Believing Christ

I sometimes hear Christians say, “I am ready to fight for what I believe.”

Fight for truth.

Fight for righteousness.

Fight for God.

There is something stirring about that language. Scripture itself contains the imagery of soldiers and armor. Paul tells us to put on “the whole armour of God.” We sing hymns about Christian soldiers and spiritual battles.

But lately I have wondered whether we spend enough time asking what kind of battle Christ actually taught us to fight.

Because when I look carefully at His life, I find remarkably little that resembles the angry, combative Christianity we sometimes call “fighting for the truth.”

Jesus certainly was not passive. He confronted hypocrisy. He condemned exploitation. He challenged religious authorities. He overturned tables in the temple.

But even that remarkable moment is worth noticing carefully. Christ did not assemble His disciples into an army. He did not teach them to hate the people on the other side of the tables.

When Peter later drew an actual sword in Christ’s defense, Jesus told him to put it away. Then He healed the wound Peter had inflicted. See Matthew 26:51–52 and Luke 22:50–51.

That may tell us something important about the kind of kingdom Christ came to establish.

His revolution looked different.

“Blessed are the meek.”

“Blessed are the merciful.”

“Blessed are the peacemakers.”

“Love your enemies.”

“Do good to them that hate you.”

“Pray for them which despitefully use you.”

When His disciples wanted to call fire down from heaven upon people who had rejected Him, Christ rebuked them. See Luke 9:51–56.

When a woman was dragged before Him to be condemned, He dispersed her accusers without throwing a stone.

When people were hungry after listening to Him teach, He fed them.

When someone was sick, He healed.

When someone was excluded, He approached.

When someone was considered unclean, He touched.

When someone was despised because of where he came from, Christ made a Samaritan the hero of the story.

And when He described the final judgment in Matthew 25, He gave us an extraordinary way of understanding our treatment of one another:

“Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”

We understandably love applying that scripture to kindness.

When I feed someone who is hungry, I am feeding Christ.

When I clothe someone who needs clothing, I am clothing Christ.

When I visit someone who is lonely, I am visiting Christ.

But I wonder whether we sometimes forget that the principle has another side.

If the person before me can stand in the place of Christ when I serve them, what happens when I humiliate them?

What happens when I ridicule them?

What happens when I decide that their politics, poverty, nationality, mistakes, doubts, appearance, education, religion, or lack of religion makes them beneath my compassion?

If Christ asks me to see His face in “the least of these,” I do not get to decide that the principle applies only when I am being charitable.

That changes the meaning of fighting for Christ.

Paul’s description of the armor of God is especially interesting in that light. Our struggle, he says, is “not against flesh and blood.” See Ephesians 6:12.

Look at the armor he gives us.

Truth.

Righteousness.

The gospel of peace.

Faith.

Salvation.

And the word of God.

There is no armor of contempt.

No breastplate of outrage.

No helmet of superiority.

No sword of humiliating the unbeliever.

The people around us are not the enemy.

President Russell M. Nelson taught this with remarkable directness when he said that “true disciples of Jesus Christ are peacemakers.” He has warned that contention does not come from Christ and asked disciples to replace belligerence with persuasion, animosity with understanding, and contention with peace.

That does not require abandoning truth.

It may require something considerably harder:

Speaking truth without abandoning Christ.

There is an important difference.

We can become so determined to defend Christianity that we begin violating Christianity in its defense.

I felt that personally when I visited Istanbul and walked through Hagia Sophia.

I knew some of its history before I went, but knowing history and standing inside it are different things.

In 1204, soldiers of the Fourth Crusade attacked Constantinople. But Constantinople was not a Muslim city. It was Christian. Hagia Sophia was Christian. The people worshipping there were Christian.

And Christian crusaders sacked it anyway.

They looted churches and carried away sacred objects, relics, gold, silver, and other treasures. Standing inside Hagia Sophia and looking at the remnants of its extraordinary Christian mosaics, some made with gold, broke my heart. These were images depicting a faith sacred to me, in a Christian holy place that had been plundered by other Christians who believed themselves to be fighting a holy cause.

Centuries later, the Ottoman Turks conquered Constantinople and converted Hagia Sophia into a mosque. Christian images were covered as the building was adapted for Islamic worship, and ironically that covering helped portions of those ancient mosaics survive to be uncovered centuries later.

