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.

---

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

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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.

---

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?

---

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.

 

Grief… or Hope?

1 Nephi 7

As I read this chapter, I found myself asking a simple question: Do I see the hand of the Lord here?

I do.

Families matter to Him. They always have. It’s through families—through the trials and blessings of raising “seed”—that we learn, grow, and ultimately return to Him.

I think about Ishmael and his family. Would I have had the faith to leave my home, take my daughters into the unknown to marry Lehi’s sons, and never look back? To live in a tent? To start over completely?

That kind of faith is remarkable.

And yet—not everyone had it.

Some of Ishmael’s children joined Laman and Lemuel in rebellion. These weren’t little children. They were capable, thinking young adults. They could have turned back. They had options.

But they didn’t turn back.

Nephi says he was grieved for them.

That word stopped me.

Am I grieved like that? Truly grieved over those who wander—especially those in my own family?

What does that kind of grief even look like?

• To not bear the thought of losing even one
• To quake, tremble, sorrow
• To groan, to weep, to yearn

I had to be honest with myself.

I don’t groan. I don’t weep or wring my hands.

I do feel sorrow. And I do yearn.

So then the question comes—what does that mean?
Am I lacking? Is something broken in me?

No.

I have hope.

I have faith in Jesus Christ and in His plan for every one of God’s children. That faith brings a peace that "passeth understanding" —but it is real.

I do grieve—not because I think all is lost, but because I see what they are missing. I see the light they don’t yet feel; the joy they don’t yet know.

And I want that for them.

I pray—often—that they will return. That it will happen here, in this life, where that joy can be fully felt.

And maybe that’s why a small detail in Nephi’s writing keeps lingering with me. He mentions more than once that his family dwelt in a tent.

It’s such a simple thing—but perhaps it’s a quiet reminder.

It doesn’t matter where we are—the Lord will reach us where we are.

He teaches us.
He knows us.
He guides us.

Wherever we are… we are always in His sight.

Hope doesn’t erase grief—it steadies it.

The Lord's hand is in this confusion!

 📖 1 Kings 19–22; 2 Kings 1 — Personal Notes (Tightened)

After such a powerful moment on Mount Carmel, Elijah surprises me. Jezebel threatens him, and suddenly he’s running, exhausted, and ready to die, AKA give up and asks the Lord to take him.

Maybe that’s the point. Even after witnessing miracles, we are still human.

What the Lord does next is quiet and tender:

• He lets Elijah rest
• He feeds him—twice
• He strengthens him little by little

Only later does He teach him that His voice is not in the dramatic moments, but in the still small voice.

That feels important.
Even after fire from heaven… Elijah still needed to learn how God usually speaks.

Then the story shifts—and honestly, it gets confusing.

The battles in chapter 20 feel large and overwhelming. The numbers are huge, the conversations unusual. But the message seems to be that the Lord is proving He is God everywhere—not just in the mountains or in dramatic displays.

And yet… Ahab doesn’t fully listen. Nobody really listens!

Then Naboth — This part is hard to read.

Ahab wants something that isn’t his (Naboth's vineyard). Naboth won't strike a deal. Ahab's wife, Jezebel, makes it happen through deception and murder—and it’s done so casually it almost feels shocking.

“Just like that… and he’s gone?”

It shows how far things have fallen:

• Power used for selfish gain
• Evil carried out without hesitation
• A king who allows it

When Elijah confronts Ahab, there is a moment of humility. Ahab softens, and the Lord delays the full consequences.

That stood out to me.

Even here… the Lord shows mercy. The Lord told Elijah these prophecies would be on his son. And that's more confusion for me.

🤔 A few things I had to sort out

2. “A lying spirit” (1 Kings 22:23)
This is a strange one.

The best way to understand it:

• The prophets were already choosing to deceive
• 👉 In other words:  God is in this story even though .  .  .  —He’s allowing Ahab to be led by the voices he chooses.

3. The fire consuming the fifties (2 Kings 1)
This feels extreme.

But notice the pattern:

• The first two groups come with worldly power, authority and assumption
• The third group with the same mission comes in humility

👉 The difference in Elijah’s power? —it’s their attitude toward God, their humility

💭 What stands out to me

This whole stretch of chapters feels like a contrast:

• Dramatic miracles vs. quiet whisperings
• Power vs. humility
• Partial obedience vs. true submission

And maybe the hardest part:

Sometimes it feels like everyone is doing wrong.

Even the “good” people struggle.
Even the leaders fail.

I heard Elder Holland's voice amidst the chaos: — “This must be terribly frustrating to Him.”

🌿 Closing thought

God is still working—even in confusion, weakness, and imperfect people.

Okay, maybe this brings me a little peace.

And maybe part of my work in reading is learning to recognize Him…
not just in the fire,
but in the quiet.

Remembering in the Moment

What Nephi and his brothers were asked to do wasn’t easy. Go back three days’ journey and bring back the plates of Laban. That’s a big ask.

Am I always excited about what I’m asked to do? Not necessarily. Sometimes I just shift into “you’re doing this for Jesus” mode and move forward. Am I good at it every time? Not even close.

Nephi understood that tension. He was asked to do something hard—something uncertain. He didn’t have a step-by-step plan. In fact, one of my favorite lines in this chapter is when he says he was “led by the Spirit, not knowing beforehand the things which I should do.”

I feel like I’m in that space right now.

There are things in my life that don’t feel fully clear—like serving in the temple without Clyde. We have always worked so well together.  It’s not that I feel uncomfortable exactly, but I do feel misplaced at times, especially when we’re there together. And yet, I trust there’s a reason. The Lord knows why. So I keep going, even without having it all figured out.

Then comes the moment in Nephi’s story that stops me every time.

