Mobile temple recommend cards are coming: what members of LDS Church should know
According to a Church spokesperson, the rollout began Thursday with some areas getting the option to receive the sacred document on their phone. The rollout is being done in stages with Brazil, Caribbean, Central America, Mexico, North America Southwest, North America West, South America Northwest, South America South having the option available to members.
As for Utah, the date members will be able to have the option is May 29. Much of the United States and Canada will be part of the second phase of the rollout.
'Church members may choose one of these options, to allow them to enter a temple. For those who opt for an electronic recommend, it will be available on the Member Tools app on their phone or tablet that can be scanned at any of the Church's temples,' a spokesperson from the Church told ABC4.com.
The hope is to increase temple attendance.
'With this additional recommend option, the Church hopes it will improve and simplify the experience for all who attend the temple,' the Church said in the emailed statement.
The Church also on getting the mobile temple recommend set up. Along with that, the Church also updated its topics page with new information about how the Church. Included in that update is a page dedicated to , what happens in the Temple, how the endowment compares to Masonic rituals, why temple procedures and ceremonies change, and why Latter-day Saints wear garments.
Lasty, the Church also published a topic on peacemaking, which is something that the Prophet and President of the Church, Russell M. Nelson has spoken about in multiple General Conference addresses.
The Church split the topic on peacemaking into five sections:
Center your life on Jesus Christ.
Be patient with yourself and others.
Recognize that revelation is a process.
Consult reliable sources.
Work to understand the past.
The peacemaking topic also addresses some earlier topics of Church history, like any acts of violence early .
Dog training has upgraded with Tip Top K9
The pickleball game has been revolutionized with Bzer balls
These are the changes Senate Republicans are eyeing for the GOP's 'big, beautiful bill'
Lehi Police identify deceased individual found near railroad tracks
Mobile temple recommend cards are coming: what members of LDS Church should know
Copyright 2025 Nexstar Media, Inc. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Yahoo
3 days ago
- Yahoo
Opinion: Divided by faith — but still united as parents
Religious differences can feel like the deepest of divides. For Utah families going through divorce or separation, that divide can become even more painful when it shows up in co-parenting decisions — around holidays, modesty, dating, Sunday routines, or whether and when a child will be baptized. We know this because we see it every day in our therapy practices. We're colleagues and friends from different faith backgrounds — one of us is Jewish, the other a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. As therapists specializing in divorce and co-parenting, we've worked with hundreds of Utah families and seen how religious divides can either deepen conflict or invite growth. In Utah, where faith often plays a central role in family life, it's not uncommon for one parent to remain active in their religion while the other leaves the tradition — or embraces a new one. When this happens, both parents often feel fear: fear that their child won't share their values, or that the other parent will influence them in ways they can't control. But here's what we've learned: it is possible to co-parent well across religious differences. Doing so requires three things — clarity, compassion and commitment. We encourage co-parents to stay grounded in their core values, while staying flexible about how those values are expressed across two households. A key part of this is distinguishing between exposure to different beliefs and indoctrination. Children are more perceptive than we sometimes give them credit for. They can understand that people see the world differently, and they can learn to navigate those differences if they feel emotionally safe. Rather than seeing every disagreement as a battle, look for shared values — like honesty, kindness, respect, service or caring for one's body. When parents can identify and affirm what they agree on, it becomes easier to manage what they don't. It's normal to worry about your co-parent's influence. But children are shaped over time by many factors — not just by what happens at one parent's house. Attempts to control what your child is exposed to often backfire, making your own values seem rigid or fearful. A more effective approach is to live your values authentically, and trust that your child will be shaped by love, not pressure. You don't have to agree with your co-parent's faith — or lack of it — to treat it with respect. What matters most is how you talk about it in front of your child. Kids are always listening. When they hear parents speak about each other with respect, even in disagreement, they tend to feel more secure and confident in forming their own beliefs. Compassion doesn't mean staying silent. It means expressing your values without attacking the values of others. It's the difference between saying, 'I don't want you being brainwashed,' and, 'We believe different things, and I trust you to ask thoughtful questions as you grow.' Even when religious paths diverge, effective co-parents find common ground in the bigger picture: raising children who are kind, capable and resilient. You might disagree on the 'how,' but agreeing on the 'why' can be a powerful starting point. When parents agree on the values they want to instill, the conversation shifts from control to collaboration. And when that feels impossible, a neutral mental health professional — such as a therapist trained in divorce and co-parenting — can help identify what's getting in the way, offer strategies and support you in moving forward. We know this isn't easy. Co-parenting across religious differences isn't a theoretical exercise — it's deeply personal. It can stir up old wounds, grief, fears and the strong desire to protect your child's spiritual well-being. But time and again, we've seen what's possible when parents keep their focus on their child — not just in words, but in actions. Kids can grow up between two homes, with two belief systems, and still feel whole. They can learn that love doesn't require agreement. That faith can look different from one house to another. That they are free to ask questions and explore. And most importantly, that they are deeply loved by both parents. So whether you're divorcing or staying in your marriage but feeling the strain of religious differences, know this: your child doesn't have to grow up caught in the middle. Support is available. With the right mindset and guidance, it's possible to turn conflict into collaboration — and raise strong, thoughtful, resilient kids, even when you and your co-parent see the world differently.
