Everything was calm, silent, except for the sounds of the sea. I laid my towel out near a twisty, crooked beach tree, dropped my camera, and walked straight to the waves. They crashed against my body, each one sending sea spray up to my mouth and curling my hair into tiny ringlets around my neck. I pressed into them, like a woman kissing her obsession for the first time, the salt settling sweet on my lips.

Sand shifted beneath my feet with every turn of the current and I kept walking, water rising, past my knees, my thighs, my waist, my chest–higher and higher, beyond the crashing surf, until it swirled and wrapped, over and around and over again, swaddling me as I laid there, softly treading, as the sun began to climb out from behind the clouds.

I looked out in front of me–nothing but ocean and sky.

Nothing but ocean and sky.

I settled my feet despite the moving floor below me and found myself lifting my arms–open, wide, and free–pulling the water up with me in tiny rivers that fell from my fingertips, wanting only to greet the endless horizon before me.

And as I sat, melting in the swelter, contemplating the ebbing sea, watching the mounds of mud gradually emerge from their hiding, I felt strangely akin to low tide—empty, exposed, muddy.

All I seem to have are questions anymore. What is this life I’m living? What am I supposed to be doing? When will I feel full again? When will the tide turn? When will I feel like me again? How do I get me back?

But today, it occurred to me—I don’t know that I ever will. Get “me back,” that is. At least, not in the sense that I will suddenly wake up and reclaim my old self—as if I were a lost shoe that I found under the bed one day. I don’t know that that’s possible. Or that I even want it to be anymore. And in fact, I don’t think that’s what this is, or has ever been. But that is what I’ve been trying to make it.

I keep saying, “I used to do,” or “I used to be.” I’ve been looking at my old life as if it were this thing that I lost, and now need to somehow find and reclaim. But nothing I try, in my reclamation efforts, seems to be working.

I’ve grasped and plotted and planned and ultimately fought the current, trying to keep my life at high tide. And I could say that that was the wrong thing to do, but I won’t discount my steps. I won’t berate the fear. I won’t belittle the struggle.

And I won’t feel bad for taking too long. Because what is too long? Who am I to say that I’m not following a perfect timeline? Who am I to say that there even IS a timeline?

On this island, the tide rises two times each day. But though the tide is on a schedule, ultimately it only rises when the Earth is ready—once all the creeks and canals have been sufficiently emptied. You can’t force a tide to turn. You can only wait.

And with the turn of the tide comes new water—completely different water to fill the empty, cover the exposed, and wash the muddy.

Today, I began to see the holiness in being empty. After all, wasn’t it an empty tomb that brought the promise of Life?

And I learned—it’s not an old me that I need to reclaim.

It’s a new me that I need to become.

My senses intoxicated, I wanted to slow the seconds–to have time enough to breathe it all in and wrap it up with a beautiful bow for later opening and reopening.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” I asked. “Mm hmm,” he answered.

We started South and the yellow light soon bent beneath the deep pink clouds which then gave way to an indigo dusk. Quietly, he slid his hand into mine, lacing his fingers in that way that he does and said … “Tell me something. Something about you.”

I thought for a minute. Where do you begin when there’s no limit to the answers? Memories and images flowed with the smallest of details and timidly, I began.

He listened as I talked, asked questions when he wanted to know more, laughed at the funny parts, and rubbed his thumb back and forth over my hand when I cried because of how deeply I felt about what I was telling him. It was easy, this conversation. Easy to tell him things. Easy to be myself. Easy to walk beside him.

It was his turn next. To “tell me something.” We zig-zagged back and forth, up and down different blocks, talking and not talking, laughing, listening, hand in hand, stopping to smell every flower within reach, saying hello to the neighbors, watching the moon rise, large and full, pregnant with soft light on the horizon.

And only when the sky grew black with night did we turn to make our way back home. One star hung low and bright in the western sky. Crickets chirped from the gardens by the sidewalk. I looked at our shadows stretched out long in front of us and all I could think was, how much more content could I possibly be?

