Are You Ready?

 
I had a conversation with my eighty-five-year-old mother recently. She told me she was ready to go, and then she asked if I was ready for her to go.

I answered honestly. I told her I didn’t think anyone can ever be completely ready to say goodbye to a loved one. 

Her words have lingered with me and as I was mowing the lawn the other day, a memory rose up from a few years back. 

Our family had gathered on a houseboat at Lake Powell. It was one of those rare moments when life slows down enough for everyone to be together in the same place, sharing meals, laughter, and the simple joy of being family. We slept on the top deck beneath the open sky, carrying our mattresses, blankets, and pillows up there getting all set up for sleeping each night. We thought we were doing a good job keeping everything secure in the mornings, but doing a few extra things hoping to keep all sleeping goods protected and safe. 

One afternoon, while we were downstairs getting ready for the day, a sudden gust of wind swept across the lake. It came without warning, the kind of wind that announces a storm before you even see the clouds.

Before we could react, our belongings began to lift and swirl.

Mattresses flipped. Pillows tumbled. Blankets sailed through the air and dropped into the water.

We scrambled in every direction. Some of us jumped into the lake. Others climbed onto jet skis, paddleboards, or canoes. We chased down what we could before it sank. There was shouting and laughing and pointing as we tried to rescue our floating possessions.

Somehow, we saved most of it.

But not everything.

One of my new and  favorite blankets slipped beneath the surface and disappeared. It is still down there somewhere at the bottom of Lake Powell. We thought we had been prepared. We thought we had secured everything well enough.

But the truth was simple.

We were not as ready as we believed.

After gathering what we could, we brought everything below deck before the rain arrived. Sleeping arrangements were different that night. Less comfortable. Less familiar.

But we made it work.

We adjusted. We found a way.

That memory has stayed with me because it mirrors the truth about losing someone we love. We prepare as best we can. We talk about it. We think about it. We try to secure our hearts the way we secured those mattresses and blankets.

But when the moment comes and the wind rises, things still get swept up.

Emotions fly. Memories surface. Parts of us feel scattered. And no matter how much we try to prepare, something precious will always slip beneath the surface and be lost.

You cannot be fully ready for a final goodbye. Not with a mother. Not with anyone who has shaped your life in ways you can barely name.

But you can gather what remains. You can hold close what is still here. You can adjust and adapt and find a new way to live, even when the familiar comfort is gone.

And just like that blanket resting quietly at the bottom of the lake, some losses become part of our story. They settle into the deep places of our hearts to help remind us of love, of time shared, and of the beauty and fragility of life.

When I think back on that day at Lake Powell, I realize the wind didn’t just scatter our belongings. It revealed something true about life itself.

We move through our days believing we have secured everything that matters, believing we have prepared our hearts for the changes we know will come. But life has a way of reminding us that love is not something you can pack neatly or tie down. It lifts, it shifts, it surprises us, and sometimes it slips beneath the surface before we can reach it.

Yet even in those moments, we are not left empty-handed.

We gather what remains.

We hold close what is still here.

We learn to sleep in new places and find comfort in new ways.

And slowly, we discover that readiness is not a requirement for love, nor is it a measure of strength. It is simply a sign that our hearts were shaped by someone whose presence mattered deeply.

Maybe readiness is not the point.

Maybe presence is.

Being here now. Listening. Loving. Holding the moments we still have before the wind begins to rise.

Because love is the very thing that keeps us from ever being fully prepared, and it is also the thing that carries us through when the storm finally comes.

And sometimes, that is enough.

Learning in the Climb

Many years ago, when my parents drove me to Utah so I could begin my studies at BYU, their schedule meant I would arrive before I could check into my dorm room. To make everything work, we arranged for me to stay with a friend in her apartment for that first week. At the time it felt like a small inconvenience, but it became an unexpected blessing. Being early gave me long, quiet days to explore, breathe in the newness of the place, and settle my heart before school and activities began.

One of my friend’s roommates had a brother who had also arrived early, and the two of us decided to explore together. There was one thing I had set my heart on from the moment I saw it. I wanted to climb the mountain up to the big white Y. Every freshman did it at the beginning of  the semester as a group activity, but I was restless and eager, and it seemed like the perfect challenge for that week.

We set off with the confidence of young people who believe enthusiasm is the same thing as preparation. We lined up our sights directly below the Y and began climbing straight up the mountain. We had heard that there was a winding trail somewhere, but we were certain our way would be faster. After all, the goal was right there in front of us.

At first it was exhilarating. The air was crisp, the view was opening beneath us, and we felt strong. But the higher we climbed, the steeper it became. I was from Texas, and I had never lived near mountains. I was not used to the altitude, and I felt every bit of it. The fun gave way to burning legs, short breaths, slipping rocks, and the slow realization that this was not the brilliant shortcut we imagined. Eventually, exhausted and humbled, we turned around and made the long walk back down the mountain and then all the way back to the apartment.

