Gospel Story Finder

The bump in the freeway wasn’t supposed to be there. At least that was my big brother’s excuse. Andy might have been driving a little too fast, if you ask me.
“I hope Lehi’s ship is tied tight,” I grunted as our truck sailed over the bump.
“No problem, sis,” said Andy.
But just then, Lehi’s ship broke loose and sailed out of the back of our truck.
“Our ship is sunk!” yelled my seven-year-old brother, Tony, who is never without words.
“There goes the main prop for our Primary play,” I moaned to myself.
Cars screeched. I scrunched down between my brothers, waiting for a crash, but it never came. All the screeching tires behind us stopped before running into the prop or each other.
Andy steered our truck to the side of the road. “How could this happen?” he groaned as he stumbled out of the truck. Tony leaped out too. I stayed scrunched in my seat, not wanting to see our once-beautiful ship.
“Wow, will you look at this!” cried Tony. “Lisa, come look.”
I slid out. There, spread over all three lanes of the freeway, was the ship we had lovingly worked on for weeks.
“It isn’t all broken,” said Tony. “Maybe we could put it back together.”
“No way,” I said with a scowl. “The play starts in four hours.”
“I bet there’s a way. If I had a hammer, I could do it,” Tony argued.
Cars were lining up behind Lehi’s ship faster than we lined up for lunch at school. High in the sky, I could see a traffic report helicopter. I could hear a nearby car radio blaring, “I’ve never seen anything like this before, but it looks like an old sailing ship has washed ashore on the west freeway. It’s blocking all northbound lanes.”
Cars were honking. People were leaping out of their cars and marching toward us. I was so embarrassed that I wanted to hide.
A young man in a white uniform was the first to reach us. “It looks like you left your ship behind, too,” he drawled. “I left mine over in the Navy yard. I didn’t think I’d be running into another ship quite so soon.”
“Are you in the Navy?” exclaimed Tony.
“Sure am, son.”
A big man who looked like one of those football players Dad watches on TV ran up beside us. “That thing really went flying. I’m glad it didn’t hit me.” He motioned to Andy. “Look, if you’ll pull your truck right around here, I think a few of us can load it for you.”
Another man was peering dumbfoundedly at the wreckage through his thick glasses. “What is this thing, anyway?”
“It’s Lehi’s ship,” piped up Tony.
Oh no! I thought. I hoped Tony wasn’t going to give his Book of Mormon discourse right here on the freeway.
The young sailor scratched his short-cropped red hair. “Lehi’s ship?” he said thoughtfully. “It seems like I’ve heard of that somewhere before.”
“It’s from the Book of Mormon,” answered Tony.
“That’s it!” The sailor snapped his fingers. “Isn’t he the guy who sailed across the ocean with a bunch of sons who were always fighting?”
“Yeah, that’s kind of how the story goes,” said Tony.
“I knew it!” said the young man. “One of my shipmates told me the whole story. He gave me that book to read.”
I didn’t say a word.
By the time Andy pulled his truck up beside our broken ship, the crowd had heard practically the entire Book of Mormon—both Tony’s version and the sailor’s version.
At least a dozen people crowded around to help hoist the prop back into the truck. Tony bounded into the back of it. “Up this way a little,” he directed.
I stood there with a long face. One man looked down at me as he held the ship. “It’s tough luck about your ship. I heard your play is supposed to start—”
Everyone stopped talking and even moving. Wailing down the other side of the freeway were flashing red and blue lights. Two highway patrol cars crossed the median strip, then swung around to where we were. It was the only way they could reach us. Officers from the cars jumped out. One of them scowled as he approached the group surrounding the ship. He seemed oblivious to the fact that they were holding the biggest section of the ship in midair. “Who owns this truck?” he snapped.
“I do,” Andy said glumly.
I felt a little bit sorry for him.
“Young man, do you know what time of day it is?” asked the officer.
“Yes, sir. It’s rush hour.”
I avoided looking at Andy by watching the officer’s thick mustache twitch up and down as he spoke.
“Do you know that you have traffic backed up for over two miles down the freeway?”
“This is no time for a lecture, Jerry,” said another highway patrolman. “They need help.”
The first officer looked around, then nodded, his scowl lessening. With the help of the highway patrol officers, Lehi’s ship was quickly lifted back into the truck. Everyone, including me, scurried across the lanes, retrieving the rest of the wreckage.
Suddenly a short, wiry man trotted up beside me. “My car is trapped way back there,” he panted. “I just heard on the traffic report that you Mormons were having a big play tonight but that your ship got smashed on the freeway. I just wanted to tell you that I’m a carpenter and, well, maybe I could help. I don’t live too far from your church, and I could get my tools. …”
“That’s very kind,” I said, embarrassed by all the attention. “But we’ve already caused you—”
“I think that would be great!” Tony interrupted.
“Terrific! I’ll come over as soon as I get home.” The carpenter waved as he trotted back to his car.
Finally Andy, Tony, and I climbed back into the truck. Andy turned the key in the ignition. The word Mormon jumped out at us from the radio.
“Those Mormons are supposed to be performing tonight,” said the traffic reporter, “but I think they’ve put on a bigger show this afternoon on the freeway.”
I slunk down in my seat, and Andy groaned. Tony gloated, “Hear that! We’re famous.”
When we turned into the church parking lot, Lehi’s ship was not the only thing trailing close behind us. Car after car turned into the parking lot. The big burly man came. The redheaded sailor came. Even the highway patrol officer with the mustache followed us. The parking lot was filling up with our friends from the freeway. When the carpenter arrived, everyone began hammering as fast as they could.
When it was time for the curtain to go up, Lehi’s ship still wasn’t quite finished. “Don’t worry,” said the sailor. “I wouldn’t want to miss sailing across the ocean with Lehi.” He got up on top and held a big timber in place.
The big burly man and the highway patrol officer steadied both ends of the ship, and the carpenter played a Nephite still at work.
When the play was over and the curtain was coming down, the applause was very loud. I peeked through the curtains. Never had I seen the cultural hall so crowded! People I’d never seen before were lining the walls and peeking through the doorways.
Suddenly someone crawled under the curtain and faced the audience. It was Tony! “Please clap real loud for the people on the freeway. They helped us put Lehi’s ship back together again.”
This time the crowd stood up and clapped for a long time. Tony grinned at me, and I wasn’t even embarrassed.
Afterward, instead of leaving, people rushed up to the stage. “Can you tell me more about that story?” they asked.
I noticed one lady tug on the sleeve of the redheaded sailor. “Do you know where I could get a copy of that book—what’s it called?”
“Why, sure!” exclaimed the sailor. “It’s called the Book of Mormon. It’s wonderful. I happen to be reading it now, myself. Let me tell you more about it.”
“We’d both be glad to tell you all about it,” Tony chimed in.