New York Post
6 days ago
- New York Post
Gen Z singles giving up on dating as ‘loneliness epidemic' spirals: poll
Burned out by ghosting, mixed signals and endless 'situationships,' young singles are calling it quits on dating — no longer holding out for a fairytale ending that never texts back. 'We're single because we're out here looking for '90s love in this generation,' one fed-up TikToker declared. 'We want slow jams, handwritten notes and phone calls on landlines . . . not 'what are you doing' texts followed by eight hours of silence.' A new Rasmussen Reports poll of more than 1,200 American adults shows 37% of singles under 30 say they're not interested in dating, with half of all singles saying they're not even looking. 3 Gen Z is increasingly reluctant to date, with 37% of singles under 30 saying they're not interested in a relationship. Home-stock – Even the apps can't keep love alive: only 33% of singles have ever used one, and nearly a third of those say they've logged off for good. Democrats were the most likely to be single and not looking, with 49% opting out, while Republicans were more likely to be married and off the apps entirely, with 59% reporting they were hitched, the poll found. That trend shifts by age and gender: among singles under 40, men were more likely than women to say they're not interested in dating, at 39% compared to 30% — a reversal of older age groups, where women were more likely to opt out. The findings mirror a broader hesitation around dating itself, as more young adults question whether it's worth the time, energy or emotional cost. 'Gen Z is pulling back from romantic relationships overall, not just marriage,' said Dr. Jean Twenge, author of 'Generations: The Real Differences between Gen Z, Millennials, Gen X, Boomers and Silents — and What They Mean for America's Future.' 'They are more interested in safety than previous generations . . . and they may see dating as unsafe given its potential for hurt.' In 2000, 80% of U.S. high school seniors had dated in the past year. By 2023, that number had dropped to 45%, according to nationally representative data cited by Twenge. This generational pullback is now part of what researchers call a growing 'loneliness epidemic.' A 2024 study by market research company GlobalWebIndex found 80% of Gen Z respondents said they'd felt lonely in the past year, more than any other generation surveyed. 3 Gen Z doesn't think dating is worth the time or stress and while many may crave intimacy, they don't want endless scrolling or awkward conversations with strangers. oatawa – The 'why' is complex: rising depression rates, a decline in in-person friendships and even easy access to pornography may all be playing a role, Twenge said. But other experts say the shift isn't about giving up on love, just reordering priorities. 'Finding a romantic partner isn't a primary goal — instead, they're prioritizing their mental well-being and dreams for their career,' said Amanda Gesselman, director of sex and relationship science at Many young people may crave intimacy, just not the kind that starts with endless scrolling or awkward conversations with strangers, said Deborah Tannen, a professor of linguistics at Georgetown University. 'They are not comfortable talking to people they don't already know from some natural connection,' Tannen told The Post. 'If their experience of dating is associated with apps, it's easy to understand why many might decide to swear off: too alienating, too much disappointment, too intimidating to put oneself on the line that way.' That discomfort shows up in daily habits, too. 3 In 2000, 80% of U.S. high school seniors had dated in the past year. By 2023, that number had dropped to 45%, according to nationally representative data. Davide Angelini – Some Gen Zers even avoid calling restaurants and prefer to order online, a small example of how communication itself feels riskier to them, Tannen said. On TikTok, the frustration plays out in real time. One post with nearly 300,000 likes read, 'Single because this generation is full of lust, liars and cheaters.' Another viral video, which pulled in more than 800,000 likes, put it more personally: 'Me trying to explain to my friends how I'm literally going to be single forever because dating in this generation is stupid and I'm tired of mfs playing with my time.' Others kept it blunt. 'I'm staying single for the rest of my life,' one user wrote. 'Single because no guy will ever understand me,' another added.