It was not until later, when I joined the freshman class and followed the real trail, that I understood the purpose of the winding path. It was not designed to waste time or make the journey longer. It existed because it was the best way to reach the top safely and steadily, with enough strength left to enjoy the view once you arrived. And even that better path was hard. The switchbacks helped, but the climb still demanded effort, patience, and lungs that were learning how to work in thinner air. The mountain had to be climbed by degrees.

I have learned since then that a path can wind or curve around obstacles and still move in a true direction. It may bend, it may rise and fall, it may offer new views at every turn, yet the overall course remains faithful to its purpose. Matthew 7:14 teaches that the gate is strait and the way is narrow that leads to life. A path can feel winding and even tortuous while we are walking it, but from a higher perspective it follows a steady and trustworthy line.

Life is very much like that. We often know where we want to go, but we do not always know how to get there. We see the destination clearly and assume the straight line must be the best line. Yet those who have gone before us know the terrain. They know the switchbacks, the resting places, the gentle curves that keep us moving upward without breaking us.

The Plan of Salvation is like that winding trail. It guides us back to our Heavenly Father step by step and degree by degree. Some people do not yet know that such a path exists and are choosing paths that they think are best, but we can bless their journey by sharing what we have learned. If I had simply asked someone familiar with the Y how to get there, I could have saved myself a great deal of frustration and a very sore pair of legs.

The path of life is a winding road, not a rigid straight line. We bend and curve around the sharp turns, learning and growing as we go. And as we keep moving in the direction of our hopes and dreams, we discover that the winding way was never a detour. It was the way all along.

Climbing mountains in life is never easy. Each step tests our strength and faith, yet God prepares us long before He places those mountains in our path. He equips us with the courage, endurance, and wisdom we will need, and then He walks beside us as we climb. The struggle itself becomes beautiful, shaping our hearts and deepening our trust. And when we finally reach the summit, the view is more breathtaking than we could ever have imagined.

Better Than We Found Them

Many years ago, when Kelly and I were newly married, we moved into a little rental home. After living in apartments, we were thrilled to finally have a place of our own, a space to welcome our two sons, to plant roots, to make memories.

The owners were kind and generous, allowing us to paint and freshen things as we wished. We spent hours trimming overgrown honeysuckle, scraping old paint, and restoring the house with love and labor. It felt like ours, even if only for a season.

But just two months in, we received a call. The owner’s son was returning from military service earlier than expected, and he needed a place to live. She asked if we would be willing to break the lease.

Of course we said yes, but our hearts sank. We had poured so much into that home, physically, emotionally, spiritually. It was hard to let go.

I shared the story with my mom, and I will never forget her words:
“We always want to leave a place better than we found it.”

That phrase stayed with me for years. I have tried to live by it, whether in homes, jobs, or borrowed spaces. But lately, something deeper has taken root in my heart.

Now, I long to leave people better than I found them.

I want others to feel uplifted, encouraged, and seen. I want them to know their worth, not because of anything I say, but because they have felt the light of Christ in my presence. I never want to discourage or diminish. I want to reflect His love so clearly that others walk away feeling stronger, more hopeful, more whole.

But there is another side to this desire, one I am learning slowly and tenderly. There are days when I am not the strong one. There are moments when I enter a room with a hurting body or a weary spirit. I do not always feel capable of lifting anyone else. Sometimes I am the one who needs the very gift I long to give.

And I am learning that this too is holy. When I allow others to touch my life, when I let their kindness steady me, when I receive instead of give, something beautiful happens. They are lifted because they are lifting me. I am strengthened because I am letting myself be held. In that exchange, both hearts rise.

Whether it is a brief visit or a lifelong friendship, my prayer is the same:
Let me leave them better than I found them, and let me be humble enough to let them leave me better too.

The love of Christ moves in both directions. It flows through us when we give and it flows toward us when we receive. Every act of grace, whether offered or accepted, becomes part of His quiet restoration. 

May we walk gently with one another, lifting when we can, receiving when we must, and trusting that God is shaping us through both. 

“Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father which is in heaven.” Matthew 5:16

Lessons from a Dog

May a little breeze of joy find you today, right where you are, even if you have to stick your head out the window to feel it.

Some days carry a weight we never asked for. We move through our routines doing the best we can, hoping for a moment of lightness to break through the heaviness. Today, that moment found me while sitting at a traffic light. 

As I was stopped behind a car, I noticed a dog leaning out of a car window with a cone the size of Texas around his neck and yet he seemed absolutely delighted at the same time. And somehow, in the middle of everything on my mind, a smile emerged from me. 

I found myself wondering what he would have said if he could talk.

Maybe something like, “I may look ridiculous to you, but have you felt this wind, smelled this air, and seen what I see?”

