Tag Archives: Faith

Speech, Spiritual

Storm-Anchored

This past Sunday, I was asked to give a talk on three topics for timing purposes. At first, it felt like a challenge, but I put something together, and I have to say — it became one of my favorite talks to deliver. I spent a week practicing and revising it, nearly memorizing every word. I’d like to share it here so we can have a manuscript that reflects my progression. I hope you enjoy it and feel the Spirit as you read. It was also the calmest I have ever felt while speaking.

Good morning, brothers and sisters.

I’m very grateful to be here today and for the opportunity to speak about how we can better anchor our lives in Jesus Christ — through obedience to His commandments and the blessings of the temple.

I’d like to start with a simple question: When you hear the word anchor, what comes to your mind?

Usually, we picture a ship at sea, lowering its anchor so it won’t drift with the waves or the current. An anchor doesn’t stop the water from moving. It doesn’t cancel storms. It simply keeps the ship in place in the middle of them.

What’s remarkable about an anchor is that it’s used before the danger feels real. A ship doesn’t wait until it’s being pushed toward the rocks—it lowers its anchor while the waters still seem calm. So when the storm comes, it already has something holding it in place.

In our own lives, drifting rarely comes from one big, rebellious choice. It usually begins in small, almost invisible ways:

  • Skipped prayers.
  • Rushed Sundays.
  • Quiet doubts.
  • Busy weeks where we forget to pause and look to Christ.

At first, none of it seems serious. But slowly, almost unnoticed, the peace we once felt begins to slip away. And before we realize it, we’ve drifted from the Savior — not because we intended to, but because we didn’t take the small, consistent steps to keep Him at the center of our lives.

That’s why the Book of Mormon teaches us so clearly where our anchor must be. In Helaman 5:12, it reads:

“And now, my sons, remember, remember that it is upon the rock of our Redeemer, who is Christ, the Son of God, that ye must build your foundation; that when the devil shall send forth his mighty winds, yea, his shafts in the whirlwind, yea, when all his hail and his mighty storm shall beat upon you, it shall have no power over you to drag you down to the gulf of misery and endless wo, because of the rock upon which ye are built, which is a sure foundation, a foundation whereon if men build they cannot fall.”

I love that it doesn’t say if storms come. It says when storms come. In mortality, storms are guaranteed. They come as winds and whirlwinds of disappointment, temptation, heartbreak, confusion, and fear. They are part of being human.

Christ never promised us a storm-free life. But He did promise us a safe foundation.

He isn’t just someone we believe in.
He is someone we build our lives upon.
He becomes the rock beneath our feet when everything else feels uncertain.

So what does it really mean to anchor our lives in Christ?

It means we choose Him before the storm comes.
We remember Him in peaceful days, not only desperate ones.
We build habits of faith when life feels calm, so that when life feels heavy, we already know where to turn.

The blessings of a life built on Christ go beyond protection. They bring peace, clarity, direction, and a quiet assurance that, no matter what happens, we are never alone.

Anchoring our lives in Christ is not just something we feel—it’s something we live.

An anchor only works if it’s actually attached. A ship can admire its anchor, even trust it—but unless it’s dropped into the water and connected to the ground below, it won’t hold the ship in place.

In the same way, believing in Christ alone isn’t enough. Our anchor holds only when we connect our lives to Him through the choices we make every day.

And that connection is obedience.

It’s when belief becomes action.

When love becomes something we practice.

When our relationship with Christ quietly shows up in our schedules, our habits, our words, and the choices we make when no one else is watching.

The Savior taught simply,
 “If ye love me, keep my commandments.”

Keeping the commandments is how we stay close to the anchor instead of slowly drifting away from it.

When we obey, we aren’t earning God’s love — we already have that. Instead, we’re positioning ourselves to receive His peace, His protection, and His power.

