O Lord, Turn Me

  

 Dear Reader,  

This morning, I reflected on a brief but powerful verse from the prophet Hosea:     "Ephraim is a cake not turned."  — Hosea 7:8  

At first, the image seems almost humorous: a cake left unturned, burned on one side and raw on the other. 

It has been near the fire, but not long enough to be transformed all the way through. 

The longer I considered the image, the more I saw myself in it. 

In his morning meditation on this verse, Charles Spurgeon suggested that many of us resemble Ephraim. We may experience partial change while leaving other areas untouched by God's grace: obedience in one area, resistance in another; compassion in one place, pride in another; faith in one season, fear in the next. 

The question is not whether we are perfect, but whether we are willing to be transformed. 

Through faith and recovery, I have learned that God rarely changes everything at once. Most of us come to Him with rough edges, hidden wounds, old fears, and deeply rooted habits. Some are obvious; others remain hidden even from ourselves. 

In Alcoholics Anonymous, Step Six asks us to become entirely ready for God to remove our defects of character. Step Seven invites us to humbly ask Him to do so. 

The words "entirely ready" have always challenged me. Partial readiness is not true surrender. 

This is where we strengthen our resolve to release our most secretly cherished habits, let go of anger and self-righteousness, and surrender the fear that keeps us grasping for control. I know from experience that this is difficult work. 

As I reflected further, another thought came to mind: a cake not turned is not only raw on one side; it is also burned on the other. Sometimes our greatest weaknesses are not where we feel weak, but where we believe we are strong—in our spirituality, our wisdom, our service, or even our sobriety.  

If we are not careful, even God's blessings can become sources of self-reliance. Jesus often showed great mercy to those who openly struggled, yet He spoke some of His strongest words to those who believed they had already arrived. 

The burned side can be just as dangerous as the uncooked one. That is why humility remains central to both recovery and discipleship.  

Through joys and sorrows, successes and failures, victories and defeats, I have come to understand this truth more deeply: God is not finished with me yet. That awareness keeps me humble, and I believe it is true for all of us. 

We are not condemned when we remain willing to change and keep moving forward in grace and action. 

When the meditation ended, a simple prayer remained in my heart: 

"Lord, turn me."  

Turn the parts of me that still resist You.  

Turn the places where fear has taken the place of faith.  

Turn the corners of my heart that have not yet known the warmth of Your grace.  

Turn me until Your love reaches every part of my life.  

None of us is fully finished in this life.  

Yet when we remain willing, God continues His work.  

One day at a time.  

One lesson at a time. 

One turning at a time.  

With gratitude,  

Amen  

🙏🧘‍♂️💕🤗☮️ 

  

🙏🧘‍♂️💕🤗☮️ 

 

A Promise of Reunion

 

Dear Reader,

I have just finished watching a movie called "Eleanor the Great."

The movie tells the story of an elderly woman who, through a series of circumstances, comes to impersonate a dear friend she has lost. That friend was a Holocaust survivor. As the story unfolds, Eleanor recounts her friend's experiences, including the loss of her brother amid the horrors of the Holocaust. The film carries a powerful message about loss, memory, and the enduring bond of friendship.

As I watched the film, I was reminded of the grief David felt after learning of Jonathan's death. His words still echo through the centuries:

"I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan."
(2 Samuel 1:26)

I also found myself recalling the losses I have experienced over the course of my 83 years of life—the feelings of grief, sadness, emptiness, and longing. I believe each of us knows those moments privately and personally.

I remember times when such losses caused me to question the existence of a Higher Power. For many years, those doubts lingered. Yet today, with the benefit of time and experience, I have come to accept such events as part of our spiritual growth and life's refining process. Through our own sorrows, we become better able to comfort others who walk a similar path.

I believe this growth is necessary, and perhaps even part of our preparation to once again stand in the presence of our Heavenly Father. Certainly, Jesus Christ understood grief. He not only taught compassion—He lived it. He willingly offered His life as an example and as a sacrifice for all mankind. Through His Resurrection, He proved that the grave has no final victory and that life eternal is possible. Because of Him, we can find comfort even in our deepest losses.

Guided by this truth, we can face whatever challenges this world places before us. Faith transforms life from mere existence into a journey filled with purpose and promise. It gives us the strength to carry on when our hearts are heavy and our path uncertain.

When grief comes, I often return to a simple testimony:

"I know my Redeemer lives, and because He lives, I too can live."

Grief is the price of love, but it is also one of life's greatest teachers. Through loss we learn compassion. Through sorrow we discover faith. Through mourning we become capable of comforting others. And through the Resurrection of Jesus Christ, we learn that love is stronger than death and that every faithful goodbye is ultimately a promise of reunion.

May each of us find a rainbow where once we saw only storm clouds and felt only the raindrops of tears.

Amen

🙏🏻🧘‍♂️💕🤗☮️

When Honesty Meets Love

  

Dear Reader,

This morning, I read a passage from As Bill Sees It, page 172:

“Only God can fully know what absolute honesty is. Therefore, each of us has to conceive what this great ideal may be–to the best of our ability.

“Fallible as we all are, and will be in this life, it would be a presumption to suppose that we could ever really achieve absolute honesty. The best we can do is to strive for a better quality of honesty.

