Elizabeth Hill has four children is a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (inadvertently called by friends of other faiths as the “Mormon Church”) residing in Montana.

Have you ever wondered why there are never any small children helping on cooking shows like Rachel Ray and Emeril? Sources tell me the shows would have to be taped from a padded room because you would have to be clinically insane to attempt measuring, stirring and any -ing with the little guys.

Anytime you introduce highly powdery elements like flour, sticky ones like honey and slick ones like oil–exciting things are in store. So, why in the world do I allow, even welcome my three girls and one son to assist me in baking/cooking?

It has been a process…

I have been through phases where during dinner preparation I wanted to install those applause signs (maybe Rachel or Emeril could have one I could borrow!) but I would change the lettering to read, “Get Out!”. I have found myself saying phrases (not always in the Mrs. Cleaver voice) such as “Go play”, “Go watch a movie” or even just plain “shoo, shoo, shoo!”

I felt like it was time to have some peace and become one with my outdated appliances.

I felt that with being with them all day, this was my one respite before the craziness of bedtime and whiny children.

One night after a particularly “shooing” time had put all of us on the fast track to Prozac, I did some reflecting. At the end of the day (when I am good) I pray and read my scriptures and as I do I think about the choices I made, especially with my family. This is when I feel my Heavenly Father helping me be a better mom by nudging me to be a little better: say it this way next time, maybe not yell “shoo” five times in a row in a snarly voice. That sort of thing.

I was reading in the Bible of when Jesus blessed the 5,000 and did the whole miracle of the loaves and fishes. And as I was reading I realized in all the scriptures we have telling us words of the Savior his anthem is “Come”. “Come unto me…” “Come follow me…” Come. Come. Come.

No shooing. I cannot recall one instance when he tells folks to go away.

I was reading to what happens before the miracle and realized even more how far I have to go to become more like Him. Before the teaching and the miracle he is told about John the Baptist’s beheading and his disciples tell him to basically go where he can be alone, which he does. But the people follow him.

Now if this were me, I would tell these five thousand, “Listen, I am having a little ‘me time’ here. My cousin was just murdered and I need some space. Come back tomorrow and BYOFAB (Bring Your Own Fish and Bread). Don’t be early and don’t be hungry.”

Instead, he heals them, teaches them and feeds them. He welcomes them. He shows them this by allowing them to be where he is.

Do you see what I am getting at here? I am not saying I want to spend every waking second with my children all velcroed to my side. I just want them to remember me enjoying their company rather than putting up huge neon signs proclaiming the “Get Out Gospel”.

As I was reading this and feeling this enlightenment it also hit me how short a time I have until they really don’t want to be around me as much. Right now they believe (almost) everything I tell them. They are so eager! Eager to learn, to feel, to touch to be right next to me.

So, I change. I breathe. I let them in–welcome them, even. I take down my electric sign, grit my teeth and realize that it isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. As it often is in mothering, it all lies in my attitude how the winds of emotions blow. My stove is still old and my counters are cluttered but I have a feeling the layers of sticky and floury substances show proof that I am trying a little more everyday to be more like Him—the one who always beckons, “Come.”

Additional Resources:

Christ always asks us to “come” and follow him. Learn more at the official site of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Request a free copy of the Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ.

Attend a local meetinghouse.

I hung up the phone after speaking with an acquaintance, Ed. His emotional and spiritual temperature seemed to change with every set of daily circumstances.  When something lent him favor, he was up and kind. He was humble when he positioned himself to see his blessings; when he forgot them, he was a different person. Without the gospel in his life, he tended to dive often off emotional cliffs that weren’t there. He acknowledged a miracle when he saw it and in the next breath, when an outcome wasn’t just what he expected, he was kicking and screaming.  As he spoke, what I saw in my mind’s eye was, of all things, a fly.  I saw it buzzing all over the place, never with a secure or lasting landing place, not being anchored to something that would allow it to be still, quiet. He was like that fly. I thought to myself, “He has no anchor in Christ, and is buzzing through life and changing colors with every event and happenstance.” I prayed for him. I had empathy for him and wanted to hand him a rudder of peace.

Peace and Stillness Through Jesus Christ

Additional Resources:

Cameron’s Storm: One Year Later by Scott Livingston

It was a cold February morning when my wife (Kristina) and new born baby (Cameron Van) set out through Logan canyon on the 40 mile drive from our home in Bear Lake to the hospital to get Cameron’s Bilirubin level tested. We arrived in Logan safely and on time and checked with the receptionist. They called us in, and with a small poke on Cameron’s heel the nurse sent us on our way and said they would call us at home with the results. This had become a daily routine since Cameron’s birth a week earlier. He had high levels since birth and the doctor wanted to monitor it until he was confident that Cameron’s body would take control.

After a couple of errands in Logan, milk, eggs, prescriptions, etc, we began our trek through Logan canyon. The road was covered in snow and ice as usual but we had become quite used to it as we had been driving it every day for the last week. Kristina and I had great concerns about the canyon before Cameron’s birth. We were worried that when the time came the canyon would be closed and we would have to deliver the baby at home or worse in a Suburban stuck in the snow somewhere in the canyon. But after a scheduled induction a week early to take advantage of the good weather, a relatively easy delivery and short recovery, we had shelved our concerns. It was a sunny drive back home but as we pulled in to Garden City the weather began to turn.

After getting the kids back in the house and beginning preparations for dinner Kristina received a call from the doctor. He explained that Cameron’s Bilirubin levels had shot up to dangerous levels and prescribed Bililights for Cameron. He asked if we were still in Logan so we could come back to the hospital. He expressed great concern when Kristina told him that we were already in Bear Lake and asked if we could bring Cameron back. The weather had really gotten bad and they decided that it was best to find another option. The doctor told her that Cameron really ought to be in the hospital but due to the weather and deteriorating road conditions it would be best if we could somehow get some lights to Cameron, wait out the storm and then take him in. The doctor said he would try to arrange for home hospice to deliver the lights to us but was concerned that they might not because it was getting late and they were going to close soon. Kristina agreed to call around Bear Lake to see if by chance anyone had some.

When I learned of this I took it lightly to say the least. I made jokes about being stranded and having to make our own lights with duct tape and chicken wire like MacGyver. I really didn’t realize the severity of the situation and wandered around the house making jokes with the other kids for a good half an hour while Kristina worked the phone. Being an adventure seeker I joked with Kristina about hiking or snowmobiling over the canyon in the blizzard as this would afford me the opportunity to play “arctic explorer” or “Himalayan expedition” like I had fantasized as a young scout when we used to dig snow caves on the Klondike derby. As a young adult when I began snowmobiling in the backcountry I always had an appetite for the extreme. I have crossed mountains in blizzards, dug in atop mountain peaks and spent the night, raced through tight timbered forests in the middle of the night at near 80 miles per hour and I always hungered for more. I had acquired the best gear money could buy and daydreamed like a child in math class of how I would get myself out of a real bad blizzard after a severe crash and return safely to thousands of screaming fans. I carried a great deal of pride in that in all my days snowmobiling the mountains, jeeping, motorcycling, and canyoneering the desert southwest I have never left anyone or any vehicle behind and never had to call for help. I was always able to MacGyver my way out. Even the time that I found myself in a one way slot canyon with out a rope at the top of a 60 foot cliff after 11 miles of extreme DCing(a climbing term for squeezing your body through a vertical crack to go up or down) with no way out, I made it out. It required throwing all my gear off the 60 foot cliff and climbing back up, what the guide book said couldn’t be done, and hike 35 miles in the middle of the night to my mangled pack at the bottom of the cliff and spent a few hours sleeping in the crevasse before hiking out in the morning. And there was the time that I used electrical tape to reattach a drive line to an old blazer on one of Moab’s toughest 4×4 trails and drove it out on it’s own power. I had this appetite for extreme sports but I would find myself hoping that something would go terribly wrong just to have the challenge of getting out.

Kristina got another call from the doctor and explained to him that she was unable to find any Billy lights anywhere in town, he told her that he had already made arrangements with home hospice and they were already on their way. For a few moments we presumed that everything was going to be fine until the next call came in. It was the home hospice delivery guy from Logan calling to say that he was stopped at the bottom of the canyon; the highway Patrol had closed it due to the raging storm. He asked if it would be alright if he came over in the morning and Kristina said that was fine with her but that she would call the doctor just to be sure. The reaction from the doctor couldn’t have been worse; he told her that Cameron’s levels were so high that if he didn’t get on lights soon, he would not survive ’til morning. The doctor called home hospice in both Montpelier, Idaho and Evanston, Wyoming and got them both on their way at the same time. We figured that one of them would surely make it as the roads from both towns were relatively across flat land and the bulk of the storm was to the west in the mountains. We hunkered down at home and felt assured that we had good people taking care of our needs. In the next few minutes things really took a turn for the worse. Within just minutes of each other both hospice delivery guys called with news that both Highways were closed and they were not able to get through. This was when things got serious, I did not believe either one of them, after all it wasn’t even snowing at our house. After a lousy attempt at calming down Kristina, we decided that I would go out and try to drive to Montpelier as it was the closest. Kristina called home hospice and requested that he wait at the road block and I would meet him there. He agreed even though this meant sitting potentially all night.