+++

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The funeral was Friday. The burial Saturday. If I thought any semblance of composure I had left shattered when baby Sarah started crying “mommy!” when the casket was rolled away, I can’t even begin to describe the feeling I felt as the red Tennessee dirt fell, filling the hole in the ground, but breaking a new one in my heart.

It wasn’t supposed to end this way. When you believe in miracles, you’re supposed to get miracles. By Sunday I was drained.

I craved the healing power of Christ’s atonement in the worst way. I needed Him to fix the gaping hole left in my heart, and in my faith. And so yes, I contemplated taking more than my fair share of the bread and water. After all, isn’t that what it’s for?

My heart still questions. My eyes still cry. But life has gone on. It has to, I know. And yet, I want to stop and scream sometimes. “Don’t you know?! Don’t you know that my friend just died? Don’t you realize that while you are worrying about silly, stupid things that a good man just lost his love and three little ones just lost their mother?”

But instead, I bow my head. And I pray. That, just like He fed the 5,000 with a few loaves and fishes, He can fill me with just a broken piece of bread and a thimble full of water.

She awoke to light. The golden rays of dawn slipping through the blinds like silky legs under lingerie. Never an early riser, she blinked, softly, slowly, again and again until morning registered. Still not ready to leave the cocoon of cotton and fleece she’d wound herself into, she closed her eyes again, and sank deeper into the warmth.

To anyone else, the quiet might have seemed deafening, but having lived alone for a few years she’d come to understand that stillness isn’t silence and that lack of noise doesn’t mean lack of sound. If you listen long enough, with patience for the moment, you eventually notice the rhythm of your breath, the hum of a honeybee, the wind chime of leaves, the quiet groan of a settling house, God’s whisper in your heart. She called it the symphony of life and this morning she was content to enjoy the show from her bed for as long as possible.

But soon the call of day beckoned more loudly than the small, lovely sounds of morning and arching her back, extending her limbs, she rose from the downy pillows like the opening of a flower’s first petals in Spring. She sat, feet dangling over the side of her bed, gingerly tilting her head from one side to the other, trying to expel the night from her stiff frame.

Had she dreamed? Perhaps. Though she rarely, if ever, remembered night visions. She was more of a daydreamer, often lost in her own world, even when fully present in the one surrounding her.

Inviting the day with one, long deep breath, she set her feet on the floor and made her way to the kitchen. A lover of routines, but by no means rigid, she always followed a particular set of tasks whether she realized it or not. Standing at the sink she slid back the curtains and opened the window. The sun had not yet burned away the cool morning air and it filled the room from floor to ceiling with the opportunities of a new day.

She smiled to herself for no particular reason and reached for a glass. She marveled as the light passed through it, refracting in different directions, sending beams onto the counter. Had she been any less of the woman she was, she might have thought about how, much like the tall, clear glass in her hand, her life was a bit empty at the moment. At least that’s how it looked to many an outside observer.

But she had never been one to think in such a way. Certainly she’d had her moments of worry and concern. Certainly she’d felt alone at times. Certainly she’d wondered how to move forward. But never had she felt empty.

She reached for the faucet and began to fill the glass with water. Higher and higher it rose, almost to the top, but for some reason, on this morning, she didn’t move. Instead, she watched as the water began to flow past the rim, down the sides, and over her fingers. Rushing through her like a flood of energy, love and possibilities, the water poured, and she–happy, bright, ready–stood thankful for the overflowing glass she held tightly in her hands.

And so, since I plan, my adulthood was set in order way back in childhood. I had thought it all through, visualized it, written it down, and discussed it freely as though my name was Fate. I would go to college, become a high-school English teacher, get married when I was twenty-one, start having children when I was twenty-three, return to the Carolina coast and build our first home when I was twenty-five—for which I have all the color swatches, upholstery samples, furniture styles, and blue prints neatly filed—and then, finally, after working so hard to plan and accomplish, I would confidently walk up to adulthood, calmly introduce myself, and say, “I am here. I have arrived. I am now an adult.” After all that’s what adulthood is isn’t it?

