Gospel Story Finder

Back in 1777, when the colonists were struggling to gain their independence from English rule, a wealthy and courageous Frenchman by the name of Marquis de Lafayette obtained a commission in the Colonies’ Continental army. And although Lafayette, whose full name was Marie Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, was only nineteen when he was commissioned a major general under George Washington, his military training made it possible for him to command troops effectively in several important battles. He was wounded at the battle of the Brandywine and later served with Washington at Valley Forge during the terrible winter of 1777–78.
Lafayette was accepted by Commander Washington as one of his own family, and the young general, whose own father died when he was only two, modeled his life after Washington’s and called the commander his adopted father.
In France, where he returned in 1782, Lafayette was called “the hero of two worlds.” He afterwards distinguished himself as a soldier, patriot, and statesman during the French Revolution and in later political and military maneuvers.

Recently, I have been giving serious thought to the role that my wife plays in my life. This contemplation was started by Elder Boyd K. Packer of the Quorum of the Twelve who asked me: “What would you have been without your wife, Ruth?” I could have answered immediately, “Not much,” but he already knew that.
His question penetrated my very soul and I spent the next twenty-four hours thinking about what I would have been without the loving, sweet support and the discipline of my wife. It shocked me a little to even contemplate on what my life would have been without her.
But now, in response to Elder Packer’s question. I would have to honestly answer that without my wife I would have been pretty much a failure. I do not claim to be an expert on marriage; I have only been married once, but thanks to my good wife, it was successful. I do not claim to have a better marriage than anyone else, but I do claim to be married to a great companion.

When my wife and I were first married, President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) encouraged members of the Church to read the scriptures every day with their families. We wanted to follow the prophet, so we decided we would do that together as a couple and then with our future children.
Years later, our family had grown to five children, including our youngest, Spencer.
Once, when Spencer was six years old, my wife and I went away for just a few days and left the children with a babysitter. When we returned home, I sat down with Spencer and asked him how everything had gone while we were away.
He told me that he’d had a hard time sleeping. When I asked why he didn’t sleep well, he thought about it and said he did not know.
Later that evening our family began our nightly routine of reading the Book of Mormon together.
Suddenly Spencer exclaimed, “That’s it!” I asked what he was talking about. “That’s why I couldn’t sleep very well at night.”
“Why couldn’t you sleep?” I asked.
“We didn’t read the scriptures at night while you were gone, and I like how the scriptures make me feel.”
Spencer had learned that reading the scriptures every day brings us the comfort, peace, and guidance of the Holy Ghost.

Like Viktor, Kira Gulko learned of Heavenly Father’s love for each of His children when she learned about the Church. But the decision to be baptized didn’t come easily to Kira. At first when her parents decided to join the Church, Kira remembers, “I questioned their sanity.” Fortunately, instead of criticizing or rebelling, she decided to find out for herself if their new religion was true.
“We weren’t practicing Jews,” explains Kira, “but we were of Jewish origin. In our family, talking about Jesus Christ was forbidden. But when perestroika began, allowing greater freedom to look at new ideas, my parents started to explore different religions and philosophies. My mother was president of the international friendship club at the school where she teaches English. She found a letter from a teacher in Riverton, Utah, who was looking for pen pals. My mother’s class responded, and in return they got a big box of maybe 100 letters. Many of the students mentioned they were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints; my mother didn’t know what that was.
“Then we were passing by the bridge near our house, and we saw a notice inviting people to attend The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints! My parents decided to go, first so Mom could answer her students’ questions, but also because they were looking for another religion themselves.
“That was in October 1991. After that, the missionaries started coming to our apartment. Soon my parents understood that Jesus Christ is their Savior. They also loved the doctrine of eternal families. We have a wonderful family, and that was an important principle to us. They also went to a baptism and felt the Spirit. In December they decided to be baptized themselves.
“I listened to all of the discussions, but I couldn’t understand why my parents decided to join the Church. I was afraid they were crazy, that something had happened to their minds. But as I read the Book of Mormon, my testimony of its truthfulness grew stronger and stronger. The key to my conversion was that I came to realize I am truly loved by my Heavenly Father. I could feel this big love that’s around me and see it in my parents and in the members of the Church. That’s why I was baptized in February 1992. I knew it was right.”
Since then, Kira has helped bring her friend Lena into the Church and has watched three of her four grandparents embrace the gospel. She has seen her mother help with the translation of the Book of Mormon into Ukrainian and has witnessed her father serve as a district president. And Kira has served as a Relief Society president, contributing her own time and talents to the growth of the Church.

