Gospel Story Finder

When the two ladies first knocked on our door, I didn’t know what to think. They called themselves “sisters” and said they were missionaries for a church with a long name I couldn’t remember. I had never heard of that church and they didn’t look like missionaries to me. The missionaries I knew from other churches were older-looking men and women. They didn’t pay much attention to us because we were just children, even though I was almost ten years old and some people said I was a young man.
My mother invited the missionaries inside and they told us a story about a boy named Joseph who had a vision, just like the prophets in the Bible stories. When Joseph was eighteen, he was praying one night and an angel called Moroni visited him. The angel told him about some gold plates that were hidden in a mountainside. The angel told Joseph where to look for the plates and what to do with them. Imagine what it would be like if an angel came and told you about a secret hiding place for real gold plates! It sounded like a wonderful adventure. I was curious to know more about those gold plates.
The sisters showed us a book. They said it was from a translation of the plates that had ancient writing on them. God had given Joseph the power to translate the writing into a language we understood. All this happened in the United States, but the sisters said the book was for everyone, including everyone who lived in my country of Brazil. They left the book with us and told us to read it and pray about what we read. Mother kept it and asked them to come back another day.
Missionaries from other churches had visited our home before, so I didn’t think very much about the book or the sisters. Usually after some big discussions that I couldn’t understand, the missionaries would stop coming and mother would tell me that she didn’t believe what they taught her. I thought the same thing would happen with these two sisters, even though I thought they were nice.
But these sisters kept coming back. And each time they taught us, mother said she believed in what they said and wanted them to teach her more. I liked them more each time they came and I was as excited to see them as my little brother and sister were. The sisters taught lessons that I could understand and asked me questions that I could answer. They even wanted us to ask them questions if we didn’t understand. Then we would all play games together. The sisters said I was lindo with my straight brown hair and big brown eyes. I turned red because not very many people said I was handsome.
Soon we were going to church and doing things with the children in the Primary. My teacher was very friendly and even asked me to be one of the wise men in the festa de Natal, the Christmas play. My brother and sister were asked to sing in the choir. I read about the birth of Jesus in the Bible to memorize my part. The reis magos [three Magi] were important men and I was happy to play the part of one.
By this time, the sister missionaries asked us to be baptized. When I talked to mother about it, she said she prayed and knew what the sisters taught was true and she felt good about the Church. She knew the Book of Mormon was from God and she wanted me to know too. When I prayed about what the sisters taught, I felt good, but I wasn’t sure that I had a testimony of the Book of Mormon like they said I should have.
One day, the sisters brought us uma surpresa—a surprise that would help me and my sister and brother know the Book of Mormon was true. It was a storybook with colored pictures telling the stories of the prophets in the Book of Mormon. “This is my chance to know if it’s true or not,” I thought to myself. I wanted to read it right away.
After the sisters left that night, I got ready for bed and started reading the storybook. Then I remembered that the sisters told me to pray before I read it. I knelt down to say my prayers and I asked Heavenly Father to help me know that the Book of Mormon is true. I said if I could stay awake until I finished reading the book, I would know that it was true. Then I started reading and was excited about the big trip Lehi and his family took across the waters in the barca [ship], and the wars between the people in the land. I liked reading about the 2,000 jovens guerreiros—the young warriors who fought for their families. I wished I was one of them. Before I knew it, I was finished with the book. And I wasn’t even tired.
Then I knew that the Book of Mormon was true and that everything the sisters taught was right. But the greatest thing to know was that Heavenly Father loved me so much he answered my prayer. Now I knew that if I obeyed his commandments he would answer my prayers. I was ready to be baptized.
Mother and I prepared for our baptisms. My brother and sister were too young to be baptized but they couldn’t wait until it was their turn. When the Elder baptized me and I came out of the water, I was proud and excited to be a new member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints—a name I would never forget.

This sacred Easter morning, I’d like to share an experience that helped me understand how much we need Jesus Christ to guide us in our lives. I pray that the Holy Ghost will bear witness to you of the resurrected Christ and that our desire to follow Him will grow.
Several years ago, as a young lawyer, I was involved in resolving a border dispute between countries that had been at war. The work required me to travel on foot through remote areas that were part of the recent war zone. Thousands of land mines had been laid during the war. Expert deminers were there, working to deactivate the mines; however, to my surprise, not all locations of the mines were known. Consequently, on occasion people would accidentally step on them and be injured or killed.
To help me complete my work, I’d been provided a special guide named Winta. Winta was well known in the area. He was from a border town that had been attacked. He escaped and then volunteered to stay in the region throughout the war to observe the activities of the opposing army. He knew the terrain and what occurred during the war.
Because it was possible that some places I would travel had undetected mines, I was given the following instructions: Carefully follow your guide. Winta knows this border area from personal experience. Walk in his footsteps a few paces behind him. Where he goes, you go. Where he steps, you step. I was literally to follow in Winta’s footsteps.
For several days I followed Winta through many areas in the border region. At first I felt uncertain and apprehensive, hiking at times in abandoned trenches, destroyed villages, and other areas where the armies had been. The more we walked together and I remained safe, the more my confidence grew. Thanks to Winta, I completed my work without harm and safely returned home. As I followed in his footsteps, walking with my guide, I developed great trust and gratitude for him.

My family had family prayer and family home evening, and during those times, I learned the importance of communicating with Father in Heaven.
I remember one time when one of our puppies was run over by a car. Heartbroken, I carried the puppy into my mother. “He’s not going to live!” I cried. With her infinite wisdom, she helped me place the tiny body in a box and suggested we say a prayer. We knelt and prayed, then headed to the vet.
When the vet came into the room, he took one look at the puppy and asked why we had come. “There’s nothing wrong with this animal,” he said. But I knew that there had been—I had seen the car run over him. That was a great testimony to me about the power of prayer. I knew then and know today that Heavenly Father hears and answers our prayers.

When I reflect on the race of life, I remember another type of race, even from childhood days. When I was about ten, my boyfriends and I would take pocketknives in hand and, from the soft wood of a willow tree, fashion small toy boats. With a triangular-shaped cotton sail in place, each would launch his crude craft in the race down the relatively turbulent waters of the Provo River. We would run along the river’s bank and watch the tiny vessels sometimes bobbing violently in the swift current and at other times sailing serenely as the water deepened.
During such a race, we noted that one boat led all the rest toward the appointed finish line. Suddenly, the current carried it too close to a large whirlpool, and the boat heaved to its side and capsized. Around and around it was carried, unable to make its way back into the main current. At last it came to an uneasy rest at the end of the pool, amid the flotsam and jetsam that surrounded it.
The toy boats of childhood had no keel for stability, no rudder to provide direction, and no source of power. Inevitably their destination was downstream—the path of least resistance.