I set out north in my white Suburban to check out the road and see just how bad it was. It was bad. I called the Montpelier sheriffs office and explained my situation to dispatch and asked permission to go through. The dispatch woman told me there was no way I would make it. She explained that two troopers had gotten stuck trying to rescue stranded motorists just 4 miles out of town. The wind was so strong that although it hadn’t started snowing yet, 4 foot high drifts had piled up all over the roads. The plows were ineffective as the drivers couldn’t see and the drifts piled up so fast. Visibility was at zero and she advised me to turn back now before they had to rescue me too. I told her that I had to try and that I wouldn’t expect a rescue, I hung up the phone and figured I would go as far as I could until I could come up with a better plan. I knew that driving was a futile effort but doing nothing was not an option.

The wind was so severe that the Suburban shook side to side and I could hardly see past the hood. The drifts of snow were so high that I decided to turn back having not made it more than a couple of miles. I called dispatch back and asked or told her that I was going back home to get my snowmobile and that I was coming though. I gave her my description and asked that she radio to all officers in the area to ask that they not try and stop me. She strongly objected to my request and said that there was no visibility and I would surely get lost. In my most confident sure voice I told her again that I was coming through. She agreed to heed my request and radio the officers. This was when the adrenaline stated to kick in. I called Kristina and calmly told what I was going to do and that I needed to talk to Miranda (our 14 year old). When Miranda got on the phone I directed her to go to the basement and get my gear. I had it neatly organized on the shelf and knew exactly what I needed and told her where to find it. I said I would be home in just a few minutes and she needed to have everything at the front door when I got there. She agreed and went to work.

This was when I started to panic, the thought of being out in that storm frightened me, and to go 40 miles each way was a daunting task. I wasn’t even sure if I could go that far on a single tank of gas. This is when I stopped, bowed my head and prayed for help. I asked my Heavenly Father if this was the right thing to do. I felt a small comfort and the panic attack subsided. I backed into the driveway and hitched up my enclosed trailer. The work involved in hitching up the trailer also calmed me. I went in the house, Miranda had everything ready exactly how I had asked, I threw my gear on, told Kristina not to worry and headed out. I checked the gas in the snowmobile and it was full. I usually store it full as not to waste time on a good powder day. I jumped in the Suburban and pulled out of the driveway. Having the trailer on made it difficult to drive in the deep snow but I felt inclined to drive the Suburban as far as I could out of fear of having to be out in the storm.

I received a phone call from dispatch; two paramedics in a 4 wheel drive ambulance had volunteered to bring the lights to me. They had met the hospice guy at the road block, picked up the lights and headed my way. Eight miles south of Montpelier they became stuck and radioed in their location. I told her to tell them to keep their flashing lights on and I would find them. I gave her my description again and asked her to tell them thanks for going above and beyond their duties. She wished me luck and hung up the phone.

This was when the real fear set in, my heart began pounding, I had to think of little Cameron and that I was his only chance he had, to stay focused on what I had to do. The drifts were progressively getting higher and longer to the point that when I hit one the floorboards would drag and just as I reached the other side the trailer would drag even harder and I had to floor it just to get it out. I wondered when I should park and unload the snowmobile; this was when I really began to pray. I knew I had to drive as far as possible so I would have enough gas to make it on the snowmobile. I prayed aloud in the Suburban, “Help me Heavenly Father please show me where to stop, guide me heavenly father please show me the way, in the name of Jesus Christ amen. And again, and again, I soon realized that the short prayers weren’t working for I had a stupor of thought between them. I remembered something I learned a year before when preparing a talk for sacrament meeting that we should wait for an answer before closing our prayers. So I tried again with a long pause and tried to listen for a still small voice to say “at the stop sign or at the next corner” but no answer came. I began to get emotional and beg for guidance, what became an emotional tirade eventually turned into repeating the same sentence; “lead me, guide me, help me find the way”. I had been repeating this for some time when I realized what it was; it was the primary song “I am a, Child of God”. I felt a surge of energy and began singing the whole song out loud in the Suburban. The act of negotiating each coming snow drift had become routine, I kept the speed up to provide momentum to blast through. I felt thankful for the years I had spent as a 4×4 enthusiast which had prepared me for this moment. “Lead me, guide me, walk beside me, help me find the way, teach me all that I must do to live with him some day”. At that moment that I needed to keep going.

I had made it farther than I thought, and rolled into the town of St. Charles. The wind was getting worse and the visibility was so bad that I rolled my window down and had to look at the ground beside me. “Lead me, guide me, walk beside me, help me find the way”, just then a clearing in the storm, I could see the yellow blinking light of a road grader and the St. Charles church building. I was overwhelmed by the spirit and knew that this was my answer. The large building served as a wind break, and the dutiful man that was running that grader to clear the snow for the next days services had cleared a wide enough place in the road for me to slow down, turn around and park without getting stuck. When I got out of the Suburban I was amazed at how calm it was, I knew that Heavenly Father had heard me and had provided me with a calm in the storm (literally) to make the transition to the snowmobile. A surge of confidence came over me for I knew that God was with me. I hurried into my helmet, dawned my gloves, fired up the 800cc monster and shot off down the drifted over highway.

It wasn’t 100 feet when I hit a drift 6 feet high and at least 60 feet across; I surely would have buried the Suburban in that one. As I passed the outskirts of town the visibility was so bad that I couldn’t see the hood. I had to lean off the right side of the snowmobile and I could barely see the ground. The wind was sideways at a good 60 mph with gusts of at least 80mph maybe more. What I thought was the highway was nothing but drifts, the only way I could tell if I was on the road was occasionally at the bottom of a drift I could make out the squared edge of icy snow left by a plow in a previous storm. Although I had on 2 layers of performance fleece, under armor base and a full gortex shell the wind blew right through to my skin snow began to build up between the sealed lens of my top of the line helmet. Every breath was like inhaling desert sand until it would melt in the back of my throat. I continued to sing aloud in my helmet because I knew that if I didn’t keep the spirit with me I would be lost and I had a long way to go.

After what seemed like an hour I could make out a small light straight ahead of me. I worried for a moment that I was off course out in some field and just happened to be headed straight for a house. A car maybe, no there’s only one light. It couldn’t be the ambulance because by my guess I had another ten miles to go before even getting close. As I got closer I saw a snowmobile right in the middle of the road facing me blocked from the wind by some kind of building. I slowed down to check it out and just as I was about to pass I saw a person out of the corner of my eye waving their arms. I stopped and 4 more people emerged from out of the darkness. I opened my helmet and asked “Who are you?” a woman’s voice replied “I have the lights”. I was ecstatic, I jumped off my snowmobile and hugged every one of them and thanked them for bringing the lights. They were a group composed of firemen, paramedics and search and rescue that had heard what was happening on the police scanner and organized a small party to retrieve the lights from the ambulance and find me somewhere on the way and then go back and rescue the two paramedics in the ambulance as well as the stranded motorists and the two troopers. These five were angels sent to lessen my burden.

I quickly jumped back on my snowmobile and took of again back toward home. I was thinking, halfway, all I have to do is follow my tracks back to the Suburban and I’m home free. Wrong, my tracks were gone after the first hundred feet and it was even harder to see as my lens was nearly packed full of snow. I kept singing:” Lead me, guide me, walk beside me, help me find the way”. I couldn’t see a thing, it was pure white darkness. All I could see was the inside of my helmet. I stayed focused on controlling the throttle up and down as I felt each drift go under me. I found the Suburban in that surreal calm in the storm loaded up and headed for home. Bucking the drifts was a bit easier going back even though all evidence of my first pass was gone. Anything seemed easy after those 20 long miles on the snowmobile.

I arrived home and immediately went to work getting Cameron on the lights. As soon as we got them working Kristina called the doctor and told him the good news, he seemed relieved but instructed us to get him to the hospital as soon as the storm broke and the roads reopened. I called dispatch and declared mission accomplished and thanked her for all her help. She agreed to forward my thanks on to the others involved.

The next morning the storm had broke and the canyon opened and we loaded Cameron up and got him in to the Hospital. Cameron spent two days in what looked like a tanning bed with two large spot lights shining on him. He had to wear a special mask to protect his eyes from the intense light therapy. He was released and is doing well other than he still poops, cries and slobbers all over but we love him anyway.

We just celebrated Cameron’s first birthday and I look back at that eventful storm and give thanks to Heavenly Father who walked beside me that night and showed me the way. I know that I could not have done it alone, there was just no way. In times of desperation when we feel like our prayers aren’t being heard we just need to hang in there, maybe sing a little, and trust that God has a plan for us. I remembered all the experiences I have had (the broken driveline, stuck in a slot canyon etc.) and realize that God was teaching me and preparing me to raise my family. All of us will have different storms and how we deal with them and who we turn to for help will determine how well we make it through.

We are all in an economic storm that has put a lot of us into a panic, despair and loss of ambition. Now, more than ever we need to put our trust in the Lord and be patient for He will provide us a calm in the storm and prepare us for the next leg of our journey. He has a plan for each of us but we need to be listening so we don’t miss it. My faith was strengthened by this experience and I hope that by sharing it, yours will be too.

A Personal Experience by Terrie

I grew up in a lightly religious non-LDS family. I recited a bedtime prayer, read Bible stories, and attended church once or twice a year. Morality mattered, but we were told to decide what was right. It was only after I joined the church that I learned to use the example of the Savior as a measuring stick for my own choices.

When I was a teenager and new to the church, I was invited to teach an unusually large group of preschoolers. Several had disabilities and the others were just a major handful. I was offered the volunteer job because I was the only person available who knew sign language and could communicate with the two deaf children. Having no teaching experience, I found myself unable to control my class. Week after week, I struggled to get through a lesson, and usually ended the class in tears after the last child had been retrieved. I didn’t have the confidence to admit I needed help.