I saw the results of another great teacher while serving as the president of a single adult stake at BYU–Idaho. That experience changed my life. On one particular Tuesday evening, I interviewed a young man named Pablo, from Mexico City, who wanted to serve a mission. I asked him about his testimony and his desire to serve. His answers to my questions were perfect. Then I asked about his worthiness. His answers were exact. In fact, they were so good, I wondered, “Maybe he doesn’t understand what I’m asking him.” So I rephrased the questions and determined that he knew exactly what I meant and was completely honest.

I was so impressed with this young man that I asked him, “Pablo, who was it that helped you come to this point in your life standing so uprightly before the Lord?”

He said, “My dad.”

I said, “Pablo, tell me your story.”

Pablo continued: “When I was nine, my dad took me aside and said, ‘Pablo, I was nine once too. Here are some things you may come across. You’ll see people cheating in school. You might be around people who swear. You’ll probably have days when you don’t want to go to church. Now, when these things happen—or anything else that troubles you—I want you to come and talk to me, and I’ll help you get through them. And then I’ll tell you what comes next.’”

“So, Pablo, what did he tell you when you were 10?”

“Well, he warned me about pornography and dirty jokes.”

“What about when you were 11?” I asked.

“He cautioned me about things that could be addictive and reminded me about using my agency.”

Here was a father, year after year, “line upon line; here a little, and there a little,” who helped his son not only hear but also understand. Pablo’s father knew our children learn when they are ready to learn, not just when we are ready to teach them. I was proud of Pablo when we submitted his missionary application that night, but I was even prouder of Pablo’s dad.

A young woman named Thricia felt feelings of guilt, shame, and unworthiness after doing something wrong. She began to listen to Church music, watch Church videos, and study gospel talks more intently, but the feelings didn’t go away. Eventually she decided to talk to her branch president. As she met with him, she felt the love of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ for her. Now she feels grateful that through the Savior’s Atonement, she can be forgiven of her sins and receive help to rise above her weaknesses. “What I hold on to right now is that He is always with me in this journey,” she says.

One day I biked home from school. As I got closer to my house, I saw my mom holding our new puppy. I was excited to see them, so I quickly pushed myself off my bike. All of a sudden, I heard a big pop! Pain shot through my right arm. I could barely lift it up.
My mom drove me to the hospital. When we arrived, the doctor took an X-ray of my arm. He told us that I had a cyst in my bone. I didn’t know what that was, so he explained. “A bone cyst is when part of the bone is hollow and filled with fluid,” the doctor said. “That’s why it was so easy to break.”
The doctor said that I might need to have surgery. That sounded scary. He told us that he would see us in a few weeks to decide if I needed surgery or not. Until then, I would need to wear a sling for my arm. On the way back home, I kept saying prayers in my head. Heavenly Father, please help me be brave. This is really scary. Please help me be confident.
A month later, I had a doctor’s appointment to see if I needed surgery. I was still scared. The Friend magazine had just come out for the month, and I started to read it. The Matt and Mandy comic was about how Matt broke his arm (Oct. 2019). He had to have surgery. Just like me!
After I read it, I felt peace. I said a prayer thanking Heavenly Father for answering my prayer. I knew I could be brave no matter what happened. I also thanked Heavenly Father for always listening to me and being there for me, like a true friend.

