~by Amy (not her real name)

I was studying away when I received a text from my roommate, saying that one of her friends with whom she had been in contact was just diagnosed with COVID. “I’ve been feeling symptoms,” the message said, “so I will be getting tested tomorrow.”

Feeling a slight sore throat myself, the sudden shift was a little too much for my body and brain to handle. 

Even though I kept trying to tell myself everything was going to be okay, and even though in my heart I knew it would be, I broke down. I am scheduled to receive my temple endowment in a week and a half, and that could all change if they come back positive (or if I do). 

By this time, I was no longer able to focus on my heavy load of homework, so I decided to read an email from one of my friends who is currently serving as a missionary. He wrote:

“Miracles happen. Remember that. Be on the lookout….”

I realized I needed a miracle, so I immediately prayed I could have God’s help somehow. 

Exactly thirty minutes after my first roommate texted, I received another text. This was from a number not in my contacts. She said, “I made some minestrone soup today. It’s nothing fancy just a pot of vegetables and juice. Just wondering if that is something you guys would eat. I’d love to bring some over!”

Minestrone happens to be one of my favorite soups. I could not believe that so soon after I felt so overwhelmed and alone, I got this text. I still didn’t know who it was from but I thought for sure it would be someone in the ward…maybe my ministering sisters or something? How could they choose something so perfect and healthy as minestrone and it not be for me?

Well, the longer we texted back and forth, I realized she had sent this message to the wrong number!

After all the confusion, this woman (who lives more than 20 minutes away from where I live) called me and apologized because she thought she was texting someone in her ward [congregation] who just had surgery. As we cleared up the miscommunication, she said, “Well I’ll pray that someone can bring you food!”

The call ended and I started walking home. I was still so tired and maxed out but so grateful someone reached out right when I needed it. I thought, “It’s the thought that counts here,” even though the kindness was for someone else. 

About twenty minutes later, she called back again. I think she had the realization that she needed to be the answer to her own prayer for me. She said, “Have you had dinner yet?” I told her no. She said, “Well, we are going to bring you some minestrone.” And they did! A random family from several cities over brought me dinner (a favorite food, no less) on the very night I didn’t have it in me to cook, I wanted to feel peace, and I needed a miracle.

I have no doubt in my mind that God hears our prayers. Miracles are real! I’m grateful for my missionary friend who encouraged all of us to look for them.

This experience reminded me of a story President Thomas S. Monson told years ago, “We Never Walk Alone.” Tiffany had fallen into a deep depression because of high levels of stress and was losing weight (which she couldn’t afford to lose). But she could not eat. Friends and family were trying to deliver her some of her favorite foods, but to no avail.

One day, when prodded about what might possibly sound palatable to her, Tiffany could envision eating homemade bread. “But,” President Monson shares, “There was none on hand.”

The next morning, on the other side of town Sherrie had a prompting from the Spirit to bake an extra loaf of bread that day. She felt to take that bread with her in the car when she went to have lunch with a friend. After lunch, and with a very tired toddler in the car, Sherrie had the unexpected thought to deliver the bread to Nicole, someone she barely knew, and who lived 30 minutes away.

She tried to rationalize away the thought, wanting to get her very tired daughter home and feeling sheepish about delivering a loaf of bread to people who were almost strangers. However, the impression to go to Tiffany’s home was strong, so she heeded the prompting.

When she arrived, Tiffany’s husband answered the door. Sherrie reminded him that she was [Tiffany’s sister’s friend] whom he’d met briefly [months before], handed him the loaf of bread, and left.

And so it happened that the Lord sent a virtual stranger across town to deliver not just the desired homemade bread but also a clear message of love to Tiffany. What happened to her cannot be explained in any other way. She had an urgent need to feel that she wasn’t alone—that God was aware of her and had not abandoned her. That bread—the very thing she wanted—was delivered to her by someone she barely knew, someone who had no knowledge of her need but who listened to the prompting of the Spirit and followed that prompting. It became an obvious sign to Tiffany that her Heavenly Father was aware of her needs and loved her enough to send help. He had responded to her cries for relief.

_____________

*Image from Katrin Morenz from Aachen, Deutschland, posted at Wikimedia Commons (originally found here), shared under this Creative Commons license (Attribution-ShareAlike 2.0 Generic (CC BY-SA 2.0)

The post “Miracles happen. Be on the lookout.” appeared first on Women in The Church of Jesus Christ.

Lauren Willardson was serving as a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Houston, Texas when an intruder broke into her apartment while she and her companion were sleeping. She was stabbed multiple times.

