Finding God in the And

My daughter Maggie is leaving to serve a mission for our church and this afternoon was her farewell in church. She asked me to be the second speaker along with a musical number that included MANY of her aunts, uncles, and cousins. It was a powerful meeting and I was honored to be asked to do that for her. After the service, several people asked me for a copy of my thoughts. I figured I’d just post them here as this was a momentous day for me and for her and I’d love it preserved forever. So, without further ado, here is the talk I gave in church today, March 8, 2026. . .

I never got to have one of these. I joined the Church when I was 21, so I didn’t grow up imagining what my farewell talk would sound like. So even though this isn’t my farewell, it’s probably as close as I’ll ever get.

I’ve often thought about the two sister missionaries who played an integral part in my journey — Sister Torgerson and Sister Bradford — and I still wonder where they are now and what their lives look like today.

Honestly, if they could see me standing here today, they might be thinking, “Well… look at that. He did it!”

I don’t remember every lesson they taught me. But I remember how I felt around them. I felt seen. I felt safe. I felt like God knew my name. And looking back, I realize something — they didn’t fix my life. They didn’t solve my confusion or remove my struggles. What they did was remind me to notice what I had known, deep down, all along — that God had been present in my story from the very beginning.

And that reminder has shaped the way I understand faith.

For a long time, I thought faith meant clarity. Or peace. Or at least relief. I thought if I believed hard enough or trusted deeply enough, something would shift — my circumstances, my confusion, my joy. And when those things didn’t change, I quietly wondered what that said about me.

But over time, I’ve realized something different.

I’m learning that faith isn’t always revealed through resolution. Sometimes it’s revealed through endurance. Through staying present when the situation doesn’t improve. Through continuing to believe even when life doesn’t feel the way you hoped it would.

I’ve come to call this “living in the and.”

It’s the tension of being faithful and weary. Grateful and grieving. Hopeful and unsure. It’s holding two truths that feel impossible to reconcile — and refusing to let go of either one.

And the only way I’ve learned to live in the “and” is by relying on the Lord in all things.

For me, that hasn’t meant getting the miracle on demand. It has meant trusting without the miracle. It has meant constant, quiet communication with my Father in Heaven — sometimes polished, often just, “I’m tired. Please help.” It has meant choosing gratitude when circumstances don’t improve. It has meant showing up when I don’t feel like it. And maybe most importantly, it has meant working hard not to let my heart harden to the situations I don’t understand.

Because I’m discovering that faith isn’t always about outcomes. Sometimes it’s about presence. Not a faith that looks impressive from the outside, but one that keeps us turning toward God instead of away from Him when life doesn’t make sense.

I first learned this long before I had language for it.

When I was 13, I was hospitalized during a season of deep depression — one of the darkest seasons of my life. I was scared. I felt small. I was wrestling with questions that felt too heavy for a teenager to carry. I didn’t know who I was becoming, and I didn’t know if things would ever feel steady again.

And I want to say this clearly: faith and depression are not enemies. And struggling mentally or emotionally does not disqualify us from God’s presence.

Alma teaches that Christ took upon Him not only our sins, but our pains, our afflictions, and our infirmities — that He would know how to succor His people accordingly (Alma 7:11–12). That means He knows how to meet us exactly where we are.

There wasn’t a dramatic miracle. There wasn’t instant healing. There was just a quiet presence. A warmth. A whisper that said, “Hold on.”

Isaiah writes, “Fear thou not; for I am with thee… I will strengthen thee… I will uphold thee” (Isaiah 41:10).

That moment didn’t fix everything. But it anchored me.

That was one of my first lessons in living in the and — hurting and held at the same time.

Years later, I would learn that lesson again — not in a hospital room, but in a season of wrestling deeply with my identity about who I was and where I fit in God’s plan.

There were nights filled with confusion, shame, and fear. Nights where I wondered if there was a place for someone like me in the story of faith.

And again — there was no instant resolution.

But there was a prayer. A broken one. Not polished. Not impressive. Just honest.

And the Spirit washed over me with the clearest message I have ever received:

“I love you. I know you. I made you. You belong.”

Romans teaches that neither height nor depth, nor things present nor things to come, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God (Romans 8:38–39). Not confusion. Not depression. Not doubt. Not unanswered prayers. Nothing.

