The Road Before Us

 Good Morning Dear Reader,

There are seasons in life when the road before us is clear, and there are others when it disappears beyond the hill, leaving us to travel by faith rather than sight. We make our plans with care, imagining that tomorrow will follow the course we have marked for it; yet life, like a river, has its own bends and hidden passages.

It is often only afterward that we understand why the road turned as it did.

What seemed at first a disappointment may become a blessing, and what we feared as a loss may open the door to some greater good. There is wisdom, therefore, in holding our plans with an open hand. We may prepare for the journey, but we cannot command every mile of it.

There is also a curious law of the heart: that what we give away is often what we possess most fully.

Knowledge grows when it is shared. Kindness deepens when it is practiced. Love, unlike earthly treasure, is not diminished by giving, but enlarged. The man who thinks only of his own advantage may gather much and yet remain poor; while another, giving freely of his time, his patience, and his affection, may possess a richness no account book can measure.

We are likewise stronger than we commonly suppose.

Many of the walls that seem to stand before us are built not of stone, but of fear. We look upon some distant task and say, “I cannot,” when perhaps the truer words would be, “I have not yet tried.”

Courage does not always announce itself with trumpet and banner. Often it is simply the quiet decision to take another step.

The traveler climbs the mountain not by one mighty stride, but by placing one foot faithfully before the other. He may stumble. He may stop to rest. The clouds may gather around him. Yet if he continues, the path rises beneath his feet, and heights once thought impossible gradually come within his reach.

So it is with the duties of life.

The task neglected today does not vanish with the setting sun. It waits for us upon the morrow, often joined by others. There is peace in doing the work that lies nearest at hand, and there is dignity in meeting responsibility while the hour is ours.

We need not accomplish everything at once. It is enough to do faithfully what belongs to this day.

For life is made not merely of great achievements, but of small acts performed with constancy: a promise kept, a kindness offered, a duty completed, a word of encouragement given when another heart is weary.

Nor can the outward life alone sustain us.

A house may be filled with possessions and yet lack warmth. A life may be crowded with activity and still know an inward emptiness. The spirit, like the hearth fire, must be tended.

It needs purpose.

It needs companionship.

It needs faith.

It needs those quiet hours in which we remember that life is more than what we acquire, more than what others think of us, and more than the brief applause of success.

There is within every person some work that seems to awaken the heart. When we discover it, we ought not to fear the labor it requires.

No worthy undertaking is free of difficulty.

The ship does not curse the wind because it must adjust its sails. The tree does not cease growing because winter has come. Each accepts the season before it and continues according to its nature.

So should we.

Failure need not be the grave of effort. It may instead become its teacher. The broken plan may show us a better way. The closed door may cause us to notice another entrance. What matters is not that we have never fallen, but that we have refused to remain upon the ground.

And when the years have passed, perhaps we shall discover that the great question was never how much we gained, how high we rose, or how widely our names were known.

The better questions may be simpler.

Did we remain true when truth was difficult?

Did we continue when the road became steep?

Did we give something of ourselves to those who traveled beside us?

Did we leave another person stronger, kinder, or more hopeful because our paths happened to meet?

These are the measures by which a life quietly gathers meaning.

We need not know the whole journey before beginning it. The morning sun does not illuminate every road to its end. It gives us light enough for the place where we now stand.

And perhaps that is all we are meant to have.

For life is not lived tomorrow, nor upon some distant shore. It is lived here, in this present hour, where there is still some duty to perform, some kindness to give, some beauty to notice, and some step yet waiting to be taken.

So let us go forward without demanding that every mystery be explained beforehand.

Let us carry what light we have.

Let us help one another along the road.

And when evening comes, may we be able to look back upon the day's journey and say that, however imperfectly, we walked it with courage, with faith, and with a willing heart.

When the Next Thing Comes

 

Dear Reader,

Today I ask that we reflect on a remark by Dag Hammarskjöld:

“What next? Why ask? Next will come a demand about which you already know all you need to know: that its sole measure is your own strength.”

I find in this remark something both sobering and comforting.

