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.

Drifting

 This morning, as I thought about my routines and the small daily things I want to do better, the word drifting came to mind. I felt myself slipping away from some of the good patterns in my life. But with that thought came a memory that is both tender and instructive.

When Kelly and I traveled to the southern coast of Texas for work, we always tried to stay through a weekend so we could enjoy the ocean. We loved everything about it, the sound, the beauty, the way it made us feel. We would gather our beach supplies, set up our chairs, secure everything against the wind, and then walk hand in hand into the water.

The waves were strong, and Kelly always held my hand because he knew how easily they could knock me over. I love this memory of us walking together, and the gentle way he showed his love for me by wanting to help me and stay close to me.

While we played in the water, we tried to stay lined up with our chairs and belongings on the shoreline. That was our marker, our little lighthouse on the sand. But one day, after laughing, catching waves, and simply enjoying being together, we looked up and realized we had drifted far from where we started. The current had quietly carried us down the shoreline without us noticing. The movement was so subtle, disguised by the joy of the moment, that we did not realize it until we looked toward the shore for our marker.

We were safe, but we had set a boundary for ourselves so that returning to our things would not be difficult when we were ready to go back. And we knew that if we did not fight our way upstream, swimming, walking, holding hands, doing whatever it took, we would drift even farther. So, we worked our way back with steady determination, returning to the place we had anchored ourselves, the place that represented our home base.

I love recalling this memory as I thought about drifting spiritually with prayer, scripture study, church, service, and all the things that keep us spiritually grounded. It is so easy to drift. Not because we are rebellious or careless, but because life has currents. Responsibilities, distractions, exhaustion, grief, and even good things can quietly pull us away from where we meant to be.

And just like in the ocean, drifting happens slowly. Softly. Almost pleasantly. Until one day we look up and realize we are no longer aligned with our Savior the way we want to be.

I love knowing that Jesus Christ never moves. He never drifts. He simply waits for us to look up and notice where we are. And when we do, He helps us return, gently, patiently, and without shame.

Drifting is part of mortality. It is not failure; it is the natural pull of a world full of currents. The lesson is not to never drift. The lesson is to  notice sooner. Look up more often. Check our alignment. Pay attention to where the current is carrying us.

And when we realize we have drifted, we just need to turn back toward Him. The Savior is not measuring how far we drift. He is watching how often we reach for Him.