Gospel Story Finder

Karen Graham, who now serves as a stake Young Women president, writes of the importance of homemaking skills in her life:
“In my senior year in high school, when I was a 17-year-old Laurel, I arrived home from school one day to find that my mother had died very suddenly and unexpectedly of a cerebral hemorrhage. My two older sisters were married and living away from home. This left me the oldest at home to take care of the house, my grieving father, and two younger brothers ages 12 and 13.
“For the next two and a half years, I took care of the house, did all the laundry, bought groceries and fixed the meals. … Can you imagine letting a 17-year-old be in charge of the grocery budget? This sweet father of mine never said an unkind word. He never complained when I turned all his white shirts pink in the laundry or when dinner miserably failed. All my friends in high school were planning for their after-graduation lives. Some were going to Utah State University. … I had considered going to Ricks College, but in light of the family circumstances I chose to stay at home and continue to help.
“Two years after Mother’s passing, I started dating a return[ed] missionary, Garry. On our second date, he asked me what I had done with my Saturday. … He was a little surprised when I told him that I’d dusted and vacuumed and grocery shopped and done laundry all day. He thought I was just a real homebody. Six months later, this wonderful man took me to the temple and we started our life together. He was thrilled to have a wife that knew how to cook and handle the budget.
“One evening, the first year we were married, we had some newlywed friends over for dinner. Several of the couples started talking about what a hard time they had had adjusting to marriage. Garry and I looked at each other in disbelief. … Adjusting to marriage? What was that? Our first year had gone so smoothly! As we talked about it later, we determined that the reason was that I had come into the marriage with homemaking skills. … I didn’t have the stress of experimenting with and/or burning dinner, ruining laundry, or budgeting grocery money. I’d done all that experimenting on a sensitive, patient, wise father. Now Garry and I could concentrate on just our relationship, and it was wonderful. Putting my interests aside and thinking about the needs of my family had truly been a blessing for me later.”
Her service to her father during this difficult time was a part of the angelic cause of doing good, that great preparation you are making to become great women.

My heart fills with gratitude as I recall the joys of our rich family life when all six children were at home. May I mention just a few that have enriched our lives and continue to do so.

Prayer has been and is the ever-present anchor for strength and a source of direction in our family activities. I remember kneeling at the bedside of our young children, helping them with prayers in their younger years, and later seeing the older brothers and sisters helping the younger ones. We had family prayer night and morning, with children given the opportunity to lead, and had special prayers to meet particular problems. Mention was made in family prayer, for instance, of children with assignments such as a 2 1/2-minute talk in Sunday School or a new teaching assignment in the MIA. We asked for help when one of the children faced a difficult examination in high school. Special mention was made of members of the family away at girls’ camp, Scout camp, school, or working. This special mention of particular concerns in our family prayers gave confidence, assurance, and strength to members of the family facing difficult problems and assignments.

The inspired home evening and family council program, which carries such promise and which dates back more than forty years, has provided many happy hours and great joy together. It has built faith, strengthened testimonies, and created a family solidarity and unity that will endure throughout all eternity.

When the children were young, we enjoyed personal, intimate visits with them at their own bedsides or curled up before the fire. Later it was a joy to have them travel with me on Church and business trips throughout the state of Idaho and later throughout the nation. Sometimes these trips were a reward for achievement—our oldest son, Reed, was taken on a trip from Washington D.C., to the west coast when he became the first Eagle Scout in the stake. His achievement was followed a year later by that of his brother Mark. It was on a day during this trip with Reed that I was called to a position of leadership in the councils of the Church. The intimate conversation and experience of that day will remain a precious memory always.

I remember taking a trip to fulfill a speaking engagement at a great convention in Omaha. In reporting the event, the Omaha World Herald showed Bonnie, our third daughter, who later became Relief Society president at eighteen years of age, in a picture on the front page and reported her father’s speech on the back page. This trip was reported in some detail at the weekly home evening of the family.

Another family joy was to have guests in our home. At such times we always tried to arrange to have the children at the table also, to participate in the delightful conversation of the evening. The impression made on a judge and national farm leader as our daughter Barbara, age nine, led in family prayer at our dinner table was reported later by this beloved leader at a meeting of farm, labor, and business leaders in Florida.

It seemed that the family happiness increased as the children advanced in years. It was a joy to see daughters Beverly and Beth teaching in Sunday School, as they prepared for marriage each in turn. Their classes of girls came to the home where our daughters displayed and talked about their trousseaus, their temple clothes, and their plans for marriage. What a joy to hear the young girls pledge that they would follow the examples of their teachers and all be married in the temple.

One source of family joy was the correspondence that came from the children when they were away. We would gather around the kitchen table and enjoy together letters from sons and brothers at Scout camp or on missions, letters from our son Reed while he was a chaplain in the Air Force, or news from older sisters away at college. Joy came to the home when recordings were received at Christmastime or on birthdays, recordings filled with faith-promoting experiences, expressions of love, testimony, and gratitude for the gospel. These we shall never forget.