Standing there, the contradiction was difficult for me to escape.

People whom Christians had called heathens became part of the long history through which this magnificent Christian building and some of its sacred artwork survived. Meanwhile, Christians had once entered that same city under the banner of a holy cause and carried its treasures away.

I do not pretend to know the heart of every Crusader. Some undoubtedly believed their cause was righteous. Others were motivated by politics, wealth, power, obligation, adventure, or some mixture of all of them.

And perhaps that is precisely why the story troubles me.

How easy is it to decide that because my cause is righteous, my actions must therefore be righteous too?

How easy is it to decide that because I possess the truth, whatever I do in defense of that truth becomes justified?

A person can carry the banner of Christ while behaving in a way that bears remarkably little resemblance to Christ.

Before I decide that God needs me to fight His enemies, I had better be extraordinarily careful that I have not simply decided that my enemies are God’s.

Peter thought he was defending Jesus when he drew his sword.

Jesus told him to put it away.

And then Christ healed the man Peter had wounded.

One disciple believed he was fighting for Christ.

Christ was busy healing the wound His disciple had made.

That image stays with me.

President Dallin H. Oaks has similarly taught that followers of Christ must reject the anger and hatred with which political differences are so often debated. Christ’s command was not merely to tolerate our enemies.

It was to love them.

That is considerably more demanding.

King Benjamin taught the same pattern centuries before Christ’s mortal ministry. After spending his life in the service of his people, he refused to make that service evidence of his superiority. Instead he asked:

“Are we not all beggars?” See Mosiah 4:19.

That question leaves very little room for spiritual aristocracy.

Those of us born into the Church should especially remember that.

Being born into a heritage of faith is a blessing.

It is not an accomplishment.

I cannot claim my ancestors’ sacrifices as evidence of my own righteousness any more than I can be condemned for Adam’s transgression.

Our second Article of Faith says that we believe people will be punished for their own sins and not Adam’s transgression.

Surely the inverse deserves consideration too:

Other people’s righteousness does not automatically become mine.

If my ancestors crossed plains, buried loved ones, built communities, sacrificed possessions, and endured persecution for their faith, those are their offerings to God.

My responsibility is to decide what I will offer Him.

And perhaps someone who encounters the gospel without generations of family tradition behind them and chooses Christ at great personal cost deserves not our condescension but our admiration.

They may be the pioneer.

We may simply be living in the house the pioneers built.

The Savior repeatedly overturned assumptions about who was closest to God.

The priest and Levite had religious standing.

The Samaritan stopped.

And Christ asked which one had been the neighbor.

The answer wasn’t the person with the superior religious pedigree.

It was the person who showed mercy.

Perhaps that is why discipleship cannot merely mean believing in Jesus Christ.

We must also believe Him.

Believe Him when He says the meek will inherit the earth.

Believe Him when He says blessed are the merciful.

Believe Him when He says blessed are the peacemakers.

Believe Him when He tells us to love our enemies.

Believe Him when He tells us not to condemn.

Believe Him when He places Himself among the hungry, the stranger, the sick, the imprisoned, and the forgotten.

Believe Him when He says that the greatest among us should become the servant.

Believe Him even when those teachings collide with our politics, our pride, our tribe, our anger, or our certainty that this particular person deserves something less than mercy.

There are truths worth defending.

There are injustices that require courage to confront.

There are moments when disciples of Christ must stand firmly and say, “This is wrong.”

But perhaps the question is not simply whether we are willing to fight for Christ.

Perhaps the harder question is:

Are we willing to fight our own anger for Christ?

Our pride?

Our prejudice?

Our appetite for retaliation?

Our need to win?

Our temptation to divide God’s children into us and them?

Because the great battle described by the gospel may not be a battle against the people standing across from us.

It may be the battle within us that determines whether, when we encounter them, they encounter Christ.

A broken heart.

A contrite spirit.

Hands willing to serve.

Courage sufficient to forgive.

Conviction strong enough that it does not require cruelty to sustain it.

Truth spoken with love.

Strength disciplined by mercy.

Perhaps that is what it means to take upon ourselves the name of Christ.

Not merely to believe in Him.

But to believe Him.

