~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.

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*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)

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I pray because it changes me.  It smoothes out my rough edges, encourages me to be more gentle, helps me be more aware.

I pray because I long for the few minutes of peace and quiet I carve out of the day to speak with my Father, and I find great joy and comfort when I feel He hears me.

I pray because I need the guidance I receive from the conversations I have with God.  I pray because I know that when I listen to and follow the promptings I get during prayer, my life is better.

I pray because I want my children and family to be protected and safe, and I know that when I ask the Lord to watch over them each day, He does.

I pray because life is hard, and sometimes when I pray for it to be easier, burdens are lifted.  Sometimes when I pray for the hard times to go away, they don’t, but through prayer I am made stronger to face those challenges.

I pray because I need help, and God is waiting to help me the very second I ask for it.  I pray because I need and want blessings from above, and God is waiting to give me those blessings just as soon as I am humble enough to ask.

I pray because I am so very blessed, and I want my Heavenly Father to know that I recognize His hand in everything around me – my family, our health, our abundant spaghetti squash plants, the peaceful breeze, my children’s laughter.

Why do you pray?

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I am a deep sleeper. I know as a mother, that is usually an oxymoron. Mothers are typically not the deep sleepers. Mothers will wake at the sound of a slight cough, while fathers will sleep through the earthquakes and thunderstorms.

It hasn’t always been this way for me. When my babies were small, all it took was a little stirring in the newborn crib, and I was up, rushing to their side. If someone so much as sighed in their sleep, it woke me up.

Not so much anymore.

I find that when my head hits the pillow, I am OUT. I often barely wake as the Husband is heading out the door for early morning flights or going into the office (a fact which does annoy him to no end). I love my sleep. I NEED my sleep.

Me and the sunrise? Not good friends. We’ve never actually met.

And it is that fact which makes this experience all the more amazing to me.

Last night, probably around two or three in the morning, I sat bolt upright in bed. I was awake and conscious, but was not sure what had woken me up. I then felt the strong need to go into my boys’ bedroom.

There, in the middle of my two sleeping sons, I saw that their lamp was on, and the shade was tilted, resting on the hot light bulb. There was smoke rising from the lamp, as the heat from the light was burning a hole in the side of the lampshade. I immediately went over and pulled the smoldering shade off, and unplugged the lamp. Not even recognizing the significance then, I went back to bed. Even as I crawled back under the covers, the what-ifs still had not hit me. Like a lug, I was back to sleep in an instant.

It was only when my eyes first opened this morning that I realized and thought about what might have been. What could have happened, had I not been pulled from a deep sleep, and directed into their room. Today, in the light