The Lord teaches this principle in Doctrine and Covenants 130:20–21:

“There is a law, irrevocably decreed in heaven before the foundations of this world, upon which all blessings are predicated—And when we obtain any blessing from God, it is by obedience to that law upon which it is predicated.”

Blessings come when our lives align with the laws God has lovingly given us.

The Lord also promises in Doctrine and Covenants 14:7:

“If you keep my commandments and endure to the end you shall have eternal life, which gift is the greatest of all the gifts of God.”

And in Doctrine and Covenants 82:10, He says:

“I, the Lord, am bound when ye do what I say; but when ye do not what I say, ye have no promise.”

I love how that is phrased — I, the Lord, am bound. 

When we keep our covenants and commandments, God commits Himself to us because He is faithful to His word.

So what does obedience really look like in everyday life?

  • Keeping the Sabbath day holy when the world tells us to rush.
  • Being honest when cutting corners would be easier.
  • Paying tithing when trust feels stretched.
  • Living the law of chastity and honoring our bodies and relationships as sacred.
  • Choosing kindness, forgiveness, and humility even when emotions push us another way.

Sometimes obedience sounds serious or strict, but it can also be simple, gentle, and even playful.

I say that because a few weeks ago, my brother wanted to go out to watch football with my uncles, so he asked me to go keep my sister-in-law company so she wouldn’t “bother” him. And because I’m clearly his best sister ever, I went over.

They’ve been having lessons with the missionaries, so I decided to have a little family home evening with her and teach her the hand signs for the Ten Commandments that I learned back when I was an investigator. And of course, no lesson is complete without a treat — something I learned years ago teaching Primary — so I brought one of her favorite drinks to keep things happy and light. She knows this, that’s why I’m sharing it. 😛

We went through the commandments one by one using our fingers. It was simple and playful, but it helped make them stick. I do hope she still remembers them so Elders, we might lose our visitation right after today, but please test her when you go back to visit them.

That small moment with her taught me something. Following the Lord isn’t just about rules — it’s about helping each other remember who we belong to. Sometimes it’s one reminder, one conversation, one gentle nudge toward Christ that quietly strengthens someone’s faith.

Keeping the commandments actually increases our freedom.

That might sound strange, because the world often says rules restrict us. But the Lord’s commandments protect us from many of the sorrows we create for ourselves. They keep us from chains we don’t see until we’re already tangled in them.

Lehi’s dream teaches this beautifully. In his vision, people are trying to reach the tree of life, which represents the love of God. Some hold fast to the iron rod and arrive safely. Others let go and wander into the mist and darkness.

The iron rod is the word of God — His teachings, His covenants, and His commandments. Holding fast is choosing Him. Letting go is drifting away.

Those who keep moving forward, even when it’s hard, even when they can’t see clearly, are the ones who arrive at the fruit of peace, love, and joy.

Following Christ isn’t about perfection.

It’s about direction.

It’s about continually turning our hearts toward the Savior and trusting that His way leads to real happiness.

One of the greatest places where that commitment becomes a sacred covenant is the temple.

Every time we choose honesty, faithfulness, humility, and love, we are preparing ourselves to enter the Lord’s house and receive the blessings He wants to give us there.

Recently, I had the sacred opportunity to receive my endowment. When we receive our endowment, we make new covenants that build upon the ones we made at baptism. And though I cannot share all the details of that experience, I will share this:

As I stood in the Celestial Room and looked up at the chandelier above me, I felt what I can only describe as an overwhelming sense of joy — though the word hardly holds it. It swelled in my heart so suddenly and so deeply that I had to pause to keep from crying.

And luckily, sometimes my tears are shy enough to stay in their place when I tell them to.

I felt small, but not insignificant — small in a way that felt protected, seen, and deeply loved. It felt like the world paused for a moment so the Savior could remind me that He is near, aware, and patient with me.

