Gospel Story Finder

I was born on a little dry farm in northern Utah in 1934. By the time the doctor drove the thirteen miles from Logan to our house, I had already arrived.
I was born blue because I wasn’t breathing right. The connection between my heart and lungs was not very good, and doctors told my parents that I would have serious health problems. My family prayed hard that I would be healthy, and none of the things the doctors predicted happened. In fact, I was six feet tall by the time I was thirteen! I know that this was a blessing from Heavenly Father.

One of my earliest recollections happened when I was about four years of age. Several blocks from our home was a little wooden grocery store. In the front of the store windows the proprietor had built a ledge about four inches wide, where at this time of the year he placed big juicy apples to attract those passing by. As I walked by the front of the store, I saw those beautiful red apples, and my mouth began to water. Without realizing what I was doing, I took one and continued walking up the street.

When I got a short distance away, I looked at what I had in my hand and suddenly realized I had stolen an apple. I began to run but made the mistake of running the wrong way.

On the downhill side of our front porch, there was latticework between the porch level and the ground level. A small door enabled us to store gardening tools under the porch and also gave us access to a convenient place to hide.

I ran all the way home, crawled under the porch, and sat there all afternoon shivering with fear—and eating the apple. I knew that I had done wrong, and I knew that my Heavenly Father knew that I had done wrong.

I have often reflected upon how I suffered from a remorse of conscience at such an early age. The Light of Christ, which lights every man that comes into the world, was evident that day, which in later years caused me to ponder about how the Light of Christ can influence our lives.

Let me tell you of James Kirkwood. James was from Glasgow, Scotland. On the trip west, James was accompanied by his widowed mother and three brothers, one of whom, Thomas, was nineteen and crippled and had to ride in the handcart. James’s primary responsibility on the trek was to care for his little four-year-old brother, Joseph, while his mother and oldest brother, Robert, pulled the cart. As they climbed Rocky Ridge, it was snowing and there was a bitter cold wind blowing. It took the whole company twenty-seven hours to travel fifteen miles. When little Joseph became too weary to walk, James, the older brother, had no choice but to carry him. Left behind the main group, James and Joseph made their way slowly to camp. When the two finally arrived at the fireside, James “having so faithfully carried out his task, collapsed and died from exposure and over-exertion” (private letter, Don H. Smith to Robert Lorimer, 20 Feb. 1990, quoting account of Don Chislett).