Well. I’m thirty. I’m single. I have no children, and while I am a college graduate, I majored in journalism and work for a recording company in marketing. I live in Utah, and I am a renter. Please don’t misunderstand, I have a wonderful life and incredible opportunities, but somewhere along the way, adulthood tiptoed his way behind me (of course it wasn’t me who raced ahead of him), and it is he who taps me on the shoulder—every day in fact.

Despite my countless hours planning, despite my firm and adamant discussions with the future about how it was supposed to turn out, “it” didn’t listen and I don’t think I ever became an adult. It became me.

But if I was forced to pin-point a specific moment, maybe it was the morning I woke up to find a wrinkle in my smile and I raced to my nearest Mary Kay consultant to buy every anti-aging creme, serum, lotion, and spray she had in stock.

Or maybe it was the day they offered me a full-time job and I found myself diving head first into the depths of health insurance, salary bids, and dental plans. Maybe it was the day my dad handed me my taxes and said he wasn’t declaring me as a dependent nor was he filing them for me anymore. Or what about the time I went on vacation, paid for the whole thing myself, didn’t tell anyone I was leaving, and didn’t have to make sure it was OK.

Perhaps it was that hot summer day after graduating when I went looking for my first real place—you know, the non-student, unfurnished, fifty-percent chance your neighbor’s crazy housing. After my first appointment with a landlord I slowly climbed into my car, rested my head on my steering wheel, and crumbled as I watched my plans plunge into a tiny puddle on the floor, because I hadn’t thought to prepare for how it might feel to look for my first home … alone. I hadn’t thought to plan Plan B.

But then there was also that business meeting where I was the only girl surrounded by men my father’s age and I had to tell them how things were going to happen. Or it might have been the day I bought a bed, or the day I bought a couch, or the day I bought a vacuum cleaner. Surely you’re an adult when you buy your own vacuum cleaner. Or maybe it was that afternoon when I gave serious thought to retirement and staring my 401-K.

Maybe it was that time I caught a glance of myself in the rear view mirror and my breath caught in my throat because I looked so much like my mom. Maybe it was when 40 didn’t seem so old. Maybe it was the day I fell in love. Maybe it was the day he fell out of love. Maybe it was the day I finally realized he had never loved.

Who knows? But I am coming to the conclusion however, that adulthood has nothing to do with the house, the job, the husband, or even the upholstery. And it probably has nothing to do with age either. Perhaps, just maybe, it has everything to do with not knowing, knowing that you don’t know, and admitting that you don’t.

I really don’t know.

I sit, curled beside the open window, watching the sky turn gray, and then grayer. Electric almost, with anticipation–the sky and I.

My life has become dichotomy personified as of late–an island girl, trying to make home in a desert. A sunshine lover, hungry for rain. A responsible adult, wishing for a wind storm in which to lose her caution. A contented woman, dreaming of other paths.

I am reminded of a night, similar to this, wherein I wrote in my journal:

I just deleted three paragraphs of honesty … simply because I’m not ready to be honest. I’m too scared of it right now. Afraid of what it will to do me and where it will put me. But I know I need to write. To get something out of me. And so, I write.

This weekend I’m staying with family friends. Sandra lets me come when I need. She hugs like a mom and listens like a friend. They have a lovely home – quiet and serene with a yard full of Aspens and a trail that leads to the hills. Bill plays the banjo on the porch each night before dinner and I find myself looking forward to it all day.

Friday night I was reading on the porch and stopped to look out over the valley. It was raining lightly and I could tell a storm was coming. I watched the medallion leaves flutter on the Aspen branches, quivering as the wind rushed through them. Maybe they knew a storm was coming too. Maybe they shook with fear. Or maybe they didn’t know at all and were simply dancing, excited for something they didn’t understand.

Their usually white trunks turned seal-slick gray as water streamed from sky to ground. Slippery wet, the rain rolled off their backs sinking deep into the roots. I could feel the wheels of my brain begin to turn. Cranking to draw the parallels. Churning with lessons I ought to learn. But I stopped. I didn’t want to think.