What surprised me most was how beautifully the whole journey unfolded, not just that day, but in the weeks leading up to it. As I prepared for my endowment, I set a personal goal that every third Saturday of the month I would go to the temple to perform ordinances for those who have passed on. I love the early 7 a.m. sessions, so if anyone is ever interested in joining me, I would truly love your company.

The Saturday before the week of my endowment was one of those mornings.

That day, I was helped by a temple worker brother and sister. When they asked if I had already been endowed, I told them I would be the following Saturday, and they rejoiced with me. The sister shared that her husband had been the first president of the Hmong branch in the 1990s. 

It was such a pleasure getting to know her, listening to her stories, and feeling her deep connection to our culture. 

Through those simple conversations, I felt that morning had been prepared for me — that I was meant to be there to meet them.

Then, when the day of my endowment arrived and I approached the veil — which symbolizes Christ, because it is only through Him that we can come into the presence of our Heavenly Father — I was guided forward. And as I was received through, I realized the brother assisting me was the same temple worker I had met the Saturday before.

In that quiet, sacred moment, we recognized each other.

It felt deeply personal. It connected my experience of receiving my own endowment with the ordinances I had been performing for others. And it reminded me that the Savior often works through people. He is aware of the small details of our lives, and He places individuals in our path to gently testify that He is involved in our journey — every step of the way.

Because of that, I also want to thank the brothers and sisters of our ward who were there that day. Not only were you there to show your love, but you were also there to help those who have passed on receive their ordinances. I truly believe the people you served are grateful as well.

I hope that when you went through the veil that day, you felt — or remembered — your own endowment and its blessings, and that you know how deeply you are loved by our Heavenly Father.

When I left the temple, I realized something important: what we feel there isn’t meant to stay inside those walls. It’s meant to follow us home. As I got into my car and sat for a moment, my tears finally greeted the world — a reminder of how deeply blessed I am to belong to something eternal.

My mom used to ask me why people cry when they bear their testimonies. In that moment, I felt like I finally understood why. Sometimes, the Spirit touches us so deeply that words can’t fully contain it. 

Since my family came to church and I let go of the things that no longer served a purpose in my life, I’ve joked that I forgot what it feels like to be sad and to cry, because my days have been full of sunshine even when they’re gray. But that day at the temple didn’t count — those were tears of happiness.

I hope that all who have not yet felt that joy will one day prepare themselves to receive their endowment and seek it — the kind of joy you would want to carry with you always. 

The temple also teaches us how to carry Christ into our choices, our relationships, our patience, and our forgiveness. It strengthens the anchor line between us and the Savior so that when life grows noisy again, we still remember where our center comes from.

When someone hurts us, the temple reminds us to respond with mercy instead of pride. When life feels rushed, it teaches us to pause and listen instead of react. When relationships feel strained, it helps us choose understanding over defensiveness. And when we feel tired or discouraged, the temple brings us back to remembering who we are, who we belong to, and the kind of person we are becoming — someone worthy of being sealed to another for eternity and someone we would want to spend the rest of our lives with.

What settles into our hearts inside the Lord’s house becomes a guide for how we speak, how we serve, and how we love once we step back into the world.

Brothers and sisters, I testify that Jesus Christ is our true anchor. When we build our lives on Him — through obedience, repentance, covenants, and love — we don’t become storm-proof, but we become storm-anchored.

I know He lives.
I know He knows us personally.
And I know that as we choose Him daily, He will steady our hearts, guide our steps, and keep us close to what our souls are searching for.

I say these things in the name of Jesus Christ, amen. 🌸

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companionship, love, Relationship

In Your Presence

A few days ago, I was asked to share and bear my testimony with my brother and sister-in-law while teaching a lesson with the missionaries on the Restoration of the Gospel. While this is deeply personal, I want to share my most recent testimony of how our Heavenly Father truly works in mysterious ways.

I was in a decade-long relationship with someone I thought I would spend the rest of my life with. Whenever something went wrong, I prayed for the strength to forgive, hoping to keep our flame alive. But over time, my prayers began to change.

