Dear Reader,
A year ago, I wrote about change, willingness, and the Seventh Step of Alcoholics Anonymous.
At the time, I believed the central question of spiritual life was:
"Am I still willing to change?"
Today, the question feels quieter—and perhaps more honest:
"Can I trust God even when change no longer feels dramatic?"
In early recovery, transformation often comes with visible action.
We stop drinking.
We attend meetings.
We rebuild broken relationships.
Life moves with urgency because survival itself feels urgent.
But after years pass, spiritual life changes shape.
The battles become less outward and more inward.
We begin confronting discouragement, fatigue, loneliness, aging, uncertainty, and the slow realization that some defects of character do not disappear all at once. Some soften gradually through humility, prayer, failure, forgiveness, and time.
And perhaps this too is part of grace.
The Seventh Step Prayer still speaks to me today:
“My Creator, I am now willing that you should have all of me, good and bad…”
What moves me now is not merely the request for defects to be removed.
It is the phrase:
“all of me, good and bad.”
Not the polished self.
Not the inspired self.
Not the productive self.
All of me.
The tired part.
The uncertain part.
The procrastinating part.
The grieving part.
The aging part.
The hopeful part that still reaches toward God despite everything.
Perhaps real spiritual maturity begins when we stop offering God only our strengths and begin trusting Him with our limitations as well.
I no longer believe willingness always feels inspiring.
Sometimes willingness simply means getting out of bed.
Saying a prayer without emotion.
Answering the phone.
Helping another person while carrying your own burdens quietly inside.
The Apostle Paul wrote:
“My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.”
— 2 Corinthians 12:9
What if weakness is not always an obstacle to spiritual growth?
What if weakness itself becomes the doorway through which grace enters?
Recovery has taught me that God often works more through surrender than through force.
Confucius once spoke of “the desire to reach your full potential,” but age and experience have taught me something equally valuable: not every season of life is meant for achievement. Some seasons are meant for deepening. Some are meant for reflection. Some are meant for learning how to remain faithful when certainty disappears.
The scriptures quietly affirm this truth:
“Be still, and know that I am God.”
— Psalm 46:10
Stillness is difficult for many of us because we mistake it for stagnation.
Yet some of the holiest work of life happens invisibly.
Roots grow in silence.
Faith deepens in silence.
Character is refined in silence.
Today, I do not ask God to make me extraordinary.
I ask Him to keep me honest, useful, compassionate, and willing.
The miracle is no longer that I can change overnight.
The miracle is that grace continues working on me at all.
And perhaps that is enough.
I think now of these words from the Book of Mormon:
“By small and simple things are great things brought to pass.”
— Alma 37:6
A prayer whispered in weakness.
A meeting attended despite exhaustion.
A kind word offered when discouraged.
A willingness to begin again.
These small acts may not look dramatic to the world, but spiritually they are enormous.
A year later, I no longer believe the spiritual life is about becoming flawless.
I believe it is about remaining open.
Open to correction.
Open to grace.
Open to God.
Open to becoming, even now.
And maybe the real gift of the Seventh Step is this:
Not that God instantly removes every defect,
but that He patiently teaches us how to walk with Him while transformation slowly unfolds.
“Draw near unto me and I will draw near unto you.”
— Doctrine & Covenants 88:63
May we continue forward gently.
Not perfectly.
Not fearlessly.
But willingly.
One prayer.
One act of faith.
One quiet day at a time.