Line Upon Line: Seeing God’s Work Through a 3D Printer

There’s a phrase in scripture that Latter-day Saints hear often: “line upon line, precept upon precept.” We usually think of that phrase as describing how we learn the gospel. Knowledge and understanding come slowly, layer by layer. But recently, while watching a 3D printer quietly building something on my workbench, I started wondering if the metaphor might run deeper than that. Maybe it doesn’t just describe how we learn. Maybe it also describes how God builds us.

Anyone who has spent time around a 3D printer knows the strange fascination of watching it work. At first nothing looks impressive. A nozzle moves back and forth across a build plate, laying down thin lines of molten plastic. It doesn’t look like much. Just lines. Then another layer appears. And another. Eventually the shape begins to emerge, and suddenly what looked random starts to look intentional.

That process reminds me of Isaiah 28:10: “For precept must be upon precept, precept upon precept; line upon line, line upon line.” God rarely changes us all at once. Instead He builds patiently, layer by layer.

As someone who spends a lot of time with 3D printers, I know how complicated that process actually is. For a print to succeed, the temperature has to be right. The flow rate has to be correct. The build plate has to be leveled. The speed of the nozzle must match the material. The machine moves along three axes—X, Y, and Z—coordinating thousands of tiny movements. All of those movements are written into lines of machine code that tell the motors exactly when to move and where.

To someone watching from across the room, it might look simple. But the maker knows the enormous complexity behind every layer.

In many ways, that’s what life feels like. We experience only the small area right around us. We can’t see the entire blueprint of what God is building. Isaiah reminds us why: “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, saith the Lord” (Isaiah 55:8–9). The Maker sees the full design. We see only the layer we are living in.

Another thing anyone who prints complex models understands is the need for supports. Some parts of a model can’t just be printed into empty air. They need temporary structures that hold them in place while the real object forms.

Those supports aren’t the final product. In fact, they’re often removed when the print is finished. But without them, the object would collapse.

I’ve come to believe that many moments in our lives are like that. Sometimes we are the structure being built. Other times we are the support holding something steady for someone else.

King Benjamin taught: “When ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God” (Mosiah 2:17). We may not always understand the role we are playing in the moment. But sometimes our ministry is simply being present while someone else’s life is taking shape.

I’ve seen that principle in my own life in unexpected ways. As a father and now a grandfather, many of the most meaningful moments have come in quiet acts of support—helping a child learn something, sharing a skill, or simply being there when someone needs encouragement.

I’ve also experienced that lesson through running. When I first started training seriously again, progress came slowly. Each run felt like just another small effort. But week after week those small efforts built on each other until I realized I could do things I hadn’t thought possible before.

The same has been true in creative work. Writing, music, building, even 3D printing—none of it happens all at once. Every meaningful project is built layer upon layer.

Elder John C. Pingree Jr. taught that the Lord tells each of us: “I have a work for thee.” That work doesn’t always look dramatic. Often it looks like small acts of service, quiet encouragement, or using the skills and experiences we already have to bless someone else.

Doctrine and Covenants 58:27 teaches us to be “anxiously engaged in a good cause.” We may not know the full blueprint of God’s design, but we can participate in the layer we are currently living.

The perfect example of fulfilling divine work is Jesus Christ. Near the end of His mortal life, the Savior prayed: “I have glorified thee on the earth: I have finished the work which thou gavest me to do” (John 17:4).

Our missions are not the same as His, but the pattern is similar. We learn. We grow. We serve. Layer by layer we become something new.

In 3D printing, the object and the process are inseparable. The final form only exists because thousands of small lines were placed carefully over time.

Discipleship works the same way. Faith grows line upon line. Character develops line upon line. Christlike love is learned line upon line.

And although we cannot yet see the finished design, we can trust the Master Maker who does.

One day we may finally see the design from above and understand why certain layers were placed where they were. Until then, our responsibility is simple: keep building, keep learning, keep serving—and trust the Builder.

When Concern Gets Dismissed

When Concern Gets Dismissed

Last September I tried to have a conversation with Tina’s siblings about two things that felt increasingly urgent:

Her mother’s memory loss.

Her father’s ability to be a safe, appropriate caregiver.

This wasn’t about blame. It wasn’t about finances. It wasn’t about control. It was about safety, decline, and the reality that two aging people might need more support than they were getting.