Los Angeles Times
7 days ago
- Los Angeles Times
A day in the strawberry fields seems like forever
About 30 minutes into my job as a picker, the strawberry fairy left her first gift. On one of the beds of berries that seemed to stretch forever into the Santa Maria marine layer, Elvia Lopez had laid a little bundle of picked fruit. She and the other three dozen Mexican immigrants in the field were bent at an almost 90-degree angle, using two hands to pack strawberries into plastic containers that they pushed along on ungainly one-wheeled carts. They moved forward, relentlessly, ever bent, following a hulking machine with a conveyor belt that spirited away their fruit. But Lopez, a 31-year-old immigrant from Baja California, knew I was falling behind. And she responded with an act of kindness. Like the other women, Lopez wore a cap, several layers of clothing and a bandanna over her face to protect her from dust — and, she said, to keep her complexion nice. I wore the uniform of the other men: jeans, a tad too baggy so that I kept having to pull them up; a sweat shirt with a hoodie and a jacket over it; a baseball cap; and dusty, steel-toed work boots that a daddy long-legs had called home. But even if I was dressed like the other workers, the clothes felt like a disguise. As soon as I opened my mouth, my fluent but American-sounding Spanish, not to mention my baby-soft hands, gave me away. I shared that my parents were immigrants too. It was a defense mechanism, I guess, as much as a way of connecting with them. It didn't matter — they probably would have been generous either way. About an hour into the picking, my upper and lower back were beginning to tighten and my legs began to burn a little from the stooping. 'Listo para el contrato, amigo?' Seferino Rincon, a 42-year-old veteran of strawberry picking from Oaxaca, cheerfully yelled when I was allowed to catch up with the other workers. He was talking about the super-fast paid-by-the-piece picking — the contract — they were hoping to do tomorrow. I laughed and made a self-deprecating joke about just lasting the day. And yet, I was already thinking about the second day. My body was holding up all right, even if I was falling woefully behind the other workers and for stretches was almost alone. A month before, I stood thigh-high in a field of broccoli. I had always imagined that it grew close to the ground, like lettuce. Mark Teixeira, the owner of Teixeira Farms, which owns much of this land, snapped a long stalk and said: 'This is how you eat broccoli.' With his front teeth, he skinned the stalk and ate it like a carrot. He invited me to try it. It was sweet and better-tasting than the broccoli head. Teixeira, an affable guy with a sharp sense of humor, has argued publicly that Americans are unwilling to do the hard work that's necessary to gather crops. Like other growers, many of them conservative Republicans, he argues for immigration reform that provides for a steady stream of immigrants to do the work others won't. 'Americans don't want to do the fieldwork. They'll go over and make hamburgers for $8 an hour with no insurance, no nothing, when they can make more money here,' Teixeira said. 'I don't care if you pay $20 an hour, they'll come here one or two days, and they're gone. It's a mind-set: They think fieldwork is below them.' Teixeira was receptive to my idea of picking crops, but he didn't think strawberries were a good idea. Try broccoli, he said. Broccoli wasn't easy, he said. None of the crops were. But I wouldn't last doing strawberries. A group of broccoli pickers had gathered around us and I asked them which crop they hated picking the most. Almost all mentioned strawberries. How long did they think I'd last? An older man answered without hesitation: Quince minutos! Fifteen minutes. The men laughed. A moment later a young man hollered at the older man to stop gabbing and get to work. The men laughed again — the older man was his father-in-law. Tough crowd. I was glad I wasn't picking broccoli. Coming back to Santa Maria to start work, I slowed past the strawberry fields, looking at the men and women covered up like Mexican Bedouins, bowed over the earth. The day began with a lecture on the dangers of pesticides and keeping hydrated, followed by calisthenics I probably hadn't done since physical education in junior high. There was fog and a nice breeze from the Pacific. It wasn't the worst day to pick. Antonio Lopez, 34, one of the foremen for Mar Vista Berry, gently urged the workers to leave no good fruit behind. You might think strawberries are carefully sorted — possibly by a machine — into the clamshells you buy at the supermarket after being washed at some facility. They're not. The strawberries are picked by fieldworkers and placed directly into those containers. And you don't just throw strawberries into a clamshell and close it. They have to be sorted in a nice way, so that the strawberries on top don't show much of the stem, just their redness. The strawberries were the largest, ripest I had ever seen. There were fat ones that were completely symmetrical, and others that were huge and flat, like alluvial fans. Others were hook-nosed, like peppers. The farther behind I fell, the more obsessed I got with shapes. Sorting the fruit into the clamshells got to be like a game of Tetris from hell. I would stand up like a startled meerkat, looking at a clamshell and trying to figure out how to make the pieces fit. Then, when I began to fall comically behind, the strawberry fairy would leave another bundle for me. Porfiria Garcia, a 45-year-old Oaxacan immigrant, sidled up, offering encouragement. She tried working in a restaurant once, she told me, but she felt cooped up. She liked working in the open air, though it was hard work. She worked six days a week, often 10 hours a day, and her Sundays were often spent cooking for her family, doing laundry and preparing for the week of work ahead. From time to time, she'd take my near full clamshells and find a way to make the strawberries fit. Porfiria said she was glad my parents encouraged me to study. She hoped that for her children and grandchildren. 