Beginning Again, with Purpose

It looks like this will be my fifth reading of the Book of Mormon since October 2022, when Elder Renlund challenged us to read it with purpose.

 

 In 1 Nephi 1:20, Nephi writes:

“I will show unto you that the tender mercies of the Lord are over all those whom he hath chosen, because of their faith, to make them mighty even unto the power of deliverance.”

 

I can testify that this is true for each one of us. The Lord wants us to return to Him. He wants us to exercise faith so He can show us His love—and make us “mighty.”

 

What does that “mightiness” look like in my life?

 

Over more than fifty years of reading this remarkable book, I have witnessed countless tender mercies. Here are just a few. One of the greatest has been the gift and desire to write music. In one way or another, all my music praises God. It has been an amazing journey.

 

Through faith, I was delivered from a dark abyss that once defined my life and brought instead a light that has grown brighter and brighter through the years. I rarely let a day pass without remembering that gift. In fact, it seems to deepen as I grow older—just as promised: “He that receiveth light, and continueth in God, receiveth more light” (Doctrine and Covenants 50:24).

 

Another tender mercy has been the softening of my heart—especially in helping me see the goodness in Clyde’s heart. The Lord made it clear to me that he was worthy of the blessing I sought in an eternal companion. Before that, I had described him in my journal simply as my “hippy friend,” and definitely not marriage material. I could not have been more wrong.

 

To see my eternal companion as the Lord sees him is a gift I know would not have come without divine help.

 

Yes, the Lord does give us power of deliverance through our faith. It is a beautiful thing—and one worth seeking at any cost.

 

Now, as I begin my fifth reading of the Book of Mormon since that conference invitation, my purpose this year is to go more slowly and to look for connections to the Bible, which I am also committed to reading cover to cover. I look forward to what the Lord will yet reveal.

 

And to my granddaughter—and to any of my wandering posterity who may one day read these words—if you ever wonder whether beginning again matters, know this: the Lord meets us every time we turn toward Him. Start where you are. Open the book. Trust that He will show you His tender mercies too.

Genesis 26: Covenants That Carry Us Forward

As I read Genesis 26, I’m struck by how closely obedience is tied to peace, joy, and progress. Isaac experienced all three. Even when envious enemies stopped his wells, he simply moved forward and dug again. His life wasn’t free of opposition, but it was anchored in covenant.

Isaac’s blessings flowed from the covenant the Lord made with Abraham. That feels personal to me. My patriarchal blessing teaches that many of my own blessings come because of my parents’ faithfulness. There is deep, often unseen power in a covenant marriage. We are blessed—sometimes without realizing it—because of the obedience of those who came before us.

And yet, Isaac was not perfect. Fear led him to deceive, forgetting that God’s protection is always better than anything we can create ourselves. That causes me to look inward. When have I chosen fear instead of trust? I see how my own choices affected my family, and I grieve the burdens my daughter has had to carry because of them.

But Genesis 26 also teaches me this: God can redeem what we break. My daughter is evidence of that. She clings to the Lord. She strives to be obedient. Her life is not easy, but her faith is real, and God is strengthening her. I see His hand in her determination to rise above what she was given.

When Esau’s marriage choices grieved his parents, the lesson is clear and enduring: MARRY WELL! Family choices ripple through generations. Seeking God’s guidance in choosing a companion matters more than we sometimes realize. I share this especially for my granddaughter—and for those who will read this years from now—so you will know that your choices matter, but so does God’s mercy.

Even when we stumble, the Lord can increase the good in our lives if we turn to Him. That is where peace is found. “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding” (Proverbs 3:5).

This is a truth I have learned for myself—and one I hope my children, grandchildren, and generations yet to come will carry forward. 

Where Is the City of Enoch?

Maybe Enoch isn’t something you’ve ever heard about before. I know I’m really going to enjoy my scripture reading this year. Grandpa and I were reading from Genesis this evening at the same time, and—naturally—lots of questions came up.

To be honest, I don’t want to pontificate on some of the stories found in the beginning of Genesis. There is some pretty awful and difficult-to-understand material there. Some of it is hard to read, and you can’t help but wonder how certain things even made it into our canonized scripture. So, what are we to learn from it? At the very least, we are meant to learn to make better choices than some of the people did in the beginning.