In the last two years before I stepped away, I started praying that the strength I was asking for would no longer be to fix us, but to fix me — and to open doors where I could grow, because I had been standing on the same plateau for so long.

On my 30th birthday, things began to unfold. I was experiencing contention with my partner, and I prayed that if things were meant to remain the same, please don’t let me keep forgiving just to survive — help me move forward instead. Just when I was starting to forgive again, another whirlwind came through and became the final straw that gently pushed my heart away. The love I thought I could renew vanished that day. I tried, but the resentment was too heavy to carry.

When I realized I was no longer a priority, I understood that I no longer had a purpose to serve in that relationship. So I slowly eased my way out. I prayed, knowing I would miss the memories, and I asked Heavenly Father to replace them with something new.

Unexpectedly, I was set up to meet someone I had seen a few times before, but never officially until that day. At first, I didn’t want to meet him because I was still sorting through my feelings, but I felt it wouldn’t hurt to simply be friends. After that, we didn’t talk much, and he rarely crossed my mind. I didn’t see him as a rebound — I kept everything loose, pure, and simple.

When I was slowly getting over my past relationship, I still wasn’t seeking anything new. But as if we needed a gentle push together, a friend reconnected with me and began planning small hangouts for us. We were supposed to have dinner, but time kept slipping away. Later, he approached me at a baptism and kindly said that if I didn’t feel comfortable with dinner, I could tell him and he would let my friend know. Of course, I wasn’t uncomfortable at all — our schedules just never aligned.

So I made the move to ask for his number and planned something myself. I wanted to be respectful of his time, knowing how hard he works.

I only get to see him on Sundays, and it didn’t dawn on me that he would become someone I came to cherish. We visited the Asia Mall, talked about his time in the National Guard, his love for Japan and anime, and then came a turning point — me giving him a tour of the Mall of America because he had never been there in the four years he had lived in the state.

We walked for hours, laughing, getting a little lost, and taking everything in like kids in a new place. When it was time to eat, I instinctively reached for my wallet, but he gently stopped me and insisted on paying for dinner. It wasn’t the money that stayed with me — it was the intention. The quiet way he cared without making a scene, simply wanting to take care of the moment. I felt my heart soften in ways I hadn’t expected.

He is sweet — a true gentleman, opening and closing my car door even when I tell him I don’t need him to. I have been independent for so long that it feels strange to experience kindness from a man, even when he is simply being polite.

It didn’t start there, though, where he began to quietly intrude into my thoughts. He donated generously to our youth fundraiser and was always sincere and genuine in the things he said and did. He truly began to catch my attention when I took him out to dinner for his birthday. We went for sushi — which surprised me, since I’m not even a fan — and for once he confidently chose a place instead of saying, “It doesn’t matter.” That night, I started paying attention: his body language, the little details, the things I might come to like about him.

Then came a quiet moment — a minute of eye contact that felt suspended in time. I tried to break the gaze, but I was speechless, and it seemed like he wanted to say something too. We just sat there, awkward and silent, and somehow that moment changed everything.

While we don’t talk every day, we share small conversations as we pass each other at events. He notices the little things — why I separate my food and dessert a certain way, why I like things arranged just so. We steal glances across the room. He gives a small salute every time he greets me. I came to find him adorable: how he questions ingredients when all I want to do is eat, how he talks about investments and being wise with finances, and even his nervous laugh that becomes contagious.

Before I knew it, he was quietly present in my thoughts throughout the day. And I had to remind myself to be careful — that maybe he was too good, and that I should leave space so neither of us would get hurt.

Coming to know him has brightened my days, even when the skies are gray. When I prayed for joy to overcome sorrow, he became part of that answer. I forgot how to cry, how to feel overwhelmed, even when life felt unsettled. He felt like a quiet companion the Spirit placed beside me — healing I didn’t know was waiting until I was ready to receive it.

