When Water Wings Are Not Enough

Today I feel as if I am wearing water wings in the middle of a wide and restless ocean. The kind of ocean that stretches farther than my strength. The kind of ocean that reminds me how small I am and how quickly the waves can rise.

Water wings are bright and cheerful but they belong in shallow places where the sand is close and the water is calm. They slip on easily and make you feel safe for a moment, but they are not made for real depth. They can deflate without warning. They can slide off when the current shifts. They offer comfort without true strength.

There are days when my heart feels like that. As if I am trying to face deep water with something that was never meant to carry me. As if I am depending on my own thin little floaties to keep me steady when life becomes too wide and too heavy.

When we struggle, we often reach for our own version of water wings. Sometimes it is food. Sometimes it is distraction. Sometimes it is busyness or scrolling or anything that gives a momentary lift. These things can feel comforting for a little while, but they cannot hold us in real waves. They cannot keep us afloat when the water rises around our shoulders. They slip away just when we need something strong and steady.

That is when I remember the difference between water wings and a real life jacket. A life jacket is built for the ocean. It is tested and proven. It holds you close and keeps you lifted even when you are tired. It does not slip away. It does not lose air. It does not depend on your own strength to keep you afloat.

That is what God is for me. The true life jacket. The one presence that fits close to the heart and never loosens its hold. The one strength that stays steady when the waves rise higher than expected. The one help that keeps me above the surface when I feel myself sinking.

Water wings may look comforting, but they cannot carry the weight of a real storm. God can. God is the one who meets me in the deep places and keeps me lifted when I cannot lift myself. God is the one who stays with me in every current and every tide.

So today I am acknowledging the ocean. I am acknowledging the waves. And I am choosing the life jacket that never fails. I am choosing the help that is strong enough for every depth. I am choosing to rest in the steady presence of God, who keeps me afloat even when the water feels too wide for me.

2 Nephi 4:20: “My God hath been my support. He hath led me through mine afflictions in the wilderness and he hath preserved me upon the waters of the deep.”

Mosiah 24:14: “I will also ease the burdens which are put upon your shoulders, that even you cannot feel them upon your backs.”

When the Look‑Alike Isn’t the Real Thing

 Last summer, while working at my mother’s home, I noticed a few stray liriope sprouting in her garden beds. Since we’ve been preparing the house for the day it will eventually be sold, I decided to dig up the little clumps and bring them to my own backyard. I imagined them lining the fence where grass refuses to grow, creating a soft border of green.

This spring, I went out to check on them. At first glance, everything looked fine. But something about the growth didn’t seem quite right. The leaves were similar, but not the same. The shape was close, but not close enough. So I knelt down for a better look.

That’s when I realized the truth.

I hadn’t transplanted liriope at all.
I had transplanted a weed, a very convincing look‑alike called nutsedge.

I had been fooled.

What I thought was a bargain, a free little blessing from my mother’s yard, turned out to be something entirely different. And once I knew what it was, I had a decision to make. Should I keep it? After all, it did resemble the real plant. It filled the space. It looked tidy enough from a distance.

But the more I thought about it, the clearer it became.
I didn’t want this weed.
Left alone, it would eventually take over.
It would never produce the beauty I had hoped for.
It was an imitation, and an imitation can never give the same outcome as the real thing.

As I pulled each clump from the soil, I felt the lesson settle in.

The World Is Full of Look‑Alikes.  Life offers us many things that seem good at first glance. They promise comfort, excitement, escape, or satisfaction. They resemble the real thing just enough to fool us if we aren’t paying attention.

But not everything that looks good is good.

The world may call something harmless, even desirable, while God calls it destructive. Lust can masquerade as love. Numbing ourselves with alcohol or drugs can masquerade as peace. Temporary thrills can masquerade as joy.

But they are substitutes and substitutes never last.

They take root quickly.
They spread quietly.
And before long, they crowd out the very things that bring true life.

Real Love and Real Joy Endure. Just like the liriope I thought I had planted, imitations can fool us for a season. But eventually, their true nature shows. And when it does, we have a choice: keep what is easy and familiar, or pull it up and make room for what is real.

Real love grows deep.
Real joy produces beauty.
Real peace doesn’t numb, it restores.