I loved how he leaned into the breeze, unbothered by the collar meant to keep him from hurting himself. Watching him made me think about the things in my own life that feel uncomfortable or restrictive. Sometimes we only see the inconvenience, the limitation, or the frustration of what we are walking through. We rarely recognize that some of the things that slow us down or hold us back for a season are actually there to protect us.

We do not always know when a closed door is keeping us safe.
We do not always see how a delay is giving us time to heal.
We do not always understand how a boundary, a pause, or even a loss might be shielding us from something we cannot yet see.

Just like that dog, we may feel awkward or confined, but the very thing we resent might be the thing that is helping us recover. And while we are healing, God still sends moments of joy to remind us that we are not forgotten. Even in the middle of our limitations, there is still beauty to notice, still goodness to breathe in, still light waiting to touch our spirit.

Even when life places limits around us, God’s goodness still finds a way to reach us.
Even when we feel restricted, tired, or worn thin, there is still a breeze of joy waiting to brush against our spirit. Even when we are healing slowly, quietly, and imperfectly, joy is not off limits.

Sometimes we just have to lean toward it.

That dog did not wait for life to be perfect before enjoying the ride. He did not wait for the cone to come off before lifting his face to the wind. He found joy in the middle of his healing.

And maybe that is the lesson for us too.

We do not have to wait for everything to be fixed, solved, or restored before we let ourselves smile again. We can laugh at ourselves a little. We can breathe in the air of a new day. We can trust that God is still working, still healing, still guiding, and still loving us through every season.

Life may put a cone on our necks, but God can put a smile in our hearts.

A Father Who Sees

 

This afternoon’s errands took me to Walmart on a cool, rainy day. As I wandered into the toy aisle, I noticed the joy and tenderness shared between fathers and their children. I watched fathers standing beside their little ones, letting small hands guide them from toy to toy. There was sweetness in the way the children called out to their fathers, certain they would be heard.

One moment touched my heart. A little boy pointed at a bright yellow school bus and said look dad, look with all the urgency and trust a child can hold. His father didn’t rush him or brush him aside. He bent down, looked exactly where his son pointed, and gave him his full attention. When I echoed the boy’s excitement, the father smiled and said, he wants me to look at everything. There was warmth in his voice, not frustration. It was such a simple exchange, yet it held the whole shape of love: a child longing to be seen, and a father choosing to see.

As I walked away, I found myself thinking about my Heavenly Father. I thought about how often I whisper, look at that sky or look at the mountains rising in the distance. And I wondered if He feels the same quiet joy when I draw His attention to something beautiful. I imagine Him turning His gaze toward whatever I’m noticing and saying, I see it, and I see you.

But beauty isn’t the only thing I bring to Him. There are those moments that are not lovely at all. The storms. The misunderstandings. The days when your heart feels heavy or your voice feels small. When I call out His name in those moments, I believe He bends toward me just as tenderly. He gives me His undivided attention whether I am pointing to something lovely or something painful. He listens to whatever I want to share, without hesitation and without hurry.

He is a Father who never tires of my voice, who never grows weary of looking when I say look, who delights in the simple fact that I want to share something with Him. And I am grateful for that kind of love, grateful for fathers on earth who show us glimpses of it, and grateful for a Heavenly Father who sees me in joy and in sorrow, in clarity and in confusion, and who never grows weary of hearing my voice when I call out His name.

Curb Check

 

Some days offer a small moment that quietly brings an unexpected smile. Mine arrived in the form of a courtesy ride after dropping my car off at the collision repair shop. The driver looked to be in his late seventies and drove a little faster than I expected, but the distance to the rental car place was short and our conversation was the kind that happens when two strangers share a few minutes of life.

As we pulled into the rental car lot, he turned a little too sharply and bumped the curb. He  said he shouldn’t have done that. I smiled and told him we would just call it a curb check. He smiled and that opened the door for me to share the story behind those words.

I told him how Kelly, lovingly known as Grandpa, used to drift a little too close to the curb when he drove. Afterwards he would simply say curb check, just making sure the curb is still there. I usually would shake my head and roll my eyes, but now saying those words again brought the memory back with such sweetness. The sound of his voice, the way he could turn a moment into something humorous. I love how those tiny moments have become a fun memory of him, and how sharing it brought something new to this driver, something I felt he could carry with him and maybe use again someday.

Life is made up of plenty of little bumps, the kind that catch us off guard, nudge us off course, or make us wince for a moment. But when we can, it helps to remember this story and turn those moments into a curb check of sorts. A reminder that not every bump is a disaster. Sometimes it is just life tapping us on the shoulder, making sure we are awake, present, and still moving forward.

The simple phrase Grandpa gave us with the reply "curb check", can remind us that love lingers in the simplest places, even in the soft bump of a tire against a curb.