The Peace within Us

 

Good morning, Dear Reader,

Today I offer a reflection on two thoughts that at first seem to speak about different kinds of peace.

“Nowhere can man find a quieter or more untroubled retreat than in his own soul.”

—Marcus Aurelius

And

“We cannot buy our own peace of mind at the expense of others.”

—Alcoholics Anonymous, Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions, p. 84

Consider this: one thought turns us inward, while the other turns our attention toward those around us. Yet I believe they describe two sides of the same spiritual truth.

All too often I have believed that my personal peace would come if only something outside of me would change—if another person behaved differently, if a problem disappeared, if circumstances became easier, or if the past could somehow be rewritten.

Yet through lived experience, I have come to understand that life rarely grants me that kind of control.

So, as Marcus Aurelius reminds me, I must look elsewhere for the peace I seek.

In Recovery, I have discovered that within each of us there is a quiet place where we can examine our thoughts, surrender what we cannot change, and decide how we will respond to what life has placed before us.

In my case, prayer and meditation have become part of entering that quiet place.

It is there that I can ask:

·    What belongs to me?

·    What must I release?

·    What can I change?

·    What kind of person do I wish to be when I leave this quiet place and return to the world?

There is another important lesson here.

Inner peace cannot simply mean protecting myself from discomfort.

·    Sometimes what looks like peace is actually avoidance.

·    I might remain silent because speaking truth would be uncomfortable.

·    I might withdraw rather than make amends.

·    I might insist upon getting my own way because surrender feels too difficult.

It is entirely possible that I might even convince myself I am protecting my serenity while leaving someone else to carry the consequences of my actions.

This is where the wisdom of Alcoholics Anonymous becomes important:

We cannot purchase our own peace at another person’s expense.

True serenity does not require someone else to lose theirs.

The peace discovered within the soul should eventually appear in our relationships—with greater patience, honesty, forgiveness, humility, and a willingness to make things right.

Jesus taught:

“Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.”

—Matthew 5:9, KJV

Notice that He did not simply bless those who possess peace. He blessed those who make peace.

I have come to accept that this begins with me.

When I enter the quiet sanctuary of the soul, I pray. I listen. I examine myself honestly. I allow God to straighten what has become confused within me. Then I carry that peace back into the world.

I try not to demand that others change so that I may be peaceful. Instead, I ask how my own words and actions might become instruments of peace.

I am learning that serenity is not isolation from other people.

It is learning to remain spiritually grounded while living among them.

The quiet retreat Marcus Aurelius describes is therefore not a place in which I hide from life.

It is a place where I prepare myself to return to life differently.

So I ask you, Dear Reader: Is the peace you seek meant only to quiet your own soul, or can the peace you discover within become peace offered to those around you?

If we choose the latter, then I believe we may be discovering something deeper than tranquility.

We may be discovering the peace Christ spoke of when He said:

“Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you.”

—John 14:27, KJV

Perhaps that is the peace I am seeking—not simply freedom from disturbance, but the kind of peace that changes how I respond to others.

Peace begins within, but Christ asks me to carry it beyond myself.

And when I am uncertain how to do that, perhaps there remains one simple question worth asking:

“What would Christ do?”

The choice, ultimately, is ours. For my part, I choose the peace that comes from asking that question.

Living in Shadows: When What We Believe Keeps Us From What Is True

 

Dear Reader,

This morning I find myself reflecting on a human condition that, at one time or another, probably touches all of us.

Most of us have experienced being in a dark room, walking outside at night, or perhaps entering a cave where there is just enough light to see shapes around us.

In those moments, the mind can go to great lengths to make sense of what it sees.

A shadow becomes a person. A branch becomes something threatening. An unfamiliar shape becomes whatever our imagination tells us it might be.

That causes me to wonder:

Why do we sometimes prefer the shadow to the light?

Is it because fear has become familiar? Is it pride, resentment, belonging, or simply our desire to confirm something we already believe?

A shadow is not complete darkness. There is enough light for us to see—but not enough to see clearly.

Perhaps that is what makes shadows spiritually dangerous.

The danger of living in shadows is not that we cannot see at all. It is that we can see just enough to convince ourselves that we are seeing clearly.

I believe this can happen in life.

We see enough to form an opinion, make a judgment, develop a fear, or reach a conclusion about ourselves or someone else—yet we may not be seeing things as they really are.