Even hearing that stirs a reaction in me, like a Momma Bear wanting to protect her cub! But what stirs me more is to hear how God has helped her turn this horrible experience into a faith-building, Christ-testifying opportunity. I move from wanting to protect her to wanting to learn from her.

Of course, Lauren and her companion fought hard for their lives in those terrifying moments. Adrenaline did its job, but then that wore off and she started to comprehend what had happened. She had multiple wounds up and down her body. While her companion called for an ambulance, her brain started to move past the limbic response and began to comprehend the extent of her wounds.

But how she was enabled, through grace, to view her wounds is breathtaking to read.

“As I sat there with my limbs tensing up to the point I could not move, not knowing if I was going to bleed to death, I remember looking down at my hand and seeing that it had been stabbed through the middle. While you may think that this would be an alarming sight to behold, I remember feeling the greatest peace as my mind instantly thought of a similar wound in the hands of One much greater than I. As more wounds were discovered on me in the ambulance and procedures following, I soon learned that my intestines had been pierced near my side, and my ankle pierced through as well right above my foot. With these three wounds I have learned more about the Atonement of Jesus Christ than I had ever understood previously. As I thought of His pierced hands, and feet, and side, and felt the pain of my own wounds in similar spots, I finally understood a microscopic proportion of just what Christ [chose to go] through to save us.” 

She writes of many other miracles that let her know that her time to leave the earth had not yet come and how she has felt the Savior’s grace help her through this time of recovery.

I was also so moved by how she felt God helped her forgive her assailant.

“I felt sorry for his family,” she said. “It was really sad, you know? You feel sad that someone would make that decision and how it’s going to affect their life. You just hope for the best for them that they can find Jesus Christ themselves.”…

“God didn’t want me to be stuck with the anger or the hurt or whatever it may be after an event like this if I couldn’t forgive him,” she said. “Because I was trying to do good things and be in a good place and be a good person, I think that he blessed me with that well of grace to draw from so I could forgive him completely.”

To share more of her healing journey, Lauren started an Instagram account called “the.work.of.his.hands” to continue to share her faith and to reach out to others who are also wounded in other ways.

Lauren is a living witness of the healing power of Jesus Christ.

How are you seeing Christ’s love and care in your life or the lives of those you care about?

The post “The Work of His Hands” appeared first on Women in The Church of Jesus Christ.

~by Michelle

It took a few minutes for my subconscious, sleep-seeking self to realize that my body was saying it was time to look at my clock. Time to see what God was going to do today with my Sabbath schedule.

God and I have an interesting deal when my ward meets in the morning hours — an arrangement I am sheepish to share because I don’t like being the exception to the rule. I’d always been a diligent, three-meetings-no-matter-what and no-matter-what-time kind of Mormon church-goer. So when the impression came about two years ago to not set an alarm on Sundays, I was nervous. But I also knew that the stress of trying to decide what the “right” thing to do each Sunday was reaching a breaking point. To try to balance my serious sleep disorder + my chronic-fatiguey-thing, while also trying to be obedient about attending my meetings and partaking of the sacrament, was too difficult for me and my weary body and mind. I needed God to carry this one. And He nudged me to let Him do it.

I am still amazed to say that I only missed the sacrament once that year (and I think that was a day when my body really did need sleep). My testimony of this sacred ordinance increased in unspeakable ways as I could feel how much God cares about me receiving the blessings and power of the ordinance — power that, as the scriptures say, can only be found in ordinances of the gospel.

Nevermind the wonder of seeing God work miracles each week. Last year, our ward had the 1:00 slot, but this year, I’m back to not setting an alarm. Every Sunday really is its own adventure in gratefully witnessing what God does.

For example, a week ago last night, I went to bed so entirely exhausted that I actually suggested to Heavenly Father that perhaps this Sunday, it might be a good Sunday to just let me sleep. But I fell asleep with my heart open to see what Father would do.

I finally rolled out of my sleepy state at 1:05. Even as I was certain I wouldn’t make it to the building in time to take the sacrament, I felt I should still at least try…at least do my part of the deal to get out of bed and to the building. (This is because I’ve experienced too many perfect-timing miracles to not try!) I got ready in a little over five minutes and ran out the door. Driving toward the stake center and a ward I know more personally, I felt impressed to go to the other building, which is a little closer; I knew seconds could matter at this point.

But maybe there was more to the impression than that.