There were difficult and challenging days also, like the one when I returned from a distant trip to find my faithful and ever courageous wife directing our sons with boxing gloves on their hands sparring with each other. One son had challenged the high school bully, who had been teasing and trying to make fun of younger classmates. The coach had set an hour and a day for the fight. Preparations were on—training, diet, and prayer were all a part of making ready. Our prayers were answered. The outcome brought increased respect and strong friendship, even with the bully.

Even when I was a busy Cabinet member serving as Secretary of Agriculture we kept close together through picnics in the park, travel into the country, and exploration in jeeps and on horses into the hills of Virginia.

The invitation to appear on the popular Edward R. Murrow show on CBS to present a typical Mormon home evening was a serious challenge. The eyes of the nation would be focused on this popular show. Not only the family but, to a great extent, the Church would be on trial before the people. There was some reluctance on the part of the wise mother. She did not want her daughters publicized; but with the persuasion of her sons that this would be an opportunity to do missionary work, she readily agreed. There followed prayer and fasting, but no rehearsing. It was to be an informal Mormon home evening. Questions were to be answered, as the children decided, with “a Church answer.” The Lord heard our prayers, and afterwards letters came in by the hundreds. Later, in a national magazine article, Mr. Murrow expressed his pleasure and surprise when he received more fan mail on the Mormon home evening with Secretary Benson’s family than on any other program of his years-long “Person to Person” series.

As I traveled on trade trips to many nations of the world as Secretary of Agriculture, family joys were still an important part of our lives. Whenever all the space was not taken by members of the press and my staff, President Eisenhower urged me to take members of my family along with me so that “the people of the world might see an American family in action.” Although space on the government plane was provided, meals, hotels, and other expenses were borne by the family.

Yes, these were busy trips, but always family joys were realized. Members of the family traveling with me would be assigned various jobs, such as keeping a diary, making memorandas, keeping a record of letters of thanks to be written later, checking carefully the ever-present question of protocol, and, always, teaching the gospel by word and example.

And now, with all six children happily married in the temple of God and with families of their own—we have twenty-eight grandchildren—the joys continue and are multiplied. Weekly contacts are made by telephone or letter. Birthday cards are sent to each one. Family reunions are held with 100 percent attendance, and we join together in prayer and fasting as the signal goes out of illness or serious problems facing any member of the family.

And the joys continue, such as the report from our son Mark that his family had achieved its missionary goal of bringing into the Church one neighborhood family each year for five years. Parents and six children cooperating—using the home evening—to bring some thirty new converts into the Church.

So much more could be said. Thank God for the joys of family life. I have often said there can be no genuine happiness separate and apart from a good home. The sweetest influences and associations of life are there. Life cannot be fully successful, no matter what goals we attain in the material world, no matter what honors of men come to us in our lives, if we fail as fathers, mothers, and children.

God bless us as Latter-day Saints that our family life may be such that we will have no serious regrets. May we heed the counsel given us and follow the inspired programs of the Church.

It is my conviction that even in this richly endowed world, there can be no enduring prosperity and happiness in nonreligious homes. The integrity of the home must be maintained. The spiritual foundation of our homes must be strengthened. Happiness here and hereafter is tied up with our successful discharge of this great responsibility. Thank God for family joys.

My best friend Emily and I were two of the six members of the Church at my high school in Indiana. At an activity, we were invited to think of someone in our lives we could share the gospel with. To our surprise, we both immediately thought of the same person—our English teacher. We were nervous to share it with an authority figure, but we decided to act on the prompting and give him a Book of Mormon. It was summer, so we sent it to him in the mail with our testimonies written on the inside cover.
When the school year started a few weeks later, we walked into his class apprehensively. But he didn’t say anything that first day. Or the second day. Or the day after that. We wondered if he was just going to act like nothing happened or if he even got our package at all, but we were too afraid to ask. Finally, about a week and a half later, he handed us a card. When we opened it, we read that he was respectful with his thank you, but we were disappointed to realize that he wasn’t interested in learning more. Though I’m still not sure why we both felt that prompting, I know that it was the right decision to act on it and send him the Book of Mormon.
Carli C., Utah, USA

My sister and I have always wanted to be flower girls in a wedding, so when our cousin Tiffany asked us to be part of her upcoming wedding, we were thrilled. Mom sewed us special dresses, and finally the day arrived. We drove to the beautiful San Diego California Temple. When Tiffany and her new husband, Chris, came out of the temple looking so happy, we were overjoyed to be able to share in this heavenly day. We know that Jesus wants each of us to marry in one of His temples so that we can begin our eternal families in the right way. We are thankful that our cousin set the proper example for us by being worthy to enter the House of the Lord.
Amara and Analise Franco, ages 9 and 7Palmdale, California