Sometimes we live in shadows not because God's light is absent, but because something has come between us and the Light.

Fear can do that.

So can resentment, prejudice, pride, misinformation, rejection, and ideas repeated so often that we eventually stop questioning them.

Of particular concern are those things we desperately want to believe, things we are afraid might be true, and assumptions about ourselves that we have carried for years.

A falsehood does not have to be completely false to mislead us.

Sometimes the most convincing shadow contains just enough truth to appear real.

Recently I watched a CBS News discussion concerning claims about American elections. The political issue itself is not my purpose here. What caught my attention was something much broader: What happens when an assertion is repeated often enough that repetition begins to take the place of evidence?

There is nothing wrong with questioning an election, a government, an institution, a church leader, a news report, or something we have always been taught.

Questions can lead us toward truth.

But there is an important difference between asking:

“What does the evidence show?”

“How can I prove what I have already decided to believe?”

That distinction reaches far beyond politics.

And before I become too comfortable identifying the shadows in someone else's thinking, perhaps I need to examine my own.

What have I believed simply because it was repeated to me?

What have I accepted because everyone around me accepted it?

What conclusion have I reached because it made me comfortable?

And what belief have I refused to reconsider because changing my mind would require humility?

For me, recovery and faith have forced me to confront many such shadows.

There have been times when the shadows whispered:

I am beyond forgiveness.

My past defines who I am.

People cannot change.

God has forgotten me.

Because someone hurt me once, I cannot trust again.

If I admit I was wrong, I become less worthy.

If God really loved me, this would not have happened.

I have learned that we can spend years responding to a shadow as though it were reality.

Today, recovery, scripture, and God give me a different source of light.

Recovery has given me the light of sobriety and a new freedom.

Scripture has taught me something about the nature of truth:

“And truth is knowledge of things as they are, and as they were, and as they are to come.”
—Doctrine and Covenants 93:24

I especially pause over four words:

“Things as they are.”

Not necessarily as I want them to be.

Not simply as someone told me they are.

Not as fear tells me they are.

Not even as my political party, social group, religious community, or favorite commentator tells me they are.

Things as they are.

But truth requires something from us.

It requires humility.

Sometimes light reveals things we would rather not see.

Truth may require me to say:

I was mistaken.

I judged someone unfairly.

The story I have been telling myself is incomplete.

Someone I trusted was wrong.

Or perhaps hardest of all:

I was wrong.

Changing our minds when greater truth becomes available is not weakness.

It can be an act of integrity.

Spiritually, it may also be an act of humility.

This brings me to Jesus Christ.

He did not simply tell us where light might be found.

He said:

“I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.”
—John 8:12

“I am the light.”

Our search for truth, therefore, is about more than collecting correct information.

It is learning to see ourselves, other people, and the world through Christ.

Through honesty.

Through humility.

Through mercy.

Through love.

And through truth.

There is something else interesting about a shadow.

A shadow can exist only because somewhere there is light.

Perhaps discovering that we have been living beneath a shadow is not cause for despair.

Perhaps it means the Light is beginning to reach us.

We do not need to spend our lives defending every belief we have ever held.

Nor do we have to be frightened when truth asks us to reconsider something.

We simply keep moving toward the Light.

So today I ask myself:

What shadow might I still be living in?

What belief have I never seriously examined?

Am I willing to ask God to show me not merely what I want to see—but what is true?

And when truth challenges something I have long believed:

Will I defend the shadow, or will I follow the Light?

Jesus offered this promise:

“And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”
—John 8:32

Perhaps we do not have to spend our lives fighting every shadow.

Sometimes we simply need to turn toward the Light.

And as we draw nearer to Christ, what frightened us in the shadows may look very different in the light.

May God bless and keep you.

 🙏🧘‍♂️💕🤗☮️  

Spiritual sight beyond what the Eye can See

“Lord, help me not merely to look, but to see.”

Dear Reader,

Today I offer an observation from Henry David Thoreau that has stayed with me:

“The question is not what you look at, but what you see.”

At first, I took those words simply as a reminder to look more carefully. But the longer I considered them, the more I began to see a spiritual meaning within them. There is a difference between having eyesight and having insight.

The Savior once asked:

“Having eyes, see ye not? and having ears, hear ye not? and do ye not remember?”
—Mark 8:18, KJV

Christ was speaking to people who could physically see what was happening around them. Their difficulty was not with their eyes. It was with understanding. They were looking, yet they were not fully seeing.

