When Sorrows Learn to Swim

 

Dear Reader,

Today I came across a quotation attributed to Frida Kahlo that stayed with me:

“I drank because I wanted to drown my sorrows, but now the damned things have learned to swim.”

Those words struck me deeply because I believe they describe something true about mortal life. Sorrows do not simply disappear because we wish them away. Pain, fear, regret, loneliness, and loss often return to the surface. They follow us into different chapters of life. They may change form, but they do not vanish easily.

I have come to understand mortality as a book made up of many chapters. Each chapter contains pages filled with emotions and feelings. As children, we may know the joy of a piece of chocolate or an ice cream sandwich. Then, almost without warning, we also discover fear. A child can go from delight to alarm in a single moment.

Adolescence opens still another chapter. Emotions become stronger and more complicated. We begin to know attraction, affection, longing, joy, embarrassment, and rejection. We become aware of how deeply another person’s words or actions can affect us. These feelings are part of being human, yet for some of us, they become difficult to carry.

That was true for me.

In my case, the chapters of young and middle adult life stretched across some twenty-six years. They contained stories of happiness, companionship, intimacy, and moments of genuine delight. But too often those pages were followed by deeper sorrow, confusion, and darkness. Somewhere along the way, I began using alcohol and harmful substances not merely for pleasure, but as a way to escape what I felt.

For a time, I believed that escape was working.

But it was not.

Frida Kahlo’s words help explain why. I may have tried to drown my sorrows, but the sorrows learned how to swim. Alcohol could numb them for a while, but it could not destroy them. The pain always rose again. The regret returned. The loneliness returned. The fear returned. The more I tried to bury what I felt, the more I found myself sinking beneath it.

A life shaped by alcohol and substance use can lead to insanity or death. It is a frightening road, because at first it appears to offer relief, while in truth it quietly robs us of freedom, clarity, and peace.

In my own case, something changed.

I started swimming.

That is the thought I would add to Kahlo’s quote. My sorrows had learned to swim, but recovery taught me that I could learn to swim as well.

At first, I did not understand that in spiritual terms. I only knew that something greater than myself had to take place if I was going to live. Through recovery, I began to learn a new way of life. I learned honesty, surrender, prayer, self-examination, humility, and service. Each of these became like a stroke in the water, lifting me a little higher and helping to keep me afloat.

Over time, my understanding of that help became more personal and more sacred.

In the Book of Mormon, Alma and his people were in bondage, burdened, and oppressed. They cried unto the Lord for relief. What touches me so deeply in that account is that the Lord did not remove every burden all at once. Instead, He said He would strengthen them so that they could bear the burdens laid upon their shoulders with ease. In other words, He did not first change the water around them. He first strengthened the people within it.

That is how I have come to understand much of recovery and discipleship.

God did not erase every sorrow from my past. He did not remove every painful memory, every defect, or every difficult feeling. But through His grace, He began to strengthen me so that those sorrows no longer had the power to pull me under. What once overwhelmed me became something I could face with faith. What once ruled me became something I could endure and overcome one day at a time.

I also think of the promise in Ether that weak things can become strong. That scripture has real meaning to me because my weakness was not imaginary. It was not poetic. It was painfully real. I knew what it was to be emotionally lost, spiritually confused, and personally broken. Yet the grace of Jesus Christ is able to do what human will alone cannot do. Recovery taught me the strokes, but Christ gave me the strength to keep swimming.

This is why I no longer hear Kahlo’s quote only as a dark joke. I hear truth in it, but I also hear a challenge. If our sorrows have learned to swim, then we must learn where help is found. We must stop trusting in the false relief that nearly drowns us and begin trusting in the grace that keeps us afloat.

That grace has come to me through a spiritual program, through prayer, through the support of others, and through my growing faith in Jesus Christ. I do not claim that I have arrived at a perfect life. I have not. Recovery did not erase every sorrow. Faith did not make every chapter easy. Mortality still contains grief, uncertainty, temptation, and struggle.