In the San Diego California North Stake, the stake Young Women president, Sheryl Arrington, had similar ideas for helping her young women make the modest choice.
When they heard about plans for a modest fashion show, many young women rose to the occasion. “Modesty is important to me because it is important to the Lord,” said Hyesuhn Lee, a Laurel. “I know that being modest will help me reach my goal of going to the temple.”
Several other Laurels like Hyesuhn were invited to participate in the show, and the enthusiasm spread to the Mia Maids and Beehives, who offered to help as well. The show was expanded to include casual clothes, modeled by the Beehives, and Sunday best, showcased by the Mia Maids. With so much participation, Laurel Paige Mange discovered that she was in good company. “The show reminded me that I am not the only one facing the challenge of staying modest.”
The show took as its theme “Be Thou an Example,” and the young women truly became examples by inviting the 11-year-old girls in the stake to come see modesty in action. Christie Richmond, a Laurel, remembered the show’s simple lesson: “We can wear beautiful gowns and clothes and look pretty and be modest at the same time. Modesty will help you feel good about yourself because you know you are doing the right thing.”
Laurel Kierston Knobloch agrees. “I feel confident and comfortable when I know I don’t have to tug and pull at my clothes.”
The girls’ confidence was increased by their participation in the show. Not only did they get to wear beautiful, modest clothes, they also learned poise and posture so they could walk confidently down the runway built for the event. Best of all, however, was the temple cutout that adorned the stage, reminding the young women about their goals to stay obedient, pure, and worthy in dress and action so they could move towards the temple. “Modesty makes me feel closer to our Heavenly Father,” reflects Laurel Bee Xiong.
Sister Arrington agrees that modesty is a way for a young woman to grow spiritually. For her girls in California, as well as for the young women in Utah and anywhere else, when it comes to modesty, “young women are always beautiful when they follow the Lord’s principles,” she says.

This past summer at the Nauvoo Aaronic Priesthood Encampment, special missionary preparation workshops were held. Bishops conducted these sessions with their Aaronic Priesthood. Every young man was given his own missionary preparation book. Two thousand young men participated in this activity.
A bishop reported that one young man would not get involved. He lazed on the grass a few feet from the group. He would occasionally laugh or seem to make fun. He would not participate, as he had no intention of serving a mission. Around a campfire that night, during a testimony meeting, this young man stood up and began to talk. He said, “This morning I did not participate in the missionary preparation workshops, but I was listening, I was listening. I have been thinking, thinking a lot.” Then, with great emotion he said, “I have made a decision to go on a mission.”

Before I go to bed, I brush Mommy’s hair. She has long hair, and I brush it many times. Then Mommy brushes my hair. I have long hair, too, and Mommy thinks it is pretty.

Bishop Luís Castrillo of the Ciudad Sandino Ward, Managua Nicaragua Stake, explains that many people in Nicaragua are seeking answers to life’s questions and finding those answers in the teachings of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He compares their condition to being very thirsty on a hot day and unable to find a place to get a drink. When at last they find the way to quench their thirst, they drink freely and gratefully of the water that the gospel of Jesus Christ has to offer.

I learned this as an airline pilot on days when I had to fly into thick fog or clouds and could see only a few feet ahead. I had to rely on the instruments that told me where I was and where I was headed. I had to listen to the voice of air traffic control. I had to follow the guidance of someone with more accurate information than I had. Someone whom I could not see but whom I had learned to trust. Someone who could see what I could not. I had to trust and act accordingly to arrive safely at my destination.

I am grateful to a young man who shared with me the following experience. He and another Aaronic Priesthood holder were assigned to administer the sacrament to a man who was homebound and very sick. They arrived at his home not realizing that recent medical treatments prevented him from eating any food—even a piece of the sacrament bread. After blessing the bread, the young man presented the sacrament to the frail man. He took a piece of the blessed bread, waited a moment, and then held it against his lips. The young man said when he saw this faithful brother express his reverence for the sacrament, he felt as though he were watching him kiss the feet of the Savior. He could tell that he loved Him.