One day, one of my leaders found me in my classroom after Primary-the children’s program. She had only stepped in to turn off the light she saw glowing under the door, but she quickly saw I was upset and pulled up a chair, asking what was wrong.

I poured out my frustration and anger over the children’s unwillingness to respect how hard I worked each week to prepare good lessons for them. She listened patiently until I’d gotten it all out of my system. When I was done, I waited for her to give me a magic solution that would solve everything.

She asked a single question: Do you love your students?

I stared at her. Love them? I didn’t even like them. Maybe she hadn’t been listening. I reminded her of their terrible behavior-running wildly around the room, giving silly answers in silly voices to serious questions, and kicking the children sitting next to them. There was nothing lovable about those children, in my mind.

Today, I’m in awe that she refused to pass judgment on my feelings about that class. She simply nodded and then asked me if I’d be willing to try an experiment. Like the Savior, she accepted me as I was, but then helped me change.

The experiment required me to follow the Savior’s example. He loved those He taught, even if they didn’t deserve it. She challenged me to learn to love my unruly class of preschoolers. She even offered specific assignments to help me learn to do that. I was to write their names on individual sheets of paper in my teaching notebook and fill them with information about each child. With seventeen students, I barely even knew their names, much less a page of personal information about each one. She also asked me to put their names on individual file cards and then to pray a personal prayer for each child daily, using what I had learned to make it truly personal.

She also signed me up for a class that trained teachers, and here, we were introduced to the teaching methods the Savior used. We read the story of the children who came to see the Savior. In pictures, these children are always standing reverently around the Savior, but when I stop to think of them as real children, I realize there was almost certainly a child who ran around the field, or gave silly answers in silly voices to the questions lovingly asked of him by the Savior. He wouldn’t have lost His temper or refused to love that child. What would Jesus have done in my little classroom?

I began to visit the children in their homes, sit with their families in church, and play with them at church parties. My notebook pages filled up and the children stopped being a blur of noise and misbehavior. They became individuals with real feelings and needs. One child needed to learn how to talk. Another needed to overcome a fear of the dark. As my knowledge grew, and I worked harder to teach them the way the Savior would teach them, I found I really did start to love them. Once I loved them, they began to behave reasonably well, because they thrived on my attention and my new pleasure in them.

I started to understand one reason the Savior was able to do everything He did. His love was real and all-inclusive, and when the love is great enough, no miracle is too big to happen. I understood love was the secret behind everything the Savior did in His eternal life.

By Steven O’Dell
I was raised by good parents who cared for their children, seeing to their needs and education in all ways within their means. We were rich in love, if not in money. I attended the occasional church meeting over the years, but not enough to say I was religiously inclined or informed. My grandparents on both sides of the family were worthy of being called saints, if ever there were any. They were God-fearing and -respecting believers. No better people existed than them.

While in high school, I got an interest in attending a church that some friends were affiliated with. It was a local branch of The Church of Christ. I was even baptized by the pastor while I was there. We went on trips as a youth group and had a good time, but there always seemed to be something missing from the experience. It felt like there needed to be more than social gatherings.

Along the way, I fell in with the wrong crowd and began to experiment with marijuana and other so-called ‘recreational’ drugs. Needless to say, my church attendance fell to zero. None of those so-called friends, or even the pastor, came to find out where I had disappeared to. I would have thought that a casual question at school would have been appropriate, but no such thing happened.

By the winter of 1971, I was your typical hippie–involved in drugs, rock and roll music, and sexual immorality. I had been arrested on a misdemeanor for possession of marijuana and was given a year of probation. At heart, I wasn’t a bad person, but just had developed bad habits. I was sensitive to others (as sensitive as you could be when under the occasional influence of drugs, friends with poor habits themselves, and the self-centered philosophies of the sixties). I was not by any means a drug addict, but I was not wise in the choices of what I put into my body or my mind.

After approximately ten times of using LSD, I mentioned to a friend how it no longer seemed to satisfy me and that something was missing from the experience. He suggested that perhaps I was searching for the wrong thing. Just that simple statement. I left the conversation not knowing what I should be looking for but knowing somehow there might be significance in his suggestion.

One night, another friend and I were sharing an LSD experience when it took an amazing turn for both of us. Dan and I were feeling the effects strongly and sitting at the kitchen table in discussion when suddenly we both dropped our jaw in astonishment at a change we were both aware of simultaneously. No longer were we the only ones in the room. The effects of the LSD were totally gone and replaced by something so much more powerful as to defy all description. There was now a superior intelligent presence there with us and we both knew it without a shadow of doubt. We could not see it, nor did we hear it, but it nonetheless communicated with us, spirit to spirit. Our first impulse was great fear, as neither of us had ever felt such a presence. Somehow there was a tangible feeling of overwhelming love and peace that assured us we were in no danger. I can only compare it to the feeling of getting a big hug from someone you love deeply.

For the next several hours, Dan and I experienced an input of intelligence–pure knowledge–that neither of us had known otherwise. Every fifteen minutes, one of us would become the mouthpiece for the Spirit of God and would speak and teach things previously unknown to us. The truly incredible thing is that when the change would come (from one of us being the mouthpiece to the other taking over) it often happened in the middle of a sentence, with no hesitation at all. The other would pick up not only the same thought, but the very same word that was to come next in the sentence. We were literally two mouths sharing the same mind. It was like plugging into the switchboard of Heaven. The Holy Ghost was in control.

As I said, this went on for several hours. We then tried to get some rest, but there was no way to do so, as excited as we were. Again we ended up at the table, teaching each other more that we didn’t know before, but by the Spirit that was now with us. Later, we decided to go for a walk. It was winter evening  in Indiana and snow was on the ground. As we walked, I looked up and stopped dead in my tracks, for in the sky, for the briefest moment, I saw a vision of God on His throne in the Heavens. As I exclaimed this aloud, Dan was stunned to hear it. I also was told by the Spirit that the earth was like a huge crystal and man was defiling it with his wicked ways. This crystal was like a huge Urim and Thummim, the device used by prophets of old to gain insights into the things of God. That the earth itself was such a means was a totally new concept to me, as was another that I got as we walked. I was given the insight that my body was simply a means of travel and a dwelling for my spirit body and my intelligence. I knew without a doubt that I had lived before this world and had been sent here for a purpose that I as yet didn’t understand.

Other things happened that night that were quite remarkable. A favorite music album that we had listened to many times before now took on new meaning. I am a firm believer that God teaches us after the manner of our own understanding, whether it be symbols, mathematics, or music. The LP we had was Fire and Water (definite scriptural symbolism there) by a group called Free. The thought kept coming into my head–”the truth shall set you free.” I had no idea where this came from, as I wasn’t too in tune with the Bible at that time of my life. But the Spirit told us to play this record over and over, specifically one song called “Heavy Load.”

This song had a lumbering, heavy, plodding beat, as if a man was walking with his last available energy, just barely able to drag himself down the road. It told of a man who had taken the wrong turn in his life and was indeed carrying a heavy load, due to his decisions. As the needle hit the first note of the song, both Dan and I felt a tremendously heavy weight press down upon us until we were crushed to the floor and reduced to sobbing and uncontrollable tears. This didn’t end until the last strains of the final note had faded. When the weight lifted from us, we were able to stand and talk again. We were allowed about five minutes’ break and then were moved to listen again, with the same results as before. Many times we were instructed to repeat this sequence. Every time the music began, we were pressed down with the weight of our sins, as I know it to be now.

I had heard the song many times before, but the lyrics were transformed as I listened. What had once been “oh, I’m carrying a heavy load–can’t go no further down; it’s the wrong road” now became “Lord, I’m carrying a heavy load….” Surprisingly, Dan heard no change in the song. We had experienced almost everything in total synchronization. Now we had a major difference.

That night, as we talked between playings of the song, Dan would see shadow figures that would hide in the dark corners when he turned to look at them. It was as if the demons knew he could see them. I could not see them. Perhaps this was not my gift, but his. We went from room to room, turning on lights–desiring light instead of darkness. When we left the rooms, other people living in the house would turn them off and hide in the darkness. They left rooms as we entered. Not that they were sharing the experience in any way, but they seemed to know that there was definitely something highly unusual going on. They just didn’t want any part of it.

I went from being gone a week at a time, my parents not knowing if I was even alive, to being home every night and reading the Bible. My parents knew that something miraculous had taken place, but even when I tried to explain, they really couldn’t comprehend it. And they never asked any questions, which was surprising to me. Perhaps they were just glad I was home and safe.

About six months later, I was the only one home when the missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints came to the door. I would have previously turned them away, but I was now interested in hearing what they had to say. They introduced themselves as Eldersof the church–Elders Atwater and Catmull. And as they taught me the things I had previously learned by the Spirit of God (doctrines uniquely LDS), I became excited because I recognized the teachings and they rang true again in my soul. I think they were surprised to have me so receptive, saying over and over again, “I know! I know!”

At a certain point, I knew I had to ask my parents to listen, too. They had politely said their hellos and left the room during the first discussion or so. I went to get them and told them they had to hear it as well. From then on they sat in and they, too, became convinced it was the truth. Within a month of my baptism, the rest of the family was baptized. Shortly after we began to be taught, Elder Catmull was transferred to a new assignment and Elder Fisher took his place. Fisher/Atwater–another sign to me that this was the Lord’s will.