First, there is the question, “What next?” In my experience over the years, I have worked my way through — or out of — many life events: graduating from high school, the death of my mother, a change in my college and career direction, marriage and divorce, getting sober, meeting a life partner, suffering the death of that partner, and finding faith in God and Jesus Christ — a faith that guides me today. Many of these experiences ended with the same question: What next?

The truth is that with each event, I had no answer. The reader here might also ask, “Why ask?”

This is precisely where the last part of Hammarskjöld’s message comes into play:

“Next will come a demand about which you already know all you need to know: that its sole measure is your own strength.”

With many of these experiences came a strong feeling of vulnerability. I felt powerless and fearful of the unknown. I had questions, and I believed they needed answering immediately.

What next after my schooling and the beginning of a career?

What next for my family?

What next in my life as a single parent?

What next in my life without a partner or companion?

My questions were deeply human. I wanted to know what was coming before the next experience arrived. I wanted warning, preparation, and reassurance that I would be equal to whatever lay ahead.

Here Hammarskjöld offers an unexpected response — one that can stop me in my tracks: Why ask?

Not because the future does not matter.

Not because life is easy.

Not because there are no real demands coming.

It is because when the next demand comes, it will bring with it its own measure. The issue will not be whether I have solved tomorrow in advance, but whether I am willing to meet what is asked of me when it arrives.

That, dear reader, is a powerful and spiritual response.

Life rarely reveals itself to us all at once. God does not often hand us the whole road in advance. More often, He gives enough light for the next step, enough grace for the next burden, and enough strength for the next demand.

I do not need all of tomorrow’s strength today.

I only need the willingness to live faithfully in this moment.

My personal thought is this: Life is lived one day at a time. Embrace today, have faith in a loving God, and by grace do the next right thing.

Accept that the next demand may bring pain.

Accept that the next experience may arrive quietly or even unseen.

Accept that the next stage of life may require patience and endurance.

More than anything else, accept that you are here in this world to love and help another soul.

Perhaps that is the deepest wisdom here: the next thing that comes is not only a test of strength, but also an invitation to discover that strength.

I have found that many of the things I feared most never came in the way I imagined. And when difficulties did come, I often discovered that God had already placed within me, or around me, enough grace to endure them.

In my life, I have found that the final question becomes: Will I trust God when the next thing comes?

Personally, I believe I do not walk into the future alone. Whatever demand may come, God is already there. His mercy arrives before my fear has finished speaking. His strength is often made known at the very moment mine seems weakest.

Scripture gives me two assurances I return to:

“For with God nothing shall be impossible.” — Luke 1:37

“My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.” — 2 Corinthians 12:9

Today, I do not need to wrestle the whole future to the ground.

I can pray.

I can trust.

I can remain willing.

I can meet this day as it is given.

So, when the next demand comes, perhaps I will know what I need to know after all.

🙏🧘‍♂️💕🤗☮️

Lost Heroes, Forget them not nor their families

  

 

We also pause to honor our nation’s first responders—those who run toward danger when others are trying to escape it.

We remember their courage, their sacrifice, and their willingness to serve strangers as neighbors.

May we never forget those who gave their lives, and may we continue to support those who serve us still.

🙏🇺🇸❤️‍🩹

O My Soul, Do Not Slumber

Dear Reader,

Today, I was drawn to a passage in Dante Alighieri’s Inferno, Canto I.

“Midway upon the journey of our life
I found myself within a forest dark,
For the straightforward pathway had been lost.”

“So full was I of slumber at the moment
In which I had abandoned the true way.”

Looking back on my life, I can now recognize something of what Dante describes: I had become spiritually asleep. From my mid-twenties to my early forties, I was distracted from spiritual development by career goals, family, good times, and what seemed like endless partying. Dante does not describe himself as deliberately choosing evil. He describes himself as having fallen asleep. I can relate to that feeling and to the question: “How did I get here?”

It was only in a moment of clarity that, like Dante, I awakened at the edge of darkness, far from the person I had hoped to be. I had lost my path as a spiritual person. In Dante’s example, he saw light shining on the top of a hill. The rest of his story is one of struggle to climb toward that light and, ultimately, a journey through Hell.