And then I saw it. Right there in front of me. How had I missed it? A perfect little nest. It was empty and I was fascinated. I stood up and leaned over the rail to get closer. Tiny twigs carefully woven, placed, and perched in the crook of a branch. It was lovely. Simply lovely. I wondered how on earth it stayed right there – perfectly balanced without falling. It looked as if nothing at all was supporting it.

The breeze turned cool and I went inside to read. Sandra came to join me. Darkness fell quickly and the wind kicked outside, howling down from the canyon. Rain poured sideways, lightning flashed, and thunder rumbled. As I gazed out the window, I remembered being a little girl huddled under blankets listening to the summer storms shake outside my window. Sandra looked up. “Storms make trees strong,” was all she said, and she turned back to her book. I too returned to the pages in my lap. I still didn’t want to think.

The next morning I woke up wondering and worrying how the nest had fared through the night. I ran upstairs and out to the porch, where there, in the crook of the branch, it sat. Not a twig had blown away. And not only that, but in place of yesterday’s emptiness was a robin. Wide-eyed with amazement, I suppose I leaned too close and startled the tiny bird because she chirped and flew away. And there on top of the twigs and moss sat two little blue eggs … beautiful turquoise … no bigger than a couple of grapes. I offered a silent “thank you” to heaven. I felt as though I had been given a secret view of something special–a quiet peek into an intimate corner of Mother Earth, and I needed to thank the source.

I checked on the eggs all weekend. Not that I could do anything for them. And not that I needed to. They had been created in the midst of a storm and had weathered the wind perfectly fine without me. But I couldn’t help but want to make sure they were okay. It was as if checking on them and finding them safe meant that everything else in the world–my world–was safe too.

I know it all represents something. I’m certain of that. But I still don’t want to think. And I still don’t want to be honest. It’s just too much effort right now and I don’t think I have the stamina to see the corners upon which honesty will shed its light. But I know someday, sooner or later, I will write more. And what I will write will be about a life that quivers when the wind blows through. And about rain that smooths the outer edges as it sinks into the roots. It’ll be about the almost invisible support that cradles and balances the nests I build. About storms that make me stronger, and the quiet, perfect tokens of life found when I look right in front of me. It’ll still be about birds I suppose. But next time it’ll be about me too.

It has been almost three years to the day, since I wrote that journal entry. And someday is here. Later has come. I am ready to write.

… to be continued.

*post edit: I found the pictures we took of the nest.

It was a sweet story, nothing monumental, but left me tears none-the-less. Tears for his life. Tears for his goodness. Tears for his love. His example. His service. It has been one year since his passing and while I know that God has given us another prophet whom I wholly love, support and sustain, I cannot help but miss our dear President Hinckley. It’s just a different world without him here.

As I sat, tears falling, thinking on this great man who did so much to share the gospel of Christ, I remembered my own “personal” encounter with President Hinckley …

It was the Spring of 2005 and at that time I worked from an office that had a wall of windows on the north side that faced the LDS Church Administration Building on South Temple St. in Salt Lake City, UT. It was a sunny day and I’ll admit, I was gazing not at the computer screen like I ought to have been, but out my window watching the world go by.

A few minutes into my reverie, the doors to the Administration Building opened and out came an older man with a cane. I knew the form and face well. Yes, it was President Hinckley. An immediate smile came to my lips and I could feel my heart get a little soft with love. I settled into my chair and just watched.

He had his body guards with him, one on each side and then one trailing behind as he began a “lap” around the gardens to the east of the Joseph Smith Memorial Building. He stopped every twenty feet or so, pointed at a cluster flowers, smiled and talked to his guards.

About half way to the Church Office Building on the north side of the square, there was a young mother with a toddler in a stroller. As the prophet came near, she stooped down and began talking to her little boy and pointing to the prophet. I imagine a beautifully simple lesson was being taught. President Hinckley stopped and talked to them for a moment, and then continued around the garden.

A few minutes later, he’d made it almost all the way around the garden patch still stopping and pointing out particularly lovely bunches of flowers every so often when, at the South Temple St. crosswalk, a bride and groom stopped him to requested a picture. President Hinckley happily smiled and posed and spoke to them for a moment.