My sister’s name is Buster.
There’s no need to adjust your glasses or blink your eyes. You read correctly. My sister’s name is Buster. Actually, her name is Anne Marie, but when she was five years old, she announced at dinner one night that she preferred to be called Buster because it was a good boy’s name.
“But you’re a girl!” my mother pointed out.
“That isn’t my fault,” retorted Anne Marie, now Buster.
“I rather like girls,” my father said.
“Sure, you can say that because you’re not a girl!” she pouted. “I want to be tough!”
“We are not calling you Buster and that’s that. Anne Marie is a perfectly lovely name. It was my great-grandmother’s name.” Mother thought the issue was closed.
It wasn’t.
My father gave in first. Frankly, he’s a sucker where daughters are concerned, and if Anne Marie wanted to be called Buster, he would call her Buster.
She wore me down next. She wouldn’t talk to me at all unless forced to: “Go ask Susan if she’s finished with the scissors,” mother would say to her. She would stare at me in the left ear and ask coldly if I had the scissors. I got tired of the snub. The day I began calling her Buster she beamed at me and said, “Thanks, kid.” I just about fell on my face laughing.
Mother was more determined. She thought the name Buster was a travesty. If Buster didn’t answer when mother called “Anne Marie,” mother would make her sit in her room for half an hour and then demand an apology. Buster apologized this way: “I’m sorry I disobeyed.”
“Next time will you come when I call?” mother would ask.
“Will you call me Buster?” Buster was brazen. I have seen my mother shake her fists at the air and in a strangled voice say, “What have I done to deserve this?”
After a long while, mother also succumbed and called her Buster. At first she hissed it to show her disapproval, but later she said it quite naturally as if she herself had chosen the name.
So it was that my mother, who grew up with ballet lessons and felt most at home with chintz draperies and delicate Queen Anne furnishings, had to raise Buster, who sat mostly in trees or on garage rooftops. Mother collected recipes. Buster collected bottlecaps and baseball cards. Mother wanted to own a hundred antique dolls. Buster said it would be nice to have eleventy Tonka trucks like Billy Weinberg.
One of the more unnerving events of the following few years was when Buster, unilaterally, cut off her two pigtails that had grown to her waist. I thought we’d have to give mother mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. But mother learned patience and long-suffering and, like Job, waited for the right moment, hoping yet to instill in her daughter Buster some kind of feminine identity, however modest.
The “moment” came when Buster was 13. The bishop asked her to give a five-minute talk in sacrament meeting on one of her ancestors. Buster was disgusted.
“What a can of worms!” she exclaimed after telling my parents about the assignment. They were eating ice cream in the kitchen.
“Who are you going to talk about?” asked my father.
Buster shrugged and rolled her eyes back in her head as only she could do.
“Why don’t you talk about my Great-Grandfather Wheatley? He was a real pioneer and went on three missions for the Church. I don’t like looking at the whites of your eyes, Buster,” he said somewhat irritably.
“Sorry,” she returned laconically and clanked her spoon into her dish. “Everyone in the ward already knows about old Ezra Wheatly. You’ve talked about him before, and besides he’s a …”
Bore is, I believe, what she had in mind there but she evidently thought better of it and after a pause said, “He’s a pioneer. Everybody talks about his old pioneer ancestors. Don’t we have any ancestors who weren’t pioneering it all the time?”
I thought my father was going to roll his eyes back in his head, but he restrained himself.
Tactfully, my mother handed my father a plate of cookies and turning to Buster said, “Why don’t you tell them about your Great-Great-Grandmother Anne Marie McIlhenny. She wasn’t a pioneer.”
“She was a wrestler!” My father lost all cool.
“Was she? Was she really?” Buster was ecstatic.
“Not exactly,” corrected my mother, giving my father a try-not-to-help-me-look. “But she did set up an athletic program for the girls in her town. They competed in track events, arm wrestling,” she eyed my father, “and soccer.”
“Did she live around here?” Buster remained interested.
“No, in Nova Scotia, outside a city called Yarmouth.”
“Was she a professional athlete?”
“No, she taught school.”
Buster’s face fell.
“But she loved sports!” my mother continued anxiously. “She thought girls should be allowed to enjoy and participate in sports as much as boys. Wait a minute and I’ll get the book of remembrance. There’s a picture of her in there and a story of her life written by her daughter.” Mother left the room and returned shortly with a large black volume opened up to the picture of Anne Marie McIlhenny. She was a pretty woman wearing a lace dress.
“She doesn’t look like any athlete there!” complained Buster.
“Oh she was feminine, but she was strong.” My mother made a ridiculous looking fist. “Read her story,” she urged. “She did all kinds of amazing things, yet she remained feminine too!” Mother had to have her nickel’s worth of preaching. Her face reddened with excitement. Here, at last, was the opportunity to teach Buster that one could be feminine and enjoy tree climbing too. Maybe she would even drop the name Buster!
My father winked at me.
“You were named after her, you know,” my mother was saying to Buster. “Of course, we didn’t know you would be so much like her then—when you were a baby, I mean. See, you even look like her. If you had a lace collar like that, you’d look exactly like her!” There was a remarkable resemblance.
Buster was skeptical but took the book of remembrance to her bedroom.
On Saturday morning mother, armed with pen and pencil, went into Buster’s bedroom to help her with her talk. To her surprise, Buster didn’t want help.
“Are you sure?” mother asked.
“Positive,” Buster replied. “I know what I want to say. I can write it myself. Did you know,” she raised her eyebrows, “that Anne Marie McIlhenny finished building a barn with her own two hands after her husband broke both his legs?”
“Yes, I know.”
“She was sensational,” Buster muttered, forgetting mother was there. “Simply sensational.”
“She doesn’t want any help,” mother told father and me in the kitchen, “and she thinks Anne Marie McIlhenny was sensational!” She clapped her hands. “Maybe she’ll want us to call her Anne Marie again. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
My father laughed and shook his head. “Don’t count on it,” he grinned.
Mother went downtown to celebrate Buster’s “growth into womanhood” as she dramatically put it. Her celebration took the form of buying Buster a new dress to wear for her talk. Buster hated dresses, especially new ones.
“Did you know,” Buster began as mother unwrapped the box, “that Anne Marie McIlhenny had her own horse and rode bareback whenever she could? And she loved the wind.”
“I’d forgotten that,” said my mother. “How do you like this dress?” She held it up. It was, every inch, white eyelet. I kid you not.
I thought of Anne Marie McIlhenny in her lace dress.
Buster stared at the dress for what seemed an hour and a half.
“It’s okay,” she said finally.
Mother knew good luck when it clobbered her on the head like that and quickly hung the dress in the closed before Buster changed her mind. She hummed steadily through dinner. She was victorious. Here was Buster giving a talk all by herself and about her own great-great-grandmother and not her usual favorite—Goliath. And she was going to wear white eyelet doing it. Mother was sure that any moment now Buster would demand that we call her Anne Marie!
That evening Buster did not want to rehearse her talk for us. She said she could do it herself. She sat on the garage roof and practiced. I could see her lips moving from the kitchen window.
“Do you think it’s safe to let Buster give a talk without our hearing it first?” my father asked.
“I think she can handle it.” murmured my mother. “After all, she’s Anne Marie McIlhenny’s great-great-granddaughter.”
On Sunday I sat with my parents in sacrament meeting. Buster sat on the stand dressed in white eyelet, as feminine as orange blossoms, and looking for all the world like our great-great-grandmother. I noticed my mother’s foot swing back and forth in nervous rhythm. My father’s face was deadpan, but he swallowed frequently. Finally, the bishop introduced Buster as one of the prettiest Scouts in the ward. My mother winced slightly.
Buster stood behind the pulpit without any notes and in a clear voice began to speak. “I would like to tell you about my great-great-grandmother, Buster McIlhenny!” Then she looked down at my mother’s stricken face and said to her alone, “A lady as strong and fine as Great-Great-Grandmother McIlhenny deserves a good name like Buster, and since she shared her name with me, I want to share my name with her. And one day,” she added softly, “maybe I’ll even be as neat a lady as she was.”