When I arrived at the building, I could tell by the silence that the sacrament was already underway. I asked a brother in the foyer if they had already received the bread. They had. Through the (usually-closed) door to the overflow, I could see a young deacon (12-13 year old young man) standing at the end of a row. I don’t even know if what I did was okay (after all, I had missed the hymn and the prayer, so in the full spirit of the ordinance, I was too late) — but in my yearning to take both the bread and the water, I stepped inside the door and reached out to tap the deacon on the shoulder.

I missed him by only inches.

A dear friend of mine was sitting on the end of his row. As he realized what was happening, he walked briskly behind the deacon (who by this time was up to the front of the chapel). The deacon came back to where I was and held out the tray. A little embarrassed, but so, so grateful, I reached out for that piece of bread, retreated back to the foyer, and wept in gratitude — both for the timing of yet another sacrament miracle, but also for the kindness of my friend and the service of that young deacon.

It seemed not coincidental that a member of our stake presidency ended that sacrament meeting speaking about how the sacrament is one way we can touch the hem of the Savior’s garment. This New Testament story holds special meaning for me for various reasons — not the least of which is that I have dealt with my health issues for over a decade now, and have spent thousands of dollars, countless hours, and a collective torrent of tears on doctor’s visits, surgeries, and medications. Physical healing has yet to take place, and may not take place in this life, but I testify that I have felt the Savior’s healing power through my weekly sacrament miracles.

I am grateful for the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and grateful to those who hold the priesthood (both those carrying and blessing the bread and water and those willing to flag down the boys who do) who enable this sacred moment to take place for me every week.

The post The Sacrament as the Savior’s Hem appeared first on Women in The Church of Jesus Christ.

Editor’s note: Yesterday, in Relief Society class (Relief Society is the women’s organization in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints), the presidency of the local congregation’s (ward) Relief Society group gave a beautiful Christmas lesson. They each shared a personal Christmas experience and shared messages of testimony and faith about our Savior. I loved so much of what was said, some of which reflected and resonated with very personal spiritual impressions and experiences that have been a part of my individual Christmas celebration and focus this month.

There is so much for us to receive from God in the message of the Christmas story, so much truth about His love and reality and plan for us. So many miracles to reflect on. We spend time giving gifts to each other during this season, but there is so much that our Heavenly Father and Savior have given us. I appreciated the reflections on these gifts.

I also love how the Christmas story is a testimony that we worship a God of miracles. Following are the reflections that the Relief Society president, Corinne, shared about Christmas miracles. It made me want to ponder my own Christmas miracles happening in my life, and to ponder the tender mercies of God that can be evident every day as I seek to have eyes to see.

The following song was sung as part of the lesson. It’s a beautiful song often shared at Easter, but I think it’s also a wonderful Christmas song. I pray during this holiday time that we can ponder how God is working in our lives, even through hard times we might be experiencing (or seeing others experience, such as those in Connecticut who recently lost loved ones). Heavenly Father is there. His miracles are real. The greatest miracle of all is that through His Son, Jesus Christ, we can find peace in this life and know that eternal blessings also await us.

– – – –

Christmas Miracles, by Corinne

In the gospel sense, miracles can be defined as “those occurrences wrought by the power of God which are wholly beyond the power of man to perform.”

The Christmas story itself it comprised of one miracle after another. Here are just a few I have thought of:

1) It’s a miracle that Mary’s cousin, Elisabeth, became pregnant in her old age, after being barren all her life. The angel Gabriel appeared to her husband, Zacharius, and told him his wife would bare a son whom they should name John, and that he would prepare the way for Jesus Christ. Because Zacharius could not believe they would have a child in their old age, he was told he would be unable to speak until his baby was born. Later, when the baby was delivered, relatives questioned him what the child’s name would be. He wrote on a tablet, “His name is John,” and at this point, his tongue was loosed, and he spoke, praising God. All a coincidence? No.

2) It’s a miracle that the sign which Samuel the Lamanite had prophesied (that of a day and a night and a day with no darkness), came to pass when it did. Wicked unbelievers had created a deadline of when the sign had to occur, or they would put to death all the believers of Samuel’s prophesy. The sign occurred the very night before the deadline. Just a coincidence? No.

3) It’s a miracle that a very faithful man named Simeon had it revealed to him through the Holy Ghost that he would not die before he had seen the Christ. Simeon was led by the Spirit to the temple, where Mary and Joseph had brought their baby, Jesus, to present and dedicate him to the Lord. Mary and Joseph made no announcement that their child was the Christ; Simeon knew who He was when he saw him. He picked up the child in his arms and praised God saying “Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace…For mine eyes have seen thy salvation; A light to lighten the Gentiles, and the glory of thy people Israel.” A mini-miracle granted to Simeon for his faithfulness.