The significance of the sacrament was impressed upon that young man in an unforgettable way that day. You will have sacred experiences, just as this young man did.

Illustrations by Scott Greer
Dani looked up but still couldn’t see the top of the beautiful cathedral. People who belonged to a different church came here. Dani didn’t understand why her family was visiting this church on a Friday, but Dad said they were going to something called Evensong.
“What’s that?” Dani asked.
“It’s a meeting where people sing, read scriptures, and pray together,” Dad said. “Like a big family at the end of the day.”
Dani liked how that sounded. She and her family were visiting England. Last Sunday they went to a ward in a city called York. In Primary all the kids knew the same scriptures and songs Dani did. She knew the ward she visited was part of Jesus’s true Church, just like her ward at home.
But this cathedral was very different from what she was used to. She noticed a small table filled with candles. Dani watched a boy light a candle.
“Why are you lighting candles?” Dani asked him.
The boy smiled. “I light a candle when I pray for special things. As long as the flame burns, I hope the prayer will continue to be heard by God.”
They looked like regular candles to Dani. She was a little confused, but she wanted to be polite. She smiled at the boy.
Dani and her family sat down, and soon Evensong started. She saw the same boy a few rows away. Then she realized she didn’t know any of the songs everyone was singing. When they prayed, they read out of a little book. Everything seemed different than what she was used to.
But the music was beautiful, even if it wasn’t familiar. Then a man got up to read the scriptures. He was wearing robes, instead of a suit and tie like Dani’s bishop. But as he started reading, Dani realized she knew this story! He was reading about Jesus healing the 10 lepers.
“Dad,” Dani whispered, “I love this story.”
Dad smiled. “Me too.”
Then the man in robes said a prayer. He asked God to bless those who were sick and in need. Just like Dani did! He also asked a special blessing on leaders of his church. Dani remembered how her family always asked Heavenly Father to bless President Thomas S. Monson and his counselors.
A warm feeling came into Dani’s heart. She knew Heavenly Father was telling her He loved all His children and heard all their prayers, even if they went to a different church and didn’t have the fulness of the gospel.
As they got up to leave, Dad checked his phone. He looked sad as he read his messages. “Sister Monson passed away,” he said.
“Oh no!” Dani said a quick prayer in her heart that President Monson would be OK.
“Are you all right?” someone asked. It was the boy from before. He had heard Dani, and he seemed worried.
“Sister Monson passed away,” Dani said. “She was the wife of our prophet, President Monson.”
“I’m sorry,” he said kindly. “I’ll light a candle for him.”
Dani smiled and thanked him. She thought it was nice of the boy to say a special prayer for President Monson. She knew Heavenly Father would hear the prayer she said in her heart and the prayer the boy said too.

“During the St. Petersburg concert,” said James B. Kennard, “I kept making eye contact with a man in the audience. I found him afterwards and invited him to the fireside the next evening. He and his two sons came to the fireside and then invited us to their apartment, where we held a gospel discussion. They happily agreed to read the Book of Mormon and visit with the missionaries. At the evening’s end, our wives embraced and hugged each other.”

One afternoon, my wife and I were invited to a home of a friend. Their seven-year-old son, David, had never heard the Bible story of David and Goliath, and he wanted to hear it. As I began to tell the story, he was touched by the way David, with his faith and in the name of the God of Israel, wounded and killed the Philistine with a sling and a stone, having no sword in his hand (see 1 Samuel 17).

Looking at me with his enormous dark eyes, he asked me firmly, “Who is God?” I explained to him that God is our Heavenly Father and that we learn about Him in the scriptures.

Then he asked me, “What are the scriptures?” I told him that the scriptures are the word of God and that in them he would find beautiful stories that would help him to better know God. I asked his mother to use the Bible that she had in her home and that she not let David go to sleep without reading the whole story to him. He was delighted as he listened to it. The scriptures and our knowledge of God are gifts—gifts that we too often take for granted. Let us cherish these blessings.

