When the Liahona Stops Working — 1 Nephi 18

Lehi and his family have finished the ship — and it was good. They had done something remarkable, something they could never have done without the Lord. They loaded their provisions and set sail, guided by the Liahona.

And for a time, it worked beautifully.

But it didn’t take long. Idle hearts drifted. Focus shifted. What began as a sacred journey turned noisy, careless—even rebellious. And then the unthinkable: Nephi was bound, and the Liahona stopped working.

How do we forget so quickly?

How do we go from seeing the Lord’s hand so clearly… to living as if it was never there?

The pattern is almost painfully simple: when we turn from the Lord, the guidance stops. Not because He abandons us—but because we stop listening.

I’ve watched this happen so many times, it’s hard not to see. First, we’re  anchored—steady, faithful, seeing the Lord’s hand. And then, we let that anchor slip. Life hit harder than expected. Loss, pressure, competing voices. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the direction fades.

It’s easy to ask, What changed?

But maybe the better question is, What stopped?

The Liahona didn’t fail. It never does.

Our lives aren’t so different from that ship. We’ve seen miracles. We’ve felt direction. We’ve known truth. But staying on course requires more than a moment of faith—it requires constancy; it requires resilience.

Our “Liahona” is still here: the Spirit, the words of prophets (old and new), the quiet reminders we feel when we choose to listen. When we heed them, we are led. When we don’t, things go still.

And sometimes… painfully still. Actually, “still” wouldn’t be the worst thing, but our world starts to unravel, the noise gets in the way of the stillness. We can’t hear the Spirit. We can’t feel.

So what do we do when we see this happening to someone we love?

We wait.

We pray.

We trust the same God who guided the ship can guide them back.

Because He can. 

The Liahona never stopped working—only the listening did.

A Slippery Slope

Some of my thoughts while reading through 1 Nephi 17–18, one phrase stopped me:

“They did bear their afflictions without murmuring.”

What changed?
They began keeping the commandments—and the result was strength.

Murmuring is poisonous.
Obedience brings strength, nourishment, and provision.

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Last week, I stood in a foundry in Lehi watching molten brass—heated to nearly 2200°F—poured into molds. The room was almost unbearable.

And I thought: 

Nephi did this?

In the wilderness?

No equipment? No protection?.

He didn’t do it alone. I’m not talking Laman or Lemuel here. The Lord was there!

The same God who strengthened them in their journey strengthened Nephi.

Nephi says to his brothers: 

“Ye are swift to do iniquity but slow to remember the Lord your God.”

That line lingers.

It doesn’t take much to slip. I’ve seen how quickly conviction can turn into distance.

As a parent, I feel Nephi’s words:

“My soul is rent with anguish because of you…”

Laman and Lemuel could still be convinced—for a moment.

They saw. They felt. They knew. Isn’t this the Holy Ghost bearing witness? 

But it didn’t last.

Affliction can strengthen us.
Obedience invites power.
But remembering Him? Ah, that’s the choice.

Because it is a slippery slope.

FINAL or UNFINISHED?

I finished reading 1 Nephi 15 today, and it leaves me unsettled. 

Nephi speaks of those who are “filthy still,” and I catch myself wondering—what about the Millennium? What about the chances to come to Christ? It feels… final. And yet another thought presses in. 

If Lehi’s children are still considered covenant people hundreds of years later—after generations of wandering—then what does that mean for mine? 

That feels like a stretch. But maybe I’m reading the wrong part of the story. 

Nephi is showing the end—not the long, patient work that comes before it. “Filthy still” isn’t about a lack of opportunity. It’s about the moment when choosing is over. We’re not there. 

Not yet. 

There is still time. Still teaching. Still a God who keeps reaching. 

The Millennium itself suggests that His work continues far beyond what I can see now. 

So I sit here—in the middle. Watching choices I don’t understand. Holding onto promises that feel distant. Trying to trust that covenant roots run deeper than what I see today. 

Because maybe what feels final to me… is only unfinished.

How Will He Gather Us?

There are moments when doctrine feels less like a clear answer and more like a quiet question.

I found myself there again, wondering about the separation of the righteous and the wicked. If that separation is real—and I believe it is—then how do I reconcile it with another truth I also hold onto just as tightly? That covenants matter. That they reach farther than I can see. That somehow, they bind families in ways I don’t yet fully understand.

If every knee shall bow and every tongue confess that Jesus is the Christ, as taught in Philippians, then where does that leave the dividing line? Who, exactly, is separated?

And closer to home—what does that mean for my children?

Will there come a moment when they stand, recognize Him, and choose Him? Does that recognition change everything? Does it place them on the side of the righteous in ways I can’t yet comprehend?