Every year, my husband and I and both our extended families go on a camping trip to celebrate the end-of-year holiday season. We choose a site that can accommodate our numbers and then camp from Christmas Eve until just after New Year’s Day.
These camps are a wonderful time for us to strengthen our family bonds. Because most of us are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, these camps also strengthen our testimony of Christ and of His Church as we celebrate His birth.
At the end of 2020, we found a site in Bikenibeu Village, Tarawa, which has a large mwaneaba (a traditional meetinghouse) that our whole family could sleep under. As always, my dear sister-in-law, Meteta, joined us in the camping festivities.
Meteta lived with my husband and me and, at 71 years old, she was more like a mother to us. She was still quite healthy and active, except that she walked on crutches as a result of a surgery she had 20 years earlier. Meteta loved our Christmas camping trips and eagerly participated in our family games and activities.
On the 31st of December, a few hours before our New Year’s celebration, Meteta was so excited. She took an early shower, got dressed and then sat down in the mwaneaba, ready to enjoy the night. Everyone else was rushing around, getting ready, too.
Then, in the midst of all the preparations, Meteta quietly said to me, "I have a burning pain in my chest." I dropped everything I was doing, called my husband and another sister-in-law over, and soon several of us were trying to help her.
It all happened so fast. About fifteen minutes later, Meteta started to gasp for air. My husband and son gave her a priesthood blessing while we waited for the ambulance. Sadly, the doctors couldn’t do much more for her. Soon after we arrived at the hospital, our Meteta was gone.
That evening, the world stopped for us. As we slowly made our way back to the campsite—to share the tragic news and inform everyone that we had to break camp—my husband and I reflected on Meteta’s final moments. The doctors had done their best to revive her, and those around us tried to give us hope, but we felt a strange kind of peace that told us it was Meteta’s time to go.
Our faith in Jesus Christ and our testimony of His gospel also helped the rest of our family accept what happened. We had just spent a week in both worldly and spiritual celebration, but as our holiday camp transitioned into a funeral, we tuned the world out completely.
We mourned the loss of our dear Meteta—she had been a great source of stability in our home, and we would have to make many adjustments without her—but in the wake of her passing, we talked more about the meaning of our own lives.
We focused on our Saviour and on His divine gift of exaltation. We expressed deep gratitude for His atoning sacrifice and His victory over the grave. It was a time of spiritual renewal for all of us. As we worked together to organise and prepare for Meteta’s earthly farewell, our thoughts were on Heavenly Father’s plan of salvation, and on His Son, who has made it possible for us to reunite with Meteta again, one day.
Our family holiday camps are always boisterous events, full of music and dance, talent shows, laughter and fun, but this particular Christmas, the happiness of our festivities seemed to dim in the light of true joy—the joy that our Saviour Jesus Christ brought when He was born into this world to give us life.
Our understanding of His gospel is what brought our family peace after Meteta’s passing. It helped us to remember the real meaning of Christmas.

“Hope you do well with Robby,” the secretary said as she handed me the list of names of the children in my new Primary Targeteers class. Someone else heard her and began to offer me her sympathies. Another sister nodded, and Robby’s former teacher was about to give me his awful past history when I excused myself.
I was surprised. I knew that sometimes school children were given “good” or “bad” labels by their teachers, but surely not Primary children!
That evening as I prayed, I thanked Father in Heaven for the opportunity to teach some of his children and asked for special help with Robby. I pleaded for guidance and vowed to do everything I could to understand Robby and help rid other people of their negative attitude toward him.
The next Sunday, Robby’s mother took me aside to warn me about her son’s hyperactivity and to offer me her support. She said she would be willing to discipline him at home if I told her when he misbehaved. I thanked her, but I didn’t tell her that this year I wanted things to be different.
The first week or two of Primary, things went smoothly. I wondered why anyone else had had problems with Robby. His sparkling blue eyes were full of mischief, but he was not disruptive. He just knew all the answers. The other boys had a hard time keeping up with him. They often relied on him to give the answers. And Robby took pleasure in the attention he got and sometimes showed off deliberately.
I soon realized that Robby wasn’t the only one who needed understanding; all seven of my students had special problems and needs. So each week as I taught them about important gospel principles, I also tried to meet those needs.
I found that Robby’s needs were not the hardest to meet—Steven’s were. Steven had a learning disability. He always arrived five or ten minutes after class had started and sat alone in the back corner. The other boys teased and made fun of him. And because he needed to feel accepted and have friends, he bore it all quietly—week after week.
One week when Steven arrived, he brightened up to see that the only empty seat was right in the middle of the rest of the boys. But they quickly grabbed the chair and placed it in the back corner, and Steven sat alone again.
I couldn’t say anything—not because I didn’t know what to say or do, but because the Spirit was telling me to let it happen. I wanted to scold the children but felt restrained. I could hardly believe it! But I continued with the lesson as though nothing was wrong.
All the next week I felt discouraged about my class. I didn’t know what to do to help Steven. Robby was becoming hard to control, and the rest of the boys still had needs I didn’t know how to meet. I prayed and received no definite solution—only the assurance that everything would be all right.
Robby was especially hard to keep quiet during opening exercises the next week. I dreaded taking six unruly boys into a tiny classroom. I dreaded watching Steven come through the door and seeing the hurt look in his eyes again.
I reached the classroom before my students did. As I opened the door, I felt a calm reassurance that today would be the beginning of the end of our problems.
The boys rushed in, rearranged the carefully placed chairs, and sat down. I stood up to give them a few instructions. But I wasn’t sure what I was going to say, and was a bit surprised at what I did say.
I told the boys that from now on we would have a sharing time in class. We would talk about the school day or whatever they wanted until Steven arrived. Then I explained Steven’s need to be accepted and to have friends. I told them that they needed Steven, too.
Steven opened the door, his head hanging lower than it ever had before. Robby jumped up, grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him into the room. The boys insisted that he sit in the middle of them. They welcomed him without hesitation. Steven smiled happily!
Robby finished his worksheet first—as usual. Then I quietly asked him to help Steven.
The rest of that year Robby helped Steven without being asked. One Sunday he worked hard with him for nearly ten minutes to write the word “prophet.” Another time he was so enthusiastic that he forgot to do his own worksheet. He cheered and praised Steven for each effort he made. And Robby’s good influence affected the other boys; when Robby wasn’t there, they eagerly took his place in helping Steven.
When Robby’s mother asked me how things were going, I told her about the work he was doing with Steven. I told her how much I loved him and that she should be proud of him. Delighted, she told me confidentially that she really had known all along that her son wasn’t a problem.
And when Steven’s mother asked me how Steven got along in the class, I was able to tell her honestly that everyone in the class loved him. He had often been rejected by others, but because of the inspiration of the Spirit in our Primary class, the other boys had accepted him and he had discovered his own self-worth.
How thankful I am for a loving Father who answers prayers, and who gave me the opportunity and the inspiration to help these young people grow!