As we talked, the City of Enoch came up, and more questions followed. There isn’t much said about Enoch in the Bible—just one brief and holy line: “Enoch walked with God: and he was not; for God took him.” But in the Pearl of Great Price, in Moses chapters 6 and 7, the story unfolds much more fully.

There we learn that Enoch listened when God called him, even though he felt weak and unprepared. He preached repentance, and the people chose to change. Over time, they became of one heart and one mind. They cared for one another. There were no poor among them—“and the Lord called his people Zion” (Moses 7:18). Their lives became so aligned with heaven that the Lord took their city to Himself. That means they never tasted death—they were translated. Awesome.

What I love most is that Zion wasn’t built in a day, and it wasn’t built by perfect people. It was built by people willing to listen, repent, and love. That gives me hope. Zion can begin quietly—in a heart that chooses kindness, in a home where faith is spoken gently, in a life that walks with God.

My sweet granddaughter, if you ever wonder where Zion is, know this: it begins wherever someone chooses to follow Him. One heart at a time.

Which Way Does Your Tent Face?

In Genesis 13, Abram and Lot had outgrown the land they shared. Their herds were large, and their herdsmen were contending with one another. Abram understood that contention would only lead to trouble. With wisdom and humility, he gave Lot the first choice of land and trusted that the Lord would provide wherever he ended up.

Lot chose the well-watered plains of Sodom and pitched his tent toward the city. We know this doesn’t end well for him. Sodom was a worldly place, and though Lot wasn’t living in the city yet, he was always looking toward it.

I’ve been listening to podcasts that teach we can find Jesus Christ in every story in scripture. Since this story hasn’t fully unfolded yet, I asked myself: what do I see now? Can I pretend I don’t know the ending? Not really. Lot was drawn to what looked easier and more prosperous. Abram trusted God. He knew he would be cared for no matter where he went.

The application to my own life feels clear. When I have made righteous choices and done what the Lord has asked of me, I have always been taken care of. There have been many crossroads in my life, moments when decisions mattered deeply. Again and again, Jesus has been the answer.

What is Heavenly Father teaching me here? Perhaps it’s a reminder that I don’t know the end of my story. But I do know this: when I include the Lord in my decisions and follow the promptings of the Holy Ghost, the path forward is always a tender mercy. Sometimes I don’t see the Lord’s hand until I reach the end of a chapter of my life—but I am confident He is there.

Each day, I see His hand in my life. I feel His love. I recognize His blessings.

 

Christmas Eve - Receiving His Light

As I studied this morning, a simple list of words stood out to me—each one describing Jesus Christ:

• Full of grace.
• Truth.
• The Spirit of truth.
• The Son of God.
• Light.

Together, these words form a powerful picture of who He is and why His presence matters so deeply in our lives.

Doctrine and Covenants 50:24 teaches that “that which is of God is light,” and that as we receive and continue in God, that light “groweth brighter and brighter until the perfect day.” Mormon adds in Moroni 7:16 that the Spirit of Christ is given to every person, that we may know good from evil.

The Spirit of Christ is light, and every one of us is born with it.

That truth causes me to pause and ask: How has this light guided me? How did I first learn to recognize it?

I am grateful to have grown up in a home where Jesus Christ was spoken of freely and His teachings were lived. I see now how rare and precious that gift is. Many people do not grow up with the gospel in their homes, yet they live lives filled with goodness, love, and moral clarity. That goodness is evidence of the Spirit of Christ already working within them—quietly present, waiting to be strengthened by the word of God.

This is why we send our sons and daughters across the world to preach the gospel. They are not bringing light where none exists; they are awakening light that is already there.

If I could have the wish of my heart, it would be that my children and grandchildren who are living in darkness would have the faith to pray for truth—especially truth about Jesus Christ. I believe the Lord has a master plan to bring all of His children back into His presence. Though that work feels overwhelming from a mortal perspective, I trust Him completely.

On this Christmas Eve, my thoughts turn to our family gatherings as we celebrate the birth of our Savior. These moments can feel tender when families are divided in belief. We love one another, yet often walk carefully around the subject of Jesus. That distance can be heartbreaking to a believing mother, but I trust that the Lord knows how—and when—healing will come.