I don’t have neat answers to these questions. But I do find myself returning to one quiet, steady truth: the Millennium is a thousand years long.

A thousand years.

That is not a hurried work. That is not a brief moment of sorting and dividing. That is time—divine time—for teaching, for softening, for healing, for returning.

When I think back on my own life, I remember the moment I realized I was on the wrong path. My return felt swift, almost immediate once my heart shifted. And yet, even that “swift” return came after a season of drifting—more from spiritual laziness than anything I would call deep rebellion.

My children’s journeys have looked different. Longer. More complex. And if I’m honest, sometimes that weighs on me.

But then I remember: the Lord is not bound by my timeline.

He sees what I cannot. He works in ways I don’t yet understand. And if He has given promises tied to covenants, I believe He intends to keep them—fully, completely, and mercifully.

So I sit with the questions.

I let them remain unanswered for now.

And I trust.

Not in the mechanics of how it will all unfold—but in Him who will unfold it.

Because somehow—through time, through grace, through the quiet, persistent reach of covenant love—I believe this:

We will not be lost to each other.

Yearn to Learn — Haunting Questions

I felt a quiet nudge this morning to begin reading the new For the Strength of Youth Guide.

I assumed I’d move through it quickly.

Impossible!

There is too much here to absorb—too many invitations to slow down, to think, to become.

And maybe that’s why the question still haunts me:

Why didn’t I choose to follow Jesus Christ when I left home?

I’ve asked myself that more than once.

I was raised in a good home by righteous parents. We lived Gospel principles. I knew what was good and what wasn’t. However, I don’t remember being taught how to seek personal guidance from the Holy Ghost, or how to turn to the scriptures for answers. My prayers were the same ones I had said as a child—familiar, but without depth or intention.

So, when I left home, I drifted — or more like crashed and burned.

Looking back, I can see the beginnings of who I was meant to become. I was given gifts! I loved music—it was a gift I didn’t fully develop. but I loved it. I was a peacemaker, sometimes to a fault, avoiding contention when I should have been learning to stand for truth. But to stand, I would have needed a testimony. And that came later. First, I had to yearn to learn. Maybe it had to be painful before I reached that point.

How blessed the youth are today to be both taught and guided so intentionally.

Then I turn my questions in the other direction — the direction that brings me to today.

Where would I be if I had chosen differently?

That thought haunts me.

Because the life I have now is not one I would trade. It is one I cherish I have an eternal companion I adore and love completely, who is the joy of my life. Our marriage is steady and deeply cherished. And I can’t help but wonder—would I appreciate that gift as fully if I hadn’t known something so different before?

Some experiences feel like detours when we’re in them — those difficult roads that cause pain and learning through hard knocks of life. 
But later, they become contrast.
And sometimes, that contrast quietly teaches us what we might never have learned any other way.

I don’t have answers to the questions that still haunt me.

But this I know:

I am where I’m supposed to be.
And I am doing what the Lord would have me do now.

So, I’ll keep reading. Slowly. Thoughtfully.
Because this guide isn’t just for youth.

It’s for anyone still yearning to learn how to follow Him.

And maybe the questions that haunt us aren’t meant to be answered—but to keep us turned toward Him.

At His Invitation - a Lesson in Redemption

Exodus 24 stopped me. We were studying this week’s Come Follow Me lesson, but this was brought to our attention:

In Exodus 24, Moses was told to come up into the mount—and not alone. Aaron, possibly the sons are the two with names, and seventy elders came partway. What follows feels almost too sacred to take in quickly:

They saw the God of Israel.
They were not destroyed.
And then—they ate and drank in His presence.

A meal.

Not instruction. Not correction.
A shared meal.

In ancient terms, that meant peace. Acceptance. Relationship. The covenant had just been made, and the Lord invited them to sit with Him.

That’s something to ponder.

Because not long after that sacred moment, everything unraveled. The people grew restless. Aaron, who had seen and experienced all of this, gave in to pressure and helped create the golden calf.

How does that even happen?

It reminds me that even the most powerful spiritual experiences don’t remove our agency. The mountain is real—but so is the valley. Clarity can fade. Pressure can build. And sometimes, we forget what we once knew so clearly.

And yet—the Lord doesn’t withdraw the invitation.

That’s beautiful!

We are still invited.

Each week, we sit quietly and partake of the sacrament. Bread. Water. Simple emblems. But it is more than a routine. It is, in a very real sense, a covenant meal—offered at the Savior’s invitation.

A chance to remember.
A chance to return.
A chance to be near Him again.

Maybe that’s the pattern.

