Jet Mariano

Tag: Spiritual Reflections

  • “In Him All Things Hold Together” Elder Neal A Maxwell

    Syracuse Utah Temple at blue hour beneath a setting first-quarter moon. I lingered long; the nudge lingered longer. In Him, the night—and I—held together.

    Intro
    I lingered at the Syracuse Utah Temple until the first-quarter moon slid above the spire and the stars came on. The nudge I felt there was the longest I’ve ever carried from any temple—it stayed even while I was shooting. Elder Neal A. Maxwell’s cadence kept pacing me:

    “In Christ all things hold together.” (Colossians 1:17)

    And he widened the frame of my night with this:

    “I wish to talk about your unfinished journey. It is the journey of journeys… The trek awaits—whether one is rich or poor… married or single, a prodigal or an ever faithful. Compared to this journey, all other treks are but a brief walk in a mortal park or are merely time on a telestial treadmill.” —Elder Neal A. Maxwell

    The temple path made that “journey of journeys” feel less abstract and more immediate—boots on stone, heart in hand.

    The straight line
    Perishable skills expire; portable virtues don’t. The Lord is shaping “men and women of Christ”—meek, patient, full of love (Mosiah 3:19). When life frays, covenants are the stitching; Christ is the seam that actually holds me together.

    Final Reflection (Maxwell, in his own words)

    “These attributes are eternal and portable… Being portable, to the degree developed, they will go with us through the veil of death.”
    “Since He is risen from the grave, let us not be dead as to the things of the Spirit… In him all things hold together.”

    Standing beside the flower bed and the pale stone, I felt why: if I let Him order my heart, He will also order my steps.

    Another line the night underlined
    Elder Maxwell ties the sky to our discipleship:

    “At Christmastime we celebrate a special star… placed in its precise orbit long before it shone so precisely… ‘All things must come to pass in their time’ (D&C 64:32). His overseeing precision pertains not only to astrophysical orbits but to human orbits as well… our obligation to shine as lights within our own orbits.” —Elder Neal A. Maxwell (see Philippians 2:15)

    Insight: The moon over Syracuse wasn’t an accident; neither is where God has set me. If I stay in my covenant orbit—quiet, steady, on time—He’ll handle the timing and the alignment.

    What I hear now

    • Let Christ carry what’s flying apart. Pray first: “Hold this together in Thee.”
    • Choose portable over perishable. Practice a trait before a technique.
    • Shine in your current orbit. Steward the people and places already set around you; heaven runs on precision and timing.
    • Serve quietly. Authority of example > argument.
    • Take the yoke & learn (Matt. 11:29). Small obediences teach His large qualities.
    • Return, then refine. Revisit the same place (and person) until the light matches the message—the nudge at Syracuse taught me that.

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  • That’s You and That’s Me

    Two open hands—one giving, one receiving. Some needs are plain to see; others we carry quietly. That’s you and that’s me.

    Intro
    Some needs are easy to spot—a hand outstretched at a corner, a face weeping in public. Others ride quietly under the surface: worry that doesn’t show, loneliness with a practiced smile, a “load” carried where no one can see. This week I kept thinking about both kinds—the visible and the hidden—and how the Lord is the One who sees them all. The photo below is the obvious kind. But I’m learning to look for the quiet kind too, including in my own life. “No one makes it all alone… we all rely on help from Home.”

    That’s You and That’s Me — Seminary album Free to Choose (1987)

    Some reach out with their hands,
    Some reach out with their eyes,
    And most try hard not to let it show,
    But it’s a thin disguise.

    Some needs can be hidden;
    Some are plain to see.
    No one makes it all alone—
    We all rely on help from Home
    To get us back to where we want to be.

    And that’s you and that’s me,
    Living off His goodness
    And learning how to be.

    And that’s you and that’s me;
    I want to be ever you—like He’s ever you and me.

    Sometimes I can’t hide it;
    Sometimes I just want to cry:
    “I need someone to share my load,”
    When no one’s on my side.

    That’s when I remember:
    You have days like these.
    No one makes it alone—
    We all rely on help from Home
    To get us back to where we want to be.

    And that’s you and that’s me,
    Living off His goodness
    And learning how to be.
    That’s you and that’s me—
    I want to be ever you, like He’s ever you and me;
    And He gives so freely and shows us how to care.

    And that’s you and that’s me,
    Living off His goodness
    And learning how to be.