I am so glad I am loved unconditionally — every moment of my life. That promise has become one of my anchors. It reminds me that nothing — not life, not death, not my past, not the future — can separate me (nor any of us) from God’s love. Literally nothing!

We are His, no matter what. And that truth lets us breathe again.

That message didn’t erase every question overnight. It didn’t untangle every complexity. But it did something deeper — it settled my soul. It reminded me that belonging is not something we earn once we have everything figured out. It is something God speaks over us in the middle of the figuring.

And I’ve had to learn that lesson again in this season of my life.

I believe in a God of miracles. I believe He can heal. I believe He can change circumstances in an instant. But I’ve also had to wrestle with the reality that just because He can doesn’t always mean He will — at least not on my timeline.

There have been seasons where I’ve prayed for relief and received endurance instead. Seasons where I’ve asked for the chapter to close and instead been invited to stay. And I’ve had to confront a hard question: Is my faith strong enough to trust God without the miracle?

Ether reminds us that the Lord gives us weakness that we may be humble — and that His grace is sufficient, and that weak things can become strong (Ether 12:27). I used to think that meant weakness would disappear. Now I think sometimes it means weakness becomes sacred ground where grace meets us.

That’s a different kind of faith. Not transactional. Not “if this changes, then I’ll believe.” But choosing to trust Him here. Choosing gratitude here. Choosing presence here.

Not after the fix.

In it.

Maggie, as you step into missionary service, you will meet people who are living in their own “and.”

People who are faithful and exhausted. Grateful and grieving. Hopeful and unsure.

Some will be waiting for the miracle. Some will feel like they’ve been forgotten. Some may even believe that because they are struggling, God must be distant.

And what you — and really, what all of us — get to offer is not a polished performance. Not easy answers. Not a quick fix.

We get to remind people — the way Sister Torgerson and Sister Bradford once reminded me — to notice that God has been present in their story all along.

And we don’t have to wear a name tag to do that.

We can remind one another that faith and struggle can coexist. That belonging is spoken over us before everything is resolved. That God stays. Always.

He has promised, “I will not fail thee, nor forsake thee” (Deuteronomy 31:6).

We can rely on the Lord in all things — not just when things are going well, but especially when they are not.

And we can be glad — not because everything is easy — but because as we read in Luke 10, our names are written in heaven (Luke 10:20). Because He works all things together for good for those who love Him (Romans 8:28). Not always quickly. Not always clearly. But faithfully.

And who knows — maybe 30 years from now someone will be standing up in front of a congregation at their child’s farewell saying, “I often wonder where Sister Van Patten is now and what her life looks like.”

And I hope what they remember most is not a perfectly delivered lesson.

I hope they remember that they felt seen. That they felt safe. That they felt like God knew their name.

And so Maggie… this is what I know.

I know that God meets us in the “and.” I know that faith and struggle can coexist. I know that relying on the Lord in all things doesn’t always bring the miracle — but it always brings His presence.

And I know that when we rely on the Lord in all things, we begin to see His hand in all things.

Not just in the healed chapters. Not just in the easy seasons. But in the messy, unfinished, ordinary, holy ones.

And as you prepare for your mission, I want to share with you the things I pray for on your behalf. A sort of blessing if you will — not in the formal sense, but in the sacred sense of a father speaking truth, love, and hope into his daughter’s life.

I pray for courage — the kind that steadies your heart when the world feels uncertain.

I pray for discernment, that the Spirit will whisper clearly and gently to your soul.

I pray for compassion, so that every person you meet feels the love of Christ radiating from you.

I pray for joy — real, deep, abiding joy — the kind that fills you from the inside and reminds you that God is the source of all light.

I pray for resilience, so when discouraging days come (and they will), you rise up again with grace, patience, and strength.

I pray for confidence in your divine identity, so that you will always know who you are, whose you are, and how deeply you are loved.

And I pray for the knowledge that you are never alone — not for a single second.

God walks with you. Christ strengthens you. Your family supports you. And your dad loves you more than words can say.

My testimony, shared from the deepest parts of my heart, is simply this: I know God lives. I know Jesus Christ saves, heals, and transforms hearts — including my own. I know the Spirit guides us toward truth. I know families are eternal and love never ends. I know God’s grace is bigger than any mistake, any question, any obstacle. I know that this gospel — at its core — is about love, kindness, and becoming more like Christ.

That is my testimony.
That is my truth.
And I give it to you, my daughter, with all the love I possess.