Always Recommended to the Lord

Growing up as a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, one of my greatest fears was being led away by the adversary.

In my world, that meant being deceived—losing the truth, losing protection, and ultimately risking everything that mattered.

I often heard some version of: Don’t go digging into doubts. Don’t give troubling questions too much room. Trust the prophet. Trust the leaders. Stay close to what is safe. 

Whether intended as protection or not, I internalized those messages as this: questioning was spiritually dangerous.

And treading into spiritually dangerous territory… well, I may as well end up in hell. An afterlife where I failed as a member of the true church of Christ? One without the people I love and the blessings I’d been promised?

No, thanks. I’m good.

The problem is, all of this was taught to me from infancy. Growing up in Utah, I don’t remember a time when the teachings of my church weren’t woven into everything—church, school, family life, interactions with neighbors, etc. 

It was all I knew. It was the truth.

Yet we’re all made differently. Some people are able to rest comfortably in inherited certainty; others are not.  And while I’ve always fallen into the second category, for years, I fell in line.

I accepted what I was told. I became fully immersed as a member of the LDS church, seeing it as my duty to lead the rest of the world to the light.

In my mind, that was the only way I’d be accepted. It was the only way I’d belong. 

I had questions come up from time to time, sure—but I always pushed them down and did my best to trust the counsel of my leaders. They were the ones with authority, after all. And if I wanted all the blessings promised from being an obedient member of my religion, I’d better fall in line. 

I was taught that Satan wanted to lead me astray—that it was his goal to have me doubt the teachings I was receiving and leave the safety the church was providing.

To be fair, many people experience these teachings as life-giving. At times, I did too. But I also absorbed them in ways that bred fear. Performance. A distrust of my own conscience.

Even when my gut would tell me to go a different way, I ignored it. I had learned—if my moral and spiritual instincts differed from authorized voices—don’t trust them.

So, I ignored my questions as they came up. I thought I was following God—living the life He expected of me. 

And for a long time, I was content. I believed I was righteous, on the path to eternal life, and beyond blessed to be a member of Christ's church. 

It wasn’t until I was in my mid 30s that things really started to shift. 

Up to that point, any rebellion had been small—disregarding a piece of advice here, quietly choosing my own judgment there. But I had never truly gone against what I’d been taught.

Then the doubts that had lingered quietly in the background for years started rising to the surface more and more. Suddenly, trusting the authority of leaders wasn’t enough—I needed to know for myself. 

And the funny thing is, I thought I did.

I had that burning testimony so many members cling to—I knew Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. I knew the Book of Mormon was true. I knew this was the restored church of Jesus Christ on the earth today.

I had gone on a mission to teach these important truths, for crying out loud.

But then came the summer of 2023—the summer where everything I thought I knew started to unravel all at once. 

Staying with family while preparing to move across the country, more and more questions started to come up. Additional doubts emerged, and although I’d had the same counsel as the rest of us to “doubt your doubts before you doubt your faith,” it suddenly wasn’t enough.

This time, there were just too many. And the evidence to the contrary just felt too compelling. 

Yet I was scared. Was this what I was warned against? Was this just Satan, trying to take me away from the safety of church membership?

Then everything really fell apart. 

A month after moving across the country, my dad was in a horrific bicycle accident. I flew back the day after it happened, at 32 weeks pregnant, to find him in a coma. 

The next five days were some of the worst of my life. We were given hope for his survival, only to be told—suddenly and without ceremony—that there was nothing they could do. We had to decide whether to take him off life support or watch him live out his days in a state he never would have wanted. 

Then came preparing for his funeral—and for a future without him.

It changed everything. 

My dad was my spiritual mentor—the person I went to with my deepest questions. He never judged me or told me I was wrong. He explored things with me. He listened. He helped me think.

And suddenly, he was gone.

I was floundering. Here I was, doubting everything I’d ever been taught, in desperate need to talk it out with someone who understood not only the situation but me completely, and realizing that that person was now gone. 

“Just have faith?” No. That had no place here. 

I needed comfort—reassurance, not to be told that my questions were wrong. Not to be told that I was having a faith crisis.  

Yet that’s much of what I got the few times I did open my mouth. It wasn’t until I was given the opportunity to pour my heart out to a few more open-minded people that I received the advice that ended up making all the difference:

“Focus on your personal relationship with God.” 

Initially, I thought my relationship with God was fine. I’d followed all the rules and teachings all my life—what more was there to do? 

But the more attention I paid to this advice, the more I realized something that troubled me: I didn’t actually have much of a relationship with Him. 

I thought going to church all my life equaled closeness with God. I thought participation, obedience, and following all the rules I’d been taught came from Him would naturally bring me close to Him.

But it became clear to me—I didn’t know Him that well at all. 

Going to church and following teachings didn’t automatically make me close to God. Passing worthiness interviews and checking off every box didn’t bring me near to Him. 

I was fully into my church, yes—but a personal, intimate relationship with God was missing.

And I realized that to be close to someone, even someone I couldn’t see like God, I had to be my true self. I had to drop the facade of perfection so many of us wear and show him what I truly thought and felt, whether He already knew it or not. 

So I did. And what came out first was a whole lot of anger and pain.