Brothers and sisters, I am personally grateful for the promptings we received as a Primary presidency. During the general conference when we were sustained, President Gordon B. Hinckley described some of the terrible atrocities that have been inflicted on children throughout the world. We read in newspapers and periodicals of the evil influences that are invading our homes.
As a new and very concerned Primary presidency, we prayed and searched the scriptures and were led to a verse in Isaiah that describes conditions during the Millennium: “They shall not hurt nor destroy in all my holy mountain: for the earth shall be full of the knowledge of the Lord” (Isa. 11:9). That was exactly what we wanted to have happen. We didn’t want any child to be hurt or destroyed, but we didn’t want to wait for the Millennium. We wanted that to happen right now. If our Primaries were full of the knowledge of the Lord, if our homes were full of the knowledge of the Lord, there would be peace and righteousness and the children would not be hurt in any way. We prayed to know how we could help that happen and were led to 2 Nephi 25:26 [2 Ne. 25:26]. Our homes and our Primaries will be full of the knowledge of the Lord when “we talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ.”
We are so grateful for the peace and hope these scriptures gave us and for the direction we received through the Holy Ghost to encourage Primary leaders to have Christ-centered Primaries.

Roger was having a hard time deciding what to suggest for Wednesday. But when Mom said she would be gone all day, his eyes sparkled. “Today the Sunshine Club stays home to help Mom.”
“But we always help,” Johnny said, disappointed.
“We do our regular jobs—but I mean special ones.”
So that afternoon the children washed all the windows and the kitchen floor. Then they made some corn bread, heated up some stew, and sneaked out of the kitchen just as Mom came home. She was pleased to see the shiny clean windows and glossy floor and to smell supper on the stove.
“My, how wonderful to have so many mysterious elves around our home,” she remarked at supper. “This stew is delicious, and the corn bread tastes great!”

8. Share the good times, but also share the bad. Some of the loneliest moments in life come when you have to feel crummy all by yourself. The heartaches, the all-night term papers, the unexpected expenses—all these unwelcome events are made a little more bearable when you can talk about them. I remember one Saturday evening after my roommates and I had all returned from a fireside. Suddenly, Carol was standing in the hallway with tears streaming down her cheeks. As we clustered around her, she said softly, “Sometimes don’t you just feel like crying?” We agreed, and pretty soon we were all there crying together. Thanks to a roommate who wasn’t afraid to be herself and share her emotions, our apartment grew a little closer that night.

My mind goes back to Germany some 64 years ago when from the land of Zion came two fine young missionaries, Brother Wayne Kartchner and Brother Otto Andre. My wife and I were just newlyweds at that time, and they taught us the gospel. They came very often to our home. We were good prospects to them, and they liked us very well. And they liked my wife’s good cooking too.
So we soon were led to the waters of baptism, and on a cold night in 1923 we were baptized in a big river near the city.
I came to America thereafter, and I can truly say I love this great land of opportunity. Wonderful opportunities lie in store for all of you. Just keep the laws of God. Be on his side, and he will bless you.

Joseph had human failings. He never pretended otherwise. He acknowledged: “The wrong that I do is thro’ the frailty of human nature like other men. No man lives without fault.”10 And he was willing to admit when he was wrong and to seek forgiveness. On one occasion in 1836, Joseph stated that he was perhaps too harsh in some language he used in a letter to the Twelve Apostles. Meeting with the Apostles, he asked for their forgiveness, stating that he loved them and would “hold [them] up with all my heart in all righteousness before the Lord.”11 Seeking and granting forgiveness were hallmarks of Joseph’s character.

Hi! I’m Jackson, from Germany, and this is my brother, Josiah, and my sister, Cora Jade.
Lots of people come to Germany when they’re not safe in their countries anymore. They’re called refugees. The kids don’t have any toys, so I gave them some of mine. Then I had a great idea. I asked my mom if we could make dolls for them.
I love to sew with my mom. I pushed the pedal on the sewing machine and put the stuffing in the dolls.
My family collected some clothes and toys to give to the refugees here. We drew pictures for them of things that make us happy.
We took the dolls to the refugee camps and gave them to kids there. I like making new friends!
They sang songs for us, and we played our instruments for them. Some people who were sad smiled when we played “I Am a Child of God.” It felt really, really, really good.
The kids we met are like us in lots of ways. All of us like to sing and get toys and play outside. I know Jesus loves them, and He loves me.
For more ideas on serving refugees in your area, visit lds.org/go/61775.