It was a hot, humid summer day, and I was hanging out with my friends at the local skate park, riding on the half-pipe. This ramp was huge—11 feet tall, with the top 2 feet completely vertical. We’d ride back and forth between the walls, trying out tricks as we soared over the top of each side.
While we always had a lot of fun skateboarding, we knew it could be a dangerous sport and we’d have to be careful to avoid injury. The skate park enforced rules to ensure the skateboarders’ safety. We knew about the park rules, which were posted on a sign at the front gate, but we generally ignored them.
One of the rules was that only one skater was allowed on the ramp at a time. This rule was easy to obey, because no one wanted to collide with another skater while on the half-pipe. It was just common sense. Another rule, however, seemed so ridiculous that my friends and I refused to follow it. This rule stated that skaters must yell “free” before dropping onto the ramp. No way were we going to do that!
Of course, the idea behind this second rule was to get others off the ramp and out of the skater’s way. The rule existed to help us obey the first rule. Together, both of these rules nearly guaranteed skaters would never collide. But those of us who were advanced skaters considered yelling “free” to be beneath us. So we ignored the rule and created our own method of clearing the ramp.
Skaters would line up on either wall and wait for whoever was on the ramp to finish. Then, whoever was next would push his board into the “drop-in” position, glance around to make sure he was the only one going, and drop in. This wasn’t as foolproof as yelling “free,” but it was much more cool.
On this particular day, about 20 of us were taking turns on the half-pipe. Because there were so many of us on the ramp, there was very little time between the skaters who were finishing their rides and the skaters who were dropping in. Once a skater was done, three or four others would be ready to drop in. The skaters jockeyed for position, each one wanting to be next.
In spite of the crowd on the half-pipe, everything went smoothly for about an hour. Then tragedy struck.
Those of us still on top of the ramp watched in horror as two skaters, Bill and Donnie, dropped into the half-pipe at exactly the same time from opposite walls. Neither of them had looked to ensure the ramp was empty.
Descending an 11-foot skateboard ramp can generate a lot of speed, especially if the skater knows what he’s doing. Both of these skaters were sponsored by a national skateboarding company and were very talented in their sport. They both had bright futures ahead of them as professional skateboarders.
But those futures came to a sickening halt as they collided at the bottom of the ramp.
Bill, who weighed about 200 pounds, came out of the crash with only a few bruises. But Donnie was very short and thin and weighed only about 125 pounds. He lay unconscious on the ramp for several minutes, and we could tell he had been hurt quite badly. The paramedics arrived quickly, and Donnie was whisked away to the emergency room.
We found out the next day that Donnie’s leg was shattered in multiple places, and it would take several surgeries and months of physical therapy before he could walk again. His skateboarding career was over.
As the paramedics and park staff helped Donnie, they asked us, “Did either of them yell ‘Free?’ ” Only then did we realize how foolish we had been to ignore that simple rule. We thought it was ridiculous and beneath us, but if we had obeyed this rule, it would almost certainly have saved two boys from a terrible accident.
I have thought a lot about that day and the sign we ignored. It contained principles and guidelines that would both protect us and help us enjoy our skateboarding experience. But we were more concerned with looking cool than following the rules, and we put our safety at risk.

The conversion of Carlos Rodríquez and his wife, Julia, dates back nearly twenty years. As a young married couple, they struggled to find the truth and finally decided to go to India on a religious quest. While driving through Turkey, they were stranded when their car broke down. They decided to stay there, turning their search to an investigation of Islam. But one day Carlos began reading the bible, and he realized he was a Christian, with a deep sense of gratitude for Jesus Christ.

The Rodríguezes returned to Spain, convinced that somewhere they would find the truth in a Christian church. In Barcelona, Carlos discovered a copy of the Book of Mormon among the few belongings he had stored there, and he began reading it. He became so absorbed that he read the book nonstop, without eating or sleeping, for forty-eight hours. As soon as he finished, he led Julia to a Church meeting place, hoping to find someone to teach him more. Unfortunately, it was Saturday afternoon, and no one was there. Just after Julia gave up and went home—telling him, “We can go to the chapel tomorrow, dear”—two missionaries arrived. A week later, Carlos and Julia were baptized. Carlos now serves as bishop in one of the Barcelona wards.

A few months back, some acquaintances of mine, Bill and Jean, a young married couple still in their teens, went to their bishop to seek help. They were being evicted from their apartment because they had failed to pay their rent. Their first child was to be born within two months. They had no food. Bill had not worked for three months after being laid off from his job as a filling station attendant. Because he lacked technical training he had been unable to secure employment.
It was obvious that Bill and Jean were unprepared for marriage and its accompanying responsibilities. They had failed to plan ahead. The pattern of their life is typical of many young people today who start dating early. Early dating often leads to steady dating, early marriage, dropping out of school, pregnancy, and, all too often, divorce with its inevitable damage to the children as well as to the husband and wife.
Since whatever occupation you choose will have such a decided effect on your life, it will be to your advantage to explore some of the thousands of choices available. The best time to study an occupation is before you make major decisions about school, military, marriage, and so forth. If you wait until you are in a circumstance like Bill and Jean who were mentioned in the beginning of the article, it may be too late or, at least, extremely difficult.