The sorrows still know how to swim.

But now, so do I.

And I have learned something more.

I am not swimming alone.

That may be the deepest comfort of all. Jesus Christ does not stand far away from human suffering. He enters it. He understands it. He extends His hand in the midst of it. He does not always calm the sea immediately, but He makes it possible for us to continue forward with courage, trust, and hope.

Today, as I continue writing new chapters in the book of life, I know that sorrow is not the end of the story. There are still pages of pain, but there are also pages of gratitude, friendship, service, laughter, peace, and love. There are pages that speak of rescue. There are pages that speak of growth. There are pages that testify that God has not abandoned us.

Through the grace of Jesus Christ, I have discovered that life is not simply something to survive.

It is something worth celebrating.

🙏🧘‍♂️💕🤗☮️

Hear Me, Lord

 

Hear Me, Lord

Dear Reader,

Today, in preparation for teaching some of the Psalms in the Old Testament, I came across Psalm 102.

The opening lines of the psalm struck me:

"Hear my prayer, O LORD;
let my cry for help come before You.

Do not hide Your face from me
in my day of distress.
Incline Your ear to me;
answer me quickly when I call."

- Psalm 102:1-2

The psalmist is not simply asking God to fix a problem; he is asking for God's presence. That distinction matters.

Often, what makes suffering most frightening is not the pain itself, but the sense that we must face it alone. I remember the loneliness I experienced near the end of my drinking and drug use. There seemed to be no companion, friend, or family member willing or able to reach me in that lost state of living. I still remember that pain when moments of sadness enter my life today.

The older wording, "Hide not thy face from me," could also be expressed this way:

"Lord, whatever happens, do not let me lose the assurance that You are near."

In desperate moments we seem to cry, "Answer me speedily." This is deeply human. Scripture teaches us to wait patiently on the Lord, but Psalm 102 also shows that God receives the urgent prayer that says, "I do not know how much longer I can bear this. I need You now."

Such a prayer is not a lack of faith. In many ways, it is a profound expression of faith.

The psalmist cries out because he believes Someone is listening.

Likewise, even in moments of despair, I find myself praying because I truly believe that God, as I understand Him, is present and listening.

Over the years of my recovery, there have been times when my faith has weakened. Yet the psalmist reminds me:

"But thou, O Lord, shalt endure for ever."
- Psalm 102:12

In simple terms: Even when my world feels temporary, God is eternal.

I have learned time and again that what appears unbearable can be borne through the power of God and His Son, Jesus Christ. This changes my perspective. I may still experience fear, sorrow, or uncertainty, but I am no longer abandoned to them.

God has not disappeared. My circumstances may change, my emotions may rise and fall, and my understanding may sometimes fail me - but God remains.

In those darker moments, the prayer God desires is not always the polished one, but the honest one:

"Hear me, Lord. Stay near me. I need You."

That is not weak faith. It is faith reduced to its truest form: dependence upon God.

May we all come to know such humility.

The Fragrance We Leave Behind

 

Dear Reader,

This morning I came across a quotation attributed to the Buddha:

“Neither the scent of flowers, nor sandalwood, tagara, or jasmine travels against the wind. But the scent of good people travels even against the wind. A virtuous man pervades all directions.”

I found myself thinking about the simplicity of that image.

A flower does not have to tell us that it is beautiful. It does not announce its fragrance or ask anyone to notice it. It simply blooms, and in doing so, something of itself is carried into the world.

Yet even the fragrance of the most beautiful flower is limited. It travels where the wind carries it.

The quotation suggests that goodness is different.

Kindness can travel against the wind.

Compassion can reach beyond the person to whom it was originally given. An encouraging word spoken today may be remembered years from now. The few minutes we spend listening to someone who is hurting may give that person enough hope to face another day.

And we may never know it.

I think of the many times someone has shared an experience in an AA meeting and, without ever knowing it, given me a new way of looking at something happening in my own life. Sometimes those words have helped me immediately; other times they have returned to me months or even years later.