In my case, the path has been one of recovery, where I have been humbled, become more aware of character traits both good and bad, and found a way to make amends to family, friends, and others I harmed before recovery. This path is ongoing. Sometimes progress seems visible; at other times it is slower and more difficult to recognize. I cannot say that I wish the journey were over, because each day brings challenges that allow me to grow and move closer to a Higher Power.

In my case, I have become reacquainted with the God of my understanding and have come to know His Son, Jesus Christ.

My daily spiritual admonition is:

“O my soul, do not slumber or seek worldly distractions. Keep to the true way in Christ, who declares, ‘I am the way, the truth, and the life.’” — John 14:6

This is my prayerful reminder to remain awake and centered in Christ.

As I close, I wonder what I have truly gained from this reflection. Perhaps it is the recognition that there was a past, that I am now established on a renewed spiritual journey, and that, if I choose to be guided and assisted by Divine Grace, I need not drift or lose sight of my true goal of returning to God’s joyful presence.

A word of caution: Dante does not first say, “I chose the wrong road.” He realizes that while spiritually inattentive, he somehow wandered from the true one.

Recognizing that we are lost is not the end of the journey. It may be the beginning of being guided home.

And perhaps, in being guided home, we begin to understand more deeply the infinite love of God, who does not abandon His children simply because they have wandered.

🙏 🧘‍♂️ 💕 🤗 ☮️

Aging, Usefulness, Dignity, Purpose, and God's Work

Dear reader.

Today marks the anniversary of Queen Elizabeth I’s birth. In her honor, I looked at several sayings attributed to her.

• "Monarchs ought to put to death the authors and instigators of war, as their sworn enemies and as dangers to their states." 

•  "I do not choose that my grave should be dug while I am still alive."

The language in the first quotation is severe, especially the phrase “put to death.”

Given Elizabeth I’s era and the growing threats England faced from Catholic princes and kings, it is plausible that these were her words. However, the quotation appears only in a historical collection that attributes it to Elizabeth in conversation with the French ambassador Fénelon and cites Frederick Chamberlin’s The Sayings of Queen Elizabeth (1923).

 

I chose this quotation not to make a political comment about today’s kings, princes, or leaders, but to invite reflection on a nation’s policy toward war and the solemn responsibility leaders bear for the human suffering their counsel may cause.

I believe Elizabeth understood that an unnecessary war would reflect upon the monarch who chose it, making that ruler an enemy of the very people they claimed to protect. That thought is not lost on me today.

Turning to the second quotation: “I do not choose that my grave should be dug while I am still alive.”

Elizabeth likely spoke these words in 1566 while facing Parliament’s pressure over the question of succession.

Today, I hear the words differently. Many seniors, myself included, are told to step back and simply enjoy the fruits of our labor. Even Ecclesiastes reminds us that mortal life is brief and ends in dust.

That may be fitting for some, but in my experience, I choose not to withdraw from active life because of age. Seniors continue to make meaningful contributions in science, literature, art, service, and care for those in need. Age need not impose a fixed limit, especially now that study tools, enrichment opportunities, and AI are opening new paths for learning and purpose. 

In paraphrase, I hear Elizabeth saying, “Do not decide that my useful life is finished while I am still living it.”

For those of faith, I believe God’s work is never limited by age, usefulness, or physical limitations. Every person has a God-given right to live fully and with dignity. As long as God gives us breath, He may still have something for us to become, something for us to learn, and someone for us to serve.

🙏🧘‍♂️💕🤗☮️

When Everything Is Taken Away, What Remains?

 

Dear Reader,

At times I find myself reading one passage of scripture alongside another message of faith, not because I already understand the connection between them, but because I am searching for it.

That was my experience as I considered Ecclesiastes 12 together with Elder Ulisses Soares’s message, “God Knows and Loves You.”

At first, I was not certain they belonged together at all.

Elder Soares speaks with assurance, hope, and tenderness. He reminds us that Heavenly Father knows us, loves us, and will never forget or forsake us. His message is one of eternal identity, trust, and divine love.