But an interesting thing happened while my family members were being taught. My sister had been attending another congregation of The Church of Christ and had mentioned that we were studying with the Mormons. Suddenly those who were nowhere to be seen when I was into drugs, having overdoses, and being arrested were coming out of the woodwork to save us from the Mormons.

One night I was visited by the pastor who had baptized me into The Church of Christ. I hadn’t seen him for ages, but here he was. I told him that I was convinced that if the true church was on the earth, it would have the same organization of apostles and prophets, the same gifts of the Spirit, and the same miracles as was in the ancient church. He smiled in an amused way, turned his Bible to the New Testament, and proceeded to show me the points that were connected with the apostles. He then told me that since they were no longer on the earth, the ancient authority was now gone, as well as miracles and powers from God. As he had listed their authorities and powers, he mentioned baptism, which had stood out like a neon light to me. I asked him if he’d had the authority to baptize me and he began to stammer and stutter, trying to find words to explain his way out of it. I couldn’t let him change the subject. And being just green enough to be less than tactful, I asked in no uncertain terms, “Did you have authority to baptize me or not? This is my eternal salvation we are talking about.” He again tried to answer, but could not, so he left and never came back. I have often wondered how he dealt with answering that question for himself.

One night a friend of my dad’s, who worked with him, came with a minister while we were having a session with the missionaries before the baptism of the rest of my family. This minister kept insisting that the Book of Mormon had been changed and was no longer in its original form. I held one out to him and asked him to show me. He backed up as if I was about to hurt him. Again and again he insisted it was changed. When I again held it out and asked for an example, he simply said, “I wouldn’t touch that perverted book.” I have never seen my father move so fast, before or since. He came off the couch at the far end of the room, and I thought he was about to grab the man by the lapels. Instead, he stopped short, directly in front of him and announced in a voice of authority, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you gentlemen to leave.” There was no doubt that he meant it and they complied immediately.

After they left, he paced the floor several times, from one end of the room to the other. When he finally stopped pacing and shaking his head in agitation, he said simply, “There must be something to it or they wouldn’t fight it so hard.” What wonderful insight he had and how true that proved to be.

For all the years since I was baptizeda member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in late 1971, I have made it a mental exercise to find weak points, chinks in the story or doctrines. I have succeed a few times, or so I thought, until the details and answers were provided to me. I then had more evidence of its truthfulness. And year after year, the evidence becomes more and more convincing. However, if I were to rely on that kind of evidence alone, I would be deceiving myself. How I know the truth of it is far more powerful and more convincing. I know it to be true because the Spirit has born witness to my soul that it is true. There is no substitute for the Holy Ghost telling you the truth of a matter. No message goes deeper or lasts longer. All else is just corroborating evidence. It is the personal testimony and witness of the Spirit that is the convincer.

I mentioned that the Lord uses the manner of our own understanding to teach us. He used parables with those who understood them. He used symbolisms to teach those who recognized them. He did the same with me, although many were recognized only later. The apartment where my experience took place was on Smith Street. Joseph Smith was the founder of the Restoration and the first prophet in our day. A few streets from there was Taylor Street. John Taylor was a prophet of the church, as well. The name Fire and Water on the LP was significant, as was the name of the band, Free. The previous LP had been called Tons of Sobs, something that Daniel and I had experienced that night in full detail. Even the names Daniel and Steven are Biblical names, although the spelling of mine is different. The name Daniel means “Judge of God” and Stephen means “Crown.” The Lord established in the mouths of two witnesses that night, just as he promised in scripture that he would, and just as he did with the missionaries he sent to our home. The names of the missionaries, Fisher and Atwater, had Biblical significance and symbolism.

The teaching of a pre-mortal existence, having a body of flesh to carry our immortal spirit, that the earth itself will become a Urim and Thummim and many more, are uniquely LDS teachings. And what impressed me most was that these young men knew the answers. You couldn’t stump them–ever. The gospel as taught by the LDS Church was impeccable in every way. It not only answered every question, but brought up new and deep questions you had never before considered and answered them satisfactorily. And these were not run-of-the-mill questions and answers. They were ones that dealt with the eternal nature of man and God and the relationship they have. The Church answers the questions of where we came from, why we are here, and where we are going after this life. It tells us that we are the children of royal lineage–children of God Himself–and as such, have a greater measure of creation to live up to than we thought. It tells us the nature of this world and why it was created for man.
The true church also provides insight into the ancient church, the Apostasy and falling away, the true knowledge that was available to ancient prophets and much more. Above all, it teaches us that God is not unreachable or untouchable, but is accessible to His children, if they will seek Him out. It tells us of our Father’s intent for us to become just as He is–eternal beings in nature, power and wisdom–and that this is not blasphemy to know it to be so.

My wish for any who read this is that they will give it a chance, listen to the teachings, pray about the truth of them (without any pre-determined biases or prejudices), and allow God to witness unto them the truth of it. If you are sincere, you will know, for the Spirit cannot lie and the peace and warmth you will feel will assure you of the truth. As the men on the road to Emmaus said of Christ, “Did not our heart burn within us?” By this same means will you know of its truth. God bless you to that end and may he bring you into his one true fold.

By Tessa Joy McMillan

As an eight year old, I was extremely excited to have a room of my own. But it was not like other rooms. It was an attic: twenty foot vaulted ceilings, exposed wooden beams, spider webs, protruding nails, hard wood floors, and a column of brick created an exciting atmosphere. But to make my room even more amazing, my dad hung an attic swing from one of the large wooden beams. During severe thunderstorms, I would sit on my swing and move to and fro to the pitter-patter of the rain. Life was good on my swing.

***

It was my freshman year in high school. I loved every minute of it. I had lots of friends, I was getting good grades in all of my classes, and I was to be in the spring play, Winnie The Pooh. Life couldn’t have been better, except for the fact that because I was a member of the LDS church,  I was impatiently waiting to be the big “one six” to start dating. But, all that mattered at the time was what was happening right then and there. The future seemed too far away to worry about. Besides, I was having too much fun in the present to worry about something so distant.

***

I remember back in junior high I came home after an exhausting day of school activities. I ran up the two flights of stairs to find my swing waiting patiently for me. I slid easily into the wooden seat. It always fit me perfectly. Then, I took off! I blasted off into my imagination pretending I was flying over Germany in a WWII dive-bomber or pretending I was a superhero flying through the air to help rescue those in need. But then I realized I was the one in need of rescue. I had reached the height limits of my swing and by pushing it to its peak one of the ropes had broken. I came crashing down with my hands outstretched to catch my fall. But it was too late. I had fallen at such a great height that my hands could not stop me from slamming with terrifying force onto the hard wooden floors. I lay dazed and shocked for a moment. Then pain came into my hands. I had sprained them both. I screamed and cried not only for the pain I was experiencing but for the betrayal of my precious swing. Why did it happen? Why after years of reliable happiness did it betray me? What did I do to deserve this?

***

Monday, April 13, 1998.  Today, everything was going my way. High school was definitely treating me well. My table during lunch was overflowing with friends who all wanted to sit with me. But with the ring of the bell I had to leave that taste of popularity behind to go to my girls’ gym class. I left for the locker room, changed, and came to join my friends in class to see what physical activities were in store for us. Our teacher arrived and gave us the happy news that we were able to do whatever activity we wanted for class. I had an idea and raised my hand to suggest that we should play games on scooters. Scooters are square boards with wheels on them. You sit on top of them and push yourselves on them with your hands. So, we spent the hour pushing ourselves around and laughing at our enjoyment. Class ended and I felt happy the rest of the day because of the fun I had had in gym class.

Wednesday, April 15, 1998. After a long but good day at school, I crashed on my usual spot on the couch to watch a few meaningless hours of television. Yet something seemed different. My fingers seemed uncomfortable holding the remote control. I tried popping my knuckles and fingers to make the discomfort go away. It seemed to work, and I shrugged off the experience.

A few hours later, it was time to go to Mutual at the church. I had to go since my mother was in charge of the activity for the Young Women. We were to tie quilts that night for poor people in the community. So, we left for the church and set up the quilting racks when we got there. Soon the girls arrived and we began to tie quilts. But as I was enjoying myself tying quilts and chatting with the other young women, the discomfort from hours earlier came back; only the discomfort became an unbearable pain. I dropped my needle, which was in the middle of a knot. It was too painful to even hold the large needle between my fingers. I ran from the room afraid I would scream aloud due to the pain.

The only place I could think of to be alone was my mother’s car. I ran to the car and opened the door. But it caused even more pain to lift the car door handle. I bit my lips and fought the screams that tore at my throat. Yet, as I sat in the car and painfully pulled the door shut, I could not fight the tears from gushing out.

I looked down at my hands. They looked like my own hands. I turned them over examining them to see if I had any bruises or deep cuts that caused this horrific pain. But there was nothing to see. They looked normal but they felt alien to me.  It didn’t make sense. Why was this happening to me?

I had hoped the pain would subside after a few hours. But it never did. The pain wouldn’t go away. Friday, I was sent to a neurologist. He didn’t know why I had pain. Monday, I was sent to a rheumatologist. He didn’t know. Wednesday, I went to a hand surgeon. He didn’t know as well. Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months with no answers from anyone in the medical profession. Each doctor didn’t know what I had. So, they would send me along to someone else who might know. But the next doctor never did. Most of my teenage years were spent in doctors’ waiting rooms. My parents wanted to find a cure for this pain and so did I. But I hated feeling as though I were a lab rat that was constantly observed, poked, and prodded by the doctors studying it.