I believe we often underestimate the influence we have upon one another. In recovery, I have seen evidence of this in the countless lives changed because one person was willing to share honestly with another.

We live in a world that likes measurable results. Yet life’s scorecard can never fully record the number of people helped simply because someone listened, offered comfort, or shared honestly from personal experience.

And so, many questions may remain unanswered:

Who have I helped?

Did my words help?

Did my kindness matter?

Did anyone notice?

Was anything changed because I was there?

But maybe goodness does not require an answer.

The flower does not know who enjoys its fragrance.

There have been people in my own life who probably had no idea of the influence they had upon me. A conversation, a kindness, a word of encouragement, or simply someone’s willingness to sit quietly and listen became part of the person I am today.

I suspect the same is true for each of us.

And there is another side to this thought:

What fragrance do I leave behind?

When I leave a room, end a telephone conversation, finish a meal with someone, attend a meeting, or simply encounter a stranger during the ordinary business of the day, what remains because I was there?

There are questions of self-awareness that I may not always ask:

• Did someone feel heard?
• Did someone feel less alone?
• Did someone feel accepted rather than judged?
• Did I bring peace into the room, or did I add to its turmoil?

These questions may be uncomfortable at times, but I believe they are worth asking.

My spiritual life has taught me that some of the greatest opportunities to serve God arrive disguised as very ordinary moments. There is seldom an announcement telling me that this particular conversation matters. I simply encounter another human being and am given a choice about what I will bring to that encounter.

I always have a choice in my interactions with others. I can bring impatience, judgment, and self-interest, or I can bring kindness, compassion, forgiveness, and love.

Jesus taught:

“Ye are the light of the world.”

Light and fragrance are very different things, yet they share something beautiful: neither exists merely for itself.

Light illuminates what surrounds it.

Fragrance fills the air around it.

And a life filled with love touches other lives.

🙏🧘‍♂️💕🤗☮️

Quiet Enough to Receive Grace

 

Dear Reader,

This morning, I read Alma 13:28–30 in the Book of Mormon. The passage begins:

“But that ye would humble yourselves before the Lord, and call on his holy name, and watch and pray continually…”

As I read that first line, the words “humble yourselves” stood out to me like a beacon.

They caused me to consider what it truly means to humble myself before God.

Too often, I approach God almost as an equal—with my plans already made, my conclusions already drawn, and even the outcome I believe He should provide.

For example, I have sometimes decided to join or leave a group after only a short period of thought. I may already know who could be affected or how the decision might limit my time, yet I convince myself that I have adequately planned the outcome.

Then I ask God to bless my decision and spare me from its consequences without ever sincerely praying, “Not my will, but thine, be done.”

That is the mortal part of me speaking.

I may say, “Thy will be done,” while quietly hoping His will looks very much like mine.

Through more than a few painful experiences, I have discovered that this is rarely an effective way to communicate with God—not because He fails to hear me, but because I am not prepared to hear Him.

When I approach prayer with humility and allow time for quiet meditation, the conversation begins to change.

It first requires a little silence.

That silence allows me to begin with an honest recognition of the relationship:

He is God.
I am not.

Instead of coming before God saying, “Here is what needs to happen,” I begin asking:

“Lord, what would You have me understand?”

“What would You have me change?”

“Where would You have me go?”

And sometimes the most difficult prayer of all:

“Lord, what am I refusing to see?”

There is also an important difference between humility and humiliation.

Prayer is a free act of faith and love, not a forced act of shame.

Humility does not require me to believe that I am worthless. I am, after all, a child of God. Humility simply asks me to recognize the relationship correctly.

He is God.

I am not.

Like Job, I do not see everything God sees. I do not understand everything He understands. My experience is limited by time, circumstance, emotion, fear, and desire.

His vision is not.

This may be one reason Alma connects humility with being “led by the Holy Spirit.”