"I did not really enjoy being a child, because they were difficult years for me. I was the oldest of six children and somehow resented this responsibility. I can never remember feeling carefree, because I was always trying to measure up to my parents’ expectations. Now when I’m in someone’s home, I often ask the oldest child, ‘How do you feel about being the oldest one in your family?’ I’ve had some interesting conversations.
“I liked school and really enjoyed learning, which has been a very stimulating thing for me. Knowing how to read has been one of the great satisfactions in my life. To be able to read was always exciting to me. When I was a very small boy, I started reading the newspaper. I was a conscientious student.”
Elder Poelman said that one of the things he remembers and cherishes is the scripture stories that his mother taught him during his childhood. “Often my mother would be working at the ironing board. I can remember sitting close-by while she ironed. She would tell me Bible and Book of Mormon stories, and that was a great legacy my mother left to me.
“My parents were always very active in the Church and were hard workers. During my childhood, we lived in rather strained financial circumstances. A good part of that time we lived in a four-room home. We had one bedroom and a sleeping porch and one very small bathroom. I now live alone in a condominium with three bathrooms and it makes me chuckle to think about it.
“Many people had a difficult time during the depression. Father was unemployed for about a year and a half, and I remember worrying a great deal. My mother often took me into her confidence, because I was the oldest child. And I knew from the time I was a small boy all about our family finances—how much the coal bill was and how many months behind we were in its payment.
“But now,” Elder Poelman continued, “I have a great deal of satisfaction enjoying the childhoods of my children and my grandchildren. I have seven grandchildren, one girl and six boys. Our oldest just turned seven. I really enjoy being a grandfather, and I think that I’m reliving my own childhood to some extent. It’s a great opportunity!
“My parents were both musical, though untrained. While we had no musical instruments at home except my father’s ukulele, the family enjoyed singing together. I was in my teens when my parents first acquired a record player. And I remember what a great experience that was and how much we all enjoyed it. When I was older, the family did acquire a piano, and some of the younger children took lessons. My wife was a music major, and that was one of the things I enjoyed about her when we were dating. I loved to sit and listen to her play the Bach Inventions.
“The name Poelman is a Dutch name,” Elder Poelman explained. “My paternal grandfather was born in Holland, and as a young man in his teens, he left Holland and went to South Africa. There he married my grandmother, a Scottish girl. She was working at the time as a governess for an English family living in South Africa. My grandparents had one child born in South Africa, then they went back to the British Isles. Another child was born in England, and then they moved to Glasgow, Scotland, where my father was born. It was to their home in Scotland that the missionaries came tracting, and my grandmother answered the door. They were on the third floor of a cold-water flat in the working-class section, and a man named A. Z. Richards was one of the missionaries. He stayed close to our family until he died, and I have always been very fond of him.
“Subsequently, I was called to serve as a missionary in Holland, as were all three of my younger brothers. My father also served a mission in Holland. That missionary experience was a valuable one for me, because I had an opportunity to meet some of my grandfather’s brothers and sisters, and I was able to learn the language.”
I asked Elder Poelman what message he wanted to share with the children of the world, and he replied, “Your Father in heaven knows who you are and loves you unconditionally. Even when you do things that are bad, He loves you. It makes Him sad, of course, but it doesn’t mean that He stops loving you. I would encourage you to pray to our Heavenly Father often, knowing that no matter what you’ve done or how you feel about yourself, Heavenly Father will listen to you.
“Sometimes we may think that the Lord loves us only if we keep His commandments and that if we disobey His commandments, He loves us less. That isn’t true! This is something Satan would like us to believe because then we feel estranged from our Father in heaven. Remember, He loves you all the time wherever you are and whatever you are doing.”

My first memories of a need for power came when my family moved the year I began third grade. I started figuring out more about friends and other people’s families. As my new friends talked to kids in the extended neighborhood, we sized up assets and numbers—who had shade trees you could sit in or chicken coops you could climb on. Besides whose dad was the strongest, I noticed many of the kids were older than I. Luckily, I had two big sisters with lots of friends. In fact, I once said I could call out the whole high school if needed. I felt I had the needed personal power for safety and self-preservation.
My eight-year-old world was enlarging. So was the need for the skills that help one cope in this civilized world. I started appreciating the safety one gets from size, numbers, resources. Our use of what I call personal or political power begins early. Most children learn about size first. “If you don’t stop that, I’ll call Mom.” “When Dad comes home, you’ll be in big trouble.” Resources can supplement our need for size. A toy becomes a stick. What begins as a snowman becomes a fortress. The world was at war in those days, but I was a third-grader. The physical danger I feared was the boy with a wooden gun that shot rubber rings taken from fruit jars. His target was girls’ legs. Friends told me you could give the boy bottle rings and he wouldn’t hit you, but adding to his arsenal seemed like a traitorous thing to do, and I doubted you could trust a commitment from a bully. I think a teacher eventually took his gun. In my world, I appreciated people who had power, like teachers and parents, especially if they had fair rules.

When our children were young, we lived in the country of Kazakhstan. There were no missionaries there at that time. When friends or neighbors wanted to hear about the gospel, we got to be the missionaries!
Our daughter Marné shared the gospel with her friend Alyona. Alyona decided to be baptized with permission from her mother, who was later baptized with Alyona’s younger sister. Recently Alyona married a righteous young man in the Manhattan New York Temple, and Marné got to be there! She was so happy that she had helped her friend learn about Jesus Christ.

A surprising number of people in British Columbia have joined the Church because of feelings they had on temple grounds. “I’ll never forget the feeling I had when I walked through the gates of Temple Square in Salt Lake City,” Julie Keyes of the Victoria stake says. “It felt like I was walking from darkness into light.” She was impressed by the whole experience—the people she met, the testimony of Joseph Smith, the focus on Jesus Christ. “I thought, ‘I’ve got to find out more about this.’” When she returned home to British Columbia, she called the local LDS meetinghouse and asked to meet with the missionaries.
Sister Keyes, who is now married to the president of the Victoria stake, was at the temple grounds because a member of the Church invited her to come, and she was surprised by the warmth she felt from the members there. In fact, if one common theme characterizes almost every story converts share in British Columbia, it is this: light, joy, and genuine friendliness emanate from members of the Church. Being with members and feeling the Spirit are what motivate them to learn more.

I didn’t want to have anything to do with the Church when my wife asked if the missionaries could teach our sons. But I didn’t say no because she was already a member.
When the missionaries started coming to our home twice a week, I would go to my friend’s house next door. My friend was a strong member of another Christian church. Every time I visited with him, he wanted to talk about the Bible. I told him I was not into that sort of thing and didn’t want to study religion. But he kept trying to convince me, and I finally said yes. So for a long time I studied the Bible with my friend while the missionaries taught my boys.
One day it was time for the missionaries to come to our house. But instead of leaving, I decided to stay in the next room. As the missionaries started teaching my sons, I found myself wanting to hear more. I moved closer and closer to the door to hear better. They were teaching my sons about apostles and prophets.
Later I realized I wanted to learn more. I spoke with the missionaries and decided to take the discussions from them—privately. My wife was always there, but no one else knew about it.
So when the missionaries came to teach my boys twice a week, I would go to my friend’s house. Then, on a different day, they would teach me.
One day when my friend said something bad about the Church, I defended it. Like many people in the Marshall Islands, he did not know much about the Church and misunderstood some things Latter-day Saints believe. When he said other negative things, I again defended the Church.
That’s how it went for seven months. Then one day I realized that the Holy Ghost had been confirming to me that everything the missionaries were teaching me was true. I realized I needed to get baptized, even though I still knew so little about the gospel.
After my baptism in 2007, I was so happy. We started saving money to go to the temple in Hawaii, where my wife, our three children, and I were sealed in December 2008.
Being a member of the Church has made a huge impact on my life. I decided to quit my second job entertaining at a restaurant because I would come home late and my garments would be saturated with tobacco smoke. Despite the loss of that extra income, the Lord has taken care of us.
I know the Church is true and that Joseph Smith is a prophet of God because of the Spirit I have felt and the blessings that I have received.