All of this was what I had asked the Lord for when I finally chose to walk away without looking back, trusting that I would be blessed with greater things. And I have been. Still, I don’t know how long this season will last, so I keep my heart gentle and my distance kind. I enjoy his presence, but I also want to keep us safe.

There’s a saying that if you love a flower, you do not pick it — you let it continue to bloom in beauty so you may admire it from afar. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I did pick that flower. But for now, I am learning to watch, to trust, and to let Heavenly Father guide whatever is meant to grow.

With him, I am learning why the Bible says love is patient and love is kind. Our progression may seem slow to others, but it feels perfect for our timing. I allow him his space and he allows me mine. Though we have yet to have our next outing, I want him to know how much I’ve enjoyed getting to know him — so much that I want to reintroduce myself without fear or guarded walls.

I quietly count the days until he returns from his travels so that we may connect again. I miss his presence, especially since it’s only at the end of the week that I get to see him — so close, yet so far away.

I will be waiting for your return.

With much love,

Ang🌸

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love, Spiritual

The Shape Of Love

I decided to take Gary Chapman’s 5 Love Languages quiz the other day to see where mine would fall. While the result wasn’t much of a surprise, I learned that my primary love language is Acts of Service.

The description reads: Acts of service means doing things for your partner. Someone with this love language feels loved and appreciated when others help them—whether that’s running an errand, cleaning, cooking, or lending a hand with a project. Those who receive love this way tend to notice the things people do for them and often express love by serving others in return.

I’ve realized this is something I’ve always been drawn to—serving others. Perhaps it’s a natural instinct shaped by being the oldest child, carrying a quiet, motherly desire to step in and help when someone is in need. More than anything, it brings me genuine joy to know that even the smallest act of service can make a difference in someone’s ordinary day.

During the week of Christmas, I had the opportunity to go caroling with the missionaries. Though the nights were cold, I was grateful we went out to visit some members we hadn’t seen in a while—especially those who didn’t have family nearby to spend the holidays with. The night before, I stayed up until 4 a.m. baking an assortment of cookies to bring along. Everyone deserves a treat during the holidays, but more than that, a reminder that they are loved and remembered.

That evening, we visited a grandmother named Pa Vang, whom I hadn’t seen in quite some time. She was very ill and could barely walk, so we sang hymns and offered a prayer for her. I later learned that she has kidney disease and has chosen not to go through dialysis, knowing her time is limited. My heart broke. I remembered her from my early years in the church back in 2013—so lively, full of humor, always joking and playfully roasting her daughters. I cherished her presence and the conversations we once shared.

It felt as though we were meant to visit her that day—to offer comfort and to remind her that the Lord sees her and loves her. Hymns are often described as another form of God’s word, and that night we sang Silent Night to her in Hmong. Choosing that song felt especially meaningful, like a gentle reminder that Christ was born for her—that His love reaches her, even now. I am deeply grateful that I was able to see her once more. Afterward, I added her name to the temple prayer roll.

One quiet act of service I often do is submitting the names of my Heavenly brothers and sisters, as well as my loved ones, to the temple for prayers when they are sick or unwell—an offering of extra love, given without attention or recognition. Loving and caring for someone doesn’t have to be loud. Sometimes, it’s simply giving because you genuinely care.

Another brother from church later shared how much he appreciated the caroling visit and the cookies. He had been feeling especially lonely during the holidays, missing his partner who is still in Thailand and awaiting her arrival in late March or April. With no family nearby, he wondered who he would spend the holidays with—until we showed up. Even if it was only for a brief moment, it was enough to bring him joy and a few smiles. It reminded me how often the smallest things matter most.

