Seeing Past the Scratches

 

I was trying to clean my eyeglasses the other day when I realized something discouraging.  As I held them up to the light, I noticed how scratched they had become. The lenses looked worn and marked up in a way I had not really paid attention to before. It made me wonder how I had been seeing clearly through something that looked so imperfect.

But there  is something quietly fascinating about my scratched eyeglasses. If I hold them in my hand and look directly at the lenses, every flaw stands out. The scratches seem obvious, distracting, even overwhelming. But the moment I put them on and look out into the world, they almost disappear. You can see clearly again, as if the damage is no longer there.

The scratches did not go away rather my focus simply changed.

When I was looking through the lenses, my attention shifted to what is beyond them. My eyes and my mind work together to prioritize what matters most in that moment. The small imperfections on the surface become background noise. They are still present, but they are no longer the center of my awareness.

Life has a way of doing the same thing to us.

We all carry scratches. They come from loss, disappointment, change, and the quiet accumulation of hard moments. They are real, and they shape us. When we stop and look directly at them, they can feel sharp and all consuming. It is easy to get caught in that place, examining every mark and wondering how things could have been different.

But when we begin to look through the lens instead of at it, something shifts. Our attention moves outward. Toward the people in front of us, the responsibilities we hold, the small moments that still ask for our presence. The scratches do not disappear, but they lose their power to define everything we see.

This is not about ignoring what has happened or pretending it does not matter. Reflection has its place. There are times when we need to sit with our experiences and acknowledge them honestly. But living there can make the world feel distorted and heavy.

Clarity comes when we gently redirect our focus. Not to some distant, perfect future, but to what is right in front of us. A task to complete, a conversation to have, a quiet moment to get through. Looking through the lens allows life to come back into view.

The truth is, you can still see clearly even with scratches.   I still need to get a new pair of glasses, but for now, I am grateful that I can see past the damaged lenses. 

He Wants Us To Succeed!

 

Writing has long been a kind of quiet therapy for me. Over the years, journaling has helped me notice lessons that often arrive disguised as ordinary moments. Recently, I’ve been converting my old handwritten journals into digital form, and in the process I rediscovered an entry that made me stop, smile, and remember something important.

The entry was about my grandson Zach when he was six years old. We were playing a video game together, and he knew immediately that Grandma had absolutely no idea what she was doing. Still, he stayed close. He would say things like, “Stay by my guy so I can help you,” or gently warn, “You might want to watch out here,” when a tricky part was coming.

When I struggled, he didn’t tease me or rush me. He simply helped. Sometimes he would pick up my character and carry me past the hard part. Other times, when I felt completely stuck, I would hand him the controller and trust him to get me through safely.

What stayed with me most wasn’t just his skill, but his kindness. When I made mistakes, he would smile and say, “That’s okay, you didn’t know,” or “You’re getting better,” or softly, “Next time, I’ll help you.”

As I reread that entry years later, it struck me how much that moment mirrors my relationship with Heavenly Father.

When I stay close, it feels like He is quietly saying, “Stay near Me and I’ll help you through this.” When I’m about to step into something that feels too much, I sense Him whisper, “You might want to watch out here.” And when I falter or make mistakes, I don’t feel scolded. I feel patience. I feel reassurance. As if He is saying, “That’s okay. You are learning. You’re getting better.”

Sometimes He lets me try on my own. Sometimes He carries me through the part I cannot survive by myself. And sometimes, when my strength is gone and my heart is tired, I simply hand Him the controller and trust that He knows the way through.

That small moment with my grandson became a quiet reminder that growth is not about getting everything right. It is about staying close. It is about trusting help. It is about believing that we are being watched over by Someone who wants us to succeed, not fail.

“For I the Lord thy God will hold thy right hand, saying unto thee, Fear not; I will help thee.”            Isaiah 41:13

One Pull, Many Blessings

I look for God’s tender mercies in my life every day, and this week my heart is full of gratitude for the blessings I was given to serve.

Earlier in the week I went to Mom’s home to check on things and pick up the mail. When I arrived, I realized the yard was in urgent need of care. I had paid the neighbors fifty dollars to help, as they have many times before. They usually ride over on their lawn mower and take care of her yard quickly. This time however, it was obvious that they had not used the lock code to access the backyard, and none of it had been touched. I left her home knowing the yard needed my attention.

After some time passed, I realized the responsibility was mine to take care of. So yesterday morning, after a heartfelt prayer, I headed back to Mom’s home. I prayed that the equipment would work, that I would have the energy to finish, and that I would be spared from bug bites. In the past, every time I worked in her backyard, I came away covered in painful chigger bites.

I knew I needed to start in the backyard, so I began weed eating. Very quickly, I realized there was no way I could finish the whole area that way. I would have to get the lawn mower running. By that time, my back was already aching badly, so I stopped, rested for a moment, and said another quiet prayer. I found the key, unlocked the barn where the mower was stored, pulled it out, and prepared the carburetor.