It was about 4:00 P.M. on a cheerless February day in 1977, and I was sitting in my office at the university, preparing for a night class, when the phone rang.
“Dad?” the voice came. “Mom said to call and tell you she’s taking John to the hospital.”
“Hospital?” I asked. “What for?”
It was Kathryn, and she sounded rather nervous.
“Well … you understand … I was coming home in the car, and he wanted me to give him a ride on the fender.”
“Oh no,” I groaned. “How many times have I warned you about …”
“But it was only about half a block,” she said, “and I was going really slow. He didn’t even get hurt until I stopped, and I told him I didn’t want him to get on to begin with.”
“Okay, that doesn’t matter. Just tell me what happened. How bad is it?”
“Not very bad. I mean, I don’t think so. He just sort of jumped off, and then fell over backward and hit his head.”
My anxiety had suddenly mounted. “Well, what’s his condition? Is he really hurt? Is he in a lot of pain, or what?”
“No,” she replied, “he’s just been acting kind of strange. He can’t remember things, and the fingers on his left hand keep curling in like he’s trying to scratch something.”
Moments later I had phoned the hospital emergency room and was talking to my wife, Sharon. “He’s not in much pain,” she informed me, “and his memory’s pretty well returned. They just want to keep him under observation for a while and maybe take some X-rays to make sure his skull isn’t fractured.”
“All right,” I replied and felt better. “I have to prepare for my night class, but call me if he gets any worse and I’ll come immediately.”
Darkness had settled in a faint wintry drizzle, and I was halfway through a three-hour class session when my son Tony, a member of the janitorial crew, appeared in the doorway. Just behind him was our good friend and neighbor Dr. Evan Memmott, head of the college audio-visual department. Both of them appeared very solemn. I will never forget, in fact, the expression of tragedy on Evan’s rugged, empathic countenance. He seemed to be on the verge of tears, and in that instant I concluded that my son had died.
What occurred during the next few minutes is blurry; I was standing there in the hall, looking into their eyes, hearing the urgent agony of my own voice as though it were spoken by someone else. “What is it? What’s happened?” My thoughts mingled in relief and anxiety over the reply. Johnny was alive, but he was definitely getting worse and was having convulsions.
He was sitting on the edge of a hospital bed as we arrived, and was surrounded by his mother; Dr. Grant Way, our pediatrician; and two or three nurses. Johnny’s face was sallow, tinged with grayish green, his hair was a mess, and he looked terribly frail and vulnerable. They were holding a crescent-shaped pan under his chin, and there was blood in it. My stomach clenched.
“Johnny,” I said quietly and placed my hand on his shoulder with great care. “Are you all right?”
He actually smiled a little, spit futilely into the pan, and someone wiped his lips with a tissue. “I’m not feeling too well,” he managed. “I’d better lie back down.” Pretty courageous, I thought, especially for a kid of 13.
“All right.” I helped lower him to the pillow. “Do you want us to administer to you?”
He closed his eyes, breathing through his mouth. “Yes … I guess … only don’t press too hard.” I glanced at Evan, and we laughed a little. “No, we’d try not to press too hard.”
Later, conferring with Dr. Way in the hall, I learned that John had landed on the back of his head but had sustained a fracture on top, right down the middle, and that he might be suffering from subcranial bleeding, perhaps even a blood clot. Dr. Way glanced toward the bed and its occupant. “He is looking better now, though, isn’t he?” I nodded a bit dubiously, still offering silent prayers in hopes of building up some kind of reserve help.
They kept him there for the next 48 hours, but despite the excellent care, his mother stayed with him during the days, and his father stayed during the nights. At 6:00 A.M. on the morning of his scheduled departure, having made “steady improvement,” he suddenly developed intense pains. “I have a terrible pain in my head,” he moaned. “It feels like somebody’s cut right down the middle of it.”
The nurses had been making their rounds every 30 minutes at first, now every hour, observing him carefully, shining a light in his eyes to see if the pupils were properly dilated, but I didn’t wait. His description of the pain greatly disturbed me, and even as I left the room, he was tossing about, clasping his head and moaning. I returned moments later, having received approval to give him another mild pain-killer. A nurse would be there soon.
Soon, however, was too long. John made no response as I entered the room. “Johnny!” I said, “are you all right?” I bent over him, frowning, clasping his shoulder. “John? Can you hear me?” But his eyes were glazed, losing their color, and a tiny bubble was forming between his lips. He was turning gray again—receding, shriveling before my eyes. Dying! Absolutely incredible … absolutely true. Johnny!