4) It’s a miracle that Mary was also visited by the angel Gabriel and told that she would conceive a Son, who should be named Jesus, and would be the Son of God. It’s a miracle that Joseph, the man to whom she was espoused, married her, since in Jewish culture at this time, an unmarried woman found to be expecting a child was subject to being stoned to death. When Joseph found out Mary was expecting a child, he chose to be merciful to her and “put her away privily.” It was after he made the decision to be merciful that he was visited in a dream by an angel and told not to be afraid to marry her- that the child she was carrying was conceived of the Holy Ghost, and was the promised Messiah.

5) It was a miracle that humble shepherds were notified of the Savior’s birth in such an amazing way- by an angel of the Lord, announcing that Jesus had been born in Bethlehem, followed by a heavenly host singing praises.

6) It was a miracle that Wise Men followed a star in the east “to come and worship the King of the Jews.” No doubt, these were probably inspired men of God; perhaps prophets. It was a miracle that after they found & worshiped Jesus, they were warned of God in a dream that they should not return to Herod (Herod had requested they bring him word of where the child was so he could destroy him). An angel of the Lord also appeared to Joseph in a dream telling him to flee with his family into Egypt in order to protect Jesus from Herod. All miracles in my eyes.

– – – –

What miracles do you see in your life?

The post Christmas Miracles appeared first on Women in The Church of Jesus Christ.

Editor’s note: I love this essay for many reasons, not the least of which is that I appreciate getting to know more about Elder L. Tom Perry and his love of baseball, and feeling of the love within his family. As a mother, I’m moved by the message about the power of the love of a mother, and how such love can connect generations, sometimes in unexpected ways. This essay was written by L. Tom Perry’s son, Lee Tom Perry.

Heaven Sent: Encore to a Christmas Miracle*

~By Lee Tom Perry

There is a memorial brick in Boston’s Fenway Park with three lines of text:

L. Tom Perry

Lee & Linda Gay

8 May 2004

The brick commemorates the day my [now] 89-year old father, L. Tom Perry, threw out the first pitch at a game between the Red Sox and Kansas City Royals, while Linda, my sister, and I applauded his inside strike. 

The three of us love the Red Sox. I usually explain that my loyalty dates back to 1967, the “Impossible Dream” year, when the Red Sox almost defied 100-1 odds by taking the St. Louis Cardinals to the seventh-game of the World Series before losing 7-2. The Fall Classic the three of us remember best, however, was in 1975 between the Red Sox and the Cincinnati Reds. Watching all seven memorable games together re-cemented our family bonds as we faced the approaching holidays without our wife and mother, who died of cancer on December 14, 1974.

Throughout my childhood and adolescence, our family’s Christmas was orchestrated by my mother. My father worked in the retail industry, and Christmas was his busiest time of the year. We rarely saw him between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve, which was also my mother’s birthday. During the first few years after my mother’s death the holidays seemed to bring more emptiness than joy as my father, Linda, and I struggled to revive what we all knew to be the deeper meaning of Christmas.

For me these struggles were mostly in vain until the holidays of 1978, when I witnessed a Christmas miracle. By then, my wife, Carolyn, and I had moved to New Haven, Connecticut, and were expecting our first child. Initially, the due date for our baby was December 14th, the same day my mother had died. The link between these two events caught my immediate attention. It made me anxious, and I had a difficult time reconciling past sadness with anticipated joy.

After months of what proved to be wasted worry and concern, December 14, 1978 arrived, and in the afternoon Carolyn began to feel some contractions. They started fairly regularly, but became sporadic and finally stopped. It was false labor.

Once December 14th had passed, I began to wish that somehow our baby could be born on Christmas Eve—my mother’s birthday. As the countdown to the Christmas of 1978 continued, my count was always one day less than everyone else’s. I talked myself into believing that if our baby could be born on Christmas Eve, it would assure me that everything was well with my mother—that she was happy and aware of our blessed event. The birth of our baby on Christmas Eve, I felt, would be the closest I would come to sharing one more holiday season with my mother.

December 24th also came. It was a Sunday, and throughout the day I waited and hoped for Carolyn to tell me she was beginning to feel contractions. We attended church in the evening, and even after returning home Carolyn did not feel anything resembling a contraction. There was a disappointing moment when the realization finally hit me that it was now too late for our baby to be born on Christmas Eve. I had built myself up for something that wasn’t going to happen, but for Carolyn’s sake I tried to hide my feelings and exude holiday cheer.

