once warned: “Perfectionism requires an impossible, self-inflicted standard that compares us to others. This causes guilt and anxiety and can make us want to withdraw and isolate ourselves.” And I was learning that lesson the hard way.
I believed I should’ve been able to handle everything that was put in my path. When I didn’t, I felt all-consuming guilt that kept me from turning to my Heavenly Father when I needed Him most.
I couldn’t progress in any area of my life.
But hope wasn’t lost. As Elder Gerrit W. Gong of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles said, “Through spiritual transformation in Jesus Christ, we can escape debilitating perfectionism.”
After one particularly difficult day, I felt prompted to go to the temple and perform baptisms for the dead.
There in the baptismal font, I felt a love so powerful I was overcome with tears.
I looked back on my own baptism and how happy I had been to be made clean through the Atonement of Jesus Christ. After I’d walked out of the baptismal font, my mom had asked me how I felt. Soaking wet and visibly shivering, I’d responded with the innocent words of an eight-year-old: “Mom, I feel so warm inside.”
That day in the temple, I realized I’d become so focused on being perfect by my own merit that I was actively denying myself the opportunity to be perfected in Christ (see Moroni 10:32–33). I felt a powerful confirmation that I can have that same warm feeling every day. If I repent regularly, I can be made perfect through Jesus Christ and His Atonement (see John 17:23).
From that day forward, I committed to change.
I started earnestly praying again. It wasn’t easy—especially in the beginning—but I became more comfortable as I strengthened my relationship with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.
I also sought a deeper understanding of the Atonement of Jesus Christ, focusing on the eternal truth that the Savior will intercede on our behalf when we are truly repentant.
I’d be lying if I said I don’t still grapple with perfectionism. But now I catch myself feeling “warm inside” whenever I give my best effort to the Lord, no matter how imperfect.

The second day of hiking began with another vertical climb. Alana, a small, first-year Beehive, bounded up the steep wall like a mountain goat. A half mile farther down the trail three whistle blasts pierced the air. An emergency! Rochelle was sitting, white-faced, by the side of the path. She had suffered a bad bronchitis attack.
“Let’s split up her pack.”
“What can I carry?”
Concerned girls swarmed about the pack until all the gear was gone. When the last groups reached the scene, Rochelle was shivering in her sleeping bag. Brother Woolley later recalled, “When I first saw Rochelle, I didn’t see how she could travel any farther. But she was given a blessing and immediately stood up, put on her pack, and was fine the rest of the day.”

I never felt prompted to write to the editor of a magazine before, but I had to comment on “Battlefront or Homefront” in the June New Era. I totally agree with what was written. I was discharged from the U.S. Navy this April, and I can’t emphasize enough that girls about to enlist should do some very careful thinking about it. My advice is, don’t do it. No problem is drastic enough to warrant enlisting. I thought mine was. I went in because I owed outstanding educational loans and couldn’t find suitable employment to pay them back.
Sister Smith knows what she is talking about when she mentions the strain of regimentation and the difficulty of putting your life so completely in someone else’s charge. The problem the Relief Society visiting teachers mentioned is common. How very difficult it is to keep gospel standards in mind when one is continually subject to the “rowdy, cigarette-filled barracks and the regimentation of a job for which one is neither suited nor trained.” You can keep the standards if you apply yourself. Nevertheless, you can’t live in a mudhole without getting some mud on you. I’m not saying the whole military is a mudhole. I’m saying these influences are there, and they’re wearing sometimes when you are constantly subjected to them hour after hour, day in and day out, month after month. It rubs off. It can’t help but do so.
You might be subjected to a job you are not suited for. For a time I was ordered to be a deckhand for yard oilers. It was hard, cold, dirty, heavy, dangerous work. These days such jobs are opening up more and more to women, thanks to women’s liberation groups, and you don’t have the options of quitting as on a civilian job if you can’t do it or don’t like it. You do it. I was lucky. I was the only one transferred out of that job after two months. The average time for transfer was 12 months. I know the Lord had a hand in that situation.
The attitude toward women is different in the military. You are one of the troops and subjected to a lot of crudeness. Perhaps this is just a manifestation of the attitude toward women in our society today, but I find it especially so in the military. Don’t think that because you maintain a higher standard you will be exempted from this crudeness and treated differently. You usually will not be.
I was glad to see “Battlefront or Homefront” in the New Era.
Marie Ovington ThomasCharleston, South Carolina

“We won’t have any openings for months, and if you work here, you would have to work on Sundays.” The manager of the first store to which I applied for a job sent me on my way.
It was the summer before my senior year in high school, and I had been driving all over town filling out applications. My plan was to save up enough money to be able to attend college when I graduated. On each application, I indicated I could not work on Sundays. I was firm in my commitment to keep the Sabbath day holy.
A few days later, I handed a completed application to the manager of another store. He quickly scanned the paper and in disbelief asked, “You can’t work on Sundays?”
Without hesitation, I answered, “No.”
He laughed derisively and replied, “You’ll never get a job in this town!”
Feeling deflated, I left the store and climbed into my car. I said a quick prayer out loud, “Heavenly Father, what am I going to do?”
The unmistakable feeling from the Spirit came, and I knew everything would be all right. The prompting was so strong that I responded out loud, “OK.”
About one week later, I received a telephone call. It was the manager from the first store. He said that some of their young cashiers had been stealing money from the registers and that he had fired them. He asked me if I would like to come work for him, adding that I would only have to work on Sundays if there was an emergency. I worked at that store for about one year and only worked one Sunday.
When I began my job search, I decided I would simply have to find a position that did not require Sunday work. I know now that the Lord had a hand in helping me find that job. I have a sure testimony, just as Nephi, that “the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them” (1 Nephi 3:7).