    Final reflection
    The song names what discipleship looks like in real time: noticing. Some needs are loud; some are quiet. Christ meets both, and He invites us to do the same—“living of His goodness and learning how to be.” Sometimes that means coins in a palm. Sometimes it’s a steady text, a prayer in someone’s name, a ride, a listening ear, or a temple visit offered for a friend. And when the load is ours, we remember we also “rely on help from Home.” Seen or unseen, He sees—and He sends us to see.

    © 2012–2025 Jet Mariano. All rights reserved.
    For usage terms, please see the Legal Disclaimer.

  • I’d Like to Feel This Way Again

    Taylorsville Temple, pre-sunrise—benches waiting, light rising. Day 5: “I’d like to feel this way again.”

    Intro
    Before sunrise, the temple sits like a lighthouse on the ridge, and the road in feels like a small uphill each time. Taylorsville at daybreak, five mornings straight—the air cool, the world unhurried—and something true brushed past me again and again, enough to bring tears and resolve. It felt like the quiet lift this Seminary song points to—something real, not just a mood—nudging me higher. I want to live so that what I felt in those minutes before dawn can come back tomorrow, and again after that. These images (and this song) are my reminder to keep choosing the places where that feeling can find me.

    I’d Like to Feel This Way Again
    Like the snowflakes that fall on the ground,
    words in my heart sometimes don’t make a sound.
    Like spring raindrops that fall from the sky,
    tears can be joyful, escaping my eyes.

    I’d like to feel this way again;
    I’d like to feel this way tomorrow.

    Was I just lonely—did I need a friend?
    Was it convenience, a means to an end?
    Still, something touched me—I feel it, I do;
    some kind of message is trying to get through.

    I’d like to feel this way again;
    I’d like to feel this way tomorrow.

    Deep in there, words just burn within me;
    such new emotions I have known.
    Deepen their teachings; lift me higher—
    higher than all the blessings I have known.

    Sometimes the wind tries to turn me around—
    “Give up the climb, it’s so nice to come down.”
    Somehow this feeling keeps pushing me high;
    tells me it’s treasure I stumbled upon.

    I’d like to feel this way again;
    I’d like to feel this way tomorrow.
    I’d like to feel this way again;
    I’d like to feel this way forever.

    Source note
    “I’d Like to Feel This Way Again,” Seminary album Free to Choose (1987). Words & music: Ron Simpson.

    Final reflection
    For me, this lyric is about a real but delicate moment with God—quiet enough that words stumble, strong enough that tears come. The chorus isn’t chasing emotion; it’s choosing a life that welcomes the Spirit back. The questions (“Was I just lonely?”) are honest self-checks, but the fire in the words—how truth “burns within”—confirms it’s more than mood. The “wind” that tells me to turn around is the ordinary pull of ease and hurry; the climb is discipleship. And the push “higher” is grace, turning a chance moment into a new pattern. That’s why I keep coming back before sunrise. The temple on the horizon, the stillness, the scripture that settles, the small covenants kept—these are the places where that feeling returns, tomorrow, and—by His mercy—again and again.

    © 2012–2025 Jet Mariano. All rights reserved.
    For usage terms, please see the Legal Disclaimer.

  • Living, moving and being

    Along California’s iconic Hwy 101, I captured this moment: a lone jogger silhouetted against the rising sun. I wasn’t the runner—but in that stillness, I remembered that I, too, live, and move, and have my being.

    A day not just lived, but felt.

    A day when the words from Acts 17:28 stirred within me: “For in Him we live, and move, and have our being.”
    I wasn’t chasing the sun—I was waiting for it. But as I framed this stranger in motion, I saw more than a runner. I saw a reflection of all of us: moving forward, unaware we’re part of something eternal. That’s what the lens captured. That’s what I needed to remember.

    On the Edge of Being

    Poem by Jet Mariano

    He ran before the world awoke,
    A silhouette against gold and smoke.
    No music, map, or finish line—
    Just dawn unfolding, pure and fine.

    I stood unseen, lens in hand,
    Still as stone, yet I understand:
    That in his stride was something more—
    A soul in motion, not at war.

    He moved, I watched; we both were free,
    Two lives unfolding by the sea.
    He didn’t know—but I could see—
    That we both live and move… and have our being.

    I wasn’t chasing the sun—I was waiting for it. But as I framed this stranger in motion, I saw more than a runner. I saw a reflection of all of us: moving forward, unaware we’re part of something eternal. That’s what the lens captured. That’s what I needed to remember.

    © 2012–2025 Jet Mariano. All rights reserved.
    For usage terms, please see the Legal Disclaimer.