One day a few years ago when my wife and I were riding a train in Holland, a lovely lady some 85 years young shared our six-seat compartment. I greeted her in Dutch, and we spoke for a few minutes when she said, “You’re an American. I can tell from your accent, but where did you learn to speak Dutch?” I told her that I had been a Mormon missionary to Holland some 25 years earlier. Then I asked the golden question, whether she knew anything about the Mormon church.
She had been a missionary with her husband for the Dutch Reformed Church in Indonesia for 25 years, and she said yes, she had heard of the Church. But then she said, “The Mormons are foolish people.” To my question of why she thought we were a foolish people, she said, “They don’t believe in Christ.” I was stunned for a minute. I wondered how someone who knew enough to be a missionary for another church would think Mormons do not believe in Jesus Christ. When I overcame my shock, I asked her if she had read the Book of Mormon. She said she had seen it and read in it a little, but she thought that it was just further evidence that we believed in Lehi and Nephi, and Mormon and Moroni, but not in Jesus Christ.
I asked her if she believed in Abraham and Moses, in Enoch and Isaiah, and Jeremiah and Ezekiel; and she said she certainly did. I wondered how she could believe in those men and still believe in Christ. She answered immediately that those men were Old Testament prophets, and some of them had prophesied that the Messiah would come. I then told her that Lehi and Nephi, and Mormon and Moroni, and even Joseph Smith were also prophets of the Lord Jesus Christ, that they were called to teach other of the Lord’s children than the Jews. And had she read more carefully in the Book of Mormon, she would have seen that its prophets taught of Jesus Christ.
Just as I was warming up to my discussion of how the Book of Mormon teaches of Christ, the train pulled into her stop, and she had to leave. But I sat musing in my mind how someone could even look at the Book of Mormon and not see it is a Christian book. Doesn’t the title page declare that “Jesus is the Christ, the ETERNAL GOD”? But then, that statement appears almost at the end of the second paragraph, and maybe she didn’t read that far.

Previously: Franco asked permission to go to church with Matt. And Matt tried a spicy soup called posole.
That soup was good. But I thought I was going to breathe fire like a dragon!
Well, the spices can take some getting used to.
Next time I might need a bigger glass of milk! Thanks again for lunch.
So, Dad, can I go to church with Matt?
I don’t think so, boys. Our family’s been in our church for many generations.
Later, at Matt’s house …
Franco’s dad is a good man who wants the best for his son. He’s being cautious.
Sigh. I guess.
That night …
Franco’s still my best friend. And his dad’s great too. We don’t have to be the same to be friends.
Good thing … ’cause I’m pretty different from everyone!

Emily Good was one of the guides on that blustery Saturday. It was her “Set a Date” night—she had made the goal to teach a nonmember about the gospel, and that night was her deadline. At first, she thought the monsoon was going to thwart her efforts.
In the gardens, she saw a man and asked him if he would like to go on a tour. She got to the last stop, where the guides talk about the Book of Mormon, and bore her testimony. “The words just came out. I felt like I was pouring out my whole soul to him.” The man checked the box on the referral card indicating that he wanted the missionaries to teach him more about the gospel.
After the man left, Emily talked to the other guides, excited about sharing the gospel and meeting her goal. The other guides mirrored her enthusiasm.