Matthew 24:4  And Jesus answered and said unto them, Take heed that no man deceive you.

Letting Go

I did not expect the heartache that came when I finally shut Kelly’s phone down. I had kept it active for almost two years after his passing, partly for work and partly for comfort. I thought I was simply keeping a tool running, but the truth is that I was holding on to a small piece of him. His phone felt like a place where he still lived and where his world still felt close to mine.

When the time came to turn it off, I thought I was ready. Most of the people who would have called him now know he is gone. The practical reasons for keeping it had faded. But the thought of the moment the screen goes dark, creates an ache I did not expect. It feels as if another part of him slipped away. 

Letting it go brought back a heartache that never fully leaves. It reminded me that love does not disappear, and neither does the longing to hold on to anything that carries a trace of the person I miss.  I hurt because it feels like another goodbye. And I hurt because I loved him so deeply that even a small object could hold meaning far beyond its purpose.

Kelly is not in the phone. He is not in the number or the messages or the missed calls. He is in the life we built, the goodness he lived, the way he shaped my heart. He is in the memories that rise without warning and in the strength I find when I think I have none left. He is in the love that did not end when his life did.

Sometimes the things we hold on to are not the person we miss, but the symbol of them. When the moment comes to release the symbol, the love remains. Letting go of what we no longer need does not take anything away. It simply teaches us that the people we love stay with us in deeper and more lasting ways than anything we can hold in our hands.

Positive and Negative: How God Helps Me Hold the Charge

There are seasons in life when the weight we carry becomes heavier than we know how to hold. I have been walking through one of those seasons. After Kelly’s passing, the responsibilities of caring for Mom grew heavier, and the demands of my own home and work pressed in from every side. I knew what was happening inside me, yet I often felt paralyzed, unmotivated, and unable to find the energy I needed to move through my days.

I have lived with depression for many years, both chemical and, lately, deeply situational. It is something I usually hide, tucking it away where no one can see it. But I have reached a point where honesty feels like the only way forward. Depression affects the way my “battery” holds a charge. In a real battery, both positive and negative charges are necessary. They work together to create energy and movement. Negative is not “bad” it is simply part of the design. But in my life, the negative charge has been louder than the positive, and when that imbalance grows, it becomes harder for my battery to function the way it was created to. Naming this truth does not diminish my faith. It simply acknowledges the reality of my journey.

One afternoon, while driving, a memory rose up so clearly that it felt placed gently in my mind. I remembered working on cars with my dad, the smells of the garage, the warmth of the light, and the simple rhythm of handing him tools as he explained what he was doing. I remembered him teaching me about a car whose carburetor was failing. The battery kept the car alive for a while, but it was never meant to carry the whole load.

That memory opened something in me. I realized that I am the battery. My life holds both positive and negative charges, as every life does, but lately the negative ones have been overwhelming. And God,  steady, patient, and faithful is like the carburetor in my life. He is the One who gives me strength, breath, and balance. I call upon Him throughout my days, and He meets me with grace. But I also believe He is guiding me toward the things that will help my battery function the way it was designed to. He wants to work with me, not instead of me.

Every day I look for something to jumpstart my battery. Food has become one of those quick sources of energy. Some choices have not been the healthiest, but they have been the easiest ways to feel something when my battery is losing its charge. Family history gives me a spark of purpose, a reminder that I am part of something larger than the moment I am in. But even that spark fades quickly, and I find myself drained again.

I am working with a doctor now, hoping to find a way to help my body function as it was created to. I want my battery to hold steady again, not rely on temporary boosts to get through the day.

Engines are designed with intention. Every part has a purpose, and when something stops working, the whole system feels it. I believe the same is true for the soul. God created each of us with care and balance, with a way to breathe and move and live. When something inside us is not functioning the way it should, it does not mean we are beyond repair. It means we need support, wisdom, and the steady presence of the One who knows how we were made.

God has carried me through moments when I had nothing left. He continues to give me strength, and He will always be with me when I call upon Him. At the same time, I believe He is helping me search for ways to support my own body and spirit so that I can live with more steadiness and less struggle. His strength and my efforts can work together. I trust that He will guide me toward what will restore me, and that in time He will breathe life back into the parts of me that have grown quiet.

