Returning to My Foundation: A Sabbath in Ogden

Today, I found myself back in Ogden, Utah — on business, yes, but more importantly, on sacred ground. With a few hours free before meetings resume tomorrow, I did something. I attended both wards that shaped nearly three decades of my life and spiritual growth—first, the ward where I grew up. Then, the ward Christy and I moved into as newlyweds—two chapels, a few miles apart, but worlds of memory and meaning between them.

Walking into the first building felt like stepping through a veil of time. The carpet had changed, and the paint was fresher, but I could still feel the rhythm of my teenage footsteps echoing through the halls. I remembered where I used to sit to bless the sacrament, slouched between friends in wrinkled white shirts. Here, I bore my first testimony and learned to fold my arms in reverence, though I sometimes did so reluctantly. I recalled the faces of teachers and leaders who, whether I was listening or not, planted seeds of wisdom that took root long after I had moved away.

In that chapel, I remembered what it felt like to be known—to be a kid with a name and a future, even when I couldn’t see it clearly. Some of the people who helped give me that gift were still there. Others have moved on to new wards, new cities, or the next life. But for the ones who remain, I saw something unshakable in their presence. They are holding down a vigil. Not out of habit, but out of a quiet, enduring testimony. A testimony that doesn’t shout, but sings.

After sacrament meeting ended, I didn’t linger. I had somewhere else to be — a second chapel, equally familiar. The ward Christy and I entered when we were young, hopeful, and just learning how to be married. Our first Christmas tree. Our first home. Our first Sunday callings terrified us both. Even then, we were building a foundation — though we didn’t always know it.

And it was in that ward, during the second meeting of the day, that we sang my favorite hymn: How Firm a Foundation. If you’ve ever been in the chapel when the saints raise their voices to that melody, you know it doesn’t just fill the room — it fills your soul.

Therefore whosoever heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them, I will liken him unto a wise man, which built his house upon a rock:

And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not: for it was founded upon a rock.

— Matthew 7:24–25 (KJV)

It’s a hymn that has walked me through some of my life's hardest and holiest moments. It’s a musical reminder that discipleship is not just about doctrine—it’s about anchoring your entire self to Jesus Christ. Today, with old friends and familiar voices singing next to me, it didn’t just echo. It landed.

That Foundation, Laid in Layers

It’s easy to think of faith as something sudden — a conversion, a miracle, a mountaintop. But for me, and I suspect for many of us, it’s more like the slow layering of trust. A lesson here. A handshake there. A calling you accept reluctantly but grow into. A priesthood blessing you didn’t expect to believe in until it worked.

Both of these wards were places where people taught me how to bind myself to Christ. Not through lofty speeches or dramatic moments, but through steady example. People who studied their scriptures in the morning, who showed up to church even when the week had been hard, who took care of each other when no one else saw. They were quiet mentors in the art of discipleship.

And today, I saw one of those mentors again.

A Rough and Righteous Man

My neighbor from those early days is now the bishop of the other ward where Christy and I first were married.

When I first met him, I thought he had the wrong century. Not because he was out of touch — quite the opposite — but because he seemed carved out of pioneer grit. Back then, there was something about his beard — a full, untrimmed tribute to some forgotten ancestor who crossed the plains with a walking stick and a rifle. You might’ve thought he was the modern incarnation of Porter Rockwell.

Porter Rockwell was a legendary bodyguard and lawman in early Latter-day Saint history, known for his fierce loyalty and frontier reputation. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Porter_Rockwell

Less the diplomat, more the doer. Beneath that tough exterior was someone who did what was right — whether it was messy, mundane, or inconvenient. And while “quietly” might not always describe him — he’s got a jovial, tell-it-like-it-is personality — his actions have always spoken loudest.

He’s since trimmed the beard. More appropriate for a bishop, I suppose. But the substance remains. Duty, to him, isn’t a task to be completed — it’s a calling to be honored. He’s not worried about whether his words are eloquent or his prayers poetic. He just shows up. And keeps showing up.

Discipleship is not about doing things perfectly; it’s about doing things intentionally. It’s not about being flawless; it’s about being faithful.

— Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf

That kind of consistency might go unnoticed if it weren’t paired with one thing: compassion. Deep, human compassion. Not the kind that gives platitudes. The kind that stays with you when life comes undone.

Which brings me to what happened this week.

When the World Breaks Open

Some time ago, that bishop — my old neighbor — faced a loss no parent should endure. His son died by suicide. The details are private, but the grief is not. The sorrow etched into his family was visible to everyone who knew them. And perhaps, to those of us watching from the outside, there was no deeper test of faith than that.

Except that this week came another.

His wife—his partner, his best friend, the mother who had carried that grief in every cell of her body—also passed. Not by her hand, but by what can only be described as a broken heart. Her health had been declining since their son’s death. Slowly, then suddenly. A few weeks ago, she was hospitalized. This week, she crossed over.