My dear brothers and sisters, as October general conference approached last year, I prepared my conference talk to highlight the 100th anniversary of the vision of the spirit world given to President Joseph F. Smith on October 3, 1918.
A few days after I had submitted my talk for translation, my beloved eternal companion, Barbara, completed her mortal probation and passed into the spirit world.
As the days have turned into weeks, then months, and now a year since Barbara’s passing, I find myself more fully appreciating this scripture: “Thou shalt live together in love, insomuch that thou shalt weep for the loss of them that die.”1 Barbara and I were blessed to “live together in love” for 67 years. But I have learned in a very real way what it means to “weep for the loss” of those we love. Oh, how I love and miss her!
I suppose most of us fail to fully appreciate what others do for us until they are gone. I knew Barbara was always busy, but I did not fully understand the constant family, Church, and community demands upon her time. There were daily consecrated efforts repeated thousands of times through the years that kept our family functioning. And through it all, no one in our family ever heard her raise her voice or say an unkind word.
Floods of memories have washed over me this past year. I have thought about the physically demanding choice she made to be the mother of seven children. Being a homemaker was the only career she ever wanted, and she was in every aspect a consummate professional.
Often I have wondered how she kept track of our children and me. Meal preparation alone was a truly daunting task, not to mention activities such as doing the mountains of laundry our family generated every week and keeping shoes and appropriately sized clothing on the children. We all turned to her on a myriad of other issues that were important to us. And because they were important to us, they were also important to her. She was, in a word, magnificent—as a wife, as a mother, as a friend, as a neighbor, and as a daughter of God.
Now that she has moved on, I am happy that I chose to sit next to her when I came home from the office during the last few months of her life, to hold her hand as we watched the endings of some of her favorite musicals—over and over again because Alzheimer’s would not allow her to remember that she had seen them just the afternoon before. Memories of those special hand-holding sessions are now very, very precious to me.
Brothers and sisters, please do not miss an opportunity to look into the eyes of your family members with love. Children and parents, reach out to each other and express your love and appreciation. Like me, some of you may wake up one day to discover that the time for such important communication has passed. Live each day together with hearts filled with gratitude, good memories, service, and much love.
During this past year, I have pondered more intently than ever before about our Heavenly Father’s plan. In teaching his son Corianton, Alma referred to it as “the great plan of happiness.”2
The word that keeps coming to my mind now when I consider the plan is “reunion.” It is a plan, designed by our loving Father in Heaven, that has at its center the grand and glorious possibilities of family reunion—of eternally reuniting husbands and wives, parents and children, generation upon generation in the household of God.
That thought brings me comfort and the assurance that I will be with Barbara again. Although she physically suffered toward the end of her life, her spirit was strong, noble, and pure. She had prepared herself in all things so that when the day comes, she can stand before “the pleasing bar of God,”3 full of confidence and peaceful assurance. But here I am, in two days 91 years old, and I’m still wondering, “Am I ready? Am I doing everything I need to do to be able to hold her hand once again?”
The most simple, basic certainty of life is this: We are all going to die. Whether we die old or young, easy or hard, wealthy or indigent, beloved or lonely, nobody escapes death.
A few years ago, President Gordon B. Hinckley said something that is particularly meaningful about this: “How sweet is the assurance, how comforting is the peace that come from the knowledge that if we marry right and live right, our relationship will continue, notwithstanding the certainty of death and the passage of time.”4
I certainly married right. Of that there can be no doubt. But that isn’t enough, according to President Hinckley. I also have to live right.5
Today, “living right” can be a pretty confusing concept, especially if you spend much time on social media, where any voice can declare real truths or false concepts about God and His plan for His children. Thankfully, members of the Church have eternally true gospel principles to know how to live so that we might be better prepared when we must die.
Just a few months before I was born, my Apostle grandfather, Elder Melvin J. Ballard, gave a talk that, for some people, captured the essence of what it means to live right. Titled “Struggle for the Soul,” his talk focused on the ongoing battle between our physical bodies and our eternal spirits.
He said, “The greatest conflict that any man or woman will ever have … will be the battle that is had with self,” explaining that Satan, “the enemy of our souls,” attacks us through “the lusts, the appetites, the ambitions of the flesh.”6 So the primary battle is between our divine and spiritual nature and the carnal natural man. Brothers and sisters, remember, we can receive spiritual help through the influence of the Holy Ghost that can “teach you all things.”7 Help can also come through the power and blessings of the priesthood.
Now, I ask, how is this battle going with each one of you?
President David O. McKay said: “Man’s earthly existence is but a test as to whether he will concentrate his efforts, his mind, his soul, upon things which contribute to the comfort and gratification of his physical nature, or whether he will make as his life’s [purpose] the acquisition of spiritual qualities.”8
This battle between our carnal and our spiritual natures isn’t a new thing. In his final sermon to his people, King Benjamin taught that “the natural man is an enemy to God, and has been from the fall of Adam, and will be, forever and ever, unless he yields to the enticings of the Holy Spirit, and putteth off the natural man and becometh a saint through the atonement of Christ the Lord.”9
The Apostle Paul taught that “they that are after the flesh do mind the things of the flesh; but they that are after the Spirit the things of the Spirit.
“For to be carnally minded is death; but to be spiritually minded is life and peace.”10
It seems clear to me that one of the most important things we can learn in this life is how to emphasize our eternal spiritual nature and control our evil desires. This should not be that difficult. After all, our spirit, which has been around a lot longer than our physical body, has already been successful in choosing righteousness over evil in the premortal realm. Before this earth was formed, we lived in the spirit world as sons and daughters of Heavenly Parents, who loved us and continue to love us now.
And yes, we did have to make life-changing decisions and choices in that premortal realm. Every person who has ever lived or ever will live on this planet made an essential decision to choose to accept Heavenly Father’s plan for our salvation. So we all came to earth with a proven track record of a successful spiritual nature and eternal destiny.
Think about that for a moment. This is who you and I really are and who you have always been: a son or daughter of God, with spiritual roots in eternity and a future overflowing with infinite possibilities. You are—first, foremost, and always—a spiritual being. And so when we choose to put our carnal nature ahead of our spiritual nature, we are choosing something that is contrary to our real, true, authentic spiritual selves.
Still, there’s no question that flesh and earthly impulses complicate the decision-making. With a veil of forgetfulness drawn between the premortal spirit world and this mortal world, we can lose sight of our relationship to God and our spiritual nature, and our carnal nature can give priority to what we want right now. Learning to choose the things of the Spirit over the things of the flesh is one of the primary reasons why this earthly experience is part of Heavenly Father’s plan. It’s also why the plan is built upon the solid, sure foundation of the Atonement of the Lord and Savior Jesus Christ so that our sins, including the errors we make when we yield to the flesh, can be overcome through constant repentance and we can live spiritually focused. Now is the time to control our bodily appetites to comply with the spiritual doctrine of Christ. That is why we must not procrastinate the day of our repentance.11
Repentance, therefore, becomes an indispensable weapon in our battle over self. Just last general conference, President Russell M. Nelson referred to this battle and reminded us that “when we choose to repent, we choose to change! We allow the Savior to transform us into the best version of ourselves. We choose to grow spiritually and receive joy—the joy of redemption in Him. When we choose to repent, we choose to become more like Jesus Christ!”12
Every night as I review my day in prayer with my Father in Heaven, I ask to be forgiven if I did anything wrong and promise to try to be better tomorrow. I believe this regular daily repentance helps my spirit remind my body who is in charge of me.
Another resource is the weekly opportunity we all have to refresh ourselves spiritually by partaking of the sacrament in remembrance of the Atonement and the perfect love that our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, has for us.
Brothers and sisters, I encourage you to slow down a bit and think about where you are now in subjugating your carnal nature and empowering your divine, spiritual nature so when the time comes, you may pass into the spirit world to a joyful reunion with your loved ones—for which I testify and humbly pray in the sacred name of the Lord Jesus Christ, amen.