I ran for the door. “Get the doctor in residence, quick!” I shouted. “He’s in a coma, and he’s fading fast!” A young nurse swished into the room—checked his pulse, his eyes, did other things (I don’t know what), and left, crying. Crying! Undoubtedly she had been trained not to display such emotion, but sometimes emotions take precedence regardless of the circumstances.
I’m not certain of the following sequence, but a call was placed immediately to Dr. Way, and I phoned Sharon moments later. She took the news with what can only be described as beautiful fortitude and asked one question: “Is there someone there who can help you administer to him?”
“I’ll find somebody,” I replied, asking her to phone family and friends and request their prayers.
I have never known doctors to arrive with such speed. Within the first two or three minutes a young intern, Ed Parker—a bearer of the priesthood—appeared, and somehow, before we even had time to perform the administration, Dr. Way was there as well. I don’t recall what I said during that blessing, but I do know that I made some strong, unqualified commitments to the Father of our spirits if only he would spare my son, his son. I do know that despite my failings, I have been a better man since. I do know that almost immediately after our administration, the light returned to John’s eyes, that he emerged from the depths of his coma, speaking a little, communicating all that was required to neurosurgeon J. H. Hauser, who had also arrived with remarkable swiftness.
Shortly thereafter, Dr. Hauser explained that a large hematoma (blood clot) was exerting pressure on John’s brain and that it might still be growing. “We have two options,” he said, “One is to use drugs. That may help eliminate the clot, but we can’t really be certain of their effectiveness or the speed with which they will act. The other is to bore some holes in his head and remove the clot directly.”
“Please do exactly what you would do if he were your own son,” I said, and moments later Johnny was on his way to the operating room for surgery that was to last almost two hours.
“We’ll do our best,” they had said. That was all they said—no promises.
By now we had formed quite a congregation—his mother, Grandfather Allred (who spontaneously offered perhaps the simplest, most fervent and beautiful prayer I have ever heard), various medical personnel, several of our own children, and our neighbors the Memmotts—true Good Samaritans. We sat there together in the main waiting room, conversing quietly, and young Mike Memmott, one of John’s best friends, was blinking back tears. That fall in the road three days earlier had momentarily knocked John unconscious and left his head bleeding rather profusely. Bending over him in great anxiety, Mike had called John’s name, then actually picked him up and carried him into our home.
During the half hour that followed, we phoned our oldest son, Mark, then at the Language Training Mission in Provo, Utah, in preparation for his departure to Hamburg, Germany. We also phoned the Ogden Temple to place John’s name on the prayer roll and learned that someone else had done the same thing at the Salt Lake Temple. Shortly thereafter we received a call from the receptionist at the Language Training Mission in Provo. “President Pinegar took the liberty of placing your son’s name on the rolls at the temple here,” she said. “We hope you don’t have anything against it.” Of course we didn’t have anything against it.
It was such an incredible interplay of feelings! Such a sense of spirituality, of belonging, of family—not only our immediate kin, but all those others, virtually everyone we talked to, in fact! Friends of our daughters were now there also, and various acquaintances passing through the hospital had stopped to talk to us, offering words of concern and consolation. It seemed as though everyone knew our young son personally and truly loved him.
And yet, despite all those things—love, comfort, faith, buoyant warmth—there was the lingering feeling of fear, which was just as pervasive as the smell of antiseptic, the kind of fear that seems to shrivel one’s innards a little. At one point I encountered a doctor friend on the elevator and explained briefly our son’s condition. “That’s too bad,” he said. “The same thing happened to the Jones boy last week, the very same kind of accident. He never lived through the operation.”
Somehow that observation didn’t help to make me feel any better, nor had our son Mark’s earlier response to our phone call. “I always thought John was too good for us to keep him very long,” he had said. Pacing the hall outside the operating room, I glanced at the forbidding green doors marked “Surgery—Unauthorized Personnel Not Permitted” and thought about that other boy, the one who hadn’t lived. I had met his father, and I knew in part his family’s grief, for at one point I had supposed that my own son was dead. At another, I had literally seen the life fade, and who really knew the outcome even now? No assurance of anything, only those final words: “We’ll do our best.”