Before I can be led, I must first become willing to follow.

Alma then describes what begins to develop within us: becoming “humble, meek, submissive, patient, full of love and all long-suffering.”

I find the order meaningful.

He does not simply tell us to try harder to become loving, patient, and meek. He begins by telling us to humble ourselves before the Lord, call upon His name, and pray continually.

Then something begins to happen within us.

We become teachable.

And I believe it is within that teachable space that we begin to recognize the grace of God.

Grace is not something I earn by becoming humble enough.

Grace was already there.

Humility allows me to receive what pride, fear, and self-will may have prevented me from recognizing.

I have spent enough of my life trying to direct God, negotiate with God, explain myself to God, and occasionally tell God how I thought things should turn out.

Age and experience have taught me another kind of prayer:

“God, I do not know. You do. Please lead me.”

Or, in words familiar to me through recovery:

“Relieve me of the bondage of self, that I may better do Thy will.”

There is tremendous freedom in those words.

I no longer have to understand everything.

I do not have to control every outcome.

I do not even have to see very far down the road.

I only need enough humility to take the next step when the Spirit shows me where to place my foot.

And somewhere in that surrender, grace appears.

Or, more accurately, I finally become quiet enough to recognize that grace had been there all along.

---

Alma 13:28–30

28 But that ye would humble yourselves before the Lord, and call on his holy name, and watch and pray continually, that ye may not be tempted above that which ye can bear, and thus be led by the Holy Spirit, becoming humble, meek, submissive, patient, full of love and all long-suffering;

29 Having faith on the Lord; having a hope that ye shall receive eternal life; having the love of God always in your hearts, that ye may be lifted up at the last day and enter into his rest.

30 And may the Lord grant unto you repentance, that ye may not bring down his wrath upon you, that ye may not be bound down by the chains of hell, that ye may not suffer the second death.

Where Spirituality Becomes Real

 

Dear Reader,

I have heard a saying in recovery circles:

"Man created religion; God created spirituality."

As I have reflected on those words, I have found myself drawn a little deeper into the thought.

My experience in Alcoholics Anonymous has clearly demonstrated to me that an awareness of a Higher Power is essential to the spiritual life I try to live today. Yet I have also come to believe that we should be careful not to dismiss religion simply because the word itself may carry difficult memories or experiences.

I do not argue with those who have found formal religion difficult to accept. There are understandable reasons why some people have stepped away from churches, doctrines, and religious institutions.

But neither would I automatically reject a religious tradition, theology, or community that helps a person discover principles by which life becomes freer, happier, more compassionate, and more useful.

Perhaps the question is not simply religion or spirituality.

Perhaps the greater question is:

Where does our spirituality find somewhere to live?

When I consider my own life, I realize that community and my understanding of a Higher Power have worked together in molding the person I am today.

My family—both by blood and by extension—is vital to that life.

Spirituality may awaken within the individual, but most of us still need a here-and-now community in which that spirituality can take root.

We need places where we gather.

We need people who know our names.

We need people who notice when we are missing, celebrate with us when life is going well, and sit beside us when life becomes difficult.

Call it what you will.

I sometimes think of it as my religion-of-life.

Religion, at its best, can provide such a place. It gives us traditions, sacred stories, prayer, worship, service, and a community in which we attempt to practice what we say we believe.

But if someone cannot feel at home within a church or other formal religious structure, perhaps there is another place to begin.

Begin with family.

And by family, I mean much more than blood.

Family may include parents and children, brothers and sisters, grandchildren and grandparents. But over a lifetime its boundaries can expand.

A friend may become a brother.

A neighbor may become family.

A church congregation, a recovery fellowship, or simply a community of people walking through life together may provide relationships every bit as meaningful as those created by blood.

Perhaps this expanded family is one of the places where spirituality becomes most visible.

It is relatively easy to speak about love.

It is much harder to practice it.

Family asks us to forgive the person we thought we had already forgiven yesterday.