While his mother was the dominant influence in Heber’s life, the Lord placed many others in his path to help guide and direct him. One of the first of these associations was with President Brigham Young (1801–77). Young Heber, too poor to own a sled, entertained himself in the winter by catching hold of passing vehicles, sliding on the snow a block or two, and letting go. One day when he was six years old, Heber caught hold of President Young’s sleigh. As Heber later told the story, President Young “was very fond of a fine team, and was given to driving quite rapidly. I therefore found myself skimming along with such speed that I dared not jump off, and after riding some time I became very cold.”
Finally President Young noticed Heber, told his driver to stop, tucked the cold child under buffalo robes, and then asked who he was. When President Young discovered that the boy was Jedediah M. Grant’s son, he expressed his love for Heber’s father and the hope that Heber would be as fine a man. Before President Young dropped Heber off, he invited the boy to visit him in his office. Thus began a friendship that lasted until President Young’s death. Of this friendship, Heber said, “I learned not only to respect and venerate him, but to love him with an affection akin to that which I imagine I would have felt for my own father, had I been permitted to know and return a father’s love.”5

One day after having a good time cracking jokes at the expense of one of my closest friends, I began to feel guilty. It had seemed so harmless at the time. I tried to fight off my guilty feelings by telling myself, It was just a joke. She needs to lighten up. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that was all it ever was with me—a joke.
I couldn’t help but think back to how I had been acting. It had taken me a while to notice, even though others had told me, “You used to be so nice to everyone.” A few had even said, “I remember when you used to never say anything rude about anyone.” At the time I hadn’t thought much of what they were telling me. I just thought it was their problem if they didn’t like it.
But I really had changed, and it all began with a few harmless jokes. I had always loved to make people laugh, so when people began to tell me how funny I was or ask me how I could come up with such funny things, I naturally loved it. I figured if they liked how funny I was then, they would love it when I really started cracking jokes.
For a while I was right. But soon I was going overboard and taking two of my best friends with me. People began to feel insecure when they were around me. They were always very uncomfortable. I was even told by a boy who had been one of my good friends the year before that it seemed like I was thriving on making people mad. I don’t see how people like my close friends could have stuck by me. I guess I was just one lucky girl.
I decided that maybe I should kneel down and pray about what I was doing. I now had a habit that seemed impossible to break. I prayed wholeheartedly, but when an answer didn’t come immediately I began to doubt the Lord would help me. I remembered that sometimes it just takes patience, so I decided to continue praying until I received an answer.
After a week of prayer both morning and night, I was nearly ready to give up. One day after I finished praying, I propped my head up against the headboard and reached for my scriptures. I closed my eyes for a moment. I was feeling miserable, and I couldn’t help thinking about the story in the scriptures that taught if you wasted your talents you would lose them (see Matt. 25:15–30).
All of a sudden an answer came to me. If I could get in the habit of doing bad deeds, I could definitely work on doing good deeds until soon I wouldn’t have to think about doing good. It would just come naturally. I knew it wouldn’t be easy at first, but it was definitely a skill I needed.
I prayed for Heavenly Father to be with me. I began to plan service projects, volunteer for charities, and do many other positive things. It’s been a year since I started. I’m not yet to the point where I would like to be, and it’s not always easy for me to control what I say. But I’m getting there.
Old habits do die hard. But now I’m working to develop a new, better habit that I hope will be around for a long time.

A few years ago, while on a mission tour in Europe, I was asked to interview a young man who was recently out and wanted to go home. He had not been away from home before in his life and he was homesick and in despair in a strange country. He had actually run away once, but had come back.
I had quite a conversation with this young man, and from my own missionary experience I knew something of the despair that can come into the life of a missionary when he first goes into the field and begins to make that initial adjustment. If he can just hang on through those early trials, then gradually he will get into the spirit of his mission and find the peace and joy that every missionary has a right to experience.
At first he was adamant in his desire to return home, but gradually the spirit of the conversation began to change. We talked about his call from a prophet. We talked about the love of his parents and their desire for him to stay and succeed. We talked about those he had been called among to teach, and finally I asked, “Elder, do your father and mother want you home?”
His answer was, “No.”
“Well, do your brothers and sisters want you home?”
And he said, “No.”
Then I said, “Does your girl friend really want you home?”
And he said, “I guess not.”
I then said, “Elder, does anyone want you home right now?”
He said, “I guess not,” and then he said with a new determination, “Brother Dunn, I think maybe I better try to stay.” He had made a vitally important decision in his life—he had decided to hang on.
The months passed and one day my secretary asked if I could take a minute to see a recently returned missionary. As I walked out of my office, there was this same missionary. I didn’t recognize him at first, he seemed taller because he was standing straight. Unlike the first time, he looked me right in the eye, and his whole countenance was smiling. I can’t remember what we talked about, but I shall never forget his image. He was going home now, a servant of the Lord, having completed an honorable mission. His roots were reaching downward; and although there will be the usual trials ahead, he knows something of what it means to hang on for a while longer when everything looks its darkest.

On Sunday Keith was getting ready to leave for church when the doorbell rang. It was a group of his friends holding bats and balls and baseball mitts. “Hey, Keith,” his neighbor Matthew said, “we’re going to the school to play, and we need another baseman. Can you come with us?”
“No,” mumbled Keith, feeling self-conscious in his Sunday clothes. “I’m going to church.”
“See!” an older boy in the back spoke up loudly. “That’s a Johnson boy for you.”
As the group walked away, Keith could still hear the big boy’s voice. “His brother made the whole school team lose because he wouldn’t play on Sunday, either.”
Keith felt tears sting his eyes, and he quickly closed the door.
“Who was that, Keith?” asked his mother.
Keith spoke sadly. “My friends don’t like me because I can’t play with them on Sunday. Sometimes I wish that I wasn’t a Johnson boy!”
Keith’s mother sat him on the couch next to her and put her arm around him. “Sometimes it’s not easy to do the right thing. It wasn’t always easy for Jason either.”
“It wasn’t?”
“No. But he knew that he had an even greater name to live up to than just Johnson. It’s the same name you’ll take upon you when you are baptized.”
“Jesus’ name?”
“Yes, and you’ll also promise to always remember Jesus and keep His commandments, just as you always think about Jason now and try to do all that he would do.”
“You mean Jason is trying to be like Jesus?”
Keith’s mother nodded.
“Now I really want to be like Jesus and Jason.”
Later, as they entered the church, the bishop shook Keith’s hand. “How’s the Johnson boy?” he asked. “Are you getting excited about your baptism?”
“You bet!” Keith grinned. “Bishop, is it all right if I invite my neighbors Matthew and Mrs. Peters, and my teacher Mr. Lee to my baptism?”
“Sounds like a good idea to me.” The Bishop winked at Keith’s parents and said, “It sounds just like something Jason would do.”