Peter Burt was born in 1949 in Napier, New Zealand, and grew up in the nearby city of Gisborne. He was only 14—a student at Lytton High School—when his family suffered a devastating loss: Peter’s father died from a fall while painting their family home.
“Losing my dad at such an early age was absolutely tragic,” he recalls. What made the experience more heartbreaking is that, growing up atheist, he had no concept of an afterlife. Years later, Elder Neal A. Maxwell’s (1926–2004) general conference messages helped Peter understand how profound his grief was at the time. “A resurrection-less view of life produces only proximate hope.”1
With no knowledge of God or His plan, Peter remembers, “My philosophy of life was, eat drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die. Thankfully, I now know better—infinitely better!”
Peter studied at Victoria University in Wellington, and to support his education, he worked holidays back home at the Gisborne Refrigerating Company. There he met a fellow employee who was a devout Christian. “He was different from the other workers around us,” Peter says. “He was very firm in his belief in a Supreme Being. It got me interested enough to buy a Bible and begin to read it.”
The words of the Bible affected Peter so much—he just knew that this book was true—but it also raised many unanswered questions. “I was definitely seeking more knowledge,” Peter says. Still, he wasn’t interested in joining any church.
Peter earned his bachelor’s degree and then married Frances Mary Costello in 1970. The couple moved to Auckland so Peter could gain a diploma from Ardmore Teacher’s College. Shortly after that move, he was approached by two missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
“I agreed to meet with them because they seemed like nice people,” Peter remembers, “but I wasn’t interested in their religion.” Still, when the missionaries left copies of the Book of Mormon for him and Frances, they read it. “That same Spirit came upon us as when I read the Bible,” Peter says. “We just knew that it was true.
“When the missionaries came back, we said, ‘Well, we believe the Book [of Mormon] is true. What do we do now?’ That is how we came to be baptised.”
The couple have been active members since they joined the Church in 1972, “and what a wonderful journey it has been!” Peter says. The “patient, kind and loving people” in the Auckland South Stake’s Papakura Ward helped them adjust to their new lives as Latter-day Saints, and when they returned to Gisborne at the end of that year, they joined Gisborne’s 2nd Branch in the Poverty Bay District.
In 1976, Peter, aged 27 became the branch’s president. When the district became a stake, he began a 9-year calling in the stake presidency, then nearly 10 years as the stake president. In that time, he and his wife, Frances, welcomed five sons into their family and were blessed to raise them in the gospel. In 1985, Peter chose a different career path—he spent the next 24 years as a beekeeper until his retirement in 2009.
“One of the highlights of our Church membership was our decision to serve a full-time mission,” Peter says. Called to the Quezon City South Mission in the Philippines, they were sent to the island of Mindoro. “It was a wonderful experience, which we will always remember, especially for the faith and humility of the people there.”
When they returned to New Zealand, the Burts sold their Gisborne property and lived in a caravan for a year before settling in Taup?, because it is a nice town and central to where their sons and families lived. Peter served as the Taup? Ward’s elders quorum president until the Rotorua Stake conference in mid-2023, when he was called as patriarch.
Looking back, Peter recognises the hand of God guiding him towards the gospel of Jesus Christ and a life that he could have never imagined. “I now know that it was the Holy Ghost testifying to me of the truth.”
As a newly called patriarch, he earnestly prays that he’ll be able to help other members find that same divine guidance through special, personalised blessings from our loving Heavenly Father.
“I will do my very best to fulfil [this calling] with the respect and responsibility expected of me by the Lord . . . It is such a huge honour and privilege. I am almost overwhelmed by the responsibility . . . but I have faith to believe that whom the Lord calls, He qualifies.”

Julia Mavimbela’s life suddenly changed in 1955 when her husband, John, was killed in an automobile accident. Evidence at the scene suggested that the other person involved, a white man, had veered into John’s lane. Yet that man was not ruled at fault. Rather, white police officers said that blacks are poor drivers, so John was responsible for the crash.1

On her husband’s tombstone, Julia inscribed these words:
In loving memory of
John Phillip Corlie Mavimbela.
By his wife and relatives.
But the lump remains.
May his soul rest in peace.

Describing the fourth line, Julia said, “At the time of writing, the lump that remained was one of hatred and bitterness—for the man who caused the accident, for the policemen who lied, [and] for the court who deemed my husband responsible for the accident that took his life.”2 One of her greatest trials was to overcome this bitterness and anger.

Caden hugged Uncle Brian tight. Brian was going on a mission to Brazil. Caden would miss him. He cried when they left the airport.
When they got home, Grandma said, “I have a surprise for you.”
Grandma gave Caden a big bag. Inside were lots of small plastic blocks. “There are 730 blocks in that bag. That’s one for each day Uncle Brian is gone.”
Grandma handed Caden a plastic board. “You can put a new block on the board every day. When the bag is empty, Uncle Brian will be home again!” Grandma said.
The bag was heavy. 730 blocks is a lot! Caden pulled a red block from the bag. He stuck it on a corner of the board.
“This could be fun,” he said.
Two years felt far away. Uncle Brian was a lot older than Caden, but he was still one of Caden’s best friends.
Caden took the board and bag to his room. Then he knelt down. He asked Heavenly Father to keep Uncle Brian safe.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. Then months became two years! The tower had red, blue, green, and yellow blocks. It was so tall!
Question for You
What can you do when you miss someone?
Finally it was time for Uncle Brian to come home. Caden took his block tower to the airport to meet him. Everyone hugged. Caden smiled so hard his cheeks hurt.
Uncle Brian looked at Caden’s block building. “Look what you made! It looks almost as big as you.”
“It is!” Caden smiled. “And when I get bigger, I’m going on a mission too.”