About 11 o’clock that night, however, someone began to stir inside Carolyn, and I didn’t have to worry anymore about pretending to be excited for Christmas. By 2 AM, Carolyn’s contractions were coming longer, harder, and more frequently. We called our obstetrician, and he told us to go to the hospital, and he would meet us there. After hours of labor, during which I gained a whole new level of appreciation for my wife’s strength and courage, a 9 pound 9 ½ ounce baby girl was born at 1:32 PM on Christmas Day. We named her Audrey Lee Perry. We gave Audrey her middle name to connect her to my mother, whose surname was Lee.

Once it was clear that everything was well with both Carolyn and baby Audrey, I returned home to get some much needed food and rest. In a quiet moment of thankful prayer and reflection, the events of the previous hours spoke to me. There came a clear message surrounding Audrey’s birth. Everything was well with my mother. She was very much aware of my love for her, and my desire to include, even connect with her at the birth of her granddaughter. I could see her smiling down from heaven, and I whispered under my breath, “I love you, Mom.” At that precise moment, before the image of my mother began to fade, the full significance of the miracle I had just witnessed struck me. Audrey, my first-born, was born on Christmas day to remind me to focus not on the death of my mother, but on the birth of the First-Born of the Father, even Jesus Christ, the Savior and Redeemer of the world.

The 2009 postseason ended early for the Red Sox—swept in the American League Division Series by the Los Angeles Angels. My sister, Linda’s and my disappointment, however, didn’t sting like it once did. It never could after 2004. The 86-year drought ended miraculously that year when the Red Sox swept the St. Louis Cardinals in four games and were crowned World Series Champions. Linda and I, who adore our father, like to think he single-handedly removed the “Curse of the Bambino” with his inside strike near the beginning of that title run. Perhaps it was him, someone, or something else, but the narrative definitely changed in the 2004 American League Championship Series when the Red Sox came back from a 3-0 deficit to defeat their nemesis, the New York Yankees in seven games. This year, after Boston’s crushing 7-6 loss to the Angels, Linda and I could say, “Wait ‘til next year” with real conviction.

Still, it seemed like the right moment to lift Linda’s spirits by sharing some good news.

“Audrey’s expecting,” I said, “and due on March 3, the same day as Cami.”

Cami is Linda’s oldest daughter, and we had learned she was expecting a baby several months earlier. I had known for some time Audrey was going to have a baby but had been sworn to secrecy until now.

I’m usually the most competitive member of our family, but this time Linda took the prize with her surprising response. “I’m going to be a grandparent first!” she proclaimed. “You’re not going to win this time!”

“Game on!” I responded.

We received news that Cami was in labor on February 14, 2010.

“The 14th? I wonder what that means?” I thought, as I focused more on the day of the month that my mother died than it being Valentine’s Day. I did not have to wonder for very long. An e-mail arrived only a few hours later announcing the birth of baby Jane. Upon receiving the news, I called Linda and conceded defeat. I can’t recall what I said to her, but the only thing I felt was an overwhelming sense of joy for her and her family. I also felt joy for my mother. In my mind’s eye, I saw her, just as I did at the time of Audrey’s birth, smiling down from heaven.

My moment of reflection was interrupted by a startling impression. I won’t say I knew for sure, but I couldn’t shake the belief that Audrey’s baby would be born on March 9th, Linda’s 52nd birthday.  If it happened, not only would Audrey deliver her first baby on the same day of the year as my mother delivered her last baby, it would be in the same city—Sacramento, California.

The impression felt like a special delivery sent from heaven by my mother. Why the need for such a message? I don’t really know, and I don’t claim to have special insight into how heaven works. I believe my mother does have such insight, however, and that’s all I need to know to listen for messages that are heaven sent.

The impressions I had following Baby Jane’s birth were deeply etched in my mind as March 3rd, Audrey’s due date, passed without incident. It was at this point that I shared what I had felt with Carolyn. But I also admitted to her that, as I ultimately learned surrounding Audrey’s birth, my impressions might only be the preview to a deeper, more meaningful lesson.

More days passed, and Audrey called from Sacramento to tell us that her doctors had decided if she didn’t deliver the baby by March 9th, they would likely induce her. Upon hearing this news, Carolyn and I decided to drive to Sacramento.  During the 600-mile trip I had time to think about how I would feel if Audrey were induced on March 9th. In one respect, it was reassuring. Considering both Audrey’s and the baby’s safety, it was important not to let the pregnancy go too long. Still, I vastly preferred the idea of Audrey going into labor on her own, mostly because I knew that was my daughter’s wish.

