And That’s Not Happening

It’s cruel how normal this morning looks.. Pink skies, blue edges, the whole “look how peaceful everything is”.

Cute.

Really committed to the illusion.

Too bad my chest feels like someone parked a war chariot on it and left the horses attached.

Because somewhere out there—past those mountains pretending to be peaceful—men are killing each other.

And today… I join them.

I look across the familiar landscape, trying to memorize it before it becomes something I used to know.

The fields where I played as a child.

Ha.

Child.

Who am I kidding?

I am sixteen.

I still am one.

And yet here we are.

Finally, my eyes land on the small home.

My home.

Small, but perfect in the way things become perfect when you realize you may never see them again.

This is what peace looks and feels like.

A door that opens without fear.

The smell of my mother’s cooking waiting inside.

My father’s tools near the wall.

The place where I have been corrected, fed, irritated, forgiven—

but mostly loved.

And I am leaving it all.

Behind me, my family waits to say goodbye.

I know they are there.

I can feel them.

My mother trying to be strong enough for all of us.

My father trying not to break apart in a way that would make leaving impossible.

I should turn around.

I can’t.

Not yet.

Because I already know what I will see.

So instead, my mind carries me back to a few nights ago.

They thought I was asleep.

I wasn’t.

I was lying there, staring into the dark, my heart pounding so loud I was sure they could hear it through the walls.

Their voices were low—barely above whispers—but I could hear every word.

My father’s voice, usually so steady and strong, trembled with emotion.

“We have an age limit for a reason,” he said. “Moriath was old enough, and he is fighting with the Nephites.”

Then silence.

“Amarion is too young. I cannot let him go.”

My mother did not answer right away. I could picture her sitting there, listening with that stillness she gets when something matters too much for quick words.

Then my father said the thing I still wish I had not heard.

“How can I send my son to die in my place while I sit here and do nothing?”

His voice broke on the last word.

“I need to break my covenant with the Lord. He will understand.”

I remember gripping the blanket so tight my hands hurt.

Not because of the thought of war, or even the thought of death.

It was my father.

My father, who had taught me what a covenant means before I understood half the words he used. My father, who had buried his weapons because God mattered more than survival. My father, who had always seemed anchored so deep in the gospel that nothing could move him.

And there he was, in the dark, talking about digging up what he had given to the Lord.

Then my mother spoke.

“We will not break our oath with the Lord.”

She didn’t yell.

She didn’t need to.

“We will not,” she said again, and every word was iron. “It is better for us to perish—better for Amarion to perish—than to break our covenant.”

Her words were a plea, but also a command, spoken with the certainty that only a woman of deep, unshakable faith could muster. I had never heard her speak so forceful, so fiercely, and in that moment, I knew there was no doubt in her heart.

As I lay there, I knew I wasn’t ready—I knew that as much as my father did.

But something in me had changed. Quietly. The way things do when your mother believes enough for both of you.

And for one small moment, peace came.

Now, standing outside in the morning light, I glance back at my home and remember my father’s voice again.

The desperation in it.

The way love had nearly broken him into breaking something holy.

And suddenly, one thing becomes painfully clear.

The longer I wait, the harder this becomes for him.

If I do not go now, he might try to go in my place.

So I turn around.

To my father first.

Big mistake.

He looks like he’s breaking.

Tears slide down his face, and he doesn’t even try to hide them.

That’s when something inside me cracks.

I don’t think. I just move.

I throw my arms around him and bury my face in his chest like I’m five again.

"I love you, Dad," I whisper, my voice trembling.

He nods and tries to respond—he really does—but the words don’t make it out. He breaks down sobbing. We both do. His arms tighten around me like if he holds on tight enough, I won’t have to go.

For a second—

Just a second—

I consider staying.

But then I remember why I am going.

We stand there hugging—long enough that I start memorizing things I never thought I’d need to remember—the way his arms feel, the rhythm of his breathing, the quiet strength that I feel in his arms.

Then I pull away.

Because if I don’t now…

Then my sister.

She hits me like a storm.

Her arms wrap around me, small but fierce.

Feeling her small arms cling to me with desperation nearly undoes me.

I hug her back—quick, tight—and then I pull away before I completely lose whatever fragile control I have left.

I turn to my mom.

She’s composed. Hands clasped, posture steady, holding herself together by sheer faith.

But her eyes?

They give her away.

Red. Tired. It's easy to see that she has been crying long before this moment.

I don’t even try to say anything. Words feel useless right now. So I just step forward and wrap my arms around her. Tight. Like I used to when the world was smaller and she could fix everything just by being there.

She holds me just as tight.

For a second, I let myself pretend nothing’s changing.

Then she pulls back, cups my face in her hands, and makes sure I’m looking straight at her—no hiding, no dodging.

"The Lord will protect you," she says, her voice unwavering. Like she’s already seen how this ends.

Not hope.

Not maybe.

Like it’s a forgone conclusion.

“Keep the commandments. Follow Helaman. And you will be delivered.”

Delivered.

That word hits me like a ton of bricks.

Because delivered means one thing:

I come back.

And suddenly there it is—the question I can’t shake:

Will I?

I look into her eyes, and as strong as my fear is, it is no match for her faith.

For a second, peace comes again.

I nod, give her one more quick hug and quickly pull away before I completely lose whatever fragile control I have left.

Because if I don’t leave now…

I won’t.

And if I don’t go…

My father might.

And that’s not happening.