Leaning against the tiled wall with one hand, I rested my head on my out-stretched arm. “Father in Heaven,” I asked, “why did that other son have to die? Why did his loved ones have to endure all that pain and sorrow?” I knew full well, of course, that answers are rarely given to such questions. “Is it right,” I inquired, “for me to ask that my own son be spared under the circumstances?” I remembered the blessing, my commitment to rededicate my life if only John could be spared. But who am I, the thought came, to be setting up conditions for the Lord? I should be constantly striving to live a better life regardless of the circumstances.
There was no one in the hall. I closed my eyes and continued. “Father,” I said, “I have no right to bargain or to establish terms. Thy will be done in all things.” Pausing, I struggled for some small particle of wisdom. “On the other hand, if we’re allowed to keep him, well, I can guarantee you this: it will certainly be great motivation.”
The surgery was pronounced a success, and I remember walking with my arm around Sharon out into the sunlit parking lot of that winter morning; we were trying to reassemble ourselves emotionally, breathing deeply the air of mortality, offering our thanks. The morning was very pure and bright, almost transparent.
I remember the night that followed—Johnny in the intensive care unit, head wrapped in white bandages like a swami, taking intravenous fluid, moaning occasionally, causing my heart to fibrillate slightly each time it happened. The following afternoon, having improved rapidly, he was returned to the pediatrics ward.
I remained in the hospital each night, Sharon taking the days so that I could continue my classes at the college nearby. And Johnny rapidly grew better, startling everyone—doctors included—with the rapid rate of his recovery. Periodically, however, there were the low points—the time, for example, I was lying with a blanket and pillow on the floor of his private room, and awoke to hear him crying. He was standing in the bathroom and didn’t quite know where he was. “What’s the matter, John?” I called.
“I don’t know,” he lamented, “I don’t know!” Guiding him back to his bed, I hoisted him into it.
“Are you having pain?” I asked.
“Do you need me to call the nurse?”
“No,” he sighed and turned his head away from me for a moment. “It’s just that I’m still getting headaches, and I keep thinking about those holes and not having any hair. “It’s just that … well, for a minute, I didn’t know where you were, and I couldn’t cope with it.
I paused, and then laid my hand on his brow with utmost care. “I understand, buddy. Just let your old dad cope with it for you, okay? Everything’s going to be all right, just great, in fact, and we’ll have you home before you know it. Your hair will grow back in no time.”
He had turned to face me now, and I could see his eyes, big and brown with luminous depths in his pale face. “Not like yours,” he smiled. All my own hair had fallen out a few years earlier.
“No,” I grinned. “Mine will have to wait the resurrection. But then, John, do you know what kind of hairstyle I’ll have?”
“What kind?”
“I’m going to have hair that is curly, thick, and bushy.”
“That’ll be great!” He began to laugh, but it hurt his head.
We remained together in the darkness with only a pale blue light from the parking lot shining dimly through the window, and I continued to look at him, marveling at the number of friends and relatives who had drawn even nearer as a result of our experience, the number of people, some of them total strangers to me, who cared and truly loved that boy.
“Remember a long long time ago when you were just a little boy?” I mused. “Well, you couldn’t, of course, because you were only about 18 months old, but it was the night after Robby was born in the old Dee Hospital on 24th Street. Anyway, you and I were the only ones home, and I guess it was about midnight or later. I came into your room to see if you were covered up, if everything was okay. The light from the hall was shining on your face a little, and there you were, wide awake, just looking up at me and smiling—like right now. So I sat down on the edge of our old rocker, and we looked at each other. That’s all we did. We were all alone, just looking at each other through the bars of that crib—looking into each other—for maybe 15 minutes. And you know something?” I paused. “That was one of the finest experiences your old dad has ever had.”
He looked thoughtful, frowned a little, but it was a pleasurable frown somehow. “I can’t exactly remember,” he said slowly, “but, well, I sort of do in a way, like I can still feel it.”
My hand was on his wrist now, and I could feel the life there, pulsing, pulsing, pulsing, all very steadily. Yes, strong and steady now, and it seemed as if we were going to keep him. It looked as if he would go on to become a doctor as he had planned, perhaps even a surgeon. It appeared that he would fulfill some special calling here on earth, for there had always been a special spirit about him, and at times he seemed to move along in something like a state of grace.
“John the beloved,” I said.
He peered at me inquisitively, not really comprehending.
“What?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I replied. “Just rest now. Try to get some sleep.” It was the secret name I had given him that night long ago, the name reserved for very special occasions.