Carolyn and I arrived in Sacramento late at night on March 7th. The next morning, Carolyn went with Audrey to a doctor’s appointment, and on the way to the doctor Audrey began to feel contractions. Audrey’s doctor checked her, determined Audrey’s contractions were the real thing, and recommended she immediately go to the hospital. When Carolyn called from the hospital to tell me the news I felt an immediate surge of excitement. I was trying to work when Carolyn’s call came, but all I could do after the call was pace the floor and pray.

All of us had our faith severely tested over the next day and night, especially Audrey. Her baby was in a posterior-transverse position, and she could not be turned. Audrey was in labor for nearly 24 hours when it was finally decided that the only option was a Caesarian delivery. Elizabeth Claire, an 8 pound, 7 ounce, and 20 ½ inch baby girl, was born at 7 AM, March 9, 2010. My mother’s middle name was Claire.

A few hours later, as I reported our joyous news to Linda, I, again, saw, in my mind’s eye, my mother smiling, as if she were standing next to me rejoicing in the birth of another great-granddaughter. It was not her voice, but another voice that said to Linda and me: “When you join together the meaning of your granddaughters’ birthdays, there is a clear message—an expression of your mother’s love, but more importantly God’s love. As you look into Jane’s and Elizabeth Claire’s faces, always remember that the miracle of birth is a gift from God. Love them as God loves you for all God’s children are heaven sent.”

My father and I attended a Red Sox game together on May 16, 2011, and the Red Sox were down 6-0 to the Baltimore Orioles when they came to bat in the bottom of the sixth inning. It was a rainy, gloomy night, and I entertained the thought that this might be my father’s last game at Fenway. I hoped the Red Sox could rally for him—or at least make a game of it. They did by scoring five runs in the bottom of the sixth inning, and eventually won 8-7 on a walk-off double off the Green Monster by Adrian Gonzalez.

As my father and I walked out of Fenway that night, pushed along in the meandering stream of elated fans, I hoped there would be at least one more trip to Fenway for us. Wait until next year, I thought. Linda can come, too, and we’ll bring Jane and Elizabeth Claire. We’ll take them to Fenway to see their great-grandfather’s brick and tell them the story of how, before they were born, he removed the Curse of the Bambino. Bricks are formed from clay, and family stories and traditions are the clay from which lasting bonds of love are formed.

– – – – –

*The “Christmas miracle” of Audrey’s birth was originally published in the following essay: “Another Christmas Story” in This People, Holiday 1997, pp. 47-48.

This post was edited slightly from the original to include the editor’s note.

The post Christmas essay about death, birth, miracles, love, family: “Heaven Sent” appeared first on Women in The Church of Jesus Christ.

Editor’s note: We are grateful to share this essay from Nicole Carpenter. Nicole is is a Mormon woman, blogger, entrepreneur, wife and mommy to four young children, including a set of identical twins.

~by Nicole Carpenter

Learning I was expecting twins was a shock. Realizing I might lose one was hard. But through faith, the power of prayer and my Heavenly Father’s blessings, I am the lucky mom of two healthy boys.

I’m a busy mom. I’m changing diapers, running car pools and watching soccer games. Every night it’s dinner, dishes, baths, prayers and bedtime — all times four. My husband and I have four children six years old and younger. But we didn’t plan it this way.

A year and a half ago, I was pregnant with our third and final baby. My husband and I received quite the shock when we found out baby number three was actually babies number three and four! We were expecting identical twins. I was never one of those little girls that hoped someday I’d have twins. Yet there I was, lying on my back, staring at two heartbeats on a black and white monitor. All I could do was laugh out loud. It was a nervous laugh, I assure you. Two babies! Me?

Photo credit: Ogden Women and Children's Center/Nicole Carpenter

Things weren’t quite right with those little heartbeats, though. The first one we saw, later to become “Baby B,” was the size of a lima bean; his heartbeat fluttered on the screen. The second heartbeat was found inside a little embryo that looked like a pea and measured six days behind his duplicate. They clearly did not look the same, and the doctors prepared us for what was called a “vanishing twin,” when one twin just reabsorbs. I tried to brace myself.

I belong to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I believe life begins at conception. The fact was we were expecting twins. I already had a five-year-old and two-year-old at home. I knew if only one of those babies lived my life would be much easier. What did I hope for? One baby? Two babies? One healthy baby and one disabled baby? The doctors had told me that if “Baby A” did live, he could have birth defects. But I knew I had seen two heartbeats. And once I had seen two heartbeats, I wanted them to become two babies.

I could not pray away my baby! I was an emotional mess. I cried for days.