I won’t pretend to understand their pain. But I know what I felt when I heard the news. And I found myself wondering what a man like that-a bishop, yes, but also a husband in mourning—would do the Sunday after his wife died.

Would he stay home and mourn? No one would blame him. It’s Mother’s Day, after all. A day already tender with meaning. Would he let someone else handle the responsibilities for a while?

But the wonder didn’t last long. Something in my heart whispered the answer before I pulled into the parking lot.

The Weight and Wonder of Duty

He was there.

In a suit. Standing at the chapel doors. Greeting his ward family with that same steady hand and quiet presence. No fanfare. No announcements. Just doing what he was called to do.

Wherefore, be not weary in well-doing, for ye are laying the foundation of a great work. And out of small things proceedeth that which is great.

— Doctrine and Covenants 64:33

I don’t know what his heart felt. I imagine it hurt. I imagine the songs were harder to sing, the talks harder to sit through. Maybe the hug from a Primary child or the nod from an old friend gave him just enough strength to last the hour.

But what I do know is this: there is power in presence—and not just for others, but for ourselves.

On some level, being in the building today, with that calling still resting on his shoulders, gave him something to hold onto. A rope when the world is wind and storm. A reminder that he’s not alone, even when grief is the loudest thing in the room.

And there appeared an angel unto him from heaven, strengthening him. — Luke 22:43

Love Is Spoken Here

During the sacrament meeting, the program reached that familiar and tender moment that comes nearly every Mother’s Day — the Primary children stood to sing. Years ago, this moment would fill the chapel with the eager voices of dozens of children. But the ward has grown quieter over time. The Primary is small now, with just a few little ones doing their best to sing out.

Several adults stood and joined in from the congregation to support them. I glanced toward the back of the small makeshift choir, and there he was—the bishop—standing quietly, singing alongside them.

The song was Love Is Spoken Here.

That gentle hymn has always carried emotion, but today, it carried something more. As the children sang and the adults helped lift their melody, I saw him—this man who had just lost his eternal companion—singing through his grief. Not loudly. Not for show. Just… present. His voice steady, his eyes full of quiet faith. He sang the words not because it was easy, but because he believed them. Because love, even in loss, is still spoken here.

It was one of the most sacred things I’ve ever seen in a chapel.

A Living Testimony

The doctrine of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints teaches us that we are bound together. Not just in eternity but in mortality- in wards, quorums, families, and in covenant. And that when one suffers, we all feel it. When one rejoices, we all rejoice.

When one quietly walks into the chapel after losing the person he loves most and simply stands at the door to greet his ward… we learn something about Jesus Christ.

Because that’s what Christ does. He meets us in our grief. He shows up in the dark. He stands at the door.

For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life… shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

— Romans 8:38–39

This man, this bishop, is not perfect. He never claimed to be. But today, he bore a testimony without saying a word. And it wasn’t just about his calling. It was about who he has chosen to be. The kind of man who anchors himself to the foundation — no matter the storm.

Lessons for the Road

I travel a lot. And it’s easy, on the road, to feel disconnected from everything that matters. But today reminded me that spiritual memory is a kind of map. And sometimes, to find your way forward, you have to walk a few steps back.

Both of these wards — these buildings of brick, carpet, and memory — hold entire chapters of my life. Within their walls are baptisms and farewells, callings extended and released, friendships forged and funerals wept through. But more than just the events, these places have been home to a quiet, unwavering kind of discipleship. Not faith performed for applause, but faith lived with steady devotion — without fanfare, but full of fidelity.

Today, I saw aging saints holding hymnbooks with shaky hands, still lifting their voices to heaven. I saw young parents wrangling toddlers in pews where I once sat as a teenager. I saw a bishop grieving — but not retreating. I saw a foundation firm enough to hold the weight of real life.

“When we keep the focus of our lives on our Savior, we will be able to navigate life with hope and joy, even amid loss and heartbreak.”

— Sister Reyna I. Aburto “Thru Cloud and Sunshine, Lord, Abide with Me!” April 2019

And I was reminded of this truth:

Faith is not the absence of pain. It is the presence of Christ in the middle of it.

It is the song still sung.

The door still opened.

The testimony still borne — by example, by choice, by quiet resolve.

And for that, I am grateful.

Postscript from the Road

Tomorrow, I’ll be back in meetings, back in hotel rooms, back in the pace of life that rarely allows time to reflect. But this Sabbath in Ogden — this walk through sacred memory — will stay with me. I’ll carry the voices that sang How Firm a Foundation. I’ll carry the sight of a grieving bishop singing Love Is Spoken Here. I’ll carry the feeling of being, once again, known and rooted. And most of all, I’ll carry the quiet certainty that no matter where the road leads, I have a foundation that holds.