We all long for a small lift in our spirit. Even when life feels heavy and the engine inside us sputters, there is always hope. God does not leave us stranded on the side of the road. He walks with us, strengthens us, and helps us find the tools we need to keep going. Hope is never out of reach. It waits for us, steady and patient, ready to rise again.

With God nothing is impossible. He is the One who can bring life back to the places inside us that have grown quiet.

A Simple Change of Clothes

This morning I think I got all my daily steps in just trying to find something to wear to church. I moved from one outfit to another, surprised by how much my mood seemed to influence every choice. I did not feel like I was in any particular mood, yet clothes that usually feel fine suddenly felt wrong. It did not matter whether I liked them or not. Nothing seemed to settle on me in a way that felt peaceful. I finally chose a skirt and top that were simply okay and decided to move on with my morning.

A little later I was sitting at my desk working on my lesson about Rebekah and her kindness in choosing to serve and water the camels. While I was studying, a thought drifted into my mind about another top I had not tried. I paused my work and went to put it on. It felt perfect. That small moment made me wonder if it was just a random thought or if God, who cares about the smallest details of my life, knew I would feel more confident and comfortable with that change.

As I reflected on it, I realized my spirit had been unsettled long before my mind recognized it. My body was speaking in its own quiet way, nudging me toward something that felt more fitting for the day. And the timing of that thought, coming while I was studying Rebekah’s willingness to pause, notice, and respond, felt meaningful. In my own way, I was doing the same thing. I paused, noticed a gentle prompting, and responded to it.

It also became clear that confidence is a kind of preparation. Sometimes God prepares me for the day not only through scripture or prayer, but through small adjustments that help me feel more at ease and ready to be present. Even something as simple as clothing can be part of that preparation. When I feel comfortable in my own skin, my heart opens more freely to serve, teach, or listen.

Whether that thought came from divine intervention or simply from my mind recalling another possibility, it all worked together for my good. It helped me feel more at ease with myself, which allowed me to turn my attention outward and focus on serving others rather than being caught up in how I felt. In the end, the experience became a gentle reminder that God can use anything, even a simple change of clothes, to help me move through the day with a more open and willing heart.

It Wasn't About the Weeds

There are days when the list of things to do feels endless, yet the desire to do any of it is nowhere to be found. This was one of those mornings. I moved slowly through the house, switching laundry, straightening small things, trying to stir up some spark of motivation. As I worked, I prayed, quietly pleading for help to feel something again, to want to do the things that needed doing, to find a little mental and emotional healing in the middle of the heaviness.

It wasn’t dramatic. It was just that quiet ache of wanting to feel like myself again.

At some point, I glanced out the back window and saw the weeds I had worked so hard to clear out last year, standing tall and bold as if they had never been touched. I had sprayed them, tended to them, done everything I could to keep them away. Yet there they were, thriving in the very places I thought I had conquered.

Part of me sighed at the thought of starting over. But something nudged me to step outside anyway, just to see how difficult it would be to pull a few out.

The moment I stepped into the yard, something in me began to shift. I bent down and pulled a few weeds, expecting frustration, but instead I felt a quiet change moving through me. It wasn’t about the weeds at all. It was about being outside.

The sun warmed my shoulders. The grass carried that familiar scent of life. Birds chattered in the trees as if they had been waiting for me to join them. And in that simple, ordinary moment, I felt something loosen inside me.

It was as if the Lord had gently guided me out there, not to tackle a chore, but to breathe again. To feel the world beyond the walls of my house. To remember that healing often begins in the smallest, simplest places.

The weeds brought me outside, but the weeds were never the point. They were just the doorway. What I needed was the sunlight, the air, the grounding of my hands in the earth. I needed the reminder that sometimes the path back to motivation, clarity, or peace doesn’t come through force or willpower. Sometimes it comes through stepping outside, touching the world God made, and letting creation do what it quietly does to soften the heart and learning it wasn’t about the weeds that day!

A morning that began with heaviness and lack of motivation slowly unfolded into a quiet moment of healing. What looked like a chore of pulling weeds that had returned despite last year’s efforts had became a gentle reminder that sometimes God uses the smallest, most ordinary tasks to draw us back into the sunlight, the air, and the places where our souls can breathe again.