I was furious He had taken my dad. Furious He’d let things happen the way they did. It didn’t matter whether I “should” feel that way or not—I did.

And I had to stop pretending to be okay with things. 

I was furious I’d spent my whole life following Him to now be in the position I was in. I was devastated that I not only lost my dad, I’d lost my sense of security in my faith. 

That my worldview had changed so drastically that I was now questioning everything. 

So I let Him know. 

I screamed at Him in my car. Sobbed through the pain as I rocked my baby to sleep. Let the emotion out when and where it came, even when it was embarrassing. (Like that time I broke down at Target—sorry, kids.)

It was the best thing I’d ever done. 

For months, I talked to him as the real me. Not the Ashley who was a good, devoted member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, who never fell out of line, and not as the Ashley who wore her strength like a shield. 

I talked to him as the Ashley I was—broken, devastated, and searching. Desperate for help. Desperate for peace. 

For the first time in my life, I really put my faith into action. And it showed me that doubt and questions aren’t the enemy. It showed me that they have the power to deepen faith, not destroy it like I feared. 

I started branching out in my understanding of God. I read books and articles and excerpts from people all over the world, from every religion and from people with none. And what I found wasn’t damming, convincing evidence that my only safety was in the LDS church—no. 

What I found was light. Love. Goodness everywhere and in everything. 

Evidence that God is everywhere—not confined to one place or one system. And suddenly, all my doubts about the validity of the truth claims of my church didn’t matter anymore. They weren’t important. Only one thing truly was. 

That I had that personal relationship with Him. 

By focusing on that, everything changed. Where there used to be uncertainty and fear, there was peace. Love replaced doubt. 

It didn’t matter anymore whether the teachings of my church were true or not—all that mattered was where I was at with God personally. 

I spent my whole life up to that point trying to be the perfect member of the LDS church. Attempting to show God that I was worthy and deserving of all the blessings and good things I was taught about, all while secretly stressing that I’d never be able to measure up. 

But finally I realized—that was never something I’d had to earn. I’d always been enough for God. I was loved by Him when I was struggling through life, feeling like I’d never measure up, just as much as I’m loved by Him now, in a place where I can more readily feel His love.  

My worth to Him doesn’t depend on my covenants or my temple recommend status—it’s not measurable. I was known and loved by Him before any of those things. 

And it makes me sad because for years, I confused fear with faithfulness. I thought that anxiety about measuring up was devotion, and I didn’t realize how much of my spirituality had become performance. 

But now, I no longer see things so black or white. Not like I used to. 

I no longer worry about whether this is true or that is true. No longer stress about following all the rules perfectly or showing my member status by things like garments or recommends. 

Because I see that stuff as church culture. And I believe that God is bigger than culture. 

I’ve come to believe that God doesn’t care if I’m wearing something to symbolize faith—He cares that I have faith. He doesn’t care if someone declares me worthy of temple blessings based on what rules I follow or whether I pay tithing—I’m recommended to Him no matter where I’m at.

For no other reason than the simple fact that I’m His. 

I don’t have to be in a holy establishment to feel His love. To have His peace drape over me like a warm hug—I just have to reach out to Him. No matter where I am or what I’m doing, He’s there. 

Stuck in the confines of cultural belief, I never saw that. Because my devotion was to the church. It was to making sure I followed all the rules. Completed all the steps. Crossed off every milestone along the covenant path. 

I believed all those practices would bring me closer to God. But I was so caught up in church membership that I didn’t recognize the absence of a real relationship with Him.

In many ways, I was following a system about God while missing an authentic connection with God Himself.

And I didn’t even realize it. Not until everything fell apart.

It breaks my heart to see how often faith becomes heavy—how easily it can turn into pressure, fear, and performance—when I believe it was meant to bring freedom.

It certainly did for me. 

After this experience, for the first time I can remember, I became authentic. I finally let myself stop pretending to believe something that no longer rang true to me. 

Now, I want to be authentic for good. I don’t want to pretend anymore, and I don’t want to follow rules I’m told come from God just to belong—because with God, I’ll always belong. 

Always. Wearing or not wearing my garments doesn’t change that. 

This shift in thinking, though lonely at times, has brought so much peace into my life. No longer do I need the certainty of belonging to the only true church. No longer do I need the approval of other church members or a temple recommend in my wallet to tell me I’m on the right path. 

All I need is already there. Inside of me. 

This doesn’t mean my past was meaningless or that others experience it the same way—but it does mean I had to choose honesty over certainty. 

And honestly? I’m still a member of the LDS church. Although many of my beliefs have shifted, I still see light and goodness and faith. Some people may think I’ve strayed or am less devoted now, and if you’re talking about devotion to the church itself—I suppose that’s true. 

But my devotion is to God. And I’ve learned to trust that God can reach me personally, too.

I understand better what Jesus was saying now when He told his followers that God was always with Him. Because letting go of rigid certainties and dogma showed me that He’s always with me, too—I just couldn’t see it. 

Not until I put all that aside. 

With all my heart, I believe that nothing institutional can grant or revoke the love of God. 

If you’re here, you’re loved. In grief, in doubt, in anger—you’ll always be accepted by Him. 

Ashley Walker