“Do we have time before dinner for our walk?” said Mr. Knight (names have been changed) from his wheelchair.
“Of course,” I responded, “I always have time for a walk.”
As I rolled my 90-year-old friend through the front door of the nursing home and across the street, we talked about skiing, slopes, and snowdrifts. Mr. Knight had been on ski patrol until an accident forced him to retire at age 86.
On our walks, I’d pour out my senior-year problems, and Mr. Knight would tell me stories several decades old, giving me courage to face the mountains of life that he had already conquered.
“So,” Mr. Knight asked, “did you have a date last night?”
“Yep,” I responded, dreamily thinking of the good-looking guy I had gone out with.
“Well, how did it go?”
“Great! He is so cool! I can’t believe he actually wants to date me!” I said, bubbling over with excitement. Brock was the star of the high school swim team. He was every girl’s dream boy. He wasn’t an active member of the Church and not exactly a good guy either, but he was incredibly good looking, and I was flattered he had asked me out. I thought as long as I didn’t do the bad things he was doing, I could still go out with him and have fun. Brock’s good looks hid many of his flaws.
I kept hanging out with him even though my parents weren’t crazy about the idea. I rationalized to them that his habits didn’t have any effect on me. Not surprisingly, they didn’t agree. When I told Brock this, he promised me he had quit drinking and smoking. But after a while, I could tell he was lying.
My parents taught me I should only date guys worthy to go on missions—guys who could one day take me to the temple. Brock was definitely not that type. Still, I had a hard time separating the excitement from the impending trouble.
As the weeks went by and I kept going out with Brock, I started lying to my parents about where I was going. And even though I wasn’t the one drinking or smoking, I knew I had crossed into a danger zone.
After going out with Brock one night, I sneaked into my house and headed to the bathroom to wash off my makeup. As I looked in the mirror I met a scrutinizing eye.
“Well, here you are,” scolded my reflection. “I see you finally made it home tonight.”
“Of course I made it home,” I countered.
“Surprising, though,” the girl in the mirror continued, “don’t you think? Brock was so drunk. It’s amazing he didn’t crash.”
I pictured myself mangled and bleeding in a coffin of twisted metal. The image seemed almost real, and I didn’t want to think about it.
I lashed back at the image in the mirror: “Quit overreacting! You’re starting to sound like my mother!” I slammed my fist against the light switch, and brushed my teeth and washed off my mascara in the dark.
After yet another week of sneaking around, fighting what I knew I should do, it was time to see Mr. Knight again. I tried to act natural, but Mr. Knight knew I was in trouble.
“You’re in a mess because you’re breaking the rules,” he said.
“What rules?” I asked, innocently raising my eyebrows.
“Your rules and God’s rules. When people go against the laws they know, they are sinning.”
If I had heard this from anyone else, I would have felt as if they had called me a sinner. Yet I knew Mr. Knight loved me and cared about my happiness, so I listened to what he had to say.
“You know that lying to your parents, even stretching the truth a little, is wrong. You know that lying to yourself is wrong. You know that dating someone who drags you down is wrong. You can’t expect to stand barefoot in the snow and not get cold.”
“Mr. Knight, I’ve lied so many times though. I don’t know how to start telling the truth. If I tell my parents the truth now, they’ll ground me until I graduate.”
I was afraid of facing the truth. I thought if I told the truth, I’d spend my senior year dateless and friendless.
“Mr. Knight, I’m not sure I can fix this mess.”
“Trust me, you can. Remember, you don’t have to do this all by yourself. You need the help of the Lord and His Atonement.”
“Hey, this isn’t a big enough problem that I need to repent. I don’t need the Atonement. Remember, I’m not the one smoking and drinking.”
“I know, but you still have things you need to change. Repentance means changing, and it’s possible because of Christ’s Atonement. You need to repent because you’ve broken God’s rules.”
I stopped pushing the wheelchair, realizing for the first time that I had offended God and not just myself. Now, instead of fearing my own face in the mirror, I was afraid of facing the Lord. I knew He was aware of everything I had done. I wanted to bury myself under a mountain.
Mr. Knight gave me instructions on how to get back to where I needed to be. I told my parents the truth about going out with Brock behind their backs. I knelt and told the Lord the truth. Still, a confession wasn’t enough. I changed my behavior. I quit dating Brock and only dated guys who lived Church standards. Lots of kids at school teased me, telling me I was stuck up, but I knew that what I was doing was right. Most importantly, faith and hope returned to my life, replacing the guilt and despair I had felt.
My fear of being friendless and dateless never happened. By being true to myself, I found friends who were true to me. Mr. Knight helped me see the need for the Atonement in my life so I could change and look at myself in the mirror. When I look to Christ and then look at myself, I am able to recognize in my reflection something of divinity and what He expects me to become.