Our next appointment was two (very long) weeks later. I spent much of those two weeks kneeling in prayer to my Heavenly Father. I believe he has a plan for me and for our family, and I had decided to pray for his will to be done. If this baby did make it, we would love him no matter what.

Finally it was time for the next ultrasound. We were elated to see that not only was he still there, he had been growing! He still measured six days behind his brother, and we still held our breath. We saw specialists throughout the entire pregnancy. “Baby A” continued to grow, always pacing five or six days behind “Baby B.”

Several months into the pregnancy, I remember the day our perinatologist pulled us into a conference room near his office. Holding my husband’s hand, I listened to the doctor tell us they could not find a reason for my baby’s delayed growth. There were no indications of a syndrome or abnormality. At that point there were no signs of twin-to-twin transfusion syndrome. All medical indications were this baby should not have lived, but he had. “We cannot explain it,” the doctor told us.

He kept speaking, but his words began to fade and I was overcome with such emotion. A warm tingly sensation consumed my whole body. In that moment, the Holy Ghost confirmed to me that though the doctors could not explain it, I could. My baby was growing and thriving because of the power of prayer and the blessing of our Heavenly Father. Our God is a god of miracles.

My twin boys just celebrated their first birthday. “Baby A,” who we named Davis, continued to measure a pound less than his brother Mason up until just this month. The first year has been a blur. A happy, sleepless blur. There were moments when I was completely exhausted and wondered how I’d balance it all. I’d stop and realize that this is my Heavenly Father’s plan for me. He has faith in my ability to be a good mom to these four children. If he thinks I can handle twins, then I can handle twins!

Photo credit: Simply Art Photography

Our home is crazy. We’re now running the big kids to and from school, soccer and dance and trying to teach the babies how to safely crawl down the stairs. We have two, always-messy highchairs and toys everywhere, and just last week the twins sneaked into the bathroom and unwound the entire roll of toilet paper!

But when life gets out of control and my mommy superpowers fail, all I have to do is pick up my miracle baby and know that these boys were meant to come to our home, and they were meant to come together. Our lives have been richly blessed ever since.

Nicole Carpenter is overwhelmed by the joy her eternal family and The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints bring her. She owns Sidewalk Communications LLC and blogs at www.TwinsfortheShow.com.

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Rachelle Call was one of the women featured in the documentary that kicked off this initiative. She’s created recovery music to capture what she’s learned (see music player below).

Rachelle says:

God is all about recovery…. If you knew my story, you would know that God is a god of miracles. There is not one reason why things should have worked out for me and my husband of 15 years. We were dead in the water. But God restored us. He raised me and my family from the dead — and I am not kidding about that. God can do anything. He can restore anyone. The Atonement is real and it heals.

But those lessons were only learned after some dark and difficult times. As she struggled against the depression that threatened to consume her, Rachelle found that music brought healing to her soul.

The darkness was so intense and I was desperate for relief. As I would get my kids to school in the morning, I noticed that every time I played my Gladys Knight and The Saints Unified Voices CD, the darkness would lift. I began to listen to uplifting music all day. I flooded my home with it and at night I played the Mormon Tabernacle Choir (CD) while I slept. I kept it on repeat every night for maybe a year. Good music was key for me and I do not believe I would have made it through that period in my life without it.

Rachelle remained in denial for a while about all the problems that her husband’s addiction and her own coping mechanisms were causing. She and her husband separated for a while, and during that time, she wrote the song, “By the River” which talks about staying close to the living water of God.

“If I stay close to this river, I’ll be fine,” she said. “If you don’t stay with me that’s your choice, but this is where you’ll find me, that’s where you’ll find me. I’ll always be here because I have to do that for myself.”

Her advice to others who are facing challenges like pornography addiction? “You have to get out of a system of denial and you need to come into the light.”

Listen to her song “By the River” below.

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I was born two weeks early.  Back in the 1970s, before many of the modern technologies hospitals have now to help premies, that was a big deal.  My mother told me I came out so fast, the doctor barely had time to get his gloves on to catch me.  It was determined that something was wrong with me and so tests were performed and it came as no surprise that my parents, especially my mother, were worried.  My father immediately called my grandpa to come and help him give me a priesthood blessing.  When they arrived at the hospitals nursery where I was, the nurses wouldn’t allow my grandpa and father inside for safety reasons regarding the other babies there.  But they did permit them to take me out into the hall, just outside of the nursery.  My grandpa said I was so small, he could hold me in the palm of his hand.  So in that cold, empty hospital hallway, with the priesthood they held, my father and grandfather gave me a blessing of healing.