Like you, I know what it means to make essential course corrections. I remember a time when, without any intent to do so, I offended a sister in my ward. I needed to reconcile this issue, but I must admit that my pride kept me from going to her and asking for her forgiveness. Family, other commitments, on and on—I found ways to postpone my repentance. I was sure things would work out on their own. But they didn’t.
In the stillness of not one night but several, I awoke with a clear realization that I was not taking the course the Lord would want me to take. I was not acting on my faith that His arm of mercy was truly extended towards me—if I would act aright. I prayed for strength and courage, humbled myself, and went to the sister’s home and asked for her forgiveness. For us both, it proved to be a sweet, healing experience.

Three months after our fifth baby was born, my husband took a pay cut to start a new career and begin graduate school. That required us to move two states away. Feeling financially and physically drained, and socially isolated in a new place, I became deeply depressed.
Going to church was hard. Reluctantly, I went, but I ducked out of meetings quickly to avoid acquaintances’ cheerful inquiries into how I was adjusting. They expected equally cheerful responses, but I had none. Ward members often talked about how blessed and happy they were to have the gospel of Jesus Christ. What was wrong with me?
I served in my calling, and I halfheartedly prayed and read scriptures. But my efforts didn’t feel like they were “work[ing] wonderfully” for me.1
Nearly a year later, the fog started to lift. Through a series of small mental, physical, social, and spiritual changes, I slowly improved.
Months later, with my depression behind me, I was praying when I became overwhelmed with wonder and gratitude for the blessings of gospel living. I felt that it was unreasonable for me to be so blessed. It was God who had granted me the spiritual gift of faith and a desire to know Him. I acted only on the desire He gave me.
“Why should I deserve blessings,” I prayed, “for doing only what Thou didst plant in my heart to want to do in the first place?”
To my surprise, He answered my prayer immediately with memories from my past.
“What about the times you sought me even when it was painful and hard? When you yielded your will to mine, still came to church, and still served my children anyway? My daughter,” I perceived by the Spirit, “you are blessed abundantly for your faithfulness—for choosing me even when you didn’t want to.”
I had thought that being faithful meant always reaping the fruits of His Spirit. Now I know that faithfulness means loyalty and fidelity to Him—no matter what. God’s reality isn’t changed by whether I can hear Him or feel Him. In times of joy or sorrow, if I stay with Him, He is always with me.

I asked him what stood out in his mind as the singular moment in President Monson’s ministry. I expected him to mention the meeting in Görlitz, the dedication of the country in 1975, the organization of the first stake, the dedication of the Freiberg Temple, or the meeting with Herr Honecker, East Germany’s highest Communist official, when President Monson asked permission for missionaries to enter the country and other missionaries to leave the country to serve in other lands. Given the death squads that patrolled the wall, the query sounded almost ludicrous, but Herr Honecker responded, “We have watched you all these years, and we trust you. Permission granted.” Which one of these events would Brother Burkhardt choose?

Tears began to flow down his cheeks as he responded: “It was December 2, 1979.” I couldn’t register in my mind a major event attached to that date. “Tell me about it,” I said.

“It was the day President Monson came to East Germany to give my wife, Inge, a blessing.” President Monson had a weekend without an assignment, and he flew from the United States to Germany for just that purpose. Sister Burkhardt had been in the hospital for nine weeks with complications from surgery, and her condition was deteriorating. President Monson had recorded in his journal, “We joined our faith and our prayers in providing her a blessing.”8 He had gone thousands of miles with his only free time in months—to the rescue.

As a boy, I had a lot of chores to do. With 13 brothers and sisters, there was plenty of work to go around. One of my jobs was to ride our horse, Old Smoky, and herd the cows to pasture. The only problem was that there wasn’t much green grass for the cows to graze on. It hadn’t rained for some time, and the land was dry and dusty.
One day, I noticed a patch of green grass growing beside the train tracks, underneath the railroad water tower. “I bet the cows will like that,” I thought. I clucked to Old Smoky. “C’mon, boy.”
Old Smoky was smart, and as long as I was riding him, he did what I wanted him to with very few instructions. But if he ever escaped, it was tricky to catch him. He liked running free and avoided being put to work.
When the cows were all busy nibbling next to the tracks, I slid off Old Smoky and sat on his reins so he couldn’t get away. Soon I was busy making necklaces out of snakeweeds, and I didn’t notice the reins slip out from under me as Old Smoky wandered away.
Suddenly, I heard a heart-stopping sound—the whistle of a big, black locomotive. I looked up to see the cows scattered all over the tracks. My family was very poor, and I knew that if any of our cows were killed it would mean disaster.
I leaped toward Old Smoky, but he danced away from me. I couldn’t herd the cows to safety without a horse!
The sound of the approaching train got louder. Panicking, I remembered what I had learned from my mother and my Primary teacher. I dropped to my knees right where I was and prayed. “Heavenly Father,” I cried, “please help me clear the cows off the tracks!”
Just then, the strangest thought came to my mind: “Look at how the cows wander past Old Smoky and he doesn’t run away. Pretend you’re a cow and crawl to him.” I was already on my knees, so I put my hands on the ground, too. On all fours, I crept toward Old Smoky. He didn’t budge. I grabbed his reins, stood up, and leaped on his back. Racing like the wind, Old Smoky herded the cows away from the tracks. He seemed even faster and smarter than usual. By the time the train blasted by, the cows were safely in the pasture.
I knew that Heavenly Father had answered my prayer and spared my family from tragedy. Only He knew that I could save my herd by pretending to be a cow.