As he continued on his way back to the Administration Building, I noticed that one body guard always trailed about 15 feet behind. I also noticed that sometimes President Hinckley would use his cane, other times he wouldn’t. But eventually they made it back to the Admin. Building and were quickly up the stairs and inside.

I sat in my chair for quite a few moments after that, thinking about what I’d observed from my little perch. And this is what I learned from my ten minute observation.

Lesson #1. Take a walk in the middle of the day – even if you’re at work.

Lesson #2. Stop every 20 feet and look at the flowers – not just once, but every 20 feet. There’s a new bloom just that often. And talk about them – the way they look, the way they smell. I know it’s cliche in every way to say we should stop and smell the roses, but how many of us actually do it? Honestly. When was the last time you noticed a garden of flowers, or the sunset, or a baby’s toes, or the way the wind feels in your hair, and then actually talked about how wonderful it was with someone else?

Lesson #3. Stoop down and teach. Literally and figuratively. Teach the things that matter. Teach the things that are simple and true. I imagine all that young mother said was, “Honey that’s the prophet. Look. He talks to Jesus. He teaches us what to do.” (or something along those lines). Point your children (or whomever if you/I don’t have kids yet) toward the people who will point them to Christ.

Lesson #4. You can’t point without looking at what you’re pointing to.

Lesson #5. Start your marriage right beside the prophet. (and then continue with him)

Lesson #6. Sometimes we may feel like we’re so far behind where we want to be or where we think we ought to be. And sometimes we may feel all alone as we walk. But we just need to look at where we’re walking and who we’re following. Find people worthy of following, look at the steps they’ve already taken, and then take the same ones. That body guard walked every step President Hinckley did, just 15 steps behind … but eventually they both made it back to the Administration Building, with President Hinckley waiting at the door for him.

Lesson #7. Sometimes we might need to use a cane and sometimes we don’t. It’s OK to use a cane sometimes. Give it a go without it too.

President Hinckley had no idea that I was watching him, soaking up anything I could learn from him that day. It is a treasured memory filled with lessons I’ll keep for always. And tonight I was reminded of why I love our late prophet so much. It’s because he loved us and he loved the Lord and did all he could to help us know Him.

I want to be more like that.

Allow me to ask a question. I hope you’ll give the answer serious thought.

Is there anything in your life right now that you’d like to change or have different?

Perhaps you are seeking an answer? Or maybe forgiveness? Or are you holding onto forgiveness that needs to be extended? Maybe you are trying to win the battle with an addiction. Maybe you are trying to reach a difficult goal. Maybe you are seeking greater joy or peace or harmony within your home, family, or self. Maybe you are making big life decisions and are wondering which path to take. Maybe you want to pursue a different profession. Or maybe you are trying to overcome a fear. Perhaps you would like more good friends. Maybe you are wondering when the ache in your heart will finally dull and go away. Maybe you are wondering when the tears will stop. Maybe you are in a relationship that needs healing. Maybe illness and fatigue are currently a part of your daily life. Maybe you are seeking a certain blessing to come your way. The list of changes we each might like to see in our lives is endless.

When December 31, 2007 arrived, I sat down to write my New Year’s resolutions just like I always do every New Year’s Eve. I’d been thinking about them for a while, and there were lots of things about my life that I wanted to be different. But when I sat down to write them there was only one resolution that mattered. I had examined my life much in the preceding months and I had come to the conclusion that I wasn’t who I wanted to be. I wondered where the bright-eyed, idealistic college graduate had gone, along with all the plans and goals and ways I was going to change the world. I couldn’t see the perfect-faith-filled returned missionary anymore. By no means had I become a horrible person, but I wasn’t who I had been in years past, and I hadn’t become who I thought I would once I “became a grown up.” Life had happened. I’d gotten a real job with real stress and heavy demands. I’d accumulated bills and responsibilities and busyness. And the busier I got, the less I seemed like me. And it seemed like the farther I got from “me,” the farther I got from heaven too. So come January 1, things were going to change. But like I said only one resolution mattered. And so I wrote:

This year I will know the Savior better.

