This morning I listened to a short podcast about The Family: A Proclamation to the World. The speaker mentioned something that stopped me in my tracks: how well we knew our Father in Heaven before we came to earth—and how we will know Him again when we see Him.
That idea stayed with me as I prayed. I began to ponder what my own relationship with Him was like before this life. The impression that came was surprisingly clear and deeply personal. I felt strongly that He knew me well, that He expected great things of me, and that I was truly one of His daughters—known, trusted, and loved. Not in a vague way, but in a sweet, familiar way. I didn’t just think it. I felt it. And the Spirit confirmed it.
As I continued to sit with that thought, my mind went to a brief interaction from the night before. I had stopped by the bishop’s home, and as I was leaving, his wife reached around me and gave me a hug—strong, long, and sincere. She thanked me for all I do.
Me?
In that moment, and even more clearly as I pondered it this morning, I realized that what I felt went far beyond appreciation. It felt like a hug from my Heavenly Father Himself. A tender mercy. A quiet kiss on the cheek. A reminder that He sees me.I don’t need recognition or thanks, and I don’t feel that I’m doing anything extraordinary. But isn’t it wonderful when love finds us anyway?
Later this morning, I returned to the Book of Mormon and found myself in Moroni chapter 1. The Lamanites are killing anyone who will not deny the Christ. It is a dark and heartbreaking moment in Nephite history. Moroni is alone, maybe in a cave as was Ether who was recording the demise of a nation, doing what he can to preserve his life. And yet—he continues to write. What strikes me is why he writes. He is writing for his brethren—the very people seeking to kill him. He knows that what he records will one day be of worth to them. He understands that this is the Lord’s will, and so he presses on, quietly and faithfully doing what God has asked of him.
Isn’t that what we are all trying to do? Simply live our lives in a way that aligns with the Lord’s will, even when it is hard, misunderstood, or unseen?
I had one more experience yesterday—small, but instructive. A neighbor noticed I was carrying a heavy load home and stopped to offer help. I had paused to rest for the last few hundred feet, and his kindness warmed me immediately. But just as quickly, that warmth faded when he added an unsolicited political jab. Why couldn’t he stop with the kindness? Why did he feel compelled to deliver a message that wasn’t asked for, wanted, or appropriate?
This month, the word I’ve been pondering is temper. Not as a formal theme—just a quiet nudge that I need to refine something in my own life. That moment clarified it for me. To truly feel the love of our Heavenly Father—and to help others feel it through us—we must temper our passions. Religious, political, artistic, or otherwise. Even the things we feel most strongly about can be taken to excess, and when they are, they can push people away rather than draw them in.
Love doesn’t need commentary.
Kindness doesn’t need an agenda.
And the Lord’s work often happens in quiet caves, gentle hugs, and restrained words.
Today, I’m grateful for the reminders that God knows me, walks with me, and sometimes reaches out through others to say, I see you.
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