He finds Laban. He sees the situation. And then comes a prompting that feels completely opposite to everything he’s been taught. It would have been easy to freeze, to question, to walk away.

But instead, something powerful happens:

“I remembered the words of the Lord.”

In that critical moment, Nephi didn’t rely on panic or impulse. He reached back into what he had already been taught. Promises. Commandments. Truths he had heard before. And as he remembered, understanding began to form.

He remembered that if he kept the commandments, his people would prosper in the land. He remembered the promises tied to obedience. And then the thought came:

How can we keep the law without the law? Boom! He knew he had to slay Laban and obtain the plate.

Clarity didn’t come at the beginning. It came in the middle—after remembering. After connecting what he already knew to the situation right in front of him.

It makes me wonder how often the Lord has already given me what I need, and I just need to remember it.

Maybe that’s how He works more often than I realize. He teaches us ahead of time, line upon line, and then in the moment of decision, the Spirit brings those things back to our minds.

Not always with full clarity at first—but enough.

Enough to take the next step.

I don’t always know what I’m doing beforehand. But I’m learning that I don’t have to. If I stay close to the Lord, if I listen and learn along the way, then when the moment comes… I’ll remember.

And sometimes, remembering is exactly what leads us forward.

Heed and Act of - 1 Nephi 3

As I read 1 Nephi 3, one thought keeps coming: when the Lord gives counsel through His prophet, it’s not optional.

Lehi was commanded to send his sons back for the plates. It wasn’t convenient. It wasn’t easy. But it was necessary.

That same pattern exists today.

In General Conference, our Prophet, President Oaks  reminded us to center our worship, learning, and testimonies on Jesus Christ. He promised that as we treasure up and act on these teachings (talks at GC), we will receive personal revelation and guidance.

That word  sticks with me: act.

I’m good at hearing. I’m even good at feeling inspired. But acting—consistently—that requires something..

Sometimes the prompting is big. Sometimes it’s small and very personal—be more patient, stop criticizing, love better. I try. I do well for a while… and then I slip.

So I ask, What’s the fix?

And the answer seems almost too simple:
Keep listening. Keep trying. Keep acting.

The danger isn’t in failing—it’s in not heeding at all.

In the Book of Mormon, we see what happens when people don’t have the guidance they need. Without records and direction, they lose more than knowledge—they lose understanding, connection, even identity. As the Mulekites so aptly demonstrate, even language.

I don’t want that.

I want to recognize the Lord’s voice. I want to follow it. I want to remember who I am and whose I am.

So maybe the question isn’t, Do I agree? or even Do I understand?

Maybe the better question is:
Am I willing to heed—and act?

Dwelling in a Tent

Reading 1 Nephi 2 this morning, a question stayed with me:

Could I leave my home—everything comfortable—and go into the wilderness?

I’ve done hard things, and I say “stuff” doesn’t matter… but the older I get, the more weight that question carries. Do I really believe it?

Could I have done what was asked—not just of Lehi, but of Sariah?

---

“And my father dwelt in a tent.”

Such a simple phrase, repeated often. But Sariah dwelt there too.

A tent means only the necessities. No excess. No permanence.

And yet, the Spirit was there.

There is a lesson here!

---

Nephi shows me what to do when things are hard to understand: he prays.

When others resist—even his own brothers—he chooses faith.

And the Lord blesses him for his faith, diligence, and lowliness of heart.

---

Lowliness of heart feels like:

• depending on God
• being teachable
• letting go of pride
• having a soft, willing heart

Not weakness—strength that chooses humility.

---

The promises are clear:

• Keep the commandments → be led and prosper
• Don’t → be cut off from the Lord’s presence

---

I keep thinking about that tent.

Maybe it’s not about what they lost.

What did they gain? Think about it. 

Compelled

 This morning I began reading the Book of Mormon again—this time more slowly, hoping to sit with the words and let them ask something of me.

In 1 Nephi 1:11–12, Lehi is given a book to read. I found myself wondering—what book was it?

It couldn’t have been the Book of Mormon as we know it. Perhaps it was something like the scriptures they already had. Whatever it was, it filled him with the Spirit of the Lord.

That led me to a quieter question:
Does coming unto Christ remove suffering—or change how we experience it?

Jerusalem wasn’t peaceful then, and the world isn’t peaceful now. Yet the invitation remains the same: Come unto Him.

---

In verse 16, Nephi explains that he is not writing everything his father recorded, but an abridgment. We know what happened to those earlier writings—lost through Martin Harris.

And that made one word stand out to me: compel. Nephi felt compelled to include some of his Father’s experience. 

Have I ever felt compelled?

Yes.

I felt compelled to gather and write my dad’s mission journal—to bring his words into one place.

I felt compelled to leave the Volunteer Care Clinic. It was a difficult decision, but it felt like our time there was complete. Twelve years is a long mission and there were other things to do that were also compelling. The Clinic has struggled, but it is providing valuable service to our community.

I feel a strong urgency—maybe even a compulsion—to focus on the music the Lord has placed in my life. There are unfinished projects that may never be completed, and yet the pull is still there. The Easter song I’m working on feels especially important. Its idea is not mine. I don’t take credit for it as it was a challenge from Clyde, but I feel responsible to take it to completion.

I feel compelled to help our new music from the Church become familiar, something we turn to naturally.

I feel compelled to help our youth—especially those leading music in sacrament meeting—feel confident and capable. It’s slow work, but I see small progress.

I feel compelled to gather my family, even if that gathering happens more often in prayer than in person.

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So yes—I know what it feels like to be compelled.

My challenge is not recognizing it.

My challenge is balancing it.

Because even in good things, I sometimes fall short.