The response that has stayed with me the most came from Tina’s second oldest brother, the one often treated as the “golden child.”

At first, he acknowledged something real.

He said he understood the toll Tina’s father’s behavior had taken on those who married into the family.

That sounded empathetic.

But the more I replay it, the more it feels like what he was really saying was that we were weak. Including his own wife. As if the problem wasn’t the behavior itself, but our inability to tolerate it.

Then he shifted into explaining his father’s behavior away.

“It’s just his low self-esteem.”

Maybe that’s true. But acknowledging dysfunction isn’t an argument for leaving someone in a caregiving role. It’s an argument for the opposite.

Then he pivoted to finances, as if money were the core issue. He assured everyone that he and the oldest brother had the estate under control.

Finances were never the concern.

Safety was.

Function was.

Capacity was.

Then he minimized Tina’s mother’s condition by suggesting she just needed to “get out more.”

I still don’t know what he meant that would fix.

Did he think activity would reverse memory decline?

Did he think time away from her husband would solve something?

Did he think this was temporary confusion instead of progression?

Either way, the logistics alone make the suggestion unrealistic.

Getting someone out daily for enough time to matter would require multiple hours every day.

The oldest brother is already carrying significant responsibility. Their parents literally live in an adjoining apartment to his home. Adding more to his plate isn’t reasonable.

His wife had already tried to get Tina’s mother out socially with little success. And even if activity helps mood, it does not stop neurodegenerative decline. We have direct family evidence of that.

Then came the part that still burns.

He suggested that “those who live close” should take responsibility for getting their mother out regularly.

That statement collapses under even basic reality.

The youngest sister lives nearby but is in a volatile marriage. Her husband has made threats against the oldest brother and his family. There is a restraining order involved. Relying on her creates risk for everyone.

The next closest sibling after the oldest brother was Tina’s sister who had just died after four years of pancreatic cancer. She wasn’t even included in the group chat for obvious reasons. Said sibling lives over an hour away. That would mean more than two hours of driving daily, plus time spent out with their mother. Four hours a day, minimum, just to attempt this “solution.”

Which leaves us.

My family.

And if he meant Tina specifically, then the math becomes almost cruel.

Tina works six 12-hour shifts most weeks. Sometimes five 12s and an 8. A 12-hour shift is really 12.5 because of report time. She has a one-hour commute each way.

If she stopped after work to spend time with her mother:

1 hour from work to parents.

1.5 hours out with her mother.

Nearly 2 hours home with traffic.

That leaves roughly 5 hours at home before she has to sleep, eat, shower, prepare for work again, and function as a human being.

At best, she would get 3 to 3.5 hours of sleep.

That isn’t caregiving. That’s collapse.

The only alternatives would be Tina moving in with her parents, which neither of us will agree to, or her body forcing the issue through exhaustion within weeks.

What makes this harder is that this brother knows the damage his father’s behavior can cause. He deliberately chose jobs that kept distance between his own family and his parents to protect his wife’s mental health.

That was wise.

That was protective.

That was love.

But somehow he didn’t extend that same protection to his sister.

Then came the statement that hurt the most:

“If we just loved Dad more, things would be okay.”

I do love him.

That’s why I’m concerned.

Love does not mean ignoring neglect.

Love does not mean pretending laundry, cleaning, and daily function are happening when they aren’t.

Love does not mean accepting yelling at a cognitively declining spouse as normal frustration.

Love does not mean leaving someone in a role they can’t safely perform.

After that conversation, I blocked most of the family again on my phone and social media.

That wasn’t impulsive. It wasn’t dramatic. It was survival.

Years ago I had already learned that distance was necessary for my own mental health. I reopened those doors for one reason only: concern. I was willing to risk my stability to try to start a real conversation about what was happening to Tina’s parents.

I reversed boundaries that existed for a reason.

And one response shut the entire thing down.

One response.

The moment the “golden child” spoke, everyone else went quiet. No questions. No problem-solving. No curiosity. Just a return to the familiar family posture: status quo, head in the sand, don’t upset Dad, don’t acknowledge decline, don’t confront reality.

Conversation over.

That silence told me everything.

It told me that protecting comfort mattered more than protecting people.

It told me that denial was still the organizing principle.

It told me that the emotional hierarchy hadn’t changed.

So I closed the doors again.