Let’s hurry along to Redwood Road. There is a much larger home here where many widows reside. Most are seated in the well-lighted living room. But in her bedroom, alone, is one on whom I must call. She hasn’t spoken a word since a devastating stroke some years ago. But then, who knows what she hears?—so I speak of good times together. There isn’t a flicker of recognition, not a word spoken. In fact, an attendant asks if I am aware that this patient hasn’t uttered a word for years. It made no difference. Not only had I enjoyed my one-sided conversation with her—I had communed with God.

I lay in bed after my mom tucked me in for the night. I thought about some secrets I was keeping. My mind was filled with guilt. Then I remembered to pray. As I did, the Holy Ghost told me to talk to my mom about what was on my mind.
For some reason, I was hesitant to talk to my mom about it. I knew Satan was trying to make me feel scared. I also knew through the Holy Ghost that talking to my mom was the right thing to do.
At last I got the courage to go ask my mom if we could talk. I told her all about what I had done and how I was feeling. To my surprise, she wasn’t upset at all. She told me how happy she was that I was brave enough to talk to her. We hugged, and I asked her to forgive me. I felt relieved and happy.
I prayed again to my Father in Heaven and asked Him to forgive me too. It felt so good to follow the Spirit and do what’s right. I’m grateful for Jesus, who made it so that I can repent when I make a mistake. I’m also grateful for the Holy Ghost, who helped me feel better. And I’m grateful for a loving mom who listens and understands me.

Have you ever had a completely life-changing moment—the kind that seems to ruin everything? I have, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
One minute, my siblings and I were sitting on the living room couch, quietly waiting. The next, it felt like my whole world was crashing down.
My dad’s casual explanation of his decision to file for divorce contradicted everything I thought I knew. I thought we were a happy family. I thought daily scripture study and family prayer were supposed to keep us together.
From that point on, a lot changed. My happy childhood memories began to sour. My parents both got remarried. My siblings started choosing sides.
I wondered what had happened to my life.
It felt so unfair—why did someone else’s decision get to ruin my life?
Or did it? For a while, my parents’ divorce felt like the most important day of my life. But a talk by Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles made me rethink this.
He taught, “The most important day in the history of mankind was the day when Jesus Christ, the living Son of God, won the victory over death and sin for all of God’s children.”
Then he added that the most important day in our lives is the day when we commit to follow Jesus Christ—a day he hoped would recur “over and over again throughout our lives.”
So, yes, while my parents’ divorce did change my life, the Atonement of Jesus Christ changed the trajectory of human history. And that’s not all; I’ve learned that because of the events of Easter, Christ can change the trajectory of my life—every day.

Last July I visited the Church’s Polynesian Cultural Center in Hawaii. Before the evening show of dancing and music from various island cultures, I went backstage to thank the performers. I arrived during those frantic moments before the show began. Scores of performers were hurrying through the last-minute tasks required to coordinate their efforts in a fast-moving performance. I wondered how the director would bring this turmoil to order in preparation for my brief remarks.

It happened as if by miracle. On signal, one strong voice began, and the strains of “We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet” quickly swelled into a beautiful chorus as the uniquely talented young people brought their thoughts into harmony with the Lord.

We had a similar experience in our family. Last spring some of our children and fourteen of our grandchildren had a family outing in the mountains. One of our activities was a meeting to share experiences and testimonies. We gathered at the appointed time, but the little people were only gathered in body. The large spirits in those little bodies were clamoring for more of the exciting outdoor activities they had been enjoying. The cabin where we met was too small to contain them, and it seemed as if a dozen restless children and their outcries were ricocheting off the walls in every direction. Grandparents will appreciate the apprehension I felt at trying to sponsor something serious in that setting.

Suddenly the instinctive wisdom of young mothers rescued our efforts. Two mothers began to sing a song familiar to the children. Others joined in, and within a few minutes the mood had changed and all spirits were subdued and receptive to spiritual things. I offered a silent prayer of thanks for hymns and for mothers who know how to use them!

When I was a young missionary assigned to the British Mission, my first area of labor was in what was then the Bristol District. One of the local Church leaders emphasized that missionaries serving in that area needed to be “shipshape and Bristol fashion.”

Initially I didn’t understand the point he was making. I soon learned the history and meaning of the nautical phrase “shipshape and Bristol fashion.” At one time Bristol was the second busiest port in the United Kingdom. It had a very high tidal range of 43 feet (13 m), the second highest in the world. At low tide when the water receded, the old ships would hit bottom and fall on their sides, and if the ships were not well built, they would be damaged. In addition, everything that was not carefully stowed away or tied down would be thrown in a chaotic fashion and ruined or spoiled. After I understood what that phrase meant, it was clear that this leader was telling us that, as missionaries, we must be righteous, follow rules, and be prepared for difficult situations.

Waiting more than a year to attend the temple was apparently too much to ask of the members from Arica, Chile.
While their country’s sole temple was closed for reconstruction, the Arica members traveled east to Bolivia via rail to attend the Cochabamba Bolivia Temple. The trip was not without risk. Amid tensions between the bordering nations, trains carrying Chilean goods had sometimes come under attack in Bolivia.
Recognizing the danger, the Arica members prayed for safety, then traveled to the temple without incident, said Elder M. Gonzalo Sepúlveda, an Area Seventy in Chile. “It’s obvious that people are thirsty to attend the temple again,” Elder Sepúlveda said.