Then it happened. With one pull, it started. It had been sitting for over a year, not touched, yet it started first try!

I stood there amazed. I began mowing her yard, stopping often to pick up debris and move obstacles. Each stop meant turning the mower off, and every time, with a single pull, it started right back up. To me, it felt nothing short of a miracle. I finished the backyard and moved to the front yard.

When I got there, I realized I could not unlock the gate to mow along the alley. I knew Mom would receive a code violation if that area was left untouched. I tried every key I could find, but none worked. So I drove down the alley, parked the car and then cleared the entire area with the weed eater. Normally, my back would have given out long before I finished, but I worked without an ounce of pain. I knew I was being carried through it.

I had planned to stay and do more, but by then I was filthy, covered in grass and sweat, so I decided to return another day. Today is Sunday morning, and I woke up with not a single bug bite on me.

Once again, I am reminded that God’s care shows up in quiet, ordinary moments. I am deeply thankful for the strength, the protection, and the opportunity to serve, and for the tender mercies that meet me exactly where I am, spiritually and physically! 

Red Flag Days

Yesterday was a Red Flag Day!

Kelly and I loved the Texas Coast. It was one of our places, where the sky felt bigger, the air felt lighter, and God’s creation wrapped around us like a blessing. We loved everything about being there together. The waves especially fascinated us. They came in every size and shape, from every direction, sometimes gentle and sometimes surprisingly strong.

Every now and then, we underestimated a wave. Kelly would grab onto me when a strong one rolled in, steadying me until I found my footing again. But once, he wasn’t close enough. A wave hit me hard, tumbled me under, and slammed me to the ground. I injured my foot so badly I couldn’t walk without pain for days.

That memory came back to me today, and it felt like the perfect picture of my emotions. Yesterday, a wave hit me with that same unexpected force. It knocked me off my feet, and the rest of the day I felt bruised inside, tender, unsteady, and struggling to move forward.

We all have days like that. Days when the warning flags are already flying, even if we don’t notice them. Days when the waves of grief, stress, memory, or life itself come in stronger than we expected. Days when we feel tossed around by something we didn’t see coming.

Red Flag Days don’t mean we’re weak. They mean the waters are powerful. They mean we’re human. They mean we’re navigating something bigger than ourselves.

They remind us to move gently, hold on to something steady, and let God anchor us when the waves rise higher than we can handle alone. And somehow, someway, I believe Kelly is still helping me face the waves—not in the same way as before, but in the quiet strength his love left behind, in the memories that steady me, and in the way God uses those memories to help me stand again.

Today, the waters were calmer. Today, I could stand again. And I’m grateful not just for the better day, but for the reminder that even when the waves knock us down, the Lord is still near, still faithful, still helping us find our footing

When Healing Needs More Than a Bandage

There are mornings when the weight of life rises before I do, and today was one of them. Driving to gain strength I decided to go out for groceries.  While driving, I found myself wondering why I am still struggling, why the ache inside me has not eased the way I keep hoping it will. While driving and praying, I realized that I have been expecting myself to heal from deep wounds with quick fixes, as if a simple Band‑Aid application was causing to make all things better. 

A Band‑Aid can cover a scrape, but it cannot mend a broken arm. A broken arm needs to be examined, set, protected, and given time to knit itself back together. If it is not tended with care, it could heal crooked and aches for years. Internal injuries are the same, the hidden hurts beneath the skin require deeper attention because the damage is inside, where no one can see it.

At this point, I understood something about my own heart.

Losing my husband, carrying the affairs we both us to carry, watching my mother decline and the weight of her health, her affairs was like an emotional injury.  These are not surface wounds. These are broken‑bone wounds. These are internal‑organ wounds. They reach into the deepest parts of me, and they cannot be healed with anything quick or simple application.

Yet I have been trying to use emotional Band‑Aids. My Band‑Aids come in the form of distractions and food as small comforts that soften the edges for a moment but cannot reach the deeper injury. They help me get through the day, but they cannot realign what has been fractured inside me.

But here is the light that breaks through: healing is not slow because I am failing. Healing is slow because the wound is deep. Because the love was real. Because the responsibilities have been heavy. Because my heart has been carrying more than any Band‑Aid could ever hold.

Real healing takes time. It takes gentleness. It takes the kind of care we would give to a broken bone or a fragile organ. I need to be steady and patient. And even when I cannot see it, healing is happening. Quietly. Slowly. Faithfully.

There is hope in that. There is truth in that. There is light in knowing that the same God who tends to the sparrow tends to the hidden places in us too. Nothing is overlooked. Nothing is wasted. Nothing is beyond repair.