'What's the use of being born in this country if you don't study?' she said. That's what my parents wanted from me, my brothers and my sisters. Two weeks before heading up to Santa Maria, I was reaching into a closet in my parents' Boyle Heights home, looking for an old photo album, when I pulled out a day planner that my dad had kept in 1992. After coming to America in 1965 in the trunk of a car, my dad took all manner of jobs, including scrubbing toilets. By 1992, he was in his second decade as a machinist in Orange County. It was the job that helped him bring his family of six into the middle class. No detail of his life was too small for the day planner: like my older brother buying him The Club anti-theft device for Christmas; a son's appendectomy and a wife's surgery; his youngest child's toothache or the parking ticket he got on a Tuesday 'por buey' — for being an idiot, in his own words. My dad was working six days a week, often more than 12 hours a day. Most of his musing involved bills paid and unexpected expenses for the family. When his car battery went dead or was stolen, that was a calamity. It meant hours of work and money lost. He fretted over 'small checks' he got for 'only' eight hours of work and once, with no money to spare, simply wrote: 'Ni para el periodico.' Not even for the newspaper. His children, myself included, were a money pit. One January day, he wrote, in a mix of Spanish and English: 'Hector olvido luces 'on' —dead battery' after I left my car lights on while studying at UC Irvine. He had to bail me out. A month later: 'Hector olvido luces 'on.' Dead battery—Again.' That year, the economy soured and people were being let go where my father worked. He took a buyout. With my mom he opened a corner dry cleaner, but when that wasn't enough he tried to get another job. Finally, he took a job as an unarmed security guard in South L.A. working a graveyard shift — at a time when L.A.'s murder rate was sky-high. Americans, whether of Italian or Irish or Mexican descent, often refer to their immigrant bona fides. Sometimes we speak about our immigrant or working-class roots as if our forebears had passed on their fortitude, or that reserve of desperation that made them press forward, to do what they had to do. I'm the son of immigrants. But I'm not the same as them. The lunch hour came and, sore and exhausted, I grabbed the Playmate cooler I'd borrowed from my father-in-law and plopped down on the ground. My lunch selection probably didn't help my field cred: a can of Diet 7-Up, $7 beef jerky, mixed nuts with sea salt. Organic. A banana from the hotel. And a turkey sandwich from a fridge at Dino's Delicatessen. I ate half a banana and gave up. My appetite was gone. Noemi Lopez sat next to me. The 21-year-old worked six days a week to pay for four nights a week at a community college. A couple of years of this and study, and she hoped to reach her dream. 'I want to make wines and go to Italy ,' she said. Many of the workers said they not only took pride in the work, but enjoyed it in their own way. But others said they worked so hard and for so long for one reason: 'I have to — not because I want to, but because of necessity. I had to pay the coyote who brought me here. I had to pay rent, for food,' said Domingo Suarez, a soft-spoken 25-year-old who had herded goats and cattle in Oaxaca and was the father of a 1-year-old American girl. 'I have to take care of my family. I have to send money to my parents in Mexico .' As lunch ended, someone good-naturedly ribbed me, once again, with: 'Listo para el contrato?' Moments later, Seferino Rincon, seeing me struggle to keep up, turned to me, pumped his fist and said: 'Animo amigo, animo! Ya mero.' Keep your spirits, friend, and press forward. You're almost done. By then I was using my knuckles to prop myself up on the strawberry beds and the cart had become a walker. At about 2:20 p.m., a little more than seven hours after starting work, I took a break to grab a drink of water. After guzzling down six cups of the best water I had ever tasted, I trudged back to my row, boots feeling like they were stuck in sand. I took a peek at my Blackberry and shook it. I could have sworn more time had gone by. Porfiria Garcia stood next to my cart as I walked back to my row. I debated whether to try to continue. I surrendered. I didn't need this job. She smiled at me, as if she understood. Early the next morning, a deep fog blanketed the ground. In the darkness, car lights looked cottony. The workers arrived at yet another strawberry field, but this day was different. They were going to get their chance to work on el contrato. The best pickers could in five hours of work make upward of $150—or nearly twice as much in half the time. The workers did their calisthenics, and Antonio Lopez called out before they raced down the field: 'Ay que Dios los ayude.' May God help you. Within half an hour, the workers I had picked with a day before seemed more than a football field away, following the machine. A skinny immigrant approached Lopez and shyly asked if there was work. Lopez asked him if he would stay for the entire season — until about December. 'Yes, I want to stay for the entire season,' the young man answered. Moments later, work badge in hand, he jogged toward the machine, passing the bowed pickers into the fog.