It teaches us patience when patience is inconvenient.

It requires us to listen when we would rather speak, to remain present when walking away would be easier, and sometimes simply to sit beside another person when there are no words capable of fixing what hurts.

These are not merely family experiences.

They are spiritual experiences.

My belief is: spirituality is not found only in moments of prayer, meditation, scripture, temples, churches, or quiet contemplation.

It is also found around the dinner table.

In a telephone call to someone who is lonely.

In caring for a child.

In forgiving an old hurt.

In welcoming someone who once stood outside our circle.

In becoming family to someone who needs one.

Religion may give us a language for God.

Spirituality may awaken our awareness of God.

But loving one another may be where we finally begin to experience God.

Perhaps that is why our earthly relationships matter so deeply.

They give eternal principles somewhere to live.

And maybe, in the end, spirituality is not primarily about how high our thoughts can reach toward heaven.

Perhaps it is about how completely the love of heaven can pass through us and reach the person sitting beside us.

Religion may provide the gathering place.
Spirituality may awaken the soul.
But love creates the family—and within that family, spirituality becomes real.

🙏🧘‍♂️💕🤗☮️  

While We Still Have Breath

Dear Reader,

I began this writing with what seemed to be a random collection of thoughts:

one life → a flowing river → unnecessary pebbles → breath → gratitude and praise.

At first, I wondered whether they really belonged together. The more I reflected, however, the more I began to see a single message running through them.

There are words often attributed to Confucius:

“We have two lives, and the second begins when we realize we only have one.”

For me, those words point toward a moment of awakening—the realization that mortal life is finite. There is no second earthly life waiting somewhere beyond this one. There is simply this journey, stretching from birth until we return to dust.

At some point in my own journey, I began to understand the difference between simply existing and truly living.

For me, living became increasingly connected with charity, service, gratitude, and love for others.

Yet this new way of living did not mean that life suddenly became predictable or unchanged.

Heraclitus gave us the wonderful image:

“You cannot step into the same river twice.”

Yesterday's river is gone, and in a sense, yesterday's version of ourselves is gone as well. Life keeps moving. Circumstances change. People enter and leave our lives. Day becomes night, and night becomes another morning—but the new day is never exactly the same as the one before it.

The question, then, is not whether life will change.

The question is: What will I do with the life flowing through my hands today?

A second lesson I have learned is that a new life does not necessarily mean a perfect life.

The road may become smoother, yet some of us still carry sand in our socks.

Muhammad Ali expressed this wonderfully:

“It isn't the mountains ahead to climb that wear you out; it's the pebble in your shoe.”

In my own experience, some of those pebbles came from the wreckage of my past.

I needed to make amends. I needed to repay financial obligations. I needed to humble myself before former wives and my son and acknowledge places where my actions had caused pain.

Those things were not easy.

Yet in doing them, something began to change. It was almost as though I had finally stopped along the road, washed my feet, removed the stones, and put on better boots for the journey ahead.

Slowly, I discovered that I did not have to spend the remainder of my life being held back by resentment, old regrets, something someone once said, or fear of what tomorrow might bring.

And that brings me to a third lesson: gratitude.

Psalm 150 closes with one of the simplest and most beautiful invitations in scripture:

“Let every thing that hath breath praise the Lord.”

While I still have breath, I still have something for which to be grateful.

Today, as I try to express that gratitude through service and love for others, this life feels more whole. I feel more firmly anchored. I have begun to experience something I can only describe as living the air—recognizing the gift of simply being here, breathing, serving, loving, learning, and becoming.

The river still changes.

There are still stones along the road.

There are still days when the current carries me somewhere I did not expect to go.

But increasingly, I trust that the journey has purpose.

Sir Walter Scott once wrote:

“Each age has deemed the new-born year the fittest time for festal cheer.”

Perhaps we need not wait for January to experience a new year.

Perhaps a new year can begin on any morning when we awaken and recognize that we have been given another day.

Another river.