That night, we visited eight members in total. Each home was filled with warmth and surprise that we would show up just to sing for them during the holidays. I have to admit, though—the first person I affectionately refer to as my “zodiac soulmate” had an expression that made me laugh. We couldn’t quite tell if he was enjoying it or simply confused as we stood there singing Angels We Have Heard on High. His expressions always intrigue me. Maybe that’s why I get nervous speaking to him—I can never quite read what he’s thinking. So mysterious but I sure do love cracking down a mystery.

While I find joy in bringing light to others, I later found myself reflecting on what I could do for my own family—especially in ways that don’t involve monetary gifts, since that’s often how they feel most loved. I asked myself why it feels easier to be a light for others than for my immediate family, even when I try. Somehow, it never seems to be enough, or I find myself shut down.

That reflection brought me back to the parable of the ten virgins. If they did not prepare enough oil for their lamps, they could not meet the bridegroom. In the same way, I cannot light someone else’s lamp if they are unwilling to prepare their own oil. Is that truly how it is? I am ready to love and serve, yet some hearts may not yet be prepared to receive it.

Perhaps this is one of the quiet truths of family life—that there will always be imperfections we cannot change. All we can do is accept them with grace and continue to serve in the best way we know how. It is still an early journey of faith for my family, and in time I hope they will come to know how deeply our Heavenly Father loves them, just as I have come to know for myself.

I have lived a life both with Christ and without Him, and I know now that the latter brought nothing but emptiness. It wasn’t until I found the courage to return, to face Him again, that I discovered what true love feels like. Not a day goes by that I regret choosing Him. If I have any regret at all, it is not loving people sooner—and not always knowing how to stay in their lives as a constant light.

Still, I will continue to pray for them. The Lord has faith in me despite my imperfections. He chose me, and I choose to love each of His sheep in whatever way I can. I will keep serving. I will keep fighting—with love.

With even more love,

Ang 🌸

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Faith, family, love, Spirituality

The Sound of Home

Endowment. A word that once felt foreign—yet as I prepared to receive it, I realized it was exactly what I had been missing to finally feel at home. Over time, I have come to understand that the growth I seek cannot be found by observing the paths of others, but by turning inward—by choosing what I am willing to pursue and obtain for myself.

I see the endowment now not as a single moment, but as a quiet unfolding: an invitation to anchor my identity in the eternal. It teaches me that worth is not assigned by the world nor earned through perfection, but revealed through covenant and commitment. In a world that constantly demands proof, there is something profoundly healing about sacred things that simply ask for presence, humility, and willingness. What is holy does not shout; it whispers. And in those whispers, I have begun to recognize the sound of home.

I have learned that growth is not meant to be rushed or compared. Healing is rarely loud, and becoming is rarely linear. Some days, growth looks like courage. Other days, it looks like rest. And sometimes, it looks like trusting that God is still working in the unseen spaces of my life. When I stop measuring myself against others and begin measuring myself by the tenderness of my heart, I find a deeper kind of peace.

This peace has changed how I view the life I hope to build. Once, I believed love would arrive as a rescue—something that would complete what I felt was unfinished in me. Now I understand that love is not meant to fix me; it is meant to meet me. I refuse to wait to become the best version of myself when I can begin that work now. I am preparing the way, trusting that when the time is right, he will meet me where I stand. We will walk forward together—not because we need one another to be whole, but because we choose to walk side by side. Preparation is not passive waiting; it is faithful movement.

This same light guides how I navigate my most cherished relationships. Loving my family is one of my most sacred roles, yet I am learning that love does not require me to absorb every storm. I have realized that no matter how large an umbrella I bring, I cannot always keep others dry—and that is okay. I can offer shelter, patience, and a steady presence, but true healing is a journey each soul must walk for themselves. Learning to let them carry their own umbrella is not a withdrawal of love; it is an act of trust. It allows me to stand beside them with a full heart rather than a weary one, loving them more purely without losing myself in a weight that was never mine to bear.