Diagnoses were made, but the next doctor would disagree and another name was placed upon my mysterious pain. It was a hideous cycle. Treatments turned into torture. At one time, I was diagnosed with reflex sympathetic dystrophy (RSD). The treatments for this diagnosis were injections into my neck to slow down the nerve messages of pains that my brain was supposedly sending to my hands. Since the pain was bilateral, I had to have two injections done into two nerves in my neck. My mother would get off work and drive me two hours up to KU Medical Center in Kansas City for early morning treatments. I would change into a hospital gown, be laid down onto an examination table and my neck would be wiped thoroughly with iodine. I tried desperately to ignore looking at the thick three-inch needle that was heading to my neck. Faces covered in operating masks would blur my vision as the needle entered my skin. Yes, I was quite conscious and awake during these treatments. I am not sure how I endured the sting each time the needle entered into my neck. But these treatments never helped. I would come home, with my neck bandaged up, and would have such terrible reactions to the treatments I would need to go to the emergency room. I realized that with these “treatments” more problems were created than were fixed.

My pain that had been only located in both of my hands spread to the rest of my body. Not only was I a teenager who could  not dress or feed myself, there were times when I could not even walk because it was too painful to move. I could only feel pain every single day. Not only could I feel the pain from my physical problems, but also pain from losing my teenage independence. I had to depend solely on my parents to help me function at all.

Pills never worked. They also created more problems than they fixed. At one time I was taking pills to stop continuous migraines I had been having. But my pills made my hair fall out. So, I would stop the medication to stop my hair loss, but the migraines would come back again. Nothing seemed to work out right. When doctors would see what medications I was on or had taken, they jokingly nicknamed me the “walking pharmacy.” I didn’t share in their humor and began to wonder if there was any hope for finding a cure.

While in the midst of searching for answers, my lovely social life was gone. My friends who had been around were no longer to be seen nor heard from. I was in too much pain to do anything. School was out of the question. I could barely hold a pencil without tears of pain coming to my eyes. The friends I had would only see me for my disability. I was deformed and changed in their eyes. I was quickly dismissed from interacting with them because I was “different.” Once when I was feeling well enough I came to visit my high school for an hour. I was walking down the hall when one of my former friends saw me. His jaw dropped and his eyes bulged out as I walked up to him.

“Hey Maurice.  How are you doing?” I asked.

He still looked at me with that look of shock and disbelief.

“What’s the matter Maurice? Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked. I started to walk towards him, but he slowly backed away. “Maurice?”

He finally snapped out of it and said, “I thought you were dead.”

“What?” I yelled.

He continued, “There’s a rumor going around school about you. People have been saying you were at home dying.”

I just stared at him for a long time with my mouth gaping open. I finally turned around to leave him standing there. I couldn’t believe people were spreading that kind of rumor about me.

It was awful to think that my former friends who had been so close to me before hadn’t even stopped by to confirm this rumor. It looked as though no one outside of my family even cared about me anymore. I was alone, fighting an unknown enemy within. I kept wondering if there would ever be a time of peace in my life.

One day I couldn’t take it anymore. I had had enough and I broke down. After another useless day of lying in my bed in pain, I found myself sitting on the floor tucked into a corner of my room. My arms were clutching my legs to my chest as tight as I possibly could. I was in a daze as I began rocking back and forth in my corner. All I could think about was how much of a burden I was to my family and what a burden the pain was for me. I wanted to end it all. Death seemed so peaceful and inviting after a year of being in constant pain. I began to sob thinking that my life had to end like this. But my thoughts were interrupted when my parents walked into my room.

“Tessa!” they gasped. “What are you doing? What’s wrong sweety?”  Frantically, they ran to my side but stopped a foot away from my rocking frame. Apparently, I was mumbling the phrase, “I want to die.  I want to die.  I want to die,” over and over again. They watched horrified as I rocked and sobbed on the floor. They tried to calm me down and make me take my mind off of wanting to end it all. They even tried calling more doctors to understand why I was acting this way. Didn’t they realize I didn’t want them to suffer anymore on my account?

Somehow through their coaxing, I finally snapped out of it. My parents got me off of the floor and placed me back onto my bed to rest and relax. I asked them to bring my CD player over so I could listen to some music to calm my nerves. They did and pressed “play” for me. The song Ordinary World by Duran Duran came on. I had listened to that song many times before, but the lyrics of that song awoke a new hope I had thought was gone forever. These were the lyrics I heard:

What is happening to it all?

Crazy some say.

Where is the life that I recognize?

Gone away.

But I won’t cry for yesterday.

There’s an ordinary world somehow I have to find.

And as I try to make my way to the ordinary world,

I will learn to survive…

What is happening to me?

Crazy some say.

Where is my friend when I need you most?

Gone away…

And I don’t cry for yesterday.

There’s an ordinary world somehow I have to find.

And as I try to make my way to the ordinary world,

I will learn to survive.

Any world is my world.

Every world is my world.

There was hope for me. I realized my “ordinary” life was gone. I had lost it. But that didn’t mean I had lost a life worth living. I could never be the person I was ever again, but I had hope. I had hope in a future world I was soon to create for myself.

From that point on, I had a chance to live. Of course I still had pain, but I worked through it. I was able to graduate from high school with several college scholarships. I attended a community college and worked hard to have a 4.0 G.P.A. My efforts paid off when after a year and a half attendance, I applied to Brigham Young University. I was readily accepted and was offered a full tuition scholarship. I later moved to BYU and was able to get back the social life I had once thought was lost to me.

After attending BYU for several years, I was able to find a man who could love me despite my pain. He was the first man who was not scared away by my disability. He stayed by my side to comfort me while my body was crippled with uncontrollable pain. After three months of dating he proposed to me. He also took on my goal to help create our own “ordinary world” together and to give me hope when others doubted my abilities. Four months later, we were married and sealed together for eternity in the Nauvoo temple.

After over nine years of being in pain, no answers were ever found. But I still live my life with hope that someday I will be back in that “ordinary” world again.

Someone once said, “It takes courage to grow up and turn out to be who you really are.” I truly believe that. It took a lot of courage to realize I would never be that young freshman girl ever again. But I accepted it and ended up creating a new future for myself.  I have “learn[ed] to survive.” Because “any world is my world, every world is my world.”

First original copy published in Segullah 2008 Summer edition (segullah.org).

Scott Livingston

It was a cold February morning when my wife, Kristina, and newborn, Cameron Van, set out through Logan Canyon on the 40 mile drive from our home in Bear Lake to the hospital to get Cameron’s bilirubin level tested. We arrived safely in Logan on time and checked in with the receptionist. They called us in, gave Cameron a small poke on his heel and the nurse sent us on our way, saying they would call us at home with the results. This had become a daily routine since Cameron’s birth a week earlier. He was born with high bilirubin levels and the doctor wanted to monitor it until he was confident that Cameron’s body would take control.

After a few errands in Logan, milk, eggs, prescriptions, etc., we began our trek through Logan Canyon. As usual the road was covered in snow and ice but we had become used to it as we drove the canyon everyday the previous week. Kristina and I were concerned about the canyon before Cameron’s birth. We were worried that when the time came the canyon would be closed and we would have to deliver the baby at home, or worse in a Suburban stuck in the snow somewhere in the canyon. But after a scheduled induction a week early to take advantage of the good weather, a relatively easy delivery, and short recovery, we had shelved our concerns. It was a sunny drive back home but as we pulled into the Garden City the weather began to turn.

After getting the kids back in the house and beginning preparations for dinner, Kristina received a call from the doctor. He explained that Cameron’s bilirubin levels had shot up to dangerous levels and prescribed bili lights for Cameron. He asked if we were still in Logan so we could come back to the hospital. He expressed great concern when Kristina told him that we were already in Bear Lake and asked if we could bring Cameron back. The weather had really gotten bad and they decided that it was best to find another option. The doctor told her that Cameron really should be in the hospital but due to the weather and deteriorating road conditions it would be best if we could somehow get some lights to Cameron, wait out the storm, and then take him in when it was safe. The doctor said he would try to arrange for home hospice to deliver the lights but was concerned it was getting too late for deliveries since the home hospice closed soon. Kristina agreed to call around Bear Lake to see if anyone had some by chance.

When I learned of this I took it lightly to say the least. I made jokes about being stranded and having to make our own lights with duct tape and chicken wire like MacGyver. I really didn’t realize the severity of the situation and wandered around the house making jokes with the kids for a good half-hour while Kristina worked the phone.

Being an adventure seeker I joked with Kristina about hiking or snowmobiling over the canyon in the blizzard, giving me the opportunity to play “arctic explorer” or “Himalayan expedition” like I had fantasized about as a young scout when we used to dig snow caves on the Klondike derby. As a young adult when I began snowmobiling in the backcountry, I always had an appetite for the extreme. I have crossed mountains in blizzards, dug in and spent the night atop mountain peaks, raced through tight timbered forests in the middle of the night at near 80 miles per hour and was always hungry for more.

I had acquired the best gear money could buy and daydreamed like a child in math class of how I would get myself out of a terrible blizzard after a severe crash,  returning safely to thousands of screaming fans. I carried a great deal of pride that in all my days snowmobiling, Jeeping, motorcycling, and canyoneering, I have never left anyone or any vehicle behind and never had to call for help. I was always able to MacGyver my way out. Even the time that I found myself in a one way slot canyon without a rope at the top of a 60 foot cliff after 11 miles of extreme DCing(a climbing term for squeezing your body through a vertical crack to go up or down) with seemingly no way out, I made it out. It required throwing all my gear off the 60 foot cliff and climbing back up, what the guidebook said couldn’t be done, and hike 35 miles in the middle of the night to my mangled pack at the bottom of the cliff and spent a few hours sleeping in the crevasse before hiking out in the morning.