Photo illustrations by David Stoker
The reverberating dance music echoed loudly down the church hallway into the lobby where I sat with a set of scriptures open in my lap. I could hear the other youth laughing and socializing in the cultural hall, and I knew that somewhere down there the handful of young men from my small branch were catching up with old acquaintances.
I was the youngest person from my branch there and was still fairly new to Church dances. I wanted to meet other LDS youth and wanted to dance with some of the young women from my stake, but I always felt too out of place and self-conscious. So, I sat in the lobby.
This wasn’t my first dance, either. I’d been to a handful before, and some of the older young women had even asked me to dance, but that only made me more self-conscious. A hundred personal flaws would rush through my mind, and I knew that they were just being nice to the new kid. I felt that no one really wanted to dance with me.
That’s why this time I decided to stay in the lobby and leave them to enjoy themselves without worrying about me. Several times youth leaders and others from my branch tried to convince me to join the activity, but using the scriptures as a shield, I argued that I was happier studying the scriptures, idly reading about the bravery of Nephi, Captain Moroni, and the stripling warriors without putting their examples into practice. I went home that evening feeling miserable and alone.
At subsequent dances, I began to notice something when I went to the gym: as slow songs were played, most of the young women would sit down and remain seated until the next fast song. Though the more confident young men asked some girls to dance, they always seemed to pick the same two or three young women (generally from their wards). This meant that most of the girls sat through the slow songs watching from the sidelines.
I don’t remember exactly when the dance challenge first came about, but a couple of the young men from my branch decided that the young women should be able to dance to the slow songs. The challenge was simple: Ask a different young woman to dance for every slow song, and never sit out a dance.
Taking strength from the stories of Nephi, Captain Moroni, and the stripling warriors, I took the challenge to heart. For every dance after that, I did what I could to ensure that every young woman at every dance would have the chance to dance.
I started by asking any young women who were away from the center of the dance floor or who were from wards or branches that didn’t appear to have any young men there. I often had enough time to ask some girls twice, having danced with every young woman at least once.
Because of this goal, I had the opportunity to get to know dozens of incredible young women over the years, and a girl declined to dance with me on only two or three occasions.
The last youth dance I attended was held immediately after seminary graduation. I looked around the small gathering and noticed the faces of dozens of young women I’d danced with during the last three years. I felt grateful for the experiences I’d had, so I began the dance challenge again for one last time, inviting many girls to dance. Some of the young women were new, but most were now old acquaintances.
As one young woman eagerly jumped up to dance with me, I remembered the first time I’d asked her to dance three years before. I’d been very intimidated to ask her, because she was very beautiful, modest, and mature, and it seemed to me that if any young woman deserved to dance with someone better than me, then it would be her.
As we talked about our plans for college and careers during that last dance, she changed the topic very abruptly.
“I just want to tell you thank you,” she said with a sincere smile.
Caught by surprise, I croaked out a confused response: “For what?”
“When I first started coming to these dances,” she said, “no one would dance with me or the other girls from my branch. I really wanted to get to know other LDS people, but I’m shy. So I would sit in a chair and wait and wait, but none of the boys would ever ask. It was so humiliating that one time, while sitting and watching other people, I vowed that I would never come to a Church dance again.
“That was just before you asked me to dance for the first time. Because of that, I came to the next dance, where you asked me again. I kept coming to dances these past few years because I knew that even if no one else would ask me to dance, you would. So, thank you.”
I found myself at a loss for words. This amazing daughter of God, whom any young man should be honored to dance with, had experienced the same struggles I’d felt while sitting in that lobby.
I realized that all my fears hadn’t been anything to worry about and that by applying the principles of courage, faith, and consistency, I was able to bring happiness into both my life and into the lives of those around me.

I recently learned another significant lesson from my father about his love for me. A few weeks ago the state 3-A basketball championship was being played on a Saturday night in Ogden. I was on Provo High’s team, which was to play Mountain View High School for the championship. After the first quarter the team met for a huddle. As I got up off the nice soft chair I had become accustomed to, my eye caught sight of my mom and dad sitting on the front row. This might seem insignificant to you, but I was thrilled because in Provo that same night was one of the most important events of the year. It wasn’t my father’s inauguration or the annual commencement exercises. It was the BYU-University of Utah basketball game. But Dad left that game, as well as several General Authorities and other dignitaries he was hosting, to come to my game. That demonstration of love meant so much to me, not because my game was more important, but because I was more important. Is it any wonder I want to show that love in return? We do have a bond, not just as father to son—but friend to friend as well.

The wind and snow whirling outside the bakery became just a part of the baker’s beautiful dream of fortune, as he dozed contentedly next to the warm brick oven.
Suddenly the baker’s nose twitched. His eyes flew open. The front legs of the chair he was leaning back on hit the floor with a bang!
“Ach du Lieber!” (Oh, dear me!) he exclaimed. “My pretzels! They will be burned!”
He grabbed the long-handled baker’s peel (paddle) and hurriedly removed the pretzels from the oven. There was a different aroma coming from the little knotted pieces of dough he had so carefully prepared and put into the oven a short time ago. And the appearance was not quite like the breadlike morsels he was used to turning out for Mr. Schnitzel’s bakery.
“Ach! Ach!” moaned the little baker. “Mr. Schnitzel will be angry!”
Quickly he gathered the hard little biscuits into a basket and put them by the back door. Hastily he began knotting the remaining dough so that he could get another batch of pretzels out of the oven before closing time. Mr. Schnitzel would soon come in from the front of the bakery with his ring of keys and say, “Well, Hermann, did you earn your money today?”
Hermann had just begun cleaning the oven after taking out the new batch, when he heard Mr. Schnitzel at the back door. Oh, dear, worried Hermann. Why is he at the back door today? As expected, Mr. Schnitzel boomed, “Well, Hermann, did you earn your money today?” Before the baker could answer, the owner asked, “What’s this?” Mr. Schnitzel had noticed the basket of overdone pretzels. Anger colored his plump cheeks. “Maybe you forgot how to make pretzels after all this time? Or maybe you think you can improve on the old monks’ way?” (The first pretzels were made by monks as a reward for children who learned their prayers. The pretzels were soft and breadlike, and they were twisted to represent arms folded in prayer.)
Hermann had not meant to offend anyone. Completely miserable, he was certain that the price of the wasted ingredients would be taken out of his meager salary. He sputtered and stuttered and waved his hands about but could find nothing to say.
He watched Mr. Schnitzel turn a pretzel over and over with disdain, sniff it, and finally take a tiny bite. The crispy morsel broke apart in his hand. He chewed a piece, then another. “Hmmmmmm!” he said at last. “This is not bad, Hermann. Do you think you could make just one batch like this tomorrow? We will see how the customers like crunchy pretzels.”
Hermann nodded his head in disbelief as he watched Mr. Schnitzel fill his pockets with the toasty pretzels to take home to his wife and children.
As soon as the door closed, Hermann danced a little jig. His luck had turned! He had invented something!
Crispy pretzels became a great favorite with everyone, and today there is a wide variety of pretzel shapes and sizes and flavorings. The pretiola of the Italian monks has become a treasured snack the world over.