As I continued thinking about this, I found myself drawn to the Book of Mormon, where Jacob teaches that the Spirit “speaketh of things as they really are, and of things as they really will be.” —Jacob 4:13

That verse changed the direction of my thinking. The gospel does not merely tell us where to look. Through the Spirit, we can learn to see more truthfully—to see beyond appearances, assumptions, fear, resentment, disappointment, and even our own limited understanding.

The story of the brass serpent teaches something similar. The people of Israel had been given a way to be healed: they needed to look. Alma later reminded his son that “if they would look they might live,” and then gave the simple counsel, “look to God and live.” —Alma 37:46–47

Sometimes what we need is already before us. The difficulty may be that we have not yet learned how to see it.

Elder Kim B. Clark, in his October 2015 general conference message “Eyes to See and Ears to Hear,” taught that through the Holy Ghost we can receive spiritual eyes to see and ears to hear. As that spiritual capacity grows, we begin to see the Savior working in our lives more clearly and to see ourselves, other people, and the world more as He sees them.

That thought has become personal for me.

In my own life, I have spent a great deal of time looking—at people, circumstances, disappointments, memories, and missed opportunities. There were times when I believed I understood what I was seeing. Looking back, I realize that disappointment, resentment, fear, and even pride sometimes colored my vision.

With spiritual sight, I am learning not merely to see what stands before me, but to ask what God may be teaching me through it.

An inconvenience can become a lesson.

An enemy can become a suffering soul in need of a friend.

A loss can, through grace, become the beginning of something new.

This does not mean that spiritual sight causes us to deny pain or pretend that every circumstance is pleasant. It means that we begin to ask a different question: What might God see here that I am not yet seeing?

A person in addiction may look at his life and see ruin, while God sees a soul who can still be restored.

A person burdened by guilt may look inward and see only failure, while Christ sees one for whom He has already made atonement.

A weary disciple may look at the road ahead and see only hardship, while God sees how endurance is quietly shaping a saint.

And someone we have judged harshly may appear very different when we begin to wonder what burdens that person is carrying and how the Savior might see him or her.

How often do we ask God to change our circumstances, when what we may need just as much is for Him to change our sight?

I believe that is the quiet invitation hidden inside Thoreau’s words.

The question is not only: What are you looking at?
The deeper question is: What are you seeing?

To see rightly is a gift. It comes through humility, honesty, and the quiet influence of the Spirit. It comes as the heart softens. It comes when we become willing to let God teach us what is truly before us.

The world before us may not change nearly as quickly as the heart within us. But when the heart is touched by God, even familiar things can begin to shine with a different meaning.

Sometimes the greatest miracle is not that something new appears before our eyes, but that at last, by grace, we truly see.

Thank you for your time. I invite you to leave a comment: What can you see differently today?

🙏  🧘‍♂️  💕  🤗  ☮️

Marriage: Heirs Together by Grace

 

Dear Reader,

This morning, while reading 1 Peter 3, I found myself thinking carefully about Peter’s counsel to husbands and wives.

Some scriptures seem immediately relevant to our lives. Others invite us to pause and ask:

What is the eternal principle, and what reflects the customs of another time?

I grew up in what many today would describe as a traditional home.

My father worked in his business, while my mother stayed home to raise my brother and me.

During the day, our home was largely my mother’s domain. She made decisions, kept things moving, cared for us, disciplined and encouraged us, and managed the countless responsibilities of family life.

When my father came home, however, the atmosphere shifted.

He was regarded as the head of the household, and my mother cared for him in a way that showed he held a distinct place in our family.

Looking back, I realize that both of my parents were very capable people.

My mother could have worked outside the home if circumstances had required it.

My father could have cared for children, cooked a meal, managed a household, or handled the duties my mother normally performed.

They may have done these things differently, but both were capable. Both accepted responsibilities in keeping with the customs and expectations of their time.

•  •  •

Today, much of that world has changed.

In many homes, both spouses work. I personally know fathers who change diapers, prepare meals, straighten up around the home, and do household laundry.

Many mothers manage businesses, earn incomes, make major financial decisions, and carry responsibilities that previous generations may have considered primarily a husband’s role.