And there was the time I used electrical tape to reattach a driveline to an old blazer on one of Moab’s toughest 4×4 trails and drove it out on it’s own power. I had this appetite for extreme sports but I would find myself hoping that something would go terribly wrong just to have the challenge of getting out.

Kristina got another call from the doctor and explained to him that she was unable to find any bili lights in town; he told her that he had already made arrangements with the home hospice and they were on their way. For a few moments we presumed that everything was going to be fine until the next call came. It was the home hospice delivery guy calling to say that he was stopped at the bottom of the canyon; the highway Patrol had closed it due to the raging storm. He asked if it would be all right if he came the next morning. Kristina said that was fine with her but that she would call the doctor just to be sure.

The reaction from the doctor couldn’t have been worse; he told her that Cameron’s levels were so high that if he didn’t get on lights soon, he would not survive until morning. The doctor called the home hospice in both Montpelier, Idaho and Evanston, Wyoming and got them both on their way at the same time. We figured that one of them would surely make it as the roads from both directions were relatively flat and the bulk of the storm was west in the mountains.

We hunkered down at home feeling assured that we had good people taking care of our needs. In the next few minutes things really took a turn for the worse. Within minutes of each other, we received the news that both highways were closed and they were not able to get through. This was when things got serious. I did not believe either one of them; after all it wasn’t even snowing at our house. After a lousy attempt at calming down Kristina, we decided that I would go out and try driving to Montpelier because it was closest. Kristina called the home hospice and requested that he wait at the road block for us to meet him. He agreed even though this potentially meant he would be sitting all night.

I set out North in my white Suburban to check out the road and see just how bad it was. It was bad. I called the Montpelier sheriff’s office and explained my situation to dispatch and asked permission to go through. The dispatch woman told me there was no way I would make it. She explained that two troopers had gotten stuck trying to rescue stranded motorists just 4 miles out of town. The wind was so strong that although it hadn’t started snowing yet, 4 foot high drifts had piled up all over the roads. The plows were ineffective since the drivers couldn’t see and the drifts piled up too fast. Visibility was at zero and she advised me to turn back now before they had to rescue me too. I told her that I had to try and I wouldn’t expect a rescue; I hung up the phone and figured I would go as far as I could until I could come up with a better plan. I knew that driving was a futile effort but doing nothing was not an option.

The wind was so severe that the Suburban shook side-to-side and I could hardly see past the hood. The snowdrifts were so high that I decided to turn back, making it no more than a few miles. I called dispatch back and asked if (or told her that) I was going back home to get my snowmobile and was coming though. I gave her my description and asked that she radio to all officers in the area to ask that they not try and stop me. She strongly objected to my request and said that there was no visibility and I would surely get lost. In my most confident voice I told her again that I was coming through.

She agreed to heed my request and radio the officers. This was when the adrenaline stated to kick in. I called Kristina and calmly told her what I was going to do and that I needed to talk to Miranda (our 14 year old). When Miranda got on the phone I directed her to go to the basement and get my gear. What I needed was neatly organized on the shelf. She had everything at the front door when I got there.

This was when I started to panic: the thought of being out in that storm frightened me, and going 40 miles each way was a daunting task. I wasn’t even sure if I could go that far on a single tank of gas. This is when I stopped, bowed my head, and prayed for help. I asked my Heavenly Father if this was the right thing to do. I felt a small comfort and the panic attack subsided. I backed into the driveway and hitched up my enclosed trailer. The work involved in hitching up the trailer also calmed me.

I went in the house. Miranda had everything ready exactly how I had asked. I threw my gear on, told Kristina not to worry, and headed out. The gas tank in the snowmobile was full. It was usually stored full to save time on a good-powder day. I jumped in the Suburban and pulled out of the driveway. Having the trailer on made it difficult to drive in the deep snow but I felt inclined to drive the Suburban as far as I could out of fear of having to be out in the storm.

I received a phone call from dispatch; two paramedics in a 4-wheel drive ambulance had volunteered to bring the lights. They had met the hospice guy at the roadblock, picked up the lights, and headed my way. Eight miles south of Montpelier they became stuck and radioed in their location. I told her to tell them to keep their flashing lights on and I would find them. I asked her to give them thanks for going above and beyond their duties. She wished me luck and hung up.

This was when the real fear set in. My heart began pounding, I had to think of little Cameron; I was his only chance he had. I had to stay focused on what I had to do. The drifts were getting higher and longer so that when I hit one the floorboards would drag and as I reached the other side the trailer would drag even harder. I had to floor it just to get it out.

I wondered when I should park and unload the snowmobile; this was when I really began to pray. I knew I had to drive as far as possible so I would have enough gas to make it on the snowmobile. I prayed aloud in the Suburban, “Help me Heavenly Father. Please show me where to stop. Guide me Heavenly Father. Please show me the way. In the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.”

And again, and again, I prayed. Soon realized that the short prayers weren’t working for I had a stupor of thought between them. I remembered something I learned a year before when preparing a talk for sacrament meeting that we should wait for an answer before closing our prayers. So I tried again with a long pause and tried to listen for a still small voice to say, at the stop sign or at the next corner, but no answer came. I began to get emotional and begged for guidance.

What became an emotional tirade eventually turned into repetition of the same sentence, “lead me, guide me, help me find the way”. I had been repeating this for some time when I realized what it was; it was the primary song “I am a Child of God”. I felt a surge of energy and began singing the whole song out loud. The act of negotiating each snowdrift became routine; I kept up the speed to provide momentum to blast through each bump. I felt thankful for the years I had spent as a 4×4 enthusiast which had prepared me for this moment. “Lead me, guide me, walk beside me, help me find the way. Teach me all that I must do to live with him some day.” At that moment I needed to keep going.

I had made it farther than I thought and rolled into the town of St. Charles. The wind was getting worse and the visibility was so bad that I rolled my window down and had to look at the ground beside me. “Lead me, guide me, walk beside me, help me find the way.” Just then a clearing in the storm revealed the blinking yellow light of a road grader and the St. Charles chapel.

I was overwhelmed by the spirit and knew that this was my answer. The large building served as a wind break, and the dutiful man that was running that grader to clear the snow for the next days services had cleared a wide enough place in the road for me to slow down, turn around and park without getting stuck. When I got out of the Suburban I was amazed at how calm it was, I knew that Heavenly Father had heard me and had provided me with a literal calm in the storm to make the transition to snowmobile. A surge of confidence came over me for I knew that God was with me. I hurried into my helmet and gloves, fired up the 800cc monster and shot off down the snowdrift-covered highway.

It wasn’t 100 feet when I hit a drift 6 feet high and at least 60 feet across, which surely would have buried the Suburban. As I passed the outskirts of town the visibility worsened so I couldn’t even see the hood. I had to lean off the right side to barely see the ground. The wind blew sideways at a good 60 mph with gusts of at least 80mph maybe more. What I assumed was the highway was nothing but drifts. The only way I knew I was on the road was by occasionally making out the squared edge left by a plow from a previous storm.

Although I had on 2 layers of Performance Fleece,  Under Armour base and a full Gore-Tex shell the wind blew right through to my skin. Snow began to build up between the sealed lenses of my top of the line helmet. Every breath was like inhaling desert sand until it melted at the back of my throat. I continued to sing aloud in my helmet because I knew that if I didn’t keep the spirit with me I would be lost and I had a long way to go.

After what seemed like an hour I could make out a small light straight ahead of me. I worried for a moment that I was off course out in some field and just happened to be headed straight for a house. A car maybe, no there’s only one light. It couldn’t be the ambulance because I guessed had another ten miles to go before even getting close. As I got closer I saw a snowmobile right in the middle of the road facing me blocked from the wind by some kind of building. I slowed down to check it out. As I was about to pass I saw a person out of the corner of my eye waving their arms. I stopped and 4 more people emerged out of the darkness.

I opened my helmet and asked “Who are you?”

A woman’s voice replied, “I have the lights”. I was ecstatic, I jumped off my snowmobile and hugged every one of them and thanked them for bringing the lights. They were a group of firemen, paramedics, and search and rescue persons that had heard what was happening on the police scanner and organized a small party to retrieve the lights from the ambulance and find me somewhere as they made their way back to rescue the two paramedics in the ambulance as well as the stranded motorists and 2 troopers. These five were angels sent to lessen my burden.

I quickly jumped back on my snowmobile and took off again back home. I was thinking, halfway, all I have to do is follow my tracks back to the Suburban and I’m home free. Wrong. My tracks were gone after the first hundred feet and it was even harder to see as my lens was nearly packed full of snow. I kept singing,  ”lead me, guide me, walk beside me, help me find the way.” I couldn’t see a thing; it was pure white darkness. All I could see was the inside of my helmet. I stayed focused on controlling the throttle up and down as I felt each drift go under me. I found the Suburban in that surreal calm in the storm loaded up and headed for home. Bucking the drifts was a bit easier going back even though all evidence of my first pass was gone. Anything seemed easy after those 20 long miles on the snowmobile.

I arrived home and immediately went to work getting Cameron on the lights. As soon as we got them working Kristina called the doctor and told him the good news. He seemed relieved but instructed us to get him to the hospital as soon as the storm broke and the roads reopened. I called dispatch and declared mission accomplished and thanked her for all her help. She agreed to forward my thanks on to the others involved.