Another opportunity to remove a pebble.

Another chance to love someone.

Another breath with which to praise God.

Dear Reader, while we still have breath, may we not merely exist.

May we live.

May we serve.

May we love.

And may we be grateful for the river carrying us home.

Amen

🙏🧘‍♂️💕🤗☮️

When Good People Suffer

Reflections on the Book of Job

Dear Reader,

Lately I have been reflecting on the book of Job. As I have done so, I have also found myself relating Job’s experience to the loss of my mother when I was 20 years old. That was a time when I chose to blame God and abandon the religion of my childhood.

Like Job, I was spiritually troubled. At the time, I was deeply involved in my church and in its teachings about physical healing through faith. I believed I was a good person—honest, faithful, and devoted to God. By the usual reasoning of the world, I felt I should have been protected from great tragedy.

To me, there seemed to be a kind of universal law: that good deeds produce good lives—lives of security, blessing, and peace.

So when loss came my way, part of me became convinced that either I had failed in my prayers or there was no God in the universe who truly cared. Perhaps the greater wound was the thought that some unknown sin in my childhood may have somehow blocked my mother’s healing.

That way of thinking is not far from the thinking found in the book of Job.

Even Job’s friends tried to explain his suffering by insisting that he must have done something wrong. In their minds, suffering had to be punishment, because their understanding of God left little room for anything else.

To Job’s credit, he refused to fit neatly into that kind of thinking.

For many of us, there is comfort in believing life follows a simple pattern: if we are good, good will come to us; if we are unfaithful, hardship will follow. There is some truth in the idea that wise choices often lead to better outcomes. Yet the book of Job reminds us that this is not the whole story. Life is not always a straight line between virtue and reward.

Sometimes sorrow comes without asking permission.

Sometimes pain enters a life that has tried to be kind, faithful, and sincere.

Sometimes the righteous suffer not because God has abandoned them, but because mortality itself is far more mysterious than we wish it to be.

I do not believe the message of Job is that suffering is good, or that evil and goodness are equal forces that must be kept in balance. Rather, I believe the book invites us into a deeper understanding: God is Lord not only over what we call blessings, but also over a world in which agency, loss, uncertainty, and grief are real.

That is not always easy to accept.

We naturally want life to make immediate sense. We want a universe that rewards decency on schedule and explains every wound in language we can understand. Job teaches otherwise. He reminds us that God’s wisdom is greater than our formulas.

Perhaps that is one reason the Lord answers Job not with a simple explanation, but with a vision of a creation far larger than Job could grasp. The message seems to be that human beings see only a fragment, while God sees the whole.

This does not erase sorrow. It does not make pain pleasant. It does not mean that every tragedy was individually arranged for a hidden lesson. But it does suggest that the presence of suffering does not prove the absence of God.

To me, one of the great truths in Job is this: faith is not a contract by which we purchase a trouble-free life. Faith is a relationship of trust with God, even when life becomes difficult to understand.

Job begins by trusting God while his life is blessed. He ends by seeking God in the middle of mystery. That may be the greater faith.

There are moments in all of our lives when the old formulas no longer work. A prayer seems unanswered. A loss feels undeserved. A burden arrives that cannot be explained by fairness. At such times, the book of Job asks us to let go of the belief that righteousness guarantees immunity from pain.

Instead, it invites us to hold to something deeper:

that God remains God,
that truth remains truth,
and that our suffering, though not always explained, is never beyond His sight.

I believe one of the hidden gifts of Job is that it moves us from asking, “What did I do to deserve this?” to asking, “How shall I walk with God through this?”

That is a harder question, but perhaps a holier one.

The wisdom of Job may be that life cannot always be measured by reward and punishment. Some things remain mysterious. Some sorrows remain unresolved for a season. Yet even there, God has not lost His integrity, nor has He surrendered His place over all things.

And perhaps that is enough for today:

not to understand everything,
but to trust that we are not abandoned within what we do not understand.