When I was a young man I lived in a small community close to the mountains. I was a lifeguard and did lots of swimming. We used to go tubing down rivers and all those crazy things that advisers worry about but guys get excited about. We went swimming at a place called East Canyon, a beautiful man-made reservoir. The dam is in a narrow neck of the canyon between sheer rock walls.

None of us had boats, so we couldn’t water ski, but we would do what we called cliff diving. We’d climb up those rocks and dive into the reservoir. We’d always wear tennis shoes because the rocks were so sharp. We used to have a wonderful time. I guess I didn’t realize how really dangerous it was.

After we’d been there several times and pretty well knew the rocks, cliffs, and the water depth, two or three of us hard-core East Canyon divers got into the inevitable teenage contest of raw courage. One guy climbed up to where we always dove from and yelled down, “Hey! I’ll bet I dare dive higher than anybody here!”

“Ah, go on!”

So he climbed up to the top of the dam. The dam was about 50 feet off the water. Diving into the air he arched into the water, and like a bunch of sheep we crawled up the rocks, out onto the dam, and all of us dove off. I don’t know if you’ve ever jumped 50 feet—it’s a long way. I could only think that, after all, the water was 70 feet deep and couldn’t hurt all that much.

Well, that didn’t satisfy my friend, and so he said, “All right, I’ll do one better!” He climbed 60 feet up the side of the cliff. And not wanting to be outdone, I climbed up by him. After all, everyone was looking at me. I had a great suntan, and I was sure everyone expected me to do what he was doing. He swallowed hard, buried his fear, and from trembling knees arched his back, and floating through 60 feet of air into the water.

I was grateful nobody was watching me as I prepared for my dive. When he’d cleared and seemed to be all right, I took courage, and I made my dive. By now the other members of our diving contest had backed down, figuring it was a little high. But not my friend. He climbed on up to about 70 feet and once more prepared to dive. From below I could barely see him. Seventy feet is a very long way up on the rocks. I said to myself, “I hope he doesn’t do it because if he does it, then obviously I’ve got to do it, and I really don’t want to.” About then I saw a pink body float through the air and splash into the water not far from me. He came up laughing, rubbing his shoulders and his eyes, and said, “Well, Merrill, are you going to do it?”

“Of course, I’m going to do it!” Everybody on the shore said, “Yeah, of course he’s going to do it!”

And so I swam back to the shore and climbed up the rocks. I knew I only had the courage for one more jump. I knew if I jumped at 70 feet, he was going to go higher, so I thought, “Well, I might as well go up to the very top where there is no way he can go higher.”

I scrambled up 80 feet to the very top of the cliff. As I turned around and looked down, I saw that the cliffs were back away from the water at that height. I had two challenges: to fall 80 feet and to get enough clearance to avoid hitting the rocks at the bottom. Everybody was egging me on in a negative way. “You’re chicken, you’re chicken!”

I stood there all alone, everybody waiting down below. The water was so far away it looked like crinkled tinfoil in the sun. I was just terrified. I was committed, but I had not even based my decision on what I wanted to do or what I felt was right. I had based it on about a half dozen guys whose names I don’t even remember who were yelling, “Hey, chicken, are you going to do it?”

I realized that in order to make the jump I would have to run a distance to get enough momentum to carry me over the rocks below. So I backed up and ran as hard as I could toward the edge. I found the mark I had carefully laid at the edge of the rock and sprang out into space. I don’t know how long it takes to fall 80 feet, but for me it took about a week. On the way down I remembered distinctly how my parents and teachers had taught me to be careful when making decisions because I could kill myself with a wrong one. I said to myself, “You have done it; you have killed yourself, because when you hit the water you’ll be going so fast that it might as well be concrete.” And when I hit the water, I was sure it was concrete. I don’t know how far down you go when you jump from 80 feet, but I’ll tell you, I was a grateful lad when my head finally popped above water. I took a quick inventory to make sure that the throbbing pain in my right thigh didn’t designate the loss of anything important.

Well, why did I jump? Did I prove myself to the guys? You think they cared? You think they’re sitting at home tonight saying, “Remember old Merrill, brave old Merrill, jumping off the. …” They don’t even remember! They don’t care! But for me that moment was as important as my life. I made what could have easily been a fatal decision. Through the grace of a very patient Heavenly Father I wasn’t killed. I didn’t land on the rocks; I missed by only a few feet. I didn’t drown, and I didn’t have a concussion or a number of other things that could easily have happened because of such a stupid decision.

I was subjected to pressure that was hard to withstand, the pressure of friends expecting things of me that I didn’t want to do because I knew better. But I yielded to the pressure. I was living in the world, and at that moment I was of the world because I was not in control of myself. I was not making decisions about my own life. The world made the decisions for me. I was of the world, and had barely avoided being in the world about six feet deep.