The next morning the storm had broke and the canyon opened. We loaded Cameron up and got him in to the hospital. Cameron spent two days in what looked like a tanning bed with two large spot lights shining on him. He had to wear a special mask to protect his eyes from the intense light therapy. He was released and is doing well other than his pooping, crying, and slobbering all over but we love him anyway.

We just celebrated Cameron’s first birthday and I look back at that eventful storm and give thanks to Heavenly Father who walked beside me that night and showed me the way. I know that I could not have done it alone, there was just no way. In times of desperation when we feel like our prayers aren’t being heard we just need to hang in there, maybe sing a little, and trust that God has a plan for us. I remembered all the experiences I have had (the broken driveline, stuck in a slot canyon, etc.) and realize that God was teaching me and preparing me to raise my family. All of us will have different storms and how we deal with them and who we turn to for help will determine how well we make it through.

We are all in an economic storm that has put a lot of us into a panic, despair, and loss of ambition. Now, more than ever we need to put our trust in the Lord and be patient for He will provide us a calm in the storm and prepare us for the next leg of our journey. He has a plan for each of us but we need to be listening so we don’t miss it. My faith was strengthened by this experience and I hope that by sharing it, yours will be too.

by Kristin

I don’t remember my mom.  Sometimes I’ll catch the smell of Channel No. 5 and my brain takes me back – way back – and I can see fuzzy shadows of people I knew then but I just can’t find her face.  I know she made juice popsicles in ice trays with toothpicks.  I also remember the really ugly sheets she must have bought for my bed (they were so seventies . . .).  I remember with crystal clarity the day my sweet Uncle Fred pulled up outside my Grandma and Grandpa’s house and said something friendly to me before he went inside.  I was eating a carrot.  A few minutes later I was invited in, too, and he told me mom was dead.  She had died in a car accident on her way to get me and my sister.  I was only four, but I immediately knew we needed to pray. I don’t know what we prayed for – as if there was anything that could help – but the adults there knelt with me and prayed.  I don’t know how I knew it was time to pray.  Mom must have taught me that somewhere along the way.

Thank goodness for Grandma.  I loved her so much.  I know it was because she loved me fiercely.  I can feel her love today, yesterday, whenever I want it, and she is there.  She mothered me after mom died because Dad just couldn’t do it.  He was so sad; all he could do was drink.  I prayed hard again the night my Dad came and took me from Grandma.  She was in the hospital and didn’t know he had come.  She never would have let us go if she had known.  She would have taken us and hidden us like she had many times before.  I prayed in the car while I cried.  That’s when I started to wonder if anyone was listening.

My sister and I had developed a game out of watching for Dad’s headlights coming down the long road to our house.  We would run to bed and pretend we were asleep because it was always so very late when he would come home – kids should be in bed asleep at that time of night, but we never were.  I prayed really hard when he would come home that he would just go to sleep and not call me or my sister out of bed.  Sometimes that prayer was answered, but mostly not.  Maybe it was answered when the police came and picked me up from school to take me to some stranger’s house to stay for a while.  It seemed the answer came way too late.

When I was a teenager and lived with my Uncle and his family, well-meaning people at church would tell me that trials would make me strong and someday I would see that I was being blessed, that God had a great plan for me.  I would nod and smile.  Really???  As I got older, my silent and cynical reply was “Yeah, I feel really badly for all you sorry saps with a mom and a dad and a real family.  You must feel robbed that you don’t get to have all the ‘blessings’ I have.”  By that time I knew God had a plan for me and was most surely in charge.  Frankly, I didn’t really trust His judgement.

Once I got married and had kids I knew I needed to play the role.  I tried to put my doubts away for a while and just do my duty. I even had some good experiences along the way.  I was trying to do what I knew I ought to, even though my heart was crusty hard.  I didn’t know it, but all those unanswered prayers I had said as a kid were still waiting for me.  Maybe the Lord was just keeping them safe for me for a while until I was ready to hear the answers. He was patient even though I wasn’t.  He loved me even though I was angry at Him.  It felt great one day when someone I trusted told me that I should tell God how I hurt and ask Him why He abandoned me.  So I prayed again.  And the answers came.  Slowly.

I didn’t think my Dad deserved forgiveness.  People who live like he did and hurt people like he did are monsters who can’t possibly be good enough to make up for the dirt.  That’s what I thought.  So when he got baptized, I watched and waited for him to blow it again.  And I was hurt.  Hurt that he became a church member in good standing.  I felt like the Lord had betrayed me yet again.

It erased me.

My pain and anguish didn’t seem to matter to God at all.  Why did HE get to repent?  I guess I thought the Savior needed my permission to forgive him.

I knew I needed to do something to be at peace with my relationship with my dad and my God.  I called trusted clergy for support and guidance.  He agreed I needed to make a call, that this needed to be resolved.  One day my dad would stand at the bar of God and be judged for this and I had an opportunity and responsibility to help him complete the repentance process.

It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.  I sat on my bed and breathed hard.  As I reached for the phone, it was as if I were pushing my way through quicksand. When he answered the phone I warned him that this would be a bombshell.  Then I unloaded.  I had a laundry list of grievances that ran from kidnapping to neglect and abuse.  I wanted to make sure I covered all the bases because I didn’t want to ever have to do this again.  So he was quiet while I choked and talked through my tears.  It was a miracle that I said what I did,  because in my family, no one says anything like that.  The greater miracle was his response:  “I am so sorry.  I could never possibly do anything to make up for what I have done.  I am not worthy of forgiveness.  I’ve been told that at some point I need to stop looking back and start looking forward, but I just can’t.”  I knew why he couldn’t look forward: While he had confessed all that he recalled of injury and abuse in the past, he still had unfinished business with me and many more like me that were still hurting.  I was blessed that I was able to help him resolve some of that.

By the end of the conversation I felt nothing but compassion and love for my dad. It was absolutely a gift of the spirit because it was so beyond what my human heart was capable of doing.  I told him that if I forgave him and loved him and if I could do that, he could do that for himself.

In the days that followed, I could think of nothing else.  My husband called me ‘The Dragon Slayer.’  I appreciated that he knew how hard that was.  My family was amazed and so glad that someone had finally done what we all had wanted to do for so long.  I tried in my mind to reconcile the man my dad once was to the man he is today.  I couldn’t.  The man who was my dad when I was young is dead.  The dad I have now talks differently, acts differently, even wears different clothes.  He is reborn.

I had always thought that since I had always tried to do the right thing that I was somehow more worthy of the blessings of the Atonement than my dad.  Even though I had always been taught that we could be washed clean by the Savior’s blood, I knew for sure that my dad’s garments were so filthy, he could never be clean.  So I felt cheated that he could inherit the same blessing I could.  I was reminded of the parable the Savior taught about the laborers who each served the Lord in his vineyard for different periods of time but were all given the same wage at the end of the day.  I was like the laborer who had worked since morning and felt it was unfair that the one who had worked only since the eleventh hour got the same reward.  I needed to know what the Lord had to say about that. In the 20th chapter of Matthew, the Lord spoke to me when he said in verses 13 – 15, ” Friend, I do thee no wrong;  didst not thou agree with me for a penny?  Take that thine is, and go thy way;  I will give unto this last, even as unto thee.  Is it not lawful for me to do what I will with mine own?  Is thine eye evil, because I am good?”

With that verse I was given the final piece I needed to this puzzle.  In the world’s eyes – in my eyes – when I put my deeds and my dad’s deeds on the scale of righteousness, the balance was not equal.  But when we put that scale in the Savior’s hands,  we are the same.  I always envisioned that I would have a day with my dad where I would get my say and I would be vindicated, but it turned out so differently than I thought.  Instead of using my self-righteousness to condemn him, his humility and love humbled me beyond anything I could have ever imagined.

The truth is that neither one of us merits the Savior’s love and Atonement. Yet he gives it freely.  “Is it not lawful for me to do what I will with mine own?”  is the question he asks us because it is HIS gift to give to us all.  Our human hearts and minds can not possibly comprehend the breadth with which the Atonement cleanses us.  Nor do we fully understand how sinful and hopeless and fallen we are without Him.  I often look upon others with a yardstick in each hand, measuring and weighing my way through this life – using others’ weaknesses to justify my own.

I need His blood every drop as much as my dad does.

So here was the answer to my many, many prayers.  The answer wasn’t to save me from pain and sorrow.  It was to show me the miracle and grace of the Atonement so that I could turn to the Savior and have hope in the reality of my eventual sanctification through His blood.  I wouldn’t trade that answer for anything.

So maybe He was listening after all.

Keith Brown

In Jeremiah 29:11-13 we read these words:

For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end. Then shall ye call upon me, and ye shall go and pray unto me, and I will hearken unto you. And ye shall seek me, and find me, when ye shall search for me with all your heart.

On March 10, just a a few short days from now, I will celebrate eleven years as a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I actually began investigating the Church in late 1980. I had seen several television commercials about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and each one normally ended with how one could obtain a free copy of the Book of Mormon.