In the weeks that followed, I tried to put a dedicated emphasis on that goal. I reimplimented habits like daily scripture reading, regular prayer, and reading the lessons for each Sunday. And I felt better about life in small measure. But I still felt as though I was far. The intensity of the Spirit wasn’t permeating my life like it had just a few years before. And so – I continued to clean out the cobwebs. I identified things that had crept into my life which were making it difficult for me to always have the Spirit – things like sins, weaknesses, imperfections, and grudges. I began to offer them up to heaven with the humblest heart I think I’ve ever had. I was so saddened by the weeds I had let overtake my heart.

I think I knew I needed change for a long time, but when I’m honest about why I didn’t do it sooner, it was because I was scared – scared to give the Lord this tattered, broken life. I was afraid piecing it back together would hurt beyond what I could bear. And I think I was also ashamed. He’s the perfect God of the universe. How could I ask the Lord to fix me, change me, remake me? How could I offer Him anything less than perfection? And so for a long while I tried to rid my life of the busyness and weaknesses on my own, while trying to add back in the joy, service, and dedication – again, on my own. But with the approaching New Year, the pieces began to come together – I couldn’t do it on my own anymore. And I don’t know that I’ve ever wanted to know the Savior more. It’s never mattered more. And I think that’s because I’ve never been more acutely aware of my need for Him. And I told the Lord so. I would do whatever it took. I didn’t care how badly it hurt or how long it would take. I wanted my life to be different. And I would do whatever He asked.

And as I did so, I felt things changing little by little. I found myself happier and more peaceful. Less burdened and more fulfilled. But something was still not right. Like I had hit another wall, where I had offered everything up – my desires, my sins, my weaknesses – but I still wasn’t feeling complete in the process. I kept praying, “What else do I need to do? What is the way to finally achieve what I’m seeking? I’m so close I can feel it. But I feel like there is one last thing. Is it just that I need to give you more time? Do I need to be patient? Or do I need to do something else? Just tell me and I’ll do it. You know I will.”

Now, you must know that I have always been my own worst critic. And, though I would never allow another person to believe this about themselves, I’ve always thought that I needed to do more, work harder, run faster in order to receive the blessing or find forgiveness. I think many of us feel this way simply because we’re so much more aware of our own imperfections. We tend to be hardest on ourselves.

In fact, I’ve often been known to say in prayer, “I haven’t suffered enough for this. If you need to punish me a bit more, I understand.” Or I’ll think to myself, “I need to do this and this and this and this, before I ask for help because certainly I can’t kneel before God if I haven’t read my scriptures, served my neighbor, gone to the temple, and completed my visiting teaching.” And in regards to this resolution as of late, I think I’ve been telling myself that the way to get past the wall is to read more, serve more, try harder. I kept asking, “What more do I need to do?”

But in preparing for this talk I’ve found myself reminded of the lesson the Lord has tried to teach, and re-teach me my whole life. And I think it’s probably the lesson He’ll continue to have to teach me, as I’m obviously not very good at learning it.

Thomas asked, “How can we know the way?”, as he sat with his fellow apostles and their Lord after the supper on the memorable night of betrayal. I revisit the question I began with: Is there anything in your life right now that you’d like to change or have different? If so, “how can we know the way” to do so?

“Christ’s divine answer was: ‘I am the way…’ (John 14:5-6). And so He is! He is the source of our comfort, the inspiration of our life, the author of our salvation. If we want to know our relationship to God, we go to Jesus Christ. If we would know the truth of immortality of the soul, we have it exemplified in the Savior’s resurrection…He is the one Perfect Being who ever walked the earth; the sublimest example of nobility; Godlike in nature; perfect in his love; our Redeemer; our Savior; the immaculate Son of our Eternal Father; the Light, the Life, the Way” (David O. McKay, Teachings of Presidents of the Church: David O. McKay, 2003, 3-4, 5).

And so it is. At both the beginning and the end of my long list of “look what I’ve done Lord to change my life” there stands One. And ultimately, only He can change it. When I face the wall in front of me, it is He who says, “Thy walls are continually before me” (1 Nephi 21:16).

When we are lonely, it is He who says, “and lo, I am with you, even unto the end” (D&C 105:41).