Tom was worried. He wished now that he had remembered what day it was when he first woke up. He could have pretended to be sick so he wouldn’t have to go to school, even though it would have meant staying in bed all day. But now he sat there at the table, staring at the darkening heap of brown sugar he had piled on his oatmeal. Suddenly his mother’s voice broke the silence. “You had better hurry, Tom, or you’ll miss the bus.” He sat up straight in his chair and began to gulp down the cereal that was now cold.
Upstairs he busied himself with dressing. Then he stepped out into the cold January morning. The weather did nothing to improve his spirits. The overcast sky was a dull gray, and a cold wind was blowing snow out of the northwest. It seemed that the only time it snowed big flakes was when it warmed up.
The bus was late that morning, and for a few happy moments Tom thought that school had been called off. Yet the roads were all plowed, and at last in the distance he recognized the yellow school bus. It was only half full when he got on, and most of the kids were in the front of the bus where it was warmer. He walked to the very back, then laid his books on the seat beside him to discourage anyone from sitting there. He didn’t feel much like talking.
When Jim Winters got on the bus, he spotted Tom right away, picked up Tom’s books, and sat down beside him. “Hi!” Tom nodded, wishing Jim would go away. “Do you think you can whip him?” Jim asked.
“Sure,” said Tom, although he didn’t like the idea of fighting. He wished that the gang had picked someone else as their leader, although he enjoyed the feeling of authority at times. Jim seemed to sense that Tom didn’t want to talk and kept quiet for the remainder of the ride. The bell rang as soon as the bus arrived, and the sound was like a last-minute reprieve. Tom even managed to smile at Miss Culler, their teacher, as he slid into his desk.
Tom went over again in his mind the plan the gang had decided upon to initiate the new boy Marty Simms. Jim Winters and Danny Ryan would tell the new boy at recess that it was his turn to haul wood for the school stove. Tom would be waiting when Marty went out back of the school to get the wood. Tom would tell Marty that if he wanted to get along in the school, he’d have to fight then and there.
The morning recess came all too soon. Pulling on his sweater, Tom slipped out the side door and around to the back of the building. The woodpile was still there, hidden from the school by the huge elm trees surrounding it. This was a pleasant spot in warm weather where the gang usually ate lunch. But today it was a desolate place, with the stiff tarpaulins, like ghostly shrouds, thrown over the piles of wood to keep them dry. Tom sat down on a chunk of wood that had worked loose from the pile and waited.
Marty came around the edge of the woodpile and stopped. Tom knew by the frightened look on the new boy’s face that he sensed he had been tricked. He mumbled something about fetching firewood, and Tom stepped in front of him. Tom could not help feeling sorry for this new boy. He hated himself for being there, but now the rest of the gang had arrived at the woodpile. He looked at Marty, whose face still had the look of a cornered animal, but his eyes shone with a certain pride and defiance that Tom found disconcerting. “You’re going to have to fight me if you want to stay in this school,” Tom declared. Marty said nothing, but moved back several steps and raised his hands.
The boys circled each other there in the shadow of the woodpile, oblivious to the shouting around them. The smaller boy’s arms struck out, but Tom managed to dodge each blow, so that the jabs hit only empty space. Tom waited for an opening and when it came, he smacked the new boy hard. Marty staggered a moment, then grabbed Tom, and they both fell to the ground. They rolled in the snow pounding each other. Tom’s weight soon began to tell. Finally the smaller boy blurted out, “I give! I give!” and Tom stood up, then watched the retreating figure. He did not hear the cheers of the other boys or feel them pounding him on the back. He didn’t feel the least bit like a hero; instead he felt ashamed of himself. Tom vowed that if he had anything to say about it, Marty would be the last new boy coming to the school that had to undergo such rough treatment.
The bell rang to signal the end of recess, and the gang began to drift toward the schoolhouse. Tom could tell that Miss Culler had already heard of the fight, for she gave him a strange look as he sat down at his desk. Finally she walked down the aisle, looked at Marty and asked, “What happened to you at recess?”
Marty looked away from her and mumbled, “I fell on the woodpile, Miss Culler.” She stood for a moment in front of him, then wheeled around and walked briskly to her desk. Tom knew that she was angry and her anger only made him feel worse.
The next several days seemed like an eternity. Marty kept to himself, and Tom did not have a chance to speak to him. On the third day the sun came out, and by noon the snow was soft and packy. It was ideal for making snowballs and the gang soon had a fort built of snow. Tom and Jim were chosen to choose up sides for a snowball fight. It was Tom’s turn first, and as he looked out at the eager faces, he caught a glimpse of Marty standing alone near the corner of the schoolhouse. His voice rang loud and clear across the schoolyard, “I’ll take Marty Simms!”
Marty stood still for a moment as though he couldn’t believe his ears, then proudly he walked forward to take his place with the gang behind the fort.

Imagine having some free school days to start the new year—your possibilities are wide open. Do you go camping? Take a road trip to visit relatives? Start a new hobby? A group of 29 youth from Texas, USA, chose to hold a scripture-reading marathon. Their goal: to read the entire Book of Mormon over the break.
Held during a school break at the beginning of 2012, the reading marathon was an ambitious undertaking. To help them all stay together, the youth read along while listening to an audio narration.
There were also some surprising challenges. During the first day a main waterline broke in town, leaving them with no running water. Determined to stay on track, leaders hauled in water from food storage. The youth wanted to keep reading despite the obstacles. As they approached the end of the reading marathon, a big cheer went up after they turned off the recording and a member of the stake presidency read the final chapter out loud. “There are good things and there are better things,” says Audrey J., one of the youth in attendance. “This was a better thing for us.”