On the anniversary of my brother’s death, I reflected on my time since he died. I remembered not only the extreme pain I felt but also the blessings God gave to me.
I never understood how people could say that the death of a loved one could bring blessings. I couldn’t understand how I could possibly have joy and gratitude for something that hurt me so deeply. There was one night, however, that changed my perspective entirely.
I woke up in the middle of the night with the heaviest heart I’d ever had. The pain was suffocating me. I fell to my knees and sobbed a prayer to my Heavenly Father. All my life I had been taught about the Atonement and Jesus Christ’s miraculous healing power. Now my faith was being tested. Did I really believe? I asked my Father in Heaven to please heal my heart. The pain was too much for me to deal with alone.
Then a feeling of peace, comfort, and love swept over my entire body. I felt as though God had wrapped His arms around me and was protecting me from the intense pain I had felt. I still missed my brother, but I was able to see with different eyes. There was so much for me to learn from this experience.
I know the Lord’s love and peace are available. We need only to partake.

Dillon has a terrible problem: his greatest talent is also his greatest fear. “I love to sing,” the 16-year-old Tongan says, “but not in front of people. I get too scared.”
Imagine his mixed feelings when the Church in Tonga announced auditions for vocalists to record a Tongan version of the Old Testament seminary soundtrack. He was both excited and scared to death.
Three songs on the soundtrack require a male vocalist. After Dillon had sung the song for which he was auditioning, the producer surprised him by asking him to sing another of the songs on the soundtrack. As nervous as he was, he did it, and the producer said, “We found our boy.”
Much to his excitement—and dismay—Dillon was offered the opportunity to record all three songs.
As Dillon worked with the sound crew to record the songs, he struggled with one note. “I couldn’t hit it,” he says. “We rehearsed for hours.”
Finally, exhausted and discouraged, he went home that night, knowing that the next morning he’d have to record the song.
“I went straight to my room and prayed to my Heavenly Father to help me,” he says.
All he could think about was how important the soundtrack would be to the 50,000 members of the Church in Tonga, as well as thousands of others who speak Tongan around the world.
“It was one of the longest nights of my life,” he says.
After a long night of prayer and a little bit of sleep, Dillon walked into the recording studio and hit the note.
“Hallelujah,” he remembers saying. “I was happy.”
One of Dillon’s favorite scriptures is Joshua 1:9: “Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.”
Dillon put that promise to the test, and he learned it was true. “I tried my best. I put my best effort and heart into the songs so the listeners will be able to feel the Spirit.”
As Dillon grows out of his fear and into his talents, he recognizes he has received a lot of help—not only from his family but from his Heavenly Father.
“I know,” he says, “that God answered my prayers.”

Josh woke up in another world.
At first everything looked the same. Same wallpaper, same dresser, same curtains, same favorite jeans hung carefully on the floor. His first clue that something had changed was when his mom called from the kitchen: “Breakfast frowns silly.”
What? he thought to himself. “What did you say, Mom?”
“Breakfast frowns silly,” she repeated.
“That’s what I thought you said,” muttered Josh.
Pulling on jeans and shirt he stumbled sleepily out to the kitchen, where everything, including his mother, looked normal.
Then she spoke again. “Nod well, smarty?” It was said in the same tone she had used for the same greeting she had given him every morning for 14 years—“Sleep well, dear?” But she had definitely said, “Nod well, smarty?”
Well, she’d been threatening to do it for years, and now she was really cracking up. Better let Dad deal with this.
Gobbling his breakfast so he wouldn’t have to converse, and grabbing his books, Josh said good-bye and hurried out the door, with his mom’s farewell “Scatter, don’t retrogress” ringing in his ears.
Nod? Frown? Scatter? All familiar words, but used in some very weird ways. Even retrogress was a real word, he was pretty sure. But how did it relate?
Worried about his mother, Josh didn’t stop to talk to anyone, but hurried to his first class and sat scanning his notes until the bell rang. Mr. Crandall, teacher of earth sciences, stood and addressed the class: “Good jellyroll, fauna …”
Attention: We interrupt the telling of this story to give you a choice of endings. Here is a summary of each:
Ending A. Josh flees from the classroom in confusion. A new language has invaded the world. Those who speak it are able to understand him, but he can only understand the simplest communications from them. They offer to teach him, but he is intimidated. Besides, learning this new language is hard for him, and frankly, some teachers are not very good at making it understandable.
Finally, Josh learns just enough of the new language to barely get by. There are many others like him. The career he had originally planned on requires that he learn the new language, so he takes a job that doesn’t pay as well and isn’t as satisfying. He marries and has children who must learn the new language without his help. Josh lives happily but somewhat incompletely ever after.
Ending B. In this scenario, too, Josh finds himself baffled by the new language at first. But he decides to persist and learn as much of it as he can. He struggles to memorize vocabulary and rules of grammar. He asks for help from teachers and others and gets some tutoring. Even then, his grades in the new language are not up to his usual standards, but he does his best.
As Josh persists, a whole new world opens up. There is a wonderful richness of understanding in the new language, a way of describing the world, a way of expressing relationships that is truly powerful. There are even delightful games that can be played with the new language. Furthermore, with a reasonably good understanding of the language, fields of study and careers are open to him that would be closed otherwise. Josh can select a career that is satisfying and that allows him to support his family well. Life is more complete with the new language. He lives happier ever after.
Just a little fun fiction, right? Of course. Only, for those who dislike or fear the language known as mathematics (also known as “the dreaded math”), it may not seem so much like fiction.
Many of us feel intimidated or put off by this strange language. It uses words that we usually understand, but it uses them in new ways that can leave some of us saying, “Huh?” It is written in signs and symbols that include our familiar alphabet, but when you see your first algebraic equation, it might as well be Martian.
If you would rather take paregoric than plane geometry—
If algebra holds as much appeal for you as surgery without anesthesia—
Take heart! Cheer up! What follows is the first pop quiz in math that anyone can pass. Because the answers are included. And—it doesn’t measure your aptitude but your math attitude.
Multiple Choice
Math is (check all that apply):
too hard
too boring
not necessary for me
only for scientists or math nerds
absolutely frightening
all of the above
(Answer: If you checked any of the above, please complete the rest of the quiz.)
True-False Section
A girl doesn’t need math as much as a boy does.
True. WAIT! Just seeing if you were paying attention. If you believe girls don’t need math, we’ve got a bridge in Brooklyn we’d like to sell you. Every woman needs math. It’s hard to think of a career anymore where sound math skills aren’t necessary for real success. And at home, math is necessary for helping with family finances and taxes, helping children learn, making wise decisions. A young woman needs math in order to become a smart, alert, thinking woman who understands the world better.
There are plenty of good careers available that don’t require math.
True. Unfortunately, many of them are not on this planet. Here on earth, forestry aides, photographers, and horticulturists need three years of high school math, beginning with algebra. So do nurses, computer programmers, sociologists, and many others. Architects, doctors, scientists—even interior designers and graphic artists—need at least four years of high school math, beginning with algebra. And many of these professions require college math as well.
The best careers are those that pay quite well, and those are the careers that require lots of math.
False—and true. It is generally true that the highest salaries are found in the professions that require math. But, the best career for you is one that lets you grow, gives you the satisfaction of doing something enjoyable that is of service to others, and provides a salary adequate for your needs. High salary doesn’t automatically make one profession better than another, any more than being rich (or poor) automatically makes a person better.
If I am planning on a career or profession that requires little math, I can get by with the minimum.
True, perhaps. But you may not know yet what career you want. If you don’t take math, you lose many of your options. And even if you do have a profession selected, remember that many people change their goals or their professions later on. Don’t close doors on yourself.
Besides, do you really want to settle for the minimum? Do you want to be at the mercy of the lenders with their interest and payment schedules, the politicians with their statistics, the promoters of lotteries and other gambles, advertising claims, etc.?
Some people are naturally better at math than others.
True. But so what? Some people are naturally better readers. But all of us need to read to get along in life. We learn a language, and that helps us communicate with each other. Mathematics is a kind of language itself, and it is being used by more and more people. Math uses symbols, and they seem strange sometimes, but the alphabet is also a set of symbols, and we learn to read with those symbols. The ideas we learn in math are no more difficult than the ideas we learn in reading.
Math can be fun and enjoyable.
True. Wait! Don’t adjust your magazine. It’s true. Many people study math as a hobby. Many enjoy simple mathematical puzzles and games. Math involves exciting ways of thinking. But you have to get into it, learn the basics. Can you imagine doing crossword puzzles when you can scarcely read?
Okay, put down your pencils and pass your papers to the end of the row. That wasn’t so tough, was it? Now if only math itself were that easy. But for many of us—perhaps most of us—it isn’t. So?
So, only people with unusual talent and super dedication can become concert pianists. But anyone with average intelligence and dexterity can learn to play hymns and popular tunes, provided they invest the time and effort learning the symbols and practicing. Some must struggle harder than others, but they can succeed.
The difference is, you can live a normal, satisfying life without knowing how to play the piano. But you will need math your whole life long. So why not get as good at it as you can?
Math is important for everybody. Count on it.