And maybe the most important truth is this: I am healing the way real injuries heal;  slowly, carefully, and with the kind of attention that honors the depth of what I have lived through. And light is finding its way in, one tender moment at a time

God heals what is broken. Not all at once, but faithfully, layer by layer, moment by moment. He has met me in the quiet places where no one else could reach. He has turned my pain into compassion, my exhaustion into endurance, and my grief into grace. I am healing the way real injuries heal which is slowly, carefully, and with the kind of attention that honors the depth of what I have lived through. And light is finding its way in, one tender moment at a time

When the Battle Feels Heavy

This morning in prayer, after offering thanks, I found myself saying something I had not planned. I told the Lord that I felt like I was losing the battle and that I needed help. The words came from a deep place, a place I often try to push past, yet they were honest.

In the Book of Mormon we read of wars and more wars, and still the righteous are supported. They are strengthened. They receive reinforcement in ways that remind them they are not alone. As I sat with my own feelings, I realized that I too have been given reinforcement since Kelly’s passing. Family, friends, prayer, and tender mercies have carried me through days I never imagined I could endure.

July will mark two years since he stepped through the veil. Two years of learning how to breathe again. Two years of my own quiet warfare. And with the help of Heavenly Father and ministering angels on both sides of the veil, I have made it this far.

Even so, I do not fully understand why I am still struggling. I recently met with a doctor who adjusted my medication for depression, and I truly believe it is helping. Yet there are days when I still feel like I am fighting a war inside myself. Motivation feels distant. Drive feels hidden. I want to live my best life, but I am still searching for the strength to step into it.

What I long for is understanding.
What has happened to me.
Where am I.
Why do I feel like I do not belong.
Why do I feel like I have no purpose.

I want to know why my spirit feels so tired when I have come so far. But I remind myself that healing is not a straight line. It rises and falls like breath. It moves like water. It circles back to places I thought I had already passed through. And that is not failure. That is simply the shape of being human.

What I do have is hope. I am still learning how to live without Kelly. I am still learning how to carry both grief and hope in the same heart. Some days I feel steady. Some days I feel lost. Yet even on the lost days, something inside me keeps reaching for light. That reaching is a kind of faith. It is a quiet prayer all its own.

I do not know exactly where I am on this path, but I know I am still moving. I know I am still held. I know I am still becoming.

“Now ye see that God will support, and keep, and preserve us, so long as we are faithful unto him” (Alma 44:4).

A Gentle Turning Toward Purpose

After writing these thoughts, I felt a small but real change begin inside me. It was subtle, like the first warm breeze after winter, but I noticed it. I felt prompted to write immediately after my prayer, and as I wrote, I found myself pondering the nature of this battle and what it is truly about.

When I finished, I prayed again, thanking the Lord for letting me feel even a slight shift. That gratitude opened my heart to thoughts about the measure of my creation. I wondered about my purpose. I wondered what God wants me to do.

Then I came across a beautiful message by Sister Patricia Holland titled “Filling the Measure of Your Creation.” I listened to it and read it, and I felt impressed to print it and place it with my patriarchal blessing, which I have been studying more closely. It felt like the Lord was gently gathering the pieces of my identity and placing them back into my hands.

The Lord has promised in D&C 12:7 that the only qualification needed to be part of His great work is to have desires to bring it forth. And in D&C 14:4–5 He reminds us that if we ask, we will receive, and if we knock, it will be opened.

About a month ago, after praying for motivation, I received a simple message: “TO DO.” I knew the Lord was telling me to get up and act, even in small ways, and that He would move me along. And He did. That reminder still matters. I need to keep moving, even gently, and trust that He will help me.

I sometimes think of sharing my feeling, but I do not want others to worry. So I write. I pray. I hold onto hope that I can learn how to move forward in His way and according to His will. Because even though I do not understand what is happening inside me, He does.

Even though I do not have the strength to make all the changes I need to make, He does.

He will help me find, see, and do what He needs me to do. If I can be patient, look to Him, ask Him, and seek His guidance, He will help me win this battle. 

I need to trust Him.
And He will help me through this.

Closing Reflection

If you are walking through your own quiet battle, I hope you remember this. You are not failing because you feel tired. You are not lost because the path curves. You are not forgotten because the light feels faint. The Lord knows exactly where you are, and He knows how to lead you forward one small step at a time.

There is no shame in needing help. There is no weakness in reaching for strength beyond your own. The Savior has always met His children in the middle of their battles, not after they have conquered them. He walks with us in the struggle. He strengthens us in the climb. He holds us when we cannot hold ourselves.

Wherever you are today, you are still becoming. You are still learning. You are still loved. And even the smallest desire to keep moving, to keep believing, to keep reaching for Him, is enough for Him to work with.

He will guide you.
He will steady you.
He will help you rise again.

There is hope in every honest prayer.
There is purpose in every small step.
There is light ahead, even if you cannot see it yet.

And you are not walking alone.  WE ARE NOT WALKING ALONE!