Illustrations from Getty Images
Ever since I was a child, I have struggled with my weight and accepting myself. In the beginning, the nicknames I received because of my weight seemed harmless, but with time, I started to believe that the negative things that were said about my appearance also meant negative things about my personality.
As a teenager, I started to realize that, although I liked my physical characteristics, my body type didn’t fit with worldly expectations. And I liked my quiet personality, but it wasn’t what people expected from me either—teachers wanted me to speak up in class, boys liked the more talkative girls, and I was told frequently that I needed to be more outgoing than I actually was. Little by little, my self-worth started to languish.
My young adult years found me depressed, uncomfortable in my body, and questioning why the Lord couldn’t have made me at least a little pretty and more interesting. I tried more diets than I should have, and ironically, the more I tried to lose weight, the more weight I gained. Being a single, introverted, and overweight young adult didn’t seem very promising.
I felt defeated and decided that I was the way I was, even if I never lost the weight I wanted to or became more extroverted. Although I stopped hating myself so much, I was still far from seeing myself as a beautiful, worthwhile daughter of God. I simply gave up on trying to find my worth.
One day a miracle happened while I was reading a talk by Sister Mary G. Cook, wife of Elder Quentin L. Cook of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, from the September 2016 worldwide devotional for young adults titled “Find Joy in Everyday Life.” I read: “When we came to this earth, we brought with us our divine nature as children of God. Our individual worth came from heaven.” I felt as if my mind was finally opened to a light that I so deeply needed but thought I would never get. I realized that, before, I had felt as if it were wrong to like myself because I didn’t fit the worldly stereotype of what a beautiful, worthwhile woman should be. Now I was ready to admit that I love my introverted and geeky personality, messy curly hair, brown eyes, potato-like nose, big smile, and even my overweight body that still does just what I need it to do. I became grateful for being God’s creation. I finally understood that He doesn’t create mistakes.
After so many years of emotional and physical struggles and suffering, I finally learned a truth that for many may be obvious: my individual worth has nothing to do with this world! It came from heaven. It has always been with me, even if I was blind to it. It’s not decided by media, by my peers, or by anybody but Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ, and They see me as valuable enough that the Savior died for me.
Learning from the Spirit about my value in God’s eyes has changed me in so many ways. I fell in love with life again. I feel more gratitude for my countless blessings. I feel a huge desire to try harder to do what’s right and believe more in myself and in my dreams. It made me want to be more kind and patient with people around me and brought me closer to the Savior.
The voices of the world keep calling and judging, but now I have a strong knowledge of my worth that I never want to forget. That knowledge brought me peace and joy that I want to share with everyone I meet. Through that devotional talk, I learned that even my self-worth and self-confidence need to have a firm foundation in Christ so “that when the devil shall send forth his mighty winds, yea, his shafts in the whirlwind, yea, when all his hail and his mighty storm shall beat upon [me], it shall have no power over [me] to drag [me] down to the gulf of misery and endless wo, because of the rock upon which [I am] built, which is a sure foundation, a foundation whereon if men build they cannot fall” (Helaman 5:12).
I’m grateful for the Lord and the eternal worth He sees in all of us. I’m grateful for inspired women like Sister Cook who strive to live the gospel and share its wisdom. I’m grateful for this life, for the miracle of our bodies and minds, and for the divinity within each of us.