  • Marked in Time — Learn to Love the Storm (Provo City Center Temple)

    Provo City Center Temple under lightning—shot from the walkway with leading lights. A reminder I first learned in 2018 after that T-bone crash: storms can shake you, but they don’t decide the ending.

    Excerpt
    Learn to love the storm.

    Intro
    Storms touch every life—loss, illness, missed chances, worry. In IT they hit at 2 a.m., at airports, on freeways, even overseas. Like weather carves a canyon, adversity shapes a soul. Preparation helps—docs, reps, calm breath—until we learn not just to endure but to embrace the rhythm.

    Backstory
    Second week of January 2018, on my way to photograph Provo City Center Temple, a driver T-boned my car. He was arrested on the spot. I blacked out for a few seconds—came back, shaken but okay—and still made it to the temple. That night taught me: storms hit hard, but they don’t have to end the story. Funny enough, as I write this, American Pie wanders through a verse about endings. I’m grateful mine wasn’t.

    Notes from the Journey
    Urgency doesn’t wait; readiness is mercy. Pressure reveals what practice built. Quiet faith plus steady habits turns chaos into clarity.

    Practice (today, not someday)
    Prep what future-you will need (one checklist, one page of notes). When the alert hits: breathe, bless, begin. Re-anchor: Grounded • Rooted • Established • Settled.

    Final Reflection
    Loving the storm doesn’t mean pretending it doesn’t hurt. Some trials mark the body and the heart. Yet the covenant echo remains: “Thine adversity and thine afflictions shall be but a small moment… and shall be for thy good.” (D&C 121:7; 122:7) In tech and in life, Murphy visits often; I’ll meet him ready, resilient, and willing—trusting that beyond the thunder, I keep moving.

    Pocket I’m Keeping
    Prepared, prayerful, unafraid of weather.

    What I Hear Now
    Hold fast. Keep going between flashes.

    © 2012–2025 Jet Mariano. All rights reserved.
    For usage terms, please see the Legal Disclaimer.

  • It’s up to me to share my light with others

    December 1, 1982 — With my final companion, Elder Ulrich. On this day, I received a telegram from the mission office telling me my mission would end the following week. I didn’t want to go home — I felt I was just getting started.

    During my commute to work, I sometimes listen to old Seminary songs — melodies that carry me back to my early days in the Church. Recently, one stood out: It’s Up to Me from the 1979 Gates of Zion album.

    The first stanza caught me:

    It’s up to me to share my light with others
    How can they grow if I refuse to give?
    The happiness I feel is beautiful and real.

    In December 1982, I was serving in my last area with my final companion, Elder Ulrich, when I received a telegram telling me I had only a few days before going home. I didn’t want to leave. I never counted the days on my mission — I made each day count. Every conversation, every door, every lesson was another chance to share the light with others.

    When I joined the Church, I was a chain smoker — 50+ sticks a day. I quit cold turkey in seven days, through prayer and sheer determination, so I could be baptized. That change taught me that the Lord magnifies even the smallest willingness to act. Whether it’s giving up a habit, opening your mouth to share the gospel, or simply showing kindness, He makes it enough.

    My “mission” didn’t end when I was released. The form of service has changed — now it’s IT projects, photography, mentoring, or writing — but the calling to share the light stays the same. These skills aren’t really mine; they’re gifts from God, meant to be used in building others up.

    Final Reflection

    Over the years, I’ve learned that sharing the light is not tied to a title or season of life. Whether through gospel service, professional expertise, or creative talents, each of us has something that can brighten another’s path.

    That’s what the song It’s Up to Me has always whispered to my heart: the happiness we feel is beautiful and real — but it becomes even more beautiful when it lights someone else’s way.

    © 2012–2025 Jet Mariano. All rights reserved.
    For usage terms, please see the Legal Disclaimer.

  • Feelings of Forever

    In the hush of dusk, I remembered forever

    Feelings of forever come so strong,
    They follow like a sacred song.
    Jewels of light along the way,
    Outshining even break of day.

    Calendars of time we knew,
    Now tremble in a brighter view—
    A lamp far fiercer than the sun,
    Where all our years dissolve to one.

    I recall the morning you arose,
    A flame where starlight softly glows.
    Your eyes held truths no words could say,
    A child’s hope that lit our way.

    And as the compass pulled us near,
    I took your hand and drew you clear—
    No vow was sworn, no need to speak,
    Forever touched us—meek to meek.

    And now we lift the veil to understand,
    And reach for who we were, not what we planned.
    To circle back where time began,
    And walk once more where we once ran.

    © 2012–2025 Jet Mariano. All rights reserved.
    For usage terms, please see the Legal Disclaimer.

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