Ecclesiastes often sounds very different.

Its voice seems older, weathered, and sobering. It looks upon life and sees the passing of time, the fading of strength, and the limits of human effort. Throughout the book runs the thought that so much of what we chase, build, worry over, and cling to is like vapor—here for a moment and then gone.

That is what first drew me to the comparison.

I wondered whether Ecclesiastes stood almost in opposition to Elder Soares’s message. One seemed to speak of life as fleeting and uncertain. The other spoke of something eternal and secure.

Yet the more I reflected, the more I began to see that perhaps they are not in conflict.

Perhaps they are answering two different parts of the same human question.

Ecclesiastes asks what remains when youth begins to fade, when strength declines, when the body weakens, when cherished plans do not unfold as hoped, and when many of the things we once believed gave life meaning begin to slip through our fingers.

It asks what remains when everything temporary finally reveals itself to be temporary.

And that is no small question.

Many of us have lived long enough to know that life does not always unfold according to our wishes. Health changes. Relationships change. Abilities lessen. Dreams are delayed, altered, or sometimes lost.

We labor, strive, acquire, plan, and often hope that if we can arrange life correctly, we will finally secure lasting peace.

Yet Ecclesiastes reminds us that much of what exists “under the sun” cannot be held forever.

That truth can sound discouraging.

But perhaps it is intended not to drive us into despair, but to strip away an illusion.

For if everything upon which we have leaned in this world could one day be taken from us, then eventually we are brought to a deeper question:

What cannot be taken away?

That is where Elder Soares’s message speaks with particular power.

Ecclesiastes asks what remains when everything we thought gave life meaning is finally taken away. Elder Soares answers: God remains—and so does our place in His love.

And Elder Soares does more than simply tell us that God loves us. He points us toward the greatest evidence of that love:

“God so loved us—loved us so intensely and fully—that He sent Jesus Christ, His Firstborn, His ‘Beloved and Chosen from the beginning,’ to be His Only Begotten Son and the Savior of the world. Jesus Christ’s atoning sacrifice is the ultimate and most glorious expression of the Father’s love for us and for all His children.”

To me, this is where the balance between the two messages becomes complete.

If Ecclesiastes teaches that earthly things fade, weaken, and pass away, then the Atonement of Jesus Christ declares that God’s love does not pass away.

If life “under the sun” often appears fragile and fleeting, Jesus Christ points us toward something beyond the sun—toward resurrection, redemption, forgiveness, and eternal life.

Elder Soares reminds us that through Christ, sin and death have been overcome and that all will be resurrected, while those who turn to Him may repent, receive forgiveness, and continue toward eternal life.

That changes the question.

The question is no longer simply:

What have I managed to hold onto during my mortal life?

Perhaps the greater question is:

What has God made possible for me through Jesus Christ that mortality itself cannot take away?

Ecclesiastes teaches me not to place ultimate trust in passing things.

Elder Soares teaches me where my trust may safely rest.

Ecclesiastes reminds me that earthly possessions, strength, accomplishments, and even life itself do not endure forever.

Jesus Christ reminds me that death does not have the final word.

Ecclesiastes humbles the soul by showing the limits of mortality.

The Savior lifts the soul by showing the limitless reach of God’s redeeming love.

Put together, they offer me a truth both sobering and comforting:

If I build my life only upon what is temporary, eventually I will experience loss. But if I build my life upon God and Jesus Christ, then even loss cannot take from me what matters most.

This understanding also changes the way I hear the closing words of Ecclesiastes.

The writer tells us to remember our Creator while we still have life before us—before the difficult days come, before strength diminishes, and before the dust finally returns to the earth.

That is wise counsel.

But Elder Soares allows me to see something even more comforting:

While I am trying to remember God, God has never stopped remembering me.

Before my strength was mine, He knew me.

In the midst of my joys and sorrows, He knows me.

When life feels uncertain, He knows me.

When my abilities diminish, He knows me.

When I pray and cannot understand why an answer has not yet come, He knows me.

Elder Soares teaches that Heavenly Father knows our circumstances, our challenges, our joys and sorrows, and even the thoughts and intents of our hearts.