At the end of my junior year of high school, I was looking forward to my senior year. I believed that nothing was going to go wrong. But was I ever mistaken.
That summer I started dating a boy named Tom. We had been friends for about six years. Tom had had a few problems with the Word of Wisdom and morality, but that was in the past. I was sure I could change him.
Tom and I dated each other for a few months with no problems. He knew where and what I stood for, and he was okay with it. After four months, Tom moved 1,500 miles away to college. I thought I was so much in love that I couldn’t live without him. I knew he loved me. After all, he had told me so.
Tom called every other day, and we would talk into the night. Then Tom started coming home almost every month. That’s when the trouble started. Tom kept telling me we were going to get married after he finished his first year of college and I had graduated from high school. I wanted to believe we could get married and live happily ever after. I thought I was so in love with him that I gave in slowly to the pressure he put on me. We ended up necking and petting. Then he would go back to school and leave me for another month. I would wait by the phone every night for his call.
I started feeling guilty after a while and would take my frustrations out on others. I started fighting with my family and friends, and my grades started going down. I couldn’t eat or sleep, and I was feeling more and more alone.
One night my friends and I were sitting around my kitchen table talking about our futures. Right then it hit me. Everything I had ever wanted was being thrown away just because I knew if I didn’t give in to my boyfriend for a few minutes, he might leave me. I realized I wasn’t even worthy of a temple marriage right then.
I decided to call my bishop. I told him I would like to talk to him for a few minutes and made an appointment for the next night. I hung up the phone feeling better than I had felt in a long time. I knew this was the right thing to do.
I found myself sitting in the bishop’s office the next evening, nervous and unsure of myself. After a brief bit of small talk, the bishop asked what he could do for me. I started crying and told him I had had a few problems with Tom. I wanted to get rid of all the guilt and anguish I had building up inside of me. We talked about how to fully repent. And if I really wanted to fully repent, I would probably have to stop seeing Tom. Then the bishop explained some reasons why. I left his office feeling refreshed and more sure of myself. Now I had to tell Tom.
I went home and prayed that night in a way I had never prayed before. I really talked to Heavenly Father as if he were sitting next to me. I poured out my heart and soul that night and many nights after.
I didn’t know if I could bear breaking up with Tom. The night before he was to come home, I got down on my knees and asked the Lord to let me know that what I was supposed to do was right. Almost immediately I had such a feeling of peace and calmness come over me that I couldn’t deny I was about to do the right thing.
The next day I told Tom everything I was feeling. I told him we couldn’t see each other any more. He was upset and said some hurtful things, but I knew I was doing the right thing.
After I broke up with Tom, everything didn’t immediately fall into place as I thought it would. It actually got harder for a while. I was feeling miserable and made the people around me miserable too. But my Young Women leader gave me a quotation that says, “If a man is unworthy to take you to the temple, then he isn’t worthy of your undying love.” I think about that every time I catch myself wondering if I could still be with Tom.
I have learned through all of this that true happiness is feeling the Lord’s spirit where you are and in everything you are doing. If you can’t feel at peace doing something by yourself or with friends, then it probably isn’t the right thing to do. I have also learned if a boy really does love you, he won’t just tell you so; he will show you by treating you with respect and by helping you reach the righteous goals you have set for yourself.
Look to the Lord for his guidance and listen for his still, small voice, which will help you make the right decisions, and you will find what true happiness is.

“Abracadabra, toads in a pond,
Troubles now vanish by magical wand!”
Poof! Your previously disaster-zone-like bedroom is now instantly clean and tidy. Nice! Clearly, you scored a real treasure at the yard sale of the retired stage magician down the street. His old wand is going to make your life so much better.
Time to try it again!
Poof! This time, all the grades on your midterm report card transform into a solid line of A’s in sparkling golden ink.
Oh, yeah. You could get used to this.
There’s only one catch. All these magical alterations are changed in appearance only. Because, you know, your neighbor didn’t actually saw his assistant in half night after night. It’s smoke and mirrors. Illusion.
Your closet door bulges suspiciously for a moment before flinging open and spilling out everything that had moments earlier been on the floor. Drat. And those golden-inked A’s? They have no bearing whatsoever on your real grades.
Still want to keep waving that wand?