Because I am not required to sacrifice my mental health on the altar of someone else’s denial.

I am not required to expose myself to harm to prove I care.

I am not required to participate in a system that punishes honesty and rewards avoidance.

And the truth is, my distance was never indifference.

For years, while staying out of the blast radius for my own survival, I still tried to contribute quietly.

I digitized Tina’s childhood photos and made them available to the family through her Google Drive without anyone knowing it was me.

I digitized videos of her maternal grandmother. One was created by her church community when her health declined and Tina’s parents brought her to Utah for better care. Another was of her grandmother talking about her trip overseas when she was young and single.

That grandmother was active. Social. Engaged outside the home.

She still declined.

I worried those memories would be lost if someone didn’t preserve them.

Tina’s mother had given us a VHS copy years ago. I assumed everyone had one. They didn’t. No one even remembered the videos existed until they appeared digitally. Not even Tina’s mother.

I never said I did it.

Because I knew how it would go.

Because Tina’s father has criticized nearly everything I’ve done since the day I married his daughter.

So I stayed invisible.

I contributed without credit.

I helped without acknowledgment.

I loved from a distance because that was the only safe way to do it.

Which is why it hurt so much to be treated as if I didn’t understand, didn’t care, or needed to “love more.”

I have loved.

I have shown up in the only ways I safely could.

I took a risk that day. A real one. I stepped back into dynamics that have hurt me before because I believed concern for vulnerable people might finally matter enough to override the old patterns.

It didn’t.

And that realization hurt more than I expected.

It felt like I risked my mind for nothing.

But the truth is, it wasn’t nothing.

I spoke.

I named what I saw.

I advocated for people who may not be able to advocate for themselves.

The outcome was not what I hoped for, but the action still matters.

Sometimes the only thing you control in a broken system is whether you participate in the denial.

I chose not to.

And I will not apologize for protecting my own mental health when the system refuses to protect anyone else.

Denial is comfortable.

Reality is coming anyway.

Children and their wide eyed optimism that allows them to suspend reality and how we lose it. An open letter to Fandoms.

 Fandoms have played a huge role in my life, shaping the way I view storytelling, heroism, and the human experience. Of all the fandoms I love, Star Wars is at the very top of the list. George Lucas created those original movies with children in mind, but he crafted them in a way that adults could also enjoy and learn from. He used the hero’s journey, a storytelling structure that has appeared throughout human history, borrowing influences from Japanese cinema, classic science fiction, fantasy, and even Greek epics. The story of Luke Skywalker follows this age-old path: the student discovering himself, finding a mentor, losing that mentor, and ultimately facing the ultimate test.

But Star Wars also explores the idea that heroes fall. Anakin Skywalker was once a hero before he became Darth Vader. The prequels expanded on this idea, showing how his fall was driven by fear, loss, and manipulation. Even Obi-Wan Kenobi experiences a form of downfall—not to evil, but to despair. By the time we see him in A New Hope, he has shut himself off from the world. Not just to protect Luke, but because of the overwhelming grief of losing Anakin, his brother in arms. The pain he feels is reminiscent of other legendary betrayals, like King Arthur and Lancelot.

This theme of flawed heroes extends beyond Star Wars. Comic books, particularly Marvel comics, are filled with characters who struggle with their own shortcomings. Even Superman, the quintessential Boy Scout, has faced moral dilemmas, has fallen, and even died before being brought back. Marvel’s heroes, in particular, feel more like real people—individuals who happen to have extraordinary abilities but still deal with personal battles. Their masks and costumes serve a purpose beyond theatrics; they separate their personal lives from their responsibilities, much like real-world heroes do. Police officers, firefighters, and military personnel all wear uniforms that symbolize their duty, yet they also have personal lives they must protect and balance.

Another fandom I hold dear is Star Trek. My favorite iteration is Deep Space Nine, and nobody can beat Avery Brooks as Captain Sisko. He brought an incredible passion to the role, and the show tackled issues of social justice, discrimination, and the cost of maintaining a utopian society. Star Trek, in all its iterations, has always pushed boundaries, presenting a future where humanity has moved beyond its worst tendencies—but not without struggle. Even in a utopian world, there are forces that threaten to tear it down, whether from within or from the outside. It’s a reminder that achieving a just society isn’t the end of the fight—you have to work to maintain it.