When we are burdened, it is He who says, “Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matt. 11:30).

When we wonder which direction to go or choice to make, it is He who says, “Trust in [me] with all thine heart and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge [me], and [I] will direct thy paths” (Proverbs 3:5-6).

When we are seeking greater peace in our homes, families, and hearts, it is He who says, “Learn of me, and listen to my words; walk in the meekness of my Spirit, and you shall have peace in me” (D&C 19:23).

When we are saddened, faced with fear, hurt or illness, it is He who says, “I will not leave you comfortless, I will come to you” (John 14:18).

When our world swirls around us, it is he who “arises, and rebukes the winds and the sea; until there is calm” (Matt 8: 26).

When we don’t feel strong enough to handle what we’ve been given, or face what is ahead, it is He who is our “strength and [our] song” (1 Nephi 22:2).

When we are out of breath, it is God who “breathed … the breath of life” into Adam (Moses 3:70).

When we feel dead, it is He who said, “I am the life” (John 14:6).

When we want, it is He who says, “Ask and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock and it shall be opened unto you” (Matt. 6: 7).

When we feel condemned and ashamed, it is He who says, “neither do I condemn thee” (John 8:11).

When we feel we need to suffer more for our sins, it is He who says, “I have suffered these things for all, that they might not suffer” (D&C 19:16).

When we hunger, it is He who says, “I am the bread of life” (John 6:48).

When we thirst, it is He who says, “whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst” (John 4:14).

When the present seems dark, it is He who says, “I am the light” (3 Ne. 18:16).

When we don’t know the way, it is He who says, “I am the way.” (John 14:6).

“Considering the incomprehensible cost of the Crucifixion and Atonement, I promise you He is not going to turn His back on us now. When He says to the poor in spirit, ‘Come unto me,’ He means He knows the way out and He knows the way up. He knows it because He has walked it. He knows the way because He is the way” (Elder Holland, “Broken Things to Mend,” Liahona, May 2006, 69-71).

There is a journey we are all making. Some of us have the ability really run it. Others of us are slower. Sometimes we walk. Sometimes we’re frozen still, not knowing how to get to the end, or maybe scared to get to the end. But I testify that there is One who stays beside us. He knows the way because He is the way.

His life He gave, once for the world.
Collective majesty.
But today, in quiet moments,
He gave the world to me.

That little poem came to me as I contemplated this Man, this God, my God, my brother, my breath, my light, my life, my way. At every moment of our lives, and I truly believe that it’s every moment, we simply have to let go. We can clean out our lives. We can organize our homes. We can speak kind words. We can pray and read our scriptures and be good people. But at the end of all that, when we stand in front of the wall, or just before the finish line, at those simplest and truest places, it’s He who gives us the world. And He gives it over and over and over. And He loves that! He is the author and the finisher of all things. He is the way. And all He says is, “Come.”

I hope today we can all Come to Jesus … quietly and honestly. That we can bring our fears and our baggage and our sins and our broken lives and give them to him and not take them back and just … believe. Believe that He can not only fix them, but that He wants them.

There is a song I love that says:

Broken clouds give rain
And broken ground grows grain
Broken bread feeds man for one more day

Broken storms yield light
The break of day heals night
Broken pride turns blindness into sight

Broken souls that need His mending
Broken hearts for offering
Could it be that God loves broken things?

Broken chains set free
Broken swords bring peace
Broken walls make friends of you and me

To break the ranks of sin
To break the news of Him
To put on Christ till His name feels broken in

Broken souls that need His mending
Broken hearts for offering
I believe that God loves broken things

And yet, our broken faith, our broken promises
Sent love to the cross
And still, that broken flesh, that broken heart of His
Offers us such grace and mercy
Covers us with undeserving

This broken soul that cries for mending
This broken heart for offering
I’m convinced that God loves broken things
Praise His name – my God loves broken things
(Broken, Kenneth Cope)

I am broken. And I am His. However imperfectly I do that, and believe me, imperfect it is. But I am broken, and I am His. And I know He loves broken me.

Tell me: You thoughts?

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