And when this mortal journey finally reaches its conclusion, I do not return to a stranger.

I return to the God who gave me life, knew me before mortality, watched over my journey, sent His Son to redeem me, and loved me all along.

There is peace in that.

It means that my worth is not measured by how much I have accumulated, how much I have accomplished, how long I remain strong, how well others understand me, or how perfectly my life has unfolded.

My worth rests in something far more enduring.

I am a child of God.

And the greatest testimony of His love for me is Jesus Christ.

So perhaps Ecclesiastes is not merely a book of hopelessness.

Perhaps it is a book that gradually loosens our hands from everything we cannot keep, so that we may learn where to place our trust.

And perhaps Elder Soares provides the answer my heart was searching for while reading it.

When possessions fail, when plans unravel, when age reminds us that mortal life is brief, and when everything “under the sun” seems unable to provide a lasting answer, one truth remains:

God remains.

Jesus Christ remains.

And so does our place in Their love.

That is not vanity.

That is not vapor.

That is eternal.

With faith and reflection,

The World of God Within Us

 

Dear Reader,

This morning a friend sent me a quotation from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:

“Glorious indeed is the world of God around us, but more glorious the world of God within us.”

There is much around us that speaks of God. We see Him in the morning light, in the quiet of the trees, in the movement of the sea, in the vastness of the sky, and in the small mercies that still visit ordinary days. Creation has a way of reminding us that life is more than routine and that the world still carries traces of divine beauty.

Yet Longfellow suggests something deeper: that as glorious as God’s creation is around us, there is a greater glory to be found within us.

I reflect further!

It is one thing to admire beauty in the world. It is another thing to become a person through whom the beauty of God is revealed.

Not all of us stand before mountains or oceans each day. Not all of us wake to scenes that stir awe. Many days are much plainer than that. They are filled with chores, appointments, worries, aches, losses, and responsibilities. But even in such days, the world of God within us can still shine.

So I offer a more personal quote: 

“Search not the skies nor the ocean depths for the peace of God, for true grace radiates from within the heart that lives with compassion.”
— Anonymous

I believe this quote carries a needed truth.

We often look outward for peace. We imagine that if only the setting were different, the circumstances easier, the people kinder, or the burdens lighter, then peace would finally come to us. We search the horizon hoping something external will quiet the soul.

But the peace of God does not come to us merely because we stand in beautiful places. It comes more deeply when the heart is softened by grace.

That grace becomes visible in compassion.

The world of God within us is not measured by how spiritual we sound, how many scriptures we can quote, or how deeply moved we are by beautiful thoughts alone. It is revealed in how we live. It appears when we become more patient, more forgiving, more understanding, more willing to carry another’s burden, more ready to listen, more willing to love.

A compassionate heart is one of the clearest witnesses of God’s work within a person.

If I claim to love the beauty of God, but remain harsh, proud, or indifferent to others, then something within me has not yet fully yielded to His grace. But when I offer kindness, when I restrain judgment, when I choose mercy, when I see another person not as a problem but as a soul, then the world of God within me becomes a little more visible.

I do not believe Longfellow meant that humanity is divine in itself. Rather, I hear in his words the truth that God has placed within us the capacity to receive His light, reflect His love, and let His Spirit shape our inner life. The glory within us is not self-created. It is God-given. It is His image, His grace, His presence working upon the heart.

For the Christian, this becomes especially meaningful.

Christ did not simply teach us to admire goodness. He taught us to embody it. He showed that the life of God within us must find expression in love toward others. Compassion is not an ornament of faith; it is one of its living fruits. When grace touches the heart, it does not remain hidden there. It moves outward in mercy.

So today I am left with this simple thought:

The beauty of God around us may inspire us, but the beauty of God within us is what transforms us.

And when that inward grace becomes compassion, the peace of God begins to radiate outward—not only blessing our own hearts, but also touching the lives of those around us.

May we not only admire the works of God around us, but also welcome the work of God within us.

And may that inner work be seen in the compassion we extend, the peace we carry, and the love we give.

  🙏🧘‍♂️💕🤗☮️