I have always had a love for books and was always on the watch for any new book of interest that I might be able to add to my small library. Having no knowledge of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and having never heard of or seen a copy of the Book of Mormon, I thought that this might be an interesting addition to my library, and besides it was at the right price–free! What I later found out is that the commercials failed to mention one minor detail.  Nothing that I can recall was ever mentioned about the fact that two young men, riding bicycles, dressed in suits would personally deliver the free Book of Mormon. I later learned that these young men were missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

The day the missionaries arrived at my parents’ home where I was then living, I invited them in and had a brief conversation with them. I found that some of what they had to say was of some interest to me.  I invited them to return again in a few days when I had more time to sit and talk with them and continue with our conversation. Time went on and after having met with the Mormon elders or missionaries for about 5 months, I decided to leave home and join the United States Navy in March 1981. I thanked the missionaries for taking the time to visit me and teach me about what The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints believes and teaches, and promised that I would continue to investigate the Church and its teachings at a later time. At that time, I had only read a few passages from the Book of Mormon and though I had found what I read to be of great interest, I placed the book on the shelf in my library thinking that it would make a good reference book. I thought that perhaps I would return to read its pages some day.

Moving forward now in time, I found myself in San Diego, California where I attended basic training, my first “A” school in electronics, and was eventually assigned to my first ship, the U.S.S. Jouett CG 29. One day while on liberty from the ship, I came across a small bookstore. Being a lover of books, I decided to go in and take a look around to see if I might find anything of interest. I did not realize at first that it was an LDS bookstore, but it didn’t take long to figure out. I distinctly remember on that visit I purchased several things to include another copy of the Book of Mormon and a set of conference tapes. I would love to tell you that I went back to the ship and spent time listening to the conference messages and reading the Book of Mormon, but that is not the case. In fact, I tucked the tapes and the Book of Mormon neatly away thinking that I would get back to those some day.

In addition to the conference tapes and the Book of Mormon, I bought several other books. The title of one of the books particularly caught my attention that day for whatever reason. The title of the book is “In The Lord’s Due Time.”  I still have that book in my personal library. I did not at that time stop to notice who the book was written by or even what the book was about. I would later come to realize that the book was written by a Black Brother of the Church by the name of Joseph Freeman. Brother Joseph Freeman was the first Black to receive the Priesthood following the 1978 Revelation. I thought that was interesting and wondered what was meant by receiving the Priesthood and what exactly a revelation is. Like the other materials that I purchased that day, I put the book away intending to further research the matter at a later time.

As years went on, I decided to begin studying for the ministry. The Baptist church that I was attending while stationed in Norfolk Virginia had its own Bible College, so I enrolled and began preparing to one day become a Baptist minister. During my course of studies I heard, read, and learned many negative things about the Mormon Church and why one should not join it. I became very well acquainted with anti-Mormon materials through media resources such as video tapes, cassette tapes, newspapers, magazines and the like. For a time, I even communicated through letters with people who had at one time been members of the Church and for one reason or another had left the Church. Though I will admit that some of the negativity sounded interesting, I could not believe that the Mormon Church was as bad as some folks where proclaiming it to be. I reflected upon the things that the missionaries and I had discussed in earlier years and came to the conclusion that there had to be more to the story and that there had to be some evidence of truth in what the missionaries had taught me. In short, I determined in my mind that I would seek after the truth and ignore all of the negativity.

Let us move forward in time once again. The year is now 1997, and I found myself stationed at a NATO command in Keflavik Iceland. One day, as I was surfing the Internet in my room, I decided to do a search on the Mormon Church out of curiosity just to see what I might find. I found a link for the Church News and decided to check it out. I later found an email address and decided to send an email to the newspaper inquiring as to the cost of sending a subscription to the newspaper to an overseas location. I received an email back from one of the editors of the newspaper at that time whose name was Doug Osborn. In his email he inquired as to what I was doing in Iceland and what my interest was in the Mormon Church. I sent an email back stating that I was serving in the United States Navy and that I was merely interested in reading about what was going on in the Mormon Church at that time. He emailed me in response and said that he thought that was interesting, and then he added, “Please do not be upset with me, and I hope you do not mind, but I have contacted the local missionaries in your area and have asked them to contact you”.

Partially thinking that I was on a secure NATO base and that the chances of the missionaries being able to locate me was slim to none, I wrote back stating that would be fine. A few days later my telephone rang. I answered the phone and who do you suppose was on the other end of the line? You guessed it, a missionary from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My first question was regarding how he obtained my telephone number. He replied that it was really quite easy, “I just called the operator and she gave it to me.” My thoughts were, “Well so much for security!” I gave them my address and invited them over.

To make a long story short, I met with several groups of missionaries over the course of about a year. We had many wonderful conversations and discussions about The Bible and the Book of Mormon. At times they were asking me where I found certain xcriptures and would make notes of them. At other times they would call me and tell me that they found another investigator that was also Baptist; they asked how I would handle answering certain questions that their investigator had. It became a great teaching and learning experience for each of us.

Finally, in January 1998, I told the missionaries that I appreciated everything that they had taught me and that I would not make a final decision about being baptized until after I had read the Book of Mormon, the Doctrine and Covenants and the Pearl of Great Price in their entirety. I believe that the Lord had a hand in that as well as I believe that I was inspired to develop a 40-day reading schedule to complete all of the reading. For the very first time, a little over 17 years after my initial investigation of the Church, and for 40 consecutive days prior to my baptism, I read the Book of Mormon in its entirety, followed by the Doctrine and Covenants, and the Pearl of Great Price each in their entirety.

Having completed all of the reading, I returned to Moroni’s promise as recorded in the Book of Mormon in Moroni 10: 3-5:

Behold, I would exhort you that when ye shall read these things, if it be wisdom in God that ye should read them, that ye would remember how merciful the Lord hath been unto the children of men, from the creation of Adam even down until the time that ye shall receive these things, and ponder it in your hearts. And when ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost. And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things.

After reading those words I knelt beside my bed and asked the Lord to let me know if these things were indeed true. I received my answer, called the missionaries and on the evening of Tuesday, March 10, 1998, I was baptized and became a member of the Lord’s true Church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The rest, as they say, is history with all things being fulfilled and accomplished according to the Lord’s plans and in His due time.

The Garden Tomb in Jerusalem was found not long ago. It is located right across the street from Golgotha, the place of the skull. The skull is clearly visible in the side of the hill today. My guide said that Romans always crucified at street level so passersby would have to look into the eyes of those crucified, see their suffering, and be less likely to commit a crime that warranted that fate. So it
is most likely that Jesus was not crucified at the top of the hill as goes the hymn and common belief, but at street level which today is quite a bit lower than is visible.

A part of the garden overlooks Golgotha across a narrow street, a place where tour buses park today. There is posted an old photo that shows the bottom of the skull more prominently, but it takes no imagination to see the eyes and nose of a skull today, small caves in the side of the rock hill.

Scriptures reveal that one had to “stoop” to get into the tomb where the body of Jesus was laid. Today you can walk right into it. But look closely at the lower sides of the entry opening and you will see that they are smooth up to the height of the nearby round stone, and rough carved above that ‘stooping’ height.

Near to the tomb’s entry is a round stone, smaller than I had envisioned, about three feet high if that, but thick and very heavy. There is a slot beneath the tomb’s entry where such a stone could have been placed and rolled back or forth to get into the tomb. The stone that is there today was found at a nearby tomb. You would have to stoop to get into a hole covered by that stone.

Jewish tombs near Jerusalem in those days were three connecting rooms. The one entered into is where the family mourned (except on Saturday Sabbath.) There is a room where the body was laid, and another, all adjoining with no walls, where the “bone box” was placed.
After the flesh was decayed the bones would be put in the bone box so the tomb could be used again, perhaps many times.

At this tomb, tourists line up and walk in a circle around the mourning room only, snapping photos as they go, dozens or even hundreds of people in line behind. Steel bars block entrance into the other two rooms but they are easily seen into.

My guide told me that Roman soldiers had to be at least 5 feet seven inches tall to qualify for service in Jerusalem and area because the average height (if I remember correctly) of the Jews in those days was 5 feet five inches. Roman rulers wanted their soldiers to tower over the Jews. My guide said that Jesus was known to be taller than the Roman soldiers.

The place where the body is laid is carved in rock sort of like a raised bed, with one end being raised higher like a pillow to place the head of the body on. In this particular tomb at the place where the feet would have been laid, a notch has been carved into the rock. The notch would allow to be laid uncurled a body that was six feet two inches tall!

Folk lore? Maybe, but I saw the notch for myself. And when I went back a second time and found nobody there I entered the tomb with my wife and one other woman from my tour group. While we were inside someone closed the door to the tomb.

There I was, an American almost alone in a foreign land. Not far from where I was, tanks were rolling into the Gaza Strip and people were dying. Overhead, warplanes were frequently heard that day over Jerusalem, headed for Gaza. Everywhere there were people, male and female, some in uniform some not, carrying loaded rifles and automatic weapons. I had already witnessed a gun battle.

And I was shut inside a tomb!

Can you imagine what I felt?

No, I don’t think you can.

I felt warm, I felt safe, I felt comfortable as I pressed my back
into the rough stone;  it seemed to yield to my weight. I wanted to
never leave, ever!

It was not long before the Spirit of God fell upon me so powerfully that I will bear undeniable witness for the rest of my life that the Garden Tomb in Jerusalem is the place of the first Resurrection!

On the door to the Garden Tomb is a sign that reads:

“He is not here for He is risen.”

Yes, He is risen.

And I also know that He visits Jerusalem sometimes…

This is a true story. I lived it myself, it happened to me a few weeks ago as I write this, in the Spring of 2008. It could have happened to you.

If it inspires you to greater service to your Lord and Redeemer, a more powerful testimony that He lives, and a greater love for the rest of us who share your turn on earth, feel free to share this story and link to Christ.org with your friends of all faiths.

Jesus IS risen!