It’s easy to say, “The time isn’t right.” But there is danger in procrastination. Years ago I worked for a man in California. He hired me; he was kind to me; he seemed to regard me highly. I may have been the only Latter-day Saint he ever knew well. I don’t know all the reasons I found to wait for a better moment to talk with him about the gospel. I just remember my feeling of sorrow when I learned, after he had retired and I lived far away, that he and his wife had been killed in a late-night drive to their home in Carmel, California. He loved his wife. He loved his children. He had loved his parents. He loved his grandchildren, and he will love their children and will want to be with them forever.

Now, I don’t know how the crowds will be handled in the world to come. But I suppose that I will meet him, that he will look into my eyes, and that I will see in them the question: “Hal, you knew. Why didn’t you tell me?”

1 Indians in the Western Hemisphere are often called Lamanites by Church members because these Indians are descendants of the Nephites and Lamanites in the Book of Mormon. Oliver Cowdery and Peter Whitmer, Jr., were called to go on a mission to the Lamanites. Other men wanted to go with them. The Lord indicated that Ziba Peterson and Parley P. Pratt were to accompany Oliver and Peter.
2 First the missionaries went to the Catteraugus Indians in New York. Finding a few Indians who could read, the missionaries gave them two copies of the Book of Mormon.
3 Near the Ohio border the missionaries preached to the Wyandot Indians, who were happy to learn about their ancestors in the Book of Mormon.
4 In Missouri the missionaries preached the gospel to the Delaware Indians. These Indians were also given the Book of Mormon. They thanked the missionaries for traveling so far and for caring enough to give them the Book of Mormon.
5 Other people in Missouri did not believe the gospel, nor did they believe the Book of Mormon. They told the missionaries to stay away from the Indians.
6 When told that soldiers would force the missionaries to stay away from the Indians, the missionaries were sorry, but they obeyed the authorities and left the Indian settlements.
7 One of the missionaries, Parley P. Pratt, went to tell the Prophet Joseph about their mission to the Lamanites. The mission had been a good one; the gospel had been taken to three great Indian tribes.

At such times I frequently remember my own wedding day nearly twenty-six years ago and the strong feelings of love that I had for my wife, Kathy. I also remember our high expectations for the future. I am sure that we had an ideal in mind that wasn’t necessarily peculiar to us, and yet we (or at least I) thought Kathy and I were about to begin a companionship together that would be unparalleled in the romantic history of Western civilization!

Nevertheless, despite our best intentions and efforts, the “ideal” began to collide with reality shortly after our brief honeymoon in Salt Lake City at the then existing equivalent of a Motel 6. I cannot speak for Kathy but, on my part, I soon began to feel some small sense of disillusionment–a feeling that there was something more to be had in and from marriage than I, at least, seemed capable of producing.

There began to be a gradual descent from the lofty level of our wedding day to a somewhat lower plateau where we seemed destined to live out our lives well beneath our privileges. One small example from among many will illustrate the type of memories that Kathy and I were accumulating together about that time.

We were living in Salt Lake City, where I was attending law school and Kathy was teaching first grade. The stress of both of us being new to the city, to our schools, and to each other became a little heavy and our relationship a bit testy. One night about dinnertime we had a quarrel that convinced me there was no hope for nourishment at home. So I left our modest apartment and walked to the nearest fast food restaurant a block away. As I entered the north door of this establishment, I looked to my right and, much to my surprise, saw Kathy entering through the south door! We exchanged angry glances and advanced to opposing cash registers to place our orders. We continued to ignore each other as we sat alone on opposite ends of the restaurant sullenly eating our evening meal. We then left as we had entered, taking separate routes home, finally ending this utterly ridiculous episode by reconciling and laughing together about how infantile we had both been.