He invites us up the mountain.
He knows we will come back down into the noise and the pressure of the world.
And still—He prepares a place for us, again and again.

Not because we have been perfect in the valley,
but because we are willing to come back.

“And they saw God, and did eat and drink.” (Exodus 24:11)

And somehow, that invitation is still being extended.

Climbing the Mountain

1 Nephi 11 is so full that I could write a blog from every paragraph. Today, time is short—we’re heading out to celebrate my youngest grandson’s birthday—but this is where my heart settled.

Ponder.

Do I do it enough?
Have I climbed the mountain of the Lord?
Have I ever truly been “carried away in the Spirit”?

Nephi was.

And I find myself wondering about his guide.

In other scriptures, the voice is clear. In Exodus, Moses hears the Lord speak in first person. In 3 Nephi, the Savior unmistakably declares who He is: “Come forth unto me…” There is no question.

But in 1 Nephi 11, it feels different.

Nephi says it is “the Spirit of the Lord.” Not the Savior Himself—but a messenger, a guide. Someone sent to teach, to show, to open understanding.

Does that really matter to me? Not really. Why?

Because it reminds me that revelation often comes through the Spirit—quietly, powerfully—rather than through something overwhelming or unmistakable. And if I want to see what Nephi saw, I need to be in a position to receive it.

Which brings me back to pondering.

Nephi didn’t just ask—he desired to know. And that desire carried him upward.

When he sees the tree his father saw, the description is simple but profound: beautiful, precious, desirable above all.

And then comes the answer:

The fruit is the love of God, “which sheddeth itself abroad in the hearts of the children of men.”

How does that happen?

Moroni gives us a glimpse:

• Remission of sins — there is nothing more liberating.
• Meekness — something that grows as hearts soften.
• Lowliness of heart — a humility that is steady, willing, and rooted in trust.

It’s not thinking less of ourselves.
It’s thinking of ourselves less often—while thinking more of God and others.

And then come the fruits of that life:

• Filled with the Spirit.
• Comfort.
• Hope.
• Perfect love.
• A steady diligence in prayer.
• Joy.
• The rod of iron—the word of God and the voices of His prophets—leads us there.
• To the tree.
• To the love of God.

Today, I’m left with a simple question:

Am I climbing?

Behold The Lamb — His; Mine

You would think after reading these chapters so many times, the questions would slow down. They didn’t.

As I read 1 Nephi 11, I found myself asking something I’ve never really stopped to consider: Who is speaking?
At times it feels like God the Father. Then a Spirit in the form of a man. Then an angel. And all of it centers on one message—

“Behold the Lamb of God.”

I’ve always understood that phrase. Or at least I thought I did.

But this time, it settled differently.

I'm in the thick of reading the Old Testament. I’ve seen the sacrifices—animals offered again and again at the Lord’s command. I understand they are symbolic. I know they point to Christ.

But I’m not sure I ever fully let it sink in what that meant for God the Father.

He wasn’t just asking for sacrifice.

He was preparing His people to understand His sacrifice.

His Son.

That shifts things for me.

Because suddenly, the question isn’t just What did they offer?
It becomes What do I offer?

And the answer seems so much smaller, simpler, oh, and less messy — and yet somehow feels so large.

A broken heart.
A contrite spirit.

No altar. No lamb. No outward sign.

Is it less messy? Maybe not. Life can get messy.

Just my will.

My time.
My attention.
My willingness to serve, to build, to show up, to give what I’ve been given back to Him.

Some days that feels simple.
Other days, it feels like all of me.

Maybe that’s the point.

In a world that fights against Him—as Nephi saw so clearly—perhaps the offering that matters most now is quieter.

But no less real.

And no less complete.

I wrote something last year that feels a little clearer to me now than it did then—
that the Lord’s plan is always better than anything I can come up with.

I’m still learning what it looks like to offer Him everything.

“Behold the Lamb of God.” 1 Nephi 11:21  

When Peace Comes Instead of Tears

This morning, as I read President Henry B. Eyring’s talk in General Conference, one promise settled into my heart:

Jesus Christ offers comfort.
He offers peace—peace that quiets a troubled, fearful heart.

And yet… the world around us feels anything but peaceful.

There is commotion everywhere—economies faltering, wickedness accelerating, uncertainty pressing in from all sides. I find myself praying more often, and more earnestly—not just for myself, but for those I love. For comfort. For direction. For peace.

Why do prayers feel more heartfelt right now?

For me, it’s because I can see the unraveling. And somewhere deep inside, that awareness whispers that the Savior’s return is drawing nearer. I find myself praying that it will be soon.

But what does it really mean to pray “with all the heart”?