This can make Peter’s words difficult for a modern reader:

“Likewise, ye wives, be in subjection to your own husbands…” —1 Peter 3:1

If I stop there, I might conclude that Christianity requires me to recreate the household structure of centuries past.

Fortunately, Peter does not stop there. A few verses later he turns to husbands and writes:

“Likewise, ye husbands, dwell with them according to knowledge, giving honour unto the wife… as being heirs together of the grace of life; that your prayers be not hindered.”  —1 Peter 3:7

Heirs together.

I believe those two words change the way we should read the entire passage.

Peter lived in a culture very different from ours. Marriage, property, family authority, and the legal standing of women were not what they are today. Yet underneath the social structure of Peter’s world is an eternal gospel principle.

A husband and wife stand before God as heirs together.  Neither has a greater claim upon God’s grace than the other.  Neither has exclusive ownership of wisdom, ability, responsibility, or spiritual worth.

Their responsibilities may sometimes be different, but their value before God is not.

We should also be careful not to measure the value of family responsibilities merely by the income they produce. 

Without financial support a household cannot function, but neither can it function for long without the countless domestic, emotional, and nurturing responsibilities that sustain the people within it. 

Both are necessary, regardless of which spouse performs them.

My mother’s staying home does not mean she is incapable of doing what my father did.

My father’s working outside the home does not mean he is incapable of nurturing children.

They can have divided the labor. The division is real. As a couple, their abilities are greater than their assigned roles.

In my own experience, the joining of shared responsibilities has become increasingly important to me.

The gospel does not give us a detailed household organization chart telling us who must earn the paycheck, who must prepare dinner, who must balance the checkbook, or who must comfort a frightened child at two o’clock in the morning.

What the gospel gives us are principles for the spiritual family: love, sacrifice, responsibility, fidelity, gentleness, service, humility, compassion, forgiveness, and commitment to God.

The modern world may change the outward arrangement of a home, but it cannot change the spiritual needs of the people living inside it.

• Children still need security.

• Spouses still need respect.

• Families still require sacrifice.

• People still need to know that they are loved.

Every marriage can still face the temptation of allowing pride, control, resentment, or selfishness to replace companionship.

I once thought of my childhood home as a place where my mother ruled during the day and my father ruled when he came home.

Today I wonder whether there is a better word than rule.

Perhaps a Christian marriage is not ultimately about either person ruling.

It is about serving.

Christ did not demonstrate leadership by demanding privilege. He demonstrated it by serving, sacrificing, teaching, forgiving, and ultimately giving Himself for others.

A husband demonstrates this by loving, protecting, listening, sacrificing, forgiving, serving and seeking God.

A wife demonstrates it by bringing her gifts fully into the marriage while also loving, serving, sacrificing, forgiving, and seeking God.

There will certainly be differences. One spouse may understand finances better. The other may understand the children better.

One may be more patient. The other may be more decisive.

One career may take priority for a season. Years later, circumstances may reverse.

The person who once provided most of the income may eventually need to be cared for by the one who once stayed home.

Life has a way of rearranging our roles.

Roles may change. Circumstances may change. Abilities may change.

But the covenant remains.

The cornerstone of a covenant marriage is the promises a husband and wife make to one another and to God.

As a final clarification, Peter continues in verse 8:

“Finally, be ye all of one mind, having compassion one of another, love as brethren, be pitiful, be courteous:” —1 Peter 3:8

Those words may provide the clearest picture of what a Christian household should look like.

• No to competition, domination, or one person proving who is in charge.
• Yes to compassion, courtesy, understanding, and love.
• And ultimately, unity before God.

My childhood home belonged to another generation.

There were good things within it that I would never want to lose: commitment, responsibility, sacrifice, family loyalty, and the willingness of two people to work together for something greater than themselves.

The outward structure may have changed. The eternal principles have not.
A father still needs to love and nurture his children.
A mother still needs to love and nurture as well.
Both can unite in that effort.

When the relationship is Christ centered, no one is diminish all are increased and
they become something greater together.

My take away from 1 Peter 3: “Heirs together of the grace of life.”

Two capable people. Perhaps imperfect, yet children of God united.

Walking side by side toward Him, and learning one day at a time how to love each other along the way.

Thank  you for taking the time to read and reflect.

  🙏🧘‍♂️💕🤗☮️  

Returning to Stillness

Good Evening, Dear Reader,

This evening, I came across these words from the Zen poet Ryōkan:

“The water of the mind, how clear it is!
Gazing at it, the boundaries are invisible.
But as soon as even a slight thought arises,
Ten thousand images crowd it.”

