Light in the Wilderness

There are some kinds of grief that make everything feel heavy.

Not just your heart.

Your body feels heavy.
Your thoughts feel heavy.
Even simple things feel hard.

Returning texts. Folding laundry. Sitting through meetings. Making dinner. Smiling at people when your heart feels like it’s quietly breaking.

That was me this week.

And if I’m being honest, grief has a way of making you feel isolated even when you’re surrounded by people.

You can be sitting in a room full of family.
At church.
At work.
Around people who love you deeply.

And still feel completely alone in what you’re carrying.

That’s where I found myself these last few days.

Trying to hold heartbreak, confusion, disappointment, and exhaustion all at once.

Trying to pray while feeling...just... numb.

Trying to hear God while my own thoughts felt louder than His voice.

And maybe the hardest part?

Still showing up for everyone else while silently wondering who was going to help carry me.

Yesterday morning I woke up emotionally exhausted.

I opened my scriptures and began reading about Lehi and his family in the wilderness.

And suddenly these words felt like they were written directly for me:

“And I will also be your light in the wilderness; and I will prepare the way before you.”
1 Nephi 17:13

I read it again.

And again.

Because wilderness seasons rarely look like what we think they will.

Sometimes the wilderness is divorce papers.

Sometimes it’s prodigal children.

Sometimes it’s betrayal.

Sometimes it’s loneliness in a marriage.

Sometimes it’s grief you can’t fully explain because the people around you only know part of the story.

Sometimes it’s waking up and wondering how you’re supposed to keep functioning when your heart feels shattered.

That scripture felt like a personal invitation.

Not to stay stuck in the dark.

But to move toward light.

I felt a very clear prompting:

Go to the temple.

So I did.

Not because I felt spiritually strong.

Honestly, I went because I felt weak.

I went because I needed somewhere safe to fall apart.

I went because I needed quiet.

I went because I needed God to remind me that grief would not have the final say.

And somewhere inside those temple walls… I could breathe again.

No dramatic answer.

No grand revelation.

Just peace.

Just stillness.

Just the reminder that God was still there.

That He had not abandoned me in this wilderness season.

That He was still preparing a way forward, even when I couldn’t see it yet.

President Russell M. Nelson taught:

“Let the Lord, through His Spirit, teach and inspire you there. I promise that over time, the temple will become a place of safety, solace, and revelation.”

Yesterday, it became exactly that for me.

Safety.

Solace.

Revelation.

And perhaps what I needed most was this reminder:

I do not need to have enough strength for next month.
I do not need answers for the entire story.
I do not need to know how this all ends.

I just need enough light for today.

And maybe that’s you right now.

Maybe you’re carrying something nobody sees.

Maybe you’re exhausted from being strong.

Maybe your wilderness feels long.

Please hear me when I say this:

Go toward the light.

Even if your faith feels small.
Even if all you can offer is tears.
Even if your prayers feel messy.

Go toward Him.

He still keeps His promises.

He will be your light in the wilderness.

And somehow… that light becomes enough for the next step.