“Sometimes we need to place love ahead of indiscriminate ‘factual honesty.’ We cannot, under the guise of ‘perfect honesty,’ cruelly and unnecessarily hurt others.  Always one must ask, ‘What is the best and most loving thing I can do?’” Letter, 1966

What stands out in Bill’s words is his picture of mature honesty.

When many of us first embrace honesty, especially in recovery, we may think of it simply as “telling the facts.” We become determined not to lie, hide, or rationalize. That is essential; the Big Book calls it “rigorous honesty.”

Yet as I have grown spiritually, I have learned that honesty and love must work together. They belong side by side.

The Apostle Paul wrote that we should speak “the truth in love” (Ephesians 4:15).

Truth without love can become a weapon. Love without truth can drift into sentimentality. The challenge is to hold both together, keeping truth and kindness in balance.

Looking back on my recovery, I had to be honest about my alcoholism, failures, losses, and regrets. I could not soften the reality of addiction. Facing the truth opened the way to hope, grace, forgiveness, and God’s love.

As I record my journey today, I acknowledge painful chapters: lost relationships, Joe’s death, family estrangement, illness, and disappointment. I bring these truths to God and ask, “What can You teach me through this?”

One phrase in Bill’s message especially catches my attention: “What is the best and most loving thing I can do?” That question moves honesty from the courtroom into the heart.

• The courtroom asks: “Is it factually true?”

• Love asks: “Is it true, necessary, and helpful?”

Both matter.

I am reminded of what sponsors often learn. A sponsor may see a sponsee making a mistake. Brutal honesty might confront it immediately and forcefully.

Loving honesty seeks the right time, spirit, and words so the truth can actually be heard.

Jesus often modeled this kind of honesty.

With the woman taken in adultery, He did not deny the truth of her sin, but He did not shame her publicly. He protected her dignity first, then lovingly said, “Go, and sin no more” (John 8:11).

Truth and mercy walked together. I have spent much time trying to live honestly before God.

If this passage contains a hidden challenge, it may be this: to be honest with ourselves about God’s grace, even in our shortcomings.

Many of us in recovery become skilled at admitting faults but less skilled at receiving God’s gifts. Yet Bill often wrote that humility is not thinking less of ourselves; it is seeing ourselves truthfully. That means acknowledging both our defects and our blessings.

As I reflect on Elijah, David, and my own recovery journey, I am reminded that honesty is not only confessing weakness. It is also accepting that God still works through imperfect people.

 

Perhaps that is the “better quality of honesty” Bill had in mind.

• Not perfection.

• Not brutal candor.

• Not self-condemnation.

Instead, it is the humble willingness to stand before God and say:

“This is who I am today—strengths, weaknesses, failures, gifts, and all—and I trust Your grace to keep shaping me.”

That strikes me as both honest and loving.

🙏🧘‍♂️💕🤗☮️

When the Brook Runs Dry

 

Dear Reader, 

Today, I have been reflecting on Elijah in 1 Kings 17. 

Many of us remember the ravens bringing bread and meat to the prophet as he hid beside the Brook Cherith. It was a remarkable miracle, but something else stood out to me. 

Eventually, the brook ran dry. 

Imagine what Elijah may have thought as he watched the water slowly recede. Each day, the stream grew smaller until no water remained. 

Had God forgotten him? 

Had Elijah done something wrong? 

Had the miracle ended? 

The answer was no. 

The brook dried up because God was preparing Elijah for what came next. 

At times, we face our own drying brooks. A job ends. A relationship changes. A season passes. A source of comfort disappears. What once sustained us no longer can. 

In recovery, we often learn that old solutions eventually stop working. What we once relied on cannot carry us where God is leading us. 

We may be tempted to believe we have been abandoned. 

But Elijah's story offers another possibility. 

Perhaps a drying brook is not proof of God's absence, but a sign of His guidance. 

The same God who sent ravens also sent Elijah to a widow in Zarephath. The same God who provided water at Cherith provided meal and oil in a distant village. What seemed like an ending became a new beginning. 

There is another lesson here as well. 

Elijah was obedient when the brook was flowing, but he also had to be obedient when the brook stopped flowing. 

Sometimes we pray for God to restore the brook, while God is preparing us to leave it. 

Elijah's faith was not only demonstrated by staying at Cherith when God commanded him to stay. It was also demonstrated by leaving when God commanded him to go. 

There are seasons in life when faith means remaining steadfast. There are other seasons when faith means moving forward. Wisdom is learning the difference. 

Faith is not believing every brook will flow forever. Faith is trusting that when one brook runs dry, God already knows where the next source of living water can be found. 

Recovery has taught me that I do not need to see the whole path. I need only enough light for today's step and enough faith to trust that God is already preparing tomorrow. 

The scriptures repeatedly remind us of this truth. Through Isaiah, the Lord declared: 

"Remember ye not the former things, neither consider the things of old. Behold, I will do a new thing..." (Isaiah 43:18–19) 

And in the Book of Mormon we are taught: 

"Ye receive no witness until after the trial of your faith." (Ether 12:6) 

Like Elijah, we are often asked to trust before we can see what lies ahead. 

When the brook runs dry, do not lose heart. 

The God who led you there is still leading you forward. 

Amen. 

🙏🧘‍♂️💕🤗☮️