After moving to Nauvoo, Illinois, Joseph and Emma Smith built the Red Brick Store. It served as Joseph’s office and as a business to support his family.
I’ll take 20 pounds of flour, Emma.
Do you need anything else?
James Leach had recently moved from England to Nauvoo with his sister and her husband, Henry. James was not a member of the Church.
We’ve searched for work all day, Henry. I don’t think we’re going to find anything.
Let’s ask the Prophet for help.
James had never met Joseph Smith or been near him before. He felt an overwhelming spirit just by looking at him.
He is truly a prophet of the Most High God.
Brethren, how can I help you today?
Mr. Smith, have you any employment?
Can you make a ditch?
We’ll do our best.
Joseph took the men a little way from the store and stretched out a measuring tape.
Can you make a ditch three feet wide and two and a half feet deep along this line?
When they finished the ditch, they called Joseph out to inspect it.
I could not have done better myself. Come with me.
Joseph gave the men two of his largest and best pieces of meat and two sacks of flour.
This is too much, Joseph.
We’ll do more work for it.
If you are satisfied, boys, I am.
Because of this encounter with the Prophet’s kindness and because of other experiences in which he felt Joseph’s power from God, James learned the gospel and was baptized and confirmed later that year.

Forty-one years ago I climbed into the driver’s seat of an 18-wheel semitruck with my beautiful wife, Jan, and our infant son, Scotty. We were taking a heavy load of construction materials across several states.
In those days there were no seat-belt restrictions or infant car seats. My wife held our precious son in her arms. Her comment “We sure are high off the ground” should have given me a clue about her feelings of apprehension.
As we made our descent over historic Donner Pass, a steep section of highway, the cab of the semi suddenly and unexpectedly filled with thick smoke. It was difficult to see, and we could hardly breathe.
With a heavy rig, brakes alone are not enough to rapidly decrease speed. Using the engine brakes and gearing down, I frantically attempted to stop.
Just as I was pulling to the side of the road, but before we had come to a full stop, my wife opened the door of the cab and jumped out with our baby in her arms. I watched helplessly as they tumbled in the dirt.
As soon as I had the semi stopped, I bolted from the smoking cab. With adrenaline pumping, I ran through the rocks and weeds and held them in my arms. Jan’s forearms and elbows were battered and bleeding, but thankfully she and our son were both breathing. I just held them close as the dust settled there on the side of the highway.
As my heartbeat normalized and I caught my breath, I blurted out, “What in the world were you thinking? Do you know how dangerous that was? You could have been killed!”
She looked back at me, with tears running down her smoke-smudged cheeks, and said something that pierced my heart and still rings in my ears: “I was just trying to save our son.”
I realized in that moment she thought the engine was on fire, fearing the truck would explode and we would die. I, however, knew it was an electrical failure—hazardous but not fatal. I looked at my precious wife, softly rubbing the head of our infant son, and wondered what kind of woman would do something so courageous.
This situation could have been as emotionally hazardous as our literal engine failure. Gratefully, after enduring the silent treatment for a reasonable amount of time, each of us believing the other person was at fault, we finally expressed the emotions that were churning beneath our heated outbursts. Shared feelings of love and fear for the other’s safety kept the hazardous incident from proving fatal to our cherished marriage.
When our truck cab filled with smoke, my wife acted in the bravest manner she could imagine to protect our son. I too acted as a protector when I questioned her choice. Shockingly, it did not matter who was more right. What mattered was listening to each other and understanding the other’s perspective.