“For family night tonight we’re going to go over our year’s supply,” Mr. McKinley said. The turned up noses and moans from the children on the couch let him know that his announcement was not being received well, but he ignored that and went on. “Well, Honey, how do things in the storeroom look?”
“Not too bad,” replied Mrs. McKinley, “but I do plan on canning cherries, apricots, and all the peaches I can get this year. I ought to do some applesauce too. That’ll mean a lot of help from you girls.” There were more moans of protest; then she went on. “Like I said, we’re not too bad when it comes to food supplies, but I’ve been thinking, if it ever comes to a point where there are no stores to go to like the prophet said, well, food won’t be the only thing we’ll need to have on hand. What about things like toothpaste?”
The younger children caught on immediately and made a game of it.
“Or soap,” one added.
“Or toilet paper,” another giggled.
Fifteen-year-old Lori, who had been tuned out up until now, suddenly came alive. “Or makeup!” she exclaimed, but immediately became embarrassed at having voiced her thoughts.
“Makeup?” her older brother, Keith, said incredulously. Keith was almost three years older than Lori and seemed to find pleasure in constantly teasing her.
“Is Lori going to get a year’s supply of makeup?” asked Bob, a younger McKinley. “That’s dumb!” The other children agreed and began to giggle.
“Now hold on a second,” Keith put in. “Maybe it’s not so dumb after all. Maybe Lori’s doing us a favor. I mean, if we’re all going to be suffering from starvation, we don’t need to suffer from having to look at her real face too!”
Bob took the lead from his elder brother. “Maybe it’s not for us after all. I’ll bet it’s so she can look good just in case Tony Wilkins comes over to borrow a cup of whole wheat flour during the famine.” Bob batted his eyelashes and flipped a lock of imaginary hair over his shoulder, while Keith pretended to be starving and begging for some food. The two little McKinley girls laughed with delight at their brothers’ antics and began chanting, “Lori’s got a boyfriend.”
Lori wasn’t amused. “Cut it out,” she said crossly. “I was just joking. Don’t you guys know a joke when you hear one?”
That only egged the boys on. But soon dad intervened and order was restored. The rest of the evening was spent evaluating the family’s preparedness needs, but Lori was miles away. She hadn’t been completely truthful when she said she’d only been joking. In fact, it was a lie. She was seriously considering putting in a supply of makeup. After all, just because a girl was going through hard times didn’t mean she had to look it. So while the family discussed how many bars of soap and boxes of laundry detergent it would take to get them through a year, Lori tried to figure how long a tube of mascara would last her and where she could hide 12 containers of lip gloss.
It was only a few days before Mrs. McKinley was able to get a lug of cherries, and Lori found herself stuck in the kitchen early in her summer vacation. Not that canning was so bad—her mother made the job as pleasant as possible—but it seemed as if she had to do most of the work. It was true that she could fill three bottles with cherries in less time than it took for her two younger sisters combined to get one bottle half full. Their deep purple tongues and lips gave evidence to part of the reason for this. Despite mom’s constant warnings not to eat too many cherries or they’d end up with a stomachache, it seemed to Lori that every other cherry ended up in their mouths rather than the bottles. And when mom wasn’t looking, they made a game out of spitting the seeds at each other.
Lori really didn’t mind helping out, though. In fact, she was just beginning to enjoy herself when the back door swung open and in walked Keith followed closely by Tony Wilkins with a basketball under his arm. Lori ducked her head. All she’d had time for that morning was a quick face washing and a hasty ponytail. She wondered how Keith could be so callous as to bring Tony here when he knew they were canning. All she could hope for was that he wouldn’t notice her. She wondered if there was some way she could crawl under the kitchen sink without being noticed.
“Well, well, well,” Keith said grandly, “so the women of the McKinley family are busy putting up our year’s supply!” The younger girls giggled and threw cherries at him.
“Whoa,” mom commanded, stopping their siege before it really got started. Keith nudged Tony as if he’d missed his cue, and mischievous grins spread on their faces.
“Hey, Lori,” Tony said, “I’m really surprised to see you canning cherries. I mean, I understood you were more concerned about storing things of greater necessity, like makeup.” Lori’s face went red with anger and embarrassment, and the boys knew they’d hit their mark. She kept her head down while they rummaged in the fridge. They soon found two bottles of pop, and after grabbing a handful of cookies, headed back outside.
Lori stood silently at the sink. The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. When Keith came in alone later that day, she met him at the door with a glare.
“How could you?” she began coldly, but the coldness soon rose to hysteria. “You’re the most awful brother anyone could have, telling Tony about my makeup. You’re terrible; I wish I didn’t even have a brother.” With that she burst into tears and ran upstairs to her room.
Keith, who had been enjoying her outburst as a sign of his victory, was stunned by Lori’s tears. He had badgered her an awful lot before. He had seen her red in the face with anger and heard her yell until he thought she’d break a blood vessel, but he’d never seen her cry.
“We were only joking,” he explained half to himself and half to his mother who had entered in time to see the episode. “I didn’t think she’d take it so seriously.”
“Well,” Mrs. McKinley explained, “things like that and crushes on boys like Tony are awfully serious when a girl is 15. It would help if you were a bit more considerate to her.”
“I guess you’re right,” he admitted. “I did push it a bit too far.” He thought for a moment, then headed for the door. “I’ll be back in a while,” he said to his mother.
It was almost dinner time when Lori heard a tap on her bedroom door. She had spent most of the afternoon there crying and scolding herself for crying in front of Keith. “You should’ve been tough. Now he knows he’s got you and he’ll never let up.”
Lori sat up. “Who’s there?” she called.
“Me, Keith.”
“Go away.”
“No, please let me in. I just want to talk to you. No jokes, I promise.”
Lori finally relented. “The door isn’t locked.”
Keith came in cautiously. “How’s it going?” he asked.
“I’m okay, no thanks to you.” She wanted to say something about her crying and spending the afternoon in her room having nothing to do with his and Tony’s dumb joke, but she couldn’t think of anything that sounded very convincing.
“Here,” Keith held out a slip of paper to her. “I guess it’s sort of an apology.”
On the paper was scrawled a hasty attempt at poetry:
The typical Mormon family
Is concerned with preparation,
For times of famine, drought, or need,
Or just plain desperation.
So the father builds a storage shed
And fills it full of wheat,
And the brother stacks the logs for fuel
In piles tall and neat.
Home production is a project
The Mormon mothers take up,
But the typical teenage girl just wants
A year’s supply of makeup.
Lori couldn’t help but smile as she read the poem. “Typical, huh? So you really think I’m typical, not weird?”
“Oh no, not weird. If anything maybe a little abnormal, but only if the ‘ab’ meant above.” Keith noticed that it was kind of fun to tease Lori this way; it made her smile. “I mean, there aren’t many girls who are thinking far enough ahead to worry about how they’re going to look in the coming hard times, and we guys appreciate a girl who cares about how she looks.”
Lori grinned at his earnestness, but then her face fell. “What about Tony? I’ll bet he thinks I’m weird.”
“Oh, no,” Keith put in hastily. “In fact, he told me he thought you were good-looking!”
“Really? What did he say, I mean exactly.”
“Well … uh …”
“Come on, word for word.”
“Well, his exact words were, ‘I don’t see why a cute little kid like her should be worried about makeup.’”
“A cute little kid, huh?” Lori said with disappointment. “And I bet you agreed.”
“No,” Keith defended. “As a matter of fact, I said, ‘She’s not really a little kid. She’s only three years younger than we are, and when we get home from our missions, that’s probably just the age girls we’ll be looking at.’ And he said he hadn’t thought of that before and agreed. Then he said maybe he’d have to take a second look at you.”
Lori squealed with delight. “Oh thank you, Keith!”
He just smiled and shrugged. “How’s your makeup supply coming?”
Lori hesitated, then opened up the bottom drawer of her dresser and took out a sweater that was folded on top. Under it was a box with six tubes of mascara. “That’s all I’ve been able to get so far, and I spent all of my babysitting money on that. You should’ve seen the funny look they gave me at the drug store when I bought six mascaras.”
“If you think they looked at you funny, you should’ve seen the look they gave me when I bought four tubes of ‘kissing potion.’”
“What?”
In answer, Keith stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out four dainty glass tubes filled with lip gloss. “The prophet says to get our supplies in as fast as possible, and I figured you might be able to use some help.”
“Thanks, Keith,” Lori said warmly. “I guess you’re not such a bad brother after all.”
“Yes,” said Keith, using a deep voice and sticking his chest out melodramatically, “the true character of us good guys always comes out in the end.”
Laughing, Lori threw a pillow across the room at him, just as mom’s voice drifted up the stairs calling them to dinner.

Next Bob planned for his English exam. They had studied 12 authors, but there were only three essay questions on the famous authors. If he reviewed two authors a night, he’d still have Sunday without any studying. A light review before the exam and he would be ready. Bob hoped the plan would work. He always tightened during tests and forgot almost everything.
Meanwhile, for the English test Bob had made some calculations on which three authors Miss Elgart would ask about. She seemed to have four favorites. Bob talked to some of the students who had taken English from her the year before. He found out that she didn’t ask trivial or tricky questions. He studied all twelve authors but put extra work in on her four favorites.
Bob smiled broadly to himself as he looked at the test. He was two-thirds right. Two of the three questions asked about the authors he had singled out. “Not bad!” he said to himself.
Bob prepared to make an outline of each author. There were 45 minutes left in the class period when they received the test. It consisted of three questions, allowing 15 minutes per question. The first question was, “What were the main influences on Hemingway’s writing style?” Bob rewrote the question at the top of his outline: “What happened in Hemingway’s life to make him write the way he did?” The following is his outline using the facts he knew about Hemingway:
Born in a small town in Minnesota.
Father educated as a doctor.
Reporter for newspaper.
Short, brief newspaper style.
Factual.
Service with Italian army.
Saw death and destruction.
Was hurt himself.
Spanish Civil War.
Politics.
More destruction.
Personal Reactions.
Sadness over human misery.
Anger at human folly.
Greatest war story: “A Farewell to Arms.”
By Friday the test results were back. Drew got a 91 on the math test. He missed half of one problem, but had even been given part credit for his work on the one he hadn’t finished. Ninety-one was third best in the class and better than Drew had ever done. Joan’s history score was the highest in the class. Bob was walking on air when he got his English exam back. He had never done better than a C+ on an English test. The A- he received was better than he had dared hope. He had come from his usual C- to a B+ in history. But Drew felt prouder than both. Bob and Joan. He had gone from his usual D+ to a solid B on his history test.