At first, I did not understand what those words meant.

I understood the image of clear water. Most of us have seen a pond or lake so calm that it looks like glass. An infinity pool can create much the same impression, seeming to merge with the sky until the boundary almost disappears.

What made me pause was the line: “But as soon as even a slight thought arises, ten thousand images crowd it.”

What I had overlooked was the power of a single thought. Left unchecked, it can quickly lead to a whole stream of others.

For example, a friend might make a small comment about something I am doing—such as skipping regular meals and eating salads instead—and suddenly the door opens to ten thousand more thoughts.

They may begin with trying to remember the last time I sat down to a full meal. Was it yesterday, or was it last week?

Before long, I am no longer remembering what was actually said. Instead, I am replaying what others have said about my eating habits: “I do not know why you go out to dinner when you hardly eat anything. It is not worth the money.” Then I recall something similar from years ago.

Next, I begin questioning my self-image. I hear words no one is saying, ask questions no one is asking, and relive experiences that began long ago but still feel present today.

By then, the original thought has disappeared.

Ryōkan continues:

“Attach to them and they become real,
Be carried by them, and it will be difficult to return.”

That may be one of the clearest descriptions I have found of what an undisciplined mind can do.

A memory becomes disappointment. Disappointment can become resentment. Resentment can become evidence that life is unfair. And sometimes the story ends with the conclusion: There must be something wrong with me.

A fear about tomorrow becomes something I begin suffering from today.

An event that lasted only a few minutes can occupy the mind for hours, days, or even years.

I am not imagining this; I have lived it. Before recovery, I often believed that because I thought something, it must be true. If I felt insecure about my eating habits, I could quickly turn that insecurity into a judgment about myself. A thought became a conclusion, and before long I had internalized it as truth.

If I felt hurt, I believed someone had hurt me. If I felt rejected, I believed I had been rejected. If I felt afraid, I believed there must be something to fear.

My mind could take a small disturbance and build an entire world around it.

Alcohol once provided a temporary escape from that world. It quieted the noise for a little while.

But eventually alcohol became another part of the noise.

Recovery began teaching me something different.

·         I did not have to believe every thought that entered my mind.

·         I did not have to follow every memory wherever it wanted to take me.

·         I did not have to rehearse every resentment.

·         I did not have to solve tomorrow before going to bed tonight.

Alcoholics Anonymous gave me practical ways of returning.

Sometimes that return begins with a simple inventory:

·         What actually happened?

·         What part of this belongs to me?

·         Is there something I need to correct?

·         Is there something I simply need to release?

At other times, I return by speaking honestly with another person. Sometimes the return comes through making an amends. It has also come through helping others.

And increasingly, for me, it comes through prayer and meditation.

The Psalmist wrote:

“Be still, and know that I am God.”
—Psalm 46:10

I used to think stillness meant finding a place where nothing disturbed me.

Today, I understand it somewhat differently.

Stillness can exist even when thoughts continue to come. The change is that I no longer have to climb aboard every one of them.

I can notice the resentment without feeding it.

I can remember the mistake without becoming the mistake.

I can acknowledge fear without allowing fear to choose my direction.

I can recognize yesterday without moving back into it.

And then I can return.

Return to this moment.

Return to gratitude.

Return to prayer.

Return to the person standing in front of me.

Return to the next right thing.

For me, this is where recovery and spiritual development meet.

Recovery teaches me to recognize the thoughts that carry me away.

Spiritual growth teaches me where I want to return.

Not simply to an empty mind, but to a mind redirected toward God, service, gratitude, compassion, and truth.

Paul described this as being:

“transformed by the renewing of your mind.”
—Romans 12:2

Renewing does not mean that yesterday disappears. It means yesterday no longer has to determine today’s direction.

The water may become disturbed. Old memories may rise. Resentments may return. Fear may appear without invitation.

But I do not have to keep stirring the water.

I can become still long enough for clarity to return. And when clarity returns, I often discover that the next step was there all along.

Today I need not follow ten thousand thoughts.

I need only recognize where I am, remember whose I am, and ask God to help me take the next right step.

The mind may wander into yesterday.
Grace continually invites us home to today.

With gratitude.

  🙏🧘‍♂️💕🤗☮️