It means sincerity—something deeply and strongly felt (thank you, Mr. Webster).
It means turning to Him not just in moments of fear or crisis, but continually.

Because fear, tragedy, illness, and uncertainty will always press in—but so will His promises.

He lives. He knows. He watches over us. He cares.

And this comforts me: Heavenly Father knows my needs before I even ask.

Prayer, then, is not about informing Him—it is about aligning my heart with Him.

President Eyring reminded us that spiritual strength comes through continual prayer, not just desperate prayers in moments of need. And even more striking:

“Much prayer and fasting” bring a spirit of revelation.

Revelation. That word stopped me. I searched for this quote from President Russell M. Nelson:

“In coming days, it will not be possible to survive spiritually without the guiding, directing, comforting, and constant influence of the Holy Ghost.”

Through prayer, we can be guided. And often, the answer comes as peace.

Alma’s words feel especially tender to me:

“May the peace of God rest upon you… your houses… your lands… your flocks… your herds… all that you possess… according to your faith and good works.” (Book of Mormon, Alma 7:27)

A cozy blanket of peace.

That’s what I want. That’s what I pray for.

There are moments when I think I should be overwhelmed with grief—when tears would seem like the natural response. But instead, I feel calm. Steady. Even peaceful.

And then I question it.

Is my heart too hard?
Am I missing something?

But maybe… that peace is the answer.

Maybe the peace I feel isn’t a lack of emotion—it’s the Lord answering my prayer.

 

It's Not About the Money.

In reviewing Elder Jorge T. Becerra’s recent conference talk, I was impressed with his experience with tithing that took me on a walk down memory lane as I developed my own testimony on paying tithing. As I’ve been reviewing conference talks, I’ve found that they may become the most important thing I read that day—guiding my thoughts and, at times, shaping what I choose to write.

This was one of those messages.

Elder Becerra felt prompted to sell his car in order to become current on his tithing. That was no small thing—he depended on that car for his work.

He chose to act in faith.

The car sold for exactly the amount he needed to pay off the car and become current in his tithing to the Lord. That alone would have been remarkable. But within days, someone approached him, needing a larger vehicle for a growing family, and offered to sell his smaller car to him if he would take over the payments. A tender mercy to be sure.

The Lord was aware—of his need, his sacrifice, and his faith.

That principle has played out in my own life as well.

After my divorce, I needed to learn a lesson on tithing. In order to keep peace as a couple, I had not been paying tithing on my income — it was “our” money. Looking back, that thinking was flawed. When I received my first paycheck on my own, I stopped in my tracks. If I hadn’t been paying tithing before, then what would hold me back now?

The question was simple: Would I pay it?

I sat down and looked carefully at my finances. I was short—exactly the amount it would take to pay my tithing on that check.

I didn’t overthink it. I pulled out my checkbook and wrote the check immediately so I wouldn’t be tempted to hesitate. I would figure the rest out later.

Very shortly after, I received an unexpected merit raise without explanation.

That moment settled something deep in me. The Lord is aware. He watches over us as we choose to follow Him.

I’ve seen that same pattern in my daughter’s life.

She came into a significant amount of money—first through a divorce settlement, and then as the sole heir after her father passed away. What impressed me most wasn’t the amount, but her question.

She asked how to pay tithing on such a large sum.

And then she did it.

A few months later, she told me she had paid an honest tithe on her “windfall.” I knew that hadn’t been easy. But I’ve also watched what followed. A promotion came at work. Her son’s father moved closer, and is taking an active role in parenting. They now co-parent without discord. There has been peace—real and noticeable peace. She sees it too.

Tithing isn’t something the Lord needs. It’s something we need. It teaches us where our heart is. It quietly asks: Do I love God more than the things of this world?

President Gordon B. Hinckley once taught that paying an honest tithe helps establish spiritual strength. At its core, it is simple obedience—the first principle of the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

Christ showed us what that kind of obedience looks like. He laid down His life in complete submission to the Father’s will.

That is the path we are on too—learning, step by step, to trust Him, to follow Him, and to place Him above all else. 

2 Kings 6–10 — When Things Unravel

I kept reading, hoping for some kind of resolution. It didn’t really come.

These chapters are not easy to read. They are graphic, unsettling, and at times hard to reconcile. Society feels like it has completely unraveled—morally, spiritually, and politically. Choices are extreme. Leadership is inconsistent. Even those who do some good don’t fully follow through.

And yet, I still see the Lord.

I see Him holding back destruction because of His covenant with Abraham. I see Him working through imperfect people like Jehu—accomplishing His purposes, even when their hearts aren’t fully His.

That gives me something steady to hold onto.