I looked down at my lap. No matter how I tugged at my skirt, it didn’t cover my knees. It just wasn’t fair! I almost never got a store-bought dress. It was a summery green fabric, and when I wore it my eyes looked more green than their normal gray-blue. It fit perfectly too. And it was modern, without being weird.
Beverly had a new outfit that made my eyes blink. It was an orange and purple skirt and top with matching tights in a big, wild, diamond pattern. Beverly always wore the latest styles. When I’d worn my new green dress the week before, she had complimented me for the first time.
It was hard to be me. It was bad enough to wear glasses as thick as a sugar bowl, to be as skinny as a pencil, and have a huge mouth full of oversized teeth. Beverly had long blonde hair, long eyelashes, and no glasses, either. Next to Beverly, I felt ugly and awkward. One way to make up the difference was with fashionable clothes.
Finding that green dress was amazing. Buying it had been a miracle. Mom had taken down the hem, and it was perfect. Now, one laundry day later, my chance to be noticed was over.
My mother came into the room. “What’s the matter?” she asked. I guess my tear-misted glasses gave me away.
“Look at this dress!” I wailed. “It shrank in the wash!”
Mom understood how much that dress meant to me. “Oh, Linda,” she said softly. “I promise I followed the washing directions on the tag.” But she could see as I did that it had shrunk just enough to be too short.
We talked it over, but there wasn’t a happy solution. The hem had already been lengthened as far as it could go. Mom and Dad were immovable on their rule: girls in our family covered their knees. Mom cried with me as we took the dress to the thrift store box in the garage.
I moped for several days. It seemed so unfair that my parents could ruin my life by something as silly as a rule about knees. I had never been a rebel. I knew my parents loved me, so I had trusted them to be sensible. Until now.
I was troubled. I realized that this was a major decision: I could continue to follow my parents’ rules or I could choose not to. There were ways to rebel. I saw girls at school sometimes roll up their skirts at the waist to make them shorter. It was up to me.
One day in church, our class talked about Joseph Smith’s First Vision. As the teacher read about Joseph’s decision to ask God which church to join, I realized that I was in a similar situation. I needed to know for myself if my parents’ dress standards were right or if they were too strict. Like Joseph, I decided I could simply ask Heavenly Father.
I thought about it for several days. I remembered the process I had gone through when I’d prayed about being baptized. The answer had come because I had been ready to receive it. I decided to fast and pray. Because this was an important decision, I knew it would probably take more than one day’s effort to learn the answer. I talked to my parents about my plan.
“I’ll fast with you,” Mom offered.
Dad gave me a clue. “Linda,” he said, “if you want a testimony of a certain principle, practice living it.”
I tried to do everything I could so that I would be able to hear that still, small voice. Meanwhile, I practiced keeping the standard that my parents required.
Heavenly Father answered my prayers through my feelings and in my mind. One day, as I was getting ready for church, I realized that I knew what Heavenly Father wanted me to do. Through the prompting of the Holy Ghost, I knew that Heavenly Father expects me to dress modestly. Just like Joseph Smith, I knew that I had received an answer and that I could not deny it. The knowledge was like a warm, peaceful understanding that filled me from head to toe. I wondered how I could have ever felt sorry for myself for living a righteous standard. I felt that Heavenly Father was pleased with me. Nothing else mattered as much as that.
“I’m lucky to be me,” I thought. I didn’t need to be like Beverly or anybody else. What a relief!
I had friends, but I was never really popular. I learned how to be happy without being popular. That’s how I know it can be done. Never again was I an invisible nobody. Heavenly Father helped me become beautiful in my own way.

I remember the first time I swore. I was repeating a joke to some of my friends, and they all thought it was funny. It wasn’t like I was actually swearing, I thought. “I didn’t think you cussed,” one of my friends laughed. And I didn’t. At least not before then and, after that, not a lot. Not at first anyway.
Less than a year later, I was up there with the best of them—trading cutting remarks, swearing for effect, because people thought it was funny and acceptable, and hating myself more each time I did it. I knew it was wrong, but by that time it was a part of my speech pattern. My language got worse, and along with it went my character. I was in trouble at school and, although I still attended church most of the time, I stopped taking the sacrament.
I remember, too, the first time I tried to quit. A boy I liked at school told me he thought swear words were unladylike. So I promised myself I’d stop. And I did, for a while. Quitting was hard, especially since I had decided to quit for the wrong reasons. My resolve lasted about as long as a high school crush, and then I was back to my old ways.
Along with my unclean language came other bad habits and bad crowds. And when I finally decided to clean up my language, I was engulfed in other sins I needed to clear up. But this time I had decided to quit for the right reasons. Because I wanted to repent. I wanted to be clean in God’s sight, and not just to act ladylike.
Elder L. Tom Perry says if we reconstruct our sentences after we swear, minus the offending word, gradually our thought patterns and speech patterns will change (see New Era, Aug. 1986, 7). Substituting similar words that aren’t really swear words is nearly as bad because everyone knows what we meant to say. We need to replace the bad words or thoughts with something wholesome for this formula to work.
This was no short process. And it was hard—hard to regain control of my life and rebuild my testimony. Speech might seem like a small thing when there are so many other worse things we could be doing. My first offense seemed so innocent at the time. I realize now that the world tries to make sins—regardless of their size—look insignificant, but any sin offends the Spirit. And when the Spirit wasn’t with me, I wasn’t under God’s influence and I grew farther from Him.
Putting my decision into action brought the Spirit back into my life. I could again feel the Lord’s guiding influence, and He helped me with all the other problems in my life when I was sincerely trying.

I hope we are reading the Book of Mormon with our children regularly. I have discussed this with my own children. They have shared with me two observations. First, persistence in reading the scriptures daily as a family is the key. My daughter in a lighthearted way describes their early-morning efforts with mostly teenage children to consistently read the scriptures. She and her husband wake up early in the morning and move through the blurry mist to grasp the iron railing that lines their staircase to where their family gathers to read the word of God. Persistence is the answer, and a sense of humor helps. It requires great effort from every family member every day, but it is worth the effort. Temporary setbacks are overshadowed by persistence.
The second is how our youngest son and his wife are reading the scriptures with their young family. Two out of their four children are not old enough to read. For the five-year-old, they have five finger signals to which he responds in order for him to participate fully in the family scripture reading. The signal for finger 1 is for him to repeat, “And it came to pass” whenever it appears in the Book of Mormon. I have to admit that I love the fact that the phrase appears so often. Incidentally, for the interest of young families, finger signal 2 is “And thus we see”; fingers 3, 4, and 5 are chosen by the parents based on the words contained in the chapter they are reading.
We know that family scripture study and family home evenings are not always perfect. Regardless of the challenges you face, do not become discouraged.