Sometimes we turn from the Lord because other people have made or are making mistakes. I don’t want to forget the story of the farmer who felt he had been wronged in the distribution of irrigation water and that the watermaster was at fault.
Having angered himself into distraction over the seeming unfairness, he sought out the watermaster, grasped him by the shirt bitterly, and said, “Tom, as long as you are watermaster, I won’t take another drop out of that ditch.”
What happened to that farmer? Well, he was a stubborn man. He kept his foolish vow. And he and his property dried up and blew away.

President Monson, we love, honor, and sustain you! This historically significant announcement with respect to missionary service is inspiring. I can remember the excitement in 1960 when the age for young men serving was reduced from 20 years of age to 19. I arrived in the British Mission as a newly called 20-year-old. The first 19-year-old in our mission was Elder Jeffrey R. Holland, an incredible addition. He was a few months shy of being 20. Then over the course of a year, many more 19-year-olds arrived. They were obedient and faithful missionaries, and the work progressed. I am confident that an even greater harvest will be achieved now as righteous, committed missionaries fulfill the Savior’s commandment to preach His gospel.
In my view, those of you in the rising generation are better prepared than any previous generation. Your knowledge of the scriptures is particularly impressive. However, the challenges your generation faces as you prepare for service are similar to those faced by all members of the Church. We are all aware the culture in most of the world is not conducive to righteousness or spiritual commitment. Throughout history, Church leaders have warned the people and taught repentance. In the Book of Mormon, Alma the Younger was so concerned about unrighteousness and lack of commitment that he resigned as chief judge, the leader of the people of Nephi, and concentrated all his efforts on his prophetic calling.1
In one of the most profound verses in all of scripture, Alma proclaims, “If ye have experienced a change of heart, and if ye have felt to sing the song of redeeming love, I would ask, can ye feel so now?”2
Local leaders across the world report that when viewed as a whole, Church members, especially our youth, have never been stronger. But they almost always raise two concerns: first, the challenge of increased unrighteousness in the world and, second, the apathy and lack of commitment of some members. They seek counsel about how to help members to follow the Savior and achieve a deep and lasting conversion.
This question, “Can ye feel so now?” rings across the centuries. With all that we have received in this dispensation—including the Restoration of the fulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ, the outpouring of spiritual gifts, and the indisputable blessings of heaven—Alma’s challenge has never been more important.
Soon after Ezra Taft Benson was called as an Apostle in 1943, President George Albert Smith3 counseled, “Your mission … is to … warn the people … in as kind a way as possible that repentance will be the only panacea for the ills of this world.”4 When this statement was made, we were in the midst of the conflagration of World War II.
Today moral deterioration has escalated. One prominent writer recently said, “Everyone knows the culture is poisonous, and nobody expects that to change.”5 The constant portrayal of violence and immorality in music, entertainment, art, and other media in our day-to-day culture is unprecedented. This was dramatically described by a highly respected Baptist theologian when he stated, “The spiritual immune system of an entire civilization has been wounded.”6
It is not surprising that some in the Church believe they can’t answer Alma’s question with a resounding yes. They do not “feel so now.” They feel they are in a spiritual drought. Others are angry, hurt, or disillusioned. If these descriptions apply to you,7 it is important to evaluate why you cannot “feel so now.”
Many who are in a spiritual drought and lack commitment have not necessarily been involved in major sins or transgressions, but they have made unwise choices. Some are casual in their observance of sacred covenants. Others spend most of their time giving first-class devotion to lesser causes. Some allow intense cultural or political views to weaken their allegiance to the gospel of Jesus Christ. Some have immersed themselves in Internet materials that magnify, exaggerate, and, in some cases, invent shortcomings of early Church leaders. Then they draw incorrect conclusions that can affect testimony. Any who have made these choices can repent and be spiritually renewed.
Immersion in the scriptures is essential for spiritual nourishment.8 The word of God inspires commitment and acts as a healing balm for hurt feelings, anger, or disillusionment.9 When our commitment is diminished for any reason, part of the solution is repentance.10 Commitment and repentance are closely intertwined.
C. S. Lewis, the striving, pragmatic Christian writer, poignantly framed the issue. He asserted that Christianity tells people to repent and promises them forgiveness; but until people know and feel they need forgiveness, Christianity does not speak to them. He stated, “When you know you are sick, you will listen to the doctor.”11
The Prophet Joseph pointed out that before your baptism, you could be on neutral ground between good and evil. But “when you joined this Church you enlisted to serve God. When you did that you left the neutral ground, and you never can [go] back.” His counsel was that we must never forsake the Master.12
Alma emphasizes that through the Atonement of Jesus Christ, “the arms of mercy are extended” to those who repent.13 He then asks penetrating and ultimate questions, such as: Are we prepared to meet God? Are we keeping ourselves blameless? We should all contemplate these questions. Alma’s own experience in failing to follow his faithful father and then coming to a dramatic understanding of how much he needed forgiveness and what it meant to sing the song of redeeming love is powerful and compelling.
While anything that lessens commitment is of consequence, two relevant challenges are both prevalent and significant. The first is unkindness, violence, and domestic abuse. The second is sexual immorality and impure thoughts. These often precede and are at the root of the choice to be less committed.
How we treat those closest to us is of fundamental importance. Violence, abuse, lack of civility, and disrespect in the home are not acceptable—not acceptable for adults and not acceptable for the rising generation. My father was not active in the Church but was a remarkably good example, especially in his treatment of my mother. He used to say, “God will hold men responsible for every tear they cause their wives to shed.” This same concept is emphasized in “The Family: A Proclamation to the World.” It reads, “[Those] who abuse spouse or offspring … will one day stand accountable before God.”14 Regardless of the culture in which we are raised, and whether our parents did or did not abuse us, we must not physically, emotionally, or verbally abuse anyone else.15
The need for civility in society has never been more important. The foundation of kindness and civility begins in our homes. It is not surprising that our public discourse has declined in equal measure with the breakdown of the family. The family is the foundation for love and for maintaining spirituality. The family promotes an atmosphere where religious observance can flourish. There is indeed “beauty all around when there’s love at home.”16
Sexual immorality and impure thoughts violate the standard established by the Savior.17 We were warned at the beginning of this dispensation that sexual immorality would be perhaps the greatest challenge.18 Such conduct will, without repentance, cause a spiritual drought and loss of commitment. Movies, TV, and the Internet often convey degrading messages and images. President Dieter F. Uchtdorf and I were recently in an Amazon jungle village and observed satellite dishes even on some of the small, simply built huts. We rejoiced at the wonderful information available in this remote area. We also recognized there is virtually no place on earth that cannot be impacted by salacious, immoral, and titillating images. This is one reason why pornography has become such a plague in our day.
I recently had an insightful conversation with a 15-year-old Aaronic Priesthood holder. He helped me understand how easy it is in this Internet age for young people to almost inadvertently be exposed to impure and even pornographic images. He pointed out that for most principles the Church teaches, there is at least some recognition in society at large that violating these principles can have devastating effects on health and well-being. He mentioned cigarette smoking, drug use, and alcohol consumption by young people. But he noted that there is no corresponding outcry or even a significant warning from society at large about pornography or immorality.
My dear brothers and sisters, this young man’s analysis is correct. What is the answer? For years, prophets and apostles have taught the importance of religious observance in the home.19
Parents, the days are long past when regular, active participation in Church meetings and programs, though essential, can fulfill your sacred responsibility to teach your children to live moral, righteous lives and walk uprightly before the Lord. With President Monson’s announcement this morning, it is essential that this be faithfully accomplished in homes which are places of refuge where kindness, forgiveness, truth, and righteousness prevail. Parents must have the courage to filter or monitor Internet access, television, movies, and music. Parents must have the courage to say no, defend truth, and bear powerful testimony. Your children need to know that you have faith in the Savior, love your Heavenly Father, and sustain the leaders of the Church. Spiritual maturity must flourish in our homes. My hope is that no one will leave this conference without understanding that the moral issues of our day must be addressed in the family. Bishops and priesthood and auxiliary leaders need to support families and make sure that spiritual principles are taught. Home and visiting teachers can assist, especially with children of single parents.
The young man I mentioned earnestly asked if the Apostles knew how early in life teaching and protecting against pornography and impure thoughts should start. With emphasis, he stated that in some areas even before youth graduate from Primary is not too early.
Youth who have been exposed to immoral images at a very early age are terrified that they may have already disqualified themselves for missionary service and sacred covenants. As a result, their faith can be severely impaired. I want to assure you young people, as Alma taught, that through repentance you can qualify for all the blessings of heaven.20 That is what the Savior’s Atonement is all about. Please talk with your parents or a trusted adviser, and counsel with your bishop.
When it comes to morality, some adults believe that adherence to a single, overriding humanitarian project or principle nullifies the need to comply with the Savior’s teachings. They say to themselves that sexual misconduct is “a small thing … [if I am] a kind and charitable person.”21 Such thinking is a gross self-deception. Some young people inform me that in our current culture it is not “cool” to try too hard in many areas, including living strictly in accordance with righteous principles.22 Please do not fall into this trap.
At baptism we promise to take upon us “the name of [Jesus] Christ, having [the] determination to serve him to the end.”23 Such a covenant requires courageous effort, commitment, and integrity if we are to continue to sing the song of redeeming love and stay truly converted.
A historic example of commitment to be strong and immovable for all ages was portrayed by a British Olympian who competed in the 1924 Olympics in Paris, France.
Eric Liddell was the son of a Scottish missionary to China and a devoutly religious man. He infuriated the British leadership of the Olympics by refusing, even under enormous pressure, to run in a preliminary 100-meter race held on Sunday. Ultimately he was victorious in the 400-meter race. Liddell’s example of refusing to run on Sunday was particularly inspiring.
Depictions and memorials in his honor have referred to the inspirational words from Isaiah, “But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.”24
Liddell’s admirable conduct was very influential in our youngest son’s decision to not participate in Sunday sports and, more importantly, to separate himself from unrighteous and worldly conduct. He used the quote from Isaiah for his yearbook contribution. Eric Liddell left a powerful example of determination and commitment to principle.
As our youth follow President Monson’s counsel by preparing to serve missions, and as we all live the principles the Savior taught and prepare to meet God,25 we win a much more important race.26 We will have the Holy Ghost as our guide for spiritual direction. For any whose lives are not in order, remember, it is never too late to make the Savior’s Atonement the foundation of our faith and lives.27
In the words of Isaiah, “Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.”28
My sincere prayer is that each of us will take any necessary action to feel the Spirit now so we can sing the song of redeeming love with all our hearts. I testify of the power of the Savior’s Atonement, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