I am writing this letter to thank you for “You Sing—You Love” by Kent Rappleye in the December 1978 New Era. I started reading it in my father’s car while we were going to another city. It was so beautiful I could feel the love coming from it. It was so full of expression and of the Spirit that if I tried hard I could hear the choir singing. After reading the first column I had to stop three times because tears were filling my eyes. The spirit that held me was so great that I had to testify then and there: “Jesus is the Christ, and we are in his church.” When I finished that article, I couldn’t keep reading because I had to meditate and savor that special experience. At a time when I needed it most, the Spirit had once again testified to me that the gospel is true and that we are working to build the kingdom of God here. For the rest of the day I felt this way and just tried to pass it around.

For a long time after we moved to Salt Lake City, I felt I didn’t fit in. When we lived on the ranch, we would buy jeans that were too long, then roll them up at the bottom. That way we could wear them longer. But in the city, if someone wore his jeans that way, people made fun of him and called him a hick. People wore expensive brand-name clothes. My mother and father didn’t have much money. Father was working two jobs. Although he worked hard, he couldn’t afford to buy me stylish clothes. When I got older, I was able to get my own job and buy my own clothes.
From that experience, I learned that the way one dresses isn’t what really matters. It is important to be well-groomed, of course, but it’s much more important to be a person of character—someone who can be relied upon and who stands up for his or her beliefs, no matter what others are doing.

When I was a young man, I was a home teacher to a very old sister. She taught me from her life experience.
When she was a little girl, President Brigham Young came to Brigham City, a great event in the town named after him. To honor him, the Primary children, all dressed in white, were lined up along the road coming into town, each with a basket of flowers to spread before the carriage of the President of the Church.
Something displeased her. Instead of throwing her blossoms, she kicked a rock in front of the carriage, saying, “He ain’t one bit better than my Grandpa Lovelund.” That was overheard, and she was severely scolded.
I am very sure that President Brigham Young would be the first to agree with little Janie Steed. He would not consider himself to be worth more than Grandpa Lovelund or any other worthy member of the Church.

Jessie and Steve Cota saw a need and found a way to fill it. With help from their father, they built a house for an abandoned mother and her five children, who had been living on the street.
The 12-year-old twin brothers, who live in the Nogales Branch, Tucson Arizona Rincon Stake, didn’t wait for a quorum service project or an assignment from the branch president. They went right to work.
“My aunt, who lives in Mexico, met this woman in the hospital,” Steve explains. “She found out the conditions the woman and her children were living in and knew they needed help. She talked to my father, Jose, who is first counselor in our branch presidency, to see if something could be done.”
Something could. Word spread quickly in the branch. Church members contributed what they could, and Brother Cota, a builder, was able to get materials donated from a project he was working on. The aunt donated her own backyard as a site for the new construction.
“Everybody helped out,” Jessie says. “But to be honest, my dad did most of the work.”
Brother Cota, however, gives credit to his sons. “They really enjoy working. They helped put the floor in, hauling buckets of water so we could make the cement. They helped with the framing and with the roof. We’re especially proud of the roof, which has asphalt shingles and should last many years.”
The house the twins built is similar to dozens of others that cover the hillsides of Nogales, which straddles the border of Arizona and Mexico. The house is small, made mostly of plywood, and has no plumbing. But it is now home to a family of six.
It took three to four weeks, working on Saturdays, to complete the structure. “We felt good, knowing we were helping someone who needed help,” Steve says. “We learned a lot doing this together. We learned about how Church members can reach out to help others in the community. We learned about construction. And we got to be better friends with our father.”
“We like to nail things together,” Jessie says. “Maybe I’ll be a builder when I grow up, too.”
Brother Cota just smiles, then says, “The important thing about this is that now the children who live in this house will have a future. They have protection from the weather and a chance to go to school.”
We visit for a minute more, talking about birdhouses the boys are building as a hobby, about Steve’s baseball games and Jessie’s love of football, about future plans to build an outside bathroom to go along with the house.
Then the woman, surrounded by her children, greets the Cotas warmly and poses for a photo with them.
“These,” she says, “are the people who gave me my home.”