This lesson is both humbling and freeing. Boundaries are not a lack of love—they are an act of wisdom. They allow me to serve without self-erasure. Even when I feel weary, I remind myself that God sees the quiet endurance and the effort it takes to remain soft in a world that often rewards hardness. I was never invisible; I was only measuring my value by the wrong standards. Confidence is not arrogance; it is agreement with truth. And truth tells me that I am enough, even as I continue becoming.

So I vow—gently and imperfectly—to love myself more. To honor my gifts without diminishing them. To speak kindly to myself when doubt creeps in. I no longer see service as something I do to be noticed, but as a quiet consecration of my heart. To love my heavenly brothers and sisters is to recognize divinity in ordinary moments—a listening ear, a steady presence, a simple act of kindness.

I do not want to exist merely to survive. I want to be ready. I want to be worthy. I want to leave an impression through consistency and sincerity. I want to protect the colors of who I am and never allow sorrow to dull them.

I am still learning. Still trusting. Some days, faith feels like certainty; other days, it feels like choosing to keep walking without answers. But I no longer fear the road ahead. I know who walks with me. I know where my heart is anchored. And I know that becoming is not something I must rush—it is something I am invited to live into, one sacred step at a time.

With Love,

Ang 🌸

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Reflections, Spiritual, Wallflower

The Timing of Bloom

As the new year approached, I found myself reflecting on the “what ifs” of life—on what might have happened had I settled for less than what God intended. While I have not yet arrived where I once hoped to be, I feel genuinely blessed for all I have received, for all I have lost, and for the leaps of faith I took in the hope of obtaining something greater.

2025 was a year where hope was tested. For a long time, I remained stuck in a one-sided fantasy, unable to move forward. I tucked my heartbreak away, hoping it could be mended, only to eventually accept the truth: some things can never return to what they once were, no matter how hard we try to fix them.

I eventually made some of the hardest decisions of my life, yet I have never felt such joy as I did when I finally stepped through the door that had been left open for me all along. I see now that the Lord has His own timing; I wouldn’t have been ready to meet someone like him had I left sooner. I was being prepared without even knowing I was in preparation. I was hurt, unaware that this pain would become the very path to my healing.

I feel as though I’ve been brought back to my nineteen-year-old self, given a second chance to make things right. This time, I am choosing my circle more wisely and taking my search for an eternal companion more seriously. I am setting eternal standards so that I may never wander from my covenant path again.

I am reminded of Alma’s words on faith: “It beginneth to enlarge my soul; yea, it beginneth to enlighten my understanding, yea, it beginneth to be delicious to me.” A seed I once planted felt delicious to me, yet I left it unattended and allowed it to perish just as it began to blossom. I am deeply grateful that through the Atonement of our Savior, I have been given the chance to replant those roots. Though I am still far from the woman I hope to become, I know that as I wear the armor He has given me, I can withstand all things through Him.

I can hardly put into words the enchantment of realizing the Lord placed someone in my life to help me heal—an answer to prayers I had only whispered. I wasn’t paying attention at first; my loyalty had been given to the wrong person for so long that I almost didn’t recognize what I had always sought. He is a soul so kind, sincere, and uplifting—a light that pushes back the shadows in my heart.

Though I am still finding the courage to fully claim that light, I pray it remains close. He is a physical reminder of the Spirit by my side—a presence I look forward to, a warmth I seek, and a comfort I have never known before. It is a quiet hope I carry, something I never wish to take for granted.

Is there anything more magical than something so good it makes you want to be better? He fits seamlessly into the growth I am working toward, encouraging and challenging me in ways only love and light can. It is a reminder that the things we hope for most are not taken from us; they are often just being carefully prepared by a loving hand, waiting for the right moment to bloom.

So, on this New Year’s Day, I end with a quiet confession: I kind of liked it your way, how you shyly placed your eyes on me. Oh, did you ever know that I had mine on you? And even more softly—how I loved your peaceful eyes on me… did you ever know that I had mine on you?

With love,

Ang 🌸

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