I am directed to the loft, which is much coveted by all but reserved for me since I’m the oldest grandchild. But I’m not convinced that’s where I want to be spending my nights. So I go to the basement to see if there are any spare rooms. That’s where I find four mattresses spread on the floor, with little girls’ clothes everywhere. Perpetual slumber-party-city. I’m doomed.
“Marti! Wanna see a caterpillar?” It’s my six-year-old cousin, Erin.
“Nah,” I say, turning back to the stairs. “I’ve seen lots of them, thank you.”
I discover a room loaded with books that’s kind of between floors. I’m looking at the books and thinking maybe I could move in when I hear a thundering sound above me. I look up to see the room is just under the staircase. That would be like living under a freeway overpass. Anyway, the room is soon overflowing with boys and their sleeping bags.
“Aunt Rebecca (that’s my mom) told us to use this room. She’s gonna use the one we were in. Isn’t this neat?” My cousin looks around at my brothers and his other male counterparts. They seem to be in agreement; they are staking out their individual territories.
So I head upstairs to find all the rooms there are taken by at least two people, some by four or five. Will I ever have a quiet moment for the next three weeks?
I go downstairs to explain my dilemma to my grandma, but she’s nowhere to be found. Grandpa tells me she went on a walk with Deenie, my little sister.
“Anything I can do for you?” I ask Grandpa, who is playing a computer game.
“Well …”
Grandpa pushes the pause button on the computer and turns around to look at me as he takes my hand. I think he knows I need to talk.
“Too bad we can’t do that with life,” I say, pointing to the button he’s just pushed.
“Unfortunately, life can’t be paused,” he says. “That’s why we have pause buttons on computers instead.” He squeezes my hand. “Now what’s troubling you?”
“I’m supposed to sleep in the loft, and I don’t really want to stay there because it’s all open and everything and everyone will see me and I’ll see everyone else and it’ll be all noisy and everything and …” My voice begins to sound like Minnie Mouse’s.
“Well, the only problem is there are lots of cousins who want that loft.” As if to emphasize the point, we hear a bang and then we hear several cousins running into the back bathroom.
“Are you willing to take whatever room is vacated? Even if there are other cousins there?”
Not exactly, I think. I want a room to myself. But just about anything would be better than the loft.
“Okay,” I declare.
“Then it’s set. Just wait and see.”
That night at dinner, my grandfather announces there will be a contest for the loft. A spontaneous cheer erupts, and I spill my spaghetti on my jeans.
“After dinner,” Grandpa announces, “we’ll all go down to the lake and skip rocks. Whoever is the best rock skipper will get the loft.” This declaration is followed by more cheers.
The rock skipping winner ends up being Tamara, Aunt Sarah’s 12-year-old. I’m amazed the boys didn’t out-skip her, but I think they’re too excited about being all together in the library room. I don’t skip any rocks. I just watch. When the contest ends, we all end up eating gooey cake that adds yet another interesting color to my jeans. And then I’m moved in with my six-year-old cousin, Erin.