Early in his apostolic years President Benson was called by President George Albert Smith to leave home and family and fill a special mission to war-torn Europe. The magnitude of his call was overwhelming. For ten and a half months President Benson labored night and day, blessing the members of the Church in Europe who had suffered through years of war, giving them nourishment for their bodies and everlasting hope for their souls. From the chaos of war came Saints—scattered, battered, and very much in need. To them came Ezra Taft Benson, with his superb organizational skills and with the inspiration of Almighty God.

Through the inspired welfare program of the Church, hundreds of tons of lifesaving food and clothing were transported across the vast Atlantic Ocean and, under the direction of this gifted leader, distributed to the hungry, the cold, and the homeless.

Sister Massey and I have been married for 12 years; I commend her for keeping up with me. We had the desire of making those sacred covenants in the Temple, we consistently worked towards that goal and were sealed to each other and our 1.5yr old daughter in the Hong Kong, China temple on March 25th, 2015. The moment was desired above all. We felt relieved. We knew that as we keep those covenants, we would not lose each other. There were several blessings we received as we made those covenants. Through ‘rain and sunshine’ we gained a lot, even lost some, but one thing was constant, we always had each other, as each other’s strengths, which I feel is the most needed blessing that comes from living and honoring temple covenants. It is a promise that the Lord will guide us, as we walk in faith together as eternal companions, holding on to each other, nurturing the children the Lord has blessed us with.

Many of us have had experiences with the sweet power of prayer. One of mine was shared with a stake patriarch from southern Utah. I first met him in my medical office more than 40 years ago, during the early pioneering days of surgery of the heart. This saintly soul suffered much because of a failing heart. He pleaded for help, thinking that his condition resulted from a damaged but repairable valve in his heart.
Extensive evaluation revealed that he had two faulty valves. While one could be helped surgically, the other could not. Thus, an operation was not advised. He received this news with deep disappointment.
Subsequent visits ended with the same advice. Finally, in desperation, he spoke to me with considerable emotion: “Dr. Nelson, I have prayed for help and have been directed to you. The Lord will not reveal to me how to repair that second valve, but He can reveal it to you. Your mind is so prepared. If you will operate upon me, the Lord will make it known to you what to do. Please perform the operation that I need, and pray for the help that you need.”
His great faith had a profound effect upon me. How could I turn him away again? Following a fervent prayer together, I agreed to try. In preparing for that fateful day, I prayed over and over again, but still did not know what to do for his leaking tricuspid valve. Even as the operation commenced, my assistant asked, “What are you going to do for that?”
I said, “I do not know.”
We began the operation. After relieving the obstruction of the first valve, we exposed the second valve. We found it to be intact but so badly dilated that it could no longer function as it should. While examining this valve, a message was distinctly impressed upon my mind: Reduce the circumference of the ring. I announced that message to my assistant. “The valve tissue will be sufficient if we can effectively reduce the ring toward its normal size.”
But how? We could not apply a belt as one would use to tighten the waist of oversized trousers. We could not squeeze with a strap as one would cinch a saddle on a horse. Then a picture came vividly to my mind, showing how stitches could be placed—to make a pleat here and a tuck there—to accomplish the desired objective. I still remember that mental image—complete with dotted lines where sutures should be placed. The repair was completed as diagrammed in my mind. We tested the valve and found the leak to be reduced remarkably. My assistant said, “It’s a miracle.”
I responded, “It’s an answer to prayer.”
The patient’s recovery was rapid and his relief gratifying. Not only was he helped in a marvelous way, but surgical help for other people with similar problems had become a possibility. I take no credit. Praise goes to this faithful patriarch and to God, who answered our prayers. This faithful man lived for many more years and has since gone to his eternal glory.