I believe Jesus came to earth as a baby, bringing light into the world like nothing ever seen before. I love Him for His perfect example and for the grace He has shown me, especially during seasons when I wandered. Even now, through daily repentance and His mercy, my light continues to grow brighter as I journey home.
As I look at my family—especially the rising generation—I am reminded that light often grows quietly. It is found in goodness, in honest questions, in tender moments of reflection. I trust that the same Savior who brought light into the world at His birth continues to nurture that light in each of us, patiently and perfectly, until the day it shines fully and without fear.

“Come Near to Me”

This morning I found myself reading Genesis 45:4-5, following the Come, Follow Me suggestions for 2026. The invitation was to look for similarities between Joseph and my Savior, Jesus Christ—the Son of God.

Two verses stopped me.

Verse 4:
“And Joseph said unto his brethren, Come near to me, I pray you. And they came near. And he said, I am Joseph your brother, whom ye sold into Egypt.”

I paused and asked myself a hard question: Did I sell my brother, Jesus?
Yes. I most definitely did.
For a mess of pottage, even.

I said a simple prayer asking Heavenly Father to forgive the mistakes of my youth. I wondered—will I ever read a verse like this without feeling tripped up by it? Then I kept reading.

Verse 5:
“Now therefore be not grieved, nor angry with yourselves, that ye sold me hither…”

There is real power in that verse. It felt as though Heavenly Father knew I needed to hear those words today.

Move on, girl.

God turns everything into good. He did it for Joseph, and He has done it for me. God preserved Joseph’s life—and He preserved mine as well, through His Son, Jesus Christ, whom I once “sold.”

Then came verse 10:
“…and thou shalt be near unto me, thou, and thy children, and thy children’s children…”

My thoughts immediately went to the temple. My posterity will be blessed because of my return. That is a miracle I anxiously await.

Other phrases lingered with me:
Verse 18: “Ye shall eat the fat of the land.”
Verse 20: “…for the good of all the land of Egypt is yours.”

All these things have been restored to me as well. And it is a beautiful experience I hope and pray for—for each of my wandering children and grandchildren.

Joseph’s story is not just about forgiveness.
It is about nearness.
Restoration.
Posterity.

I trust that the same God who turned Joseph’s story into good is still at work—still preserving, still restoring, still gathering. Nearness will come. Blessings will follow. I see them in quiet moments—in tears, in wonder, in longing. God is not finished with them. — with any of us! The invitation still stands: Come near to me. And I believe, in His time, they will.

Mary, Joseph, and the Power of Pondering

As I read again this morning about the birth of Jesus, I was struck not by the noise of angels or the wonder of the miracle—but by the stillness in which it was received.

Mary pondered.
Mary saw an angel.
Mary listened.

When the angel spoke, Mary asked a simple, honest question:
“How shall this be, seeing I know not a man?”

What impresses me most about Mary is not just what she experienced, but how she responded. She pondered. She saw. She listened. And then—she submitted her will to the will of the Lord. Her faith was not loud or dramatic. It was thoughtful, receptive, and trusting.

That leads me to my own questions.

Do I ponder enough to recognize the path the Lord has for me?
Do I listen carefully enough to hear His direction?
Or am I too busy, too hurried, too certain of my own understanding?

Joseph’s experience is quieter still, but just as powerful.

Joseph is described as a just man.
He pondered—he thought deeply.
He listened.
He was visited in his sleep.
And when he awoke, he did as he was bidden.

No recorded questions. No recorded words. Just obedience.

Both Mary and Joseph teach me that revelation often comes to those who are willing to pause, to ponder, and to listen—and then to act. God entrusted the care of His Son not to the loudest or the most prominent, but to two people who knew how to receive heaven quietly and faithfully.

That feels like an invitation.

I think of my granddaughter sitting quietly at the window, gazing at the mountains, tears slipping down her cheeks as she took in their beauty. She wasn’t speaking, explaining, or analyzing—she was simply being still and letting something holy reach her heart. That moment felt very much like Mary pondering, or Joseph listening in the quiet of sleep. Modern discipleship still begins there. In stillness. In noticing. In allowing God to speak to us in ways that don’t require words. If we will slow down enough to ponder, quiet ourselves enough to listen, and trust enough to act, we too can find ourselves walking a path the Lord has lovingly prepared—sometimes with tears, often without full understanding, but always with faith.