Fantasy is another love of mine, and few stories embody the hero’s journey better than The Lord of the Rings. Tolkien, first and foremost a linguist, created his world as an experiment in how language evolves with culture. But in doing so, he also crafted an epic that reflects the darkness of the world. His experiences in the trenches of World War I shaped the way he portrayed war—not just as a battlefield struggle, but as a weight that crushes entire civilizations. Though he was adamant that his work was not allegorical, the themes of war, loss, and perseverance are woven into every part of his stories.

His friend, C.S. Lewis, took a different approach with The Chronicles of Narnia. Lewis embraced allegory, weaving Christian themes throughout his works. When asked why his children’s books contained dark and terrifying elements, he explained that children need to know that there are monsters in the world—but more importantly, that those monsters can be defeated. Stories like these don’t just entertain; they help us process the real fears we face in life and give us hope that good can prevail.

Of course, fandoms aren’t without their conflicts. Star Wars, in particular, has seen intense division among fans. Every time a new trilogy is released, there’s an uproar. Some fans want the experience to feel exactly like the original trilogy did when they were kids, but that sense of innocence can never truly be recaptured. The prequels, for example, were criticized for focusing too much on CGI and effects, losing some of the raw storytelling that made the originals so compelling. When Disney took over, the sequels were met with backlash for different reasons. The Force Awakens was called too derivative, even though it was meant as an homage. And then The Last Jedi caused an even bigger rift, with its portrayal of Luke Skywalker as a broken man who had lost faith in the Jedi.

To me, that was one of the most realistic and moving aspects of the new trilogy. Heroes fall—not always to darkness, but sometimes to despair. Luke’s disillusionment wasn’t a betrayal of his character; it was a reflection of what happens when people carry the weight of the world for too long. His journey back to hope was just as important as his original rise to heroism. I relate to this personally, as I have struggled with depression, anxiety, and ADHD. There have been times when I’ve withdrawn completely, overwhelmed by the burdens of responsibility and self-doubt. But even in those moments of isolation, there’s always been something that has pulled me back—whether it’s my family, my love of storytelling, or the realization that even a small step forward is still progress.

Going back to school as a 40-year-old was one of those moments for me. I didn’t just do it for a degree; I did it to show my kids how to succeed, even when it’s hard. It wasn’t without pain or deep anxiety-fueled depression, but I endured because I wanted them to see that perseverance matters. And just like the heroes in these stories, I’ve learned that coming back, even for a moment, can make all the difference—not just for myself, but for those watching and looking for their own hope.

Fandoms are passionate spaces, and sometimes that passion leads to division. But at their core, these stories exist to inspire us, to challenge us, and to give us a glimpse of something greater than ourselves. Whether it’s a farm boy from Tatooine, a Vulcan exploring the stars, or a hobbit carrying a burden too great for anyone to bear, these characters remind us of our own journeys. And as long as stories continue to be told, as long as light still shines, there will always be hope.

Firebreaks

It's starting to make sense. 

"Where there's smoke there's fire." 

Every day is a battle to feed and grow the forest of my life and friends.  Remove the excess dead standing and fallen trees.  Keep the accessible paths open and discourage people from tramping on the parts of me that need to remain wild and pristine. 

I'm a forest ranger conservationist. 

Then I see it.  Smoke. 

I'm not a good fireman.  I'm a conservationist.  I try to call it in.  But for me, the response time is never good enough.  So I find the nearest tool and try to build a firebreak.  A controlled burn, a Bulldozer, Napalm.  I'm not a fireman.  I just try to keep the fire away from the one thing I can't do without.  My kids.  My wife.  I can give up everything else in this world but I can't let the fire consume that too.  But I'm not a fireman.

Usually, I don't get so much destroyed that I can't rebuild.  But sometimes.  Damn it.  I hate it too.  So there I stand in the wasteland between what I hold dear and what I'm trying to build and trying to find a swathe of green that I somehow missed.  An olive tree that bent but didn't break.  Maybe the creatures will come back.  I can only find what's left and start planting again.  Maybe the new pathway will go here and we'll let the old one overgrow.

Why Doesn’t God Always Heal? Understanding Miracles and Faith

Why Doesn’t God Always Heal? Understanding Miracles and Faith

Life is full of trials—some visible, some hidden deep within our hearts and minds. As members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we believe in a God of miracles (Mormon 9:15-19). We read of Christ healing the blind, the lepers, and even raising the dead. We hear modern testimonies of miraculous healings and divine interventions. And yet, many of us pray for miracles that seem to go unanswered.

Why doesn’t God always heal? If He has the power to restore limbs, to cure cancer, to mend broken minds, why do so many still suffer?

A Life Designed for Growth

The simplest answer is this: this life is a test. Mortality is our proving ground, a place where we develop faith, patience, and trust in God’s plan. Elder Neil L. Andersen taught:

> "Faith in Jesus Christ is a gift from heaven that comes as we choose to believe and as we seek it and hold on to it. Your faith will grow not by chance, but by choice." (“Faith Is Not by Chance, but by Choice,” Oct. 2015 General Conference)

Like a carefully cultivated garden, our trials and experiences are meant to grow something specific in us—faith, hope, and charity (Ether 12:27). If God stepped in to fix every hardship, would we truly develop these Christlike attributes?

The Role of Miracles

The scriptures do show that miracles happen, but often they serve a larger purpose in God’s eternal plan. The miracles of Christ were not just acts of compassion but also powerful witnesses of His divinity (John 20:30-31). They restored balance in a world darkened by sin and disbelief. Yet, even in His mortal ministry, Christ did not heal everyone.

Laman and Lemuel saw angels and incredible signs, yet their faith faltered (1 Nephi 3:29-31). Miracles alone do not create lasting conversion. The Prophet Joseph Smith, who experienced firsthand the power of God, also endured great suffering and was ultimately martyred. Even the most faithful are not spared from the refining fire of mortality.

Why Some Are Healed and Others Are Not

It is difficult to understand why some receive miraculous healing and others do not. President Dallin H. Oaks explained:

> "Healing blessings come in many ways, each suited to our individual needs, as known to Him who loves us best." (“Healing the Sick,” Apr. 2010 General Conference)

Sometimes healing is immediate. Sometimes it is gradual. And sometimes, healing does not come in this life but is reserved for the next. That does not mean we are loved less or that our faith is weak. Rather, it means that God, who sees the eternal picture, knows what we need most for our ultimate happiness.

Finding Peace in an Unhealed Life

I have prayed for healing. I have struggled with the weight of trials that seem unmovable. Through personal revelation, I have come to understand that while I may not receive certain miracles now, my brokenness will be made whole in the life to come (Revelation 21:4).

If you are struggling, know this: God loves you. His plan for you is tenderly crafted, designed not just for survival but for exaltation. The trials of this life, though heavy, are but a small moment (D&C 121:7-8). He will strengthen you to endure, and one day, all that is unfair will be made right through Jesus Christ.

This is my testimony. These are my prayers for you—not just in my moments of kneeling, but in the quiet thoughts of my day. May you find peace in His promises.

In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.

Nobody Knows I'm Not Okay

This is how it feels when you try to explain mental illness to someone who won't/can't really understand. 

Verse 1

Nobody sees the hurt inside.

Because I hide it with a smile.

Nobody knows the pain I feel

I've been feeling for a while

Verse 2

Nobody's tried to fight

The thoughts that come at night.

Nobody knows how to breathe

When you're not alright

Chorus

And it seems like i'm okay

And it seems i'm doing fine

But i'm barely holding everything in

It's tearing up my mind.

Verse 3

Nobody thinks that it's okay

When the pain will paralyze

Nobody knows that the darkness helps

When sun's blazing in the skys

Chorus

And it seems like i'm okay

And it seems i'm doing fine

But i'm barely holding everything in

It's tearing up my mind.

Bridge

It gets hard to move

And your body aches 

And you're standing still

When one's mind it breaks

And you're falling fast

But you're holding on

But nobody sees, your strength to carry on.

Verse 4

Each day live I've won

Each step's a marathon

But nobody cheers me on

Would they notice if I'm gone.

Chorus

And it seems like i'm okay

And it seems i'm doing fine

But i'm barely holding everything in

It's tearing up my mind.

Verse 1 repeat

Nobody sees the hurt inside.

Because I hide it with a smile.

Nobody knows the pain I feel

I've been feeling for a while

Nobody knows...