I don’t need to dwell in the heaviness of these chapters, but I don’t want to ignore them either. They remind me how quickly things can fall apart when people turn away from what is right. And they quietly nudge me to stay grounded—to choose faithfulness, even when the world around me feels inconsistent or uncertain.

One more thought came as I was talking this through with Clyde. The Book of Mormon isn’t without this same kind of unraveling. The Jaredites come to a complete end. Moroni witnessed the destruction of his entire people and was left alone to preserve the record. These patterns repeat.

Maybe that’s enough for today. It’s certainly enough for me to sit with.

Sometimes the path to the tree begins in the dark.

1 Nephi 8 - A lot is packed into this one chapter, commonly referred to as Lehi's dream. These are some of my thoughts and although they seem fragmented somewhat, they end at a solid place.

As I read about Lehi’s vision and compared it with Daniel’s experience, one thought kept coming back to me: Who is the “man” guiding them?

In Daniel, it feels a little clearer—this “man” seems to be the Savior, appearing before His mortal life. That same idea makes Lehi’s experience feel more personal to me. He wasn’t wandering alone. He was being led.

And yet… where was he led first?
A dark and dreary place.

I don’t have to wonder what that feels like. I’ve been there. There was a period in my life—years, actually—when I wandered. I prayed, sincerely, but didn’t really understand what I was asking for—or what the Lord was trying to teach me.

So why does the Lord allow that kind of experience? Why lead someone into darkness at all?

Today, my answer feels simple:
Because that’s where we learn to turn to Him.

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Then comes the contrast.

Lehi sees the tree. The fruit is “most sweet”—desirable, joyful, deeply satisfying. And like any of us would, he immediately wants to share it with the people he loves.

That part resonates with me. When something is truly good—truly joyful—you don’t keep it to yourself.

But not everyone stays.

Some let go of the rod.
Some get lost in the mist.
Some are drawn to the great and spacious building.

And some… are ashamed and mock. This makes me sad

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But there’s one group that stands out to me more than ever.

Those who make it to the tree and stay.

What did they do differently?

They fell down in gratitude.

That detail feels like a key. Not just arriving—but recognizing, humbly, Who brought them there.

I’ve thought about that a lot. Am I grateful enough? Do I pause long enough to acknowledge what the Lord has done for me?

Because the truth is, everything I have—every good thing—comes from Him.

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And then there are those four simple, powerful words:

“We heeded them not.”

Despite the mocking.
Despite the pointing fingers.
They stayed.

I love that.

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Lehi wanted his family at the tree.
I want mine there too.

And sometimes that’s the hardest part—watching people you love choose a different path. Wondering if they’ll return… and when.

But this is where my faith has to step in.

The Lord didn’t just provide a way for me—He provided a way for all of us. His plan includes every one of His children. I hold to the covenants I’ve made and trust that they matter more than I can currently see.

Maybe my role now isn’t to keep talking or persuading.

Maybe it’s to love.
To stay steady.
To trust that the Lord is working in ways I can’t yet see.

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I think that’s where I’ve landed:

Hold to the rod.
Choose gratitude.
Ignore the noise.
And trust the Savior to do what I cannot.

Enduring Isn’t Grit

As I read Elder Bednar’s talk, “All Who Have Endured Valiantly,” I had a quiet realization.

I’ve often thought of “enduring to the end” more like grit—pushing through, holding on. But I’m beginning to see it differently.

What if it’s simply continuing to follow Jesus Christ?

Not forcing change, but allowing it.

Like the drops of oil in our lamps—small, steady acts of goodness. Over time, something shifts. We become new creatures.

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This thought stopped me in my track.

• Why do I write music?
• Why do I attend the temple?
• Serve in the temple?
• Why do I serve?
• Why do I share bread with neighbors?

It isn’t obligation.

I want to do these things. Oh, I include my love for the Lord and desire to return to Him, but I truly want to do the things I do. They bring me joy! What else would I do? I truly don't know.

That doesn’t feel like grit. It feels like change.

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I’ve also noticed something else. I’ve lost interest in things that once mattered—shopping, decorating, even some of the busyness of life.

Is that something to worry about?

Or is it part of becoming?

Is this what happens as we quietly choose Him, again and again?

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Enduring to the end may not be about holding on tightly.

It may be about becoming someone who no longer wants to let go.

I’m grateful for a Savior who doesn’t just ask us to endure—but helps us become.

Little by little. Line upon line.

Until staying with Him is no longer something we try to do…
but something we truly desire. It's who we are.

Like one of our new songs teaches: Softly and Tenderly, Jesus is calling”

Enduring to the end might just be about becoming someone who no longer wants to let go.