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.