The next morning, when all the test results came back, everything was negative.  I was healthy and able to go home that day.  My mother firmly believes it was because of the blessing I was given that I was healed.

Years and years later, I delivered my second baby, our little Josie.  She was a month early and was immediately rushed to the newborn intensive care unit (NICU) because she was not breathing correctly. It was like I was reliving my mother’s life, as the nurses told my husband and our family friend that they were not permitted into the nursery to administer to our baby girl.  But they were allowed to take her into the hall, right outside of the nursery.  And so, it was there, that my husband and our good friend Joel, by the power of the priesthood, were able to give her a blessing of healing.

And within a week, she was able to come home with us, healthy and strong.

I remember speaking with my Mom about what I had been feeling as I watched my lil’ baby struggle to breathe and felt so helpless, knowing I couldn’t do a thing to ease her pain. And then the feeling of relief after she was blessed with the power of the priesthood…I knew she would be okay. I knew the Savior was with her.  He understood my pain as well as hers.  And she was healed.  And I was so humbly grateful.

Oh how grateful I am for my father…for my children’s father…for my Father in Heaven…..these men in our lives, they should be honored and loved and respected.  My life would not be filled with the peace of mind and love of heart if not for these amazing, eternal men.

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Sometimes you hear stories of amazing miracles, and the video below is one of them. (And this is an amazing miracle, a blessing and answer to thousands of prayers. I’m moved by the gratitude of this Mormon family, recognizing God’s hand in their lives.)

But what of the stories of sadness, tragedy, loss, and grief — also after as many prayers have been offered and faith exercised? Does God love someone less because He allowed loss to happen? Does having faith always mean that we will get the answers we want?

Read a story of a tragic loss here —  and feel of the faith in this Mormon woman’s perspective, as she also recognizes God’s hand in her life and helps answer these questions.

Both of these stories, each with a completely different outcome, testify of the same truths: God is there. He hears and answers prayers. He is very aware of our lives. Life has a purpose.

And we testify that death is not the end.

Even though sometimes the miracles don’t come fully until the next life, they are still just as real.

Sometimes I think it’s all too easy to equate faith with being able to get what we want. But I sometimes see the strongest evidences of faith in those who don’t have their prayers answered as they would have liked. When I see their unbending hope, diligence, patience, and love — for God and others — as they move forward in spite of heartrending difficulties in the present time, I understand more the power of faith.

Who shall separate us from the ^alove of Christ? shall ^btribulation, or distress, or ^cpersecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? Nay, in all these things we are ^amore than ^bconquerors through him that loved us. For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to ^aseparate us from the ^blove of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord. (Romans 8:35, 37-39)

How grateful I am for miracles — both those that come now, and those we know will also come later, through the Atonement of Jesus Christ. How grateful I am for the faith of others that strengthens my own.

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For more We Believe posts, click here.

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Have you ever paused to think about what a miracle it is? Not only to exist, but to exist so well? To be a person who chooses, every day after day after day, to live and be? To love and laugh, to hurt and weep, to struggle and to soar, to remember and be remembered, to fear and ache and yearn. And then, the very next day, to do it all over again?

What a miracle that is.

Every day is a big bundle of uncertainty. We don’t know. We never know. We can plan. We can guess and speculate about what the hours ahead might hold. But we never know. Tomorrow lies ahead of us full of potential. The potential for pain is always, always there. And we know that. We’ve tasted it before. We’ve been there in that moment when the potential morphs into the pain. We’ve felt the actuality of that so many times that it seems to be a foregone conclusion. We know there will be a tomorrow with pain in it. It is one of life’s inevitabilities. We cannot choose to exist without accepting that. And yet we choose.

What a miracle that is.

We know that joy is one of Tomorrow’s potentials. We have tasted that too. Not as often, perhaps. And sometimes our very humanity seems to fight against that acknowledgment. We are too familiar with pain. It is, at times, easier to believe in. We seek joy though. Sometimes in wrong ways that take us down wrong paths to the wrong sorts of tomorrows. Sometimes though, we get it exactly right. And in those moments we teach ourselves to chase after the next tomorrow. We teach ourselves why it is that we live and strive and struggle and suffer. We learn why it is we choose to live each day. We learn what it is to be a miracle.

Joy outweighs the pain. Every time. Every single hoped for tomorrow with its burgeoning potential unfolding before us is worth the uncertainty because of the sweetness of those moments of joy. Those moments when we glimpse what we have the potential to become. Those moments when we recognize the miracle that we and our very existence are.

When we know that we are all miracles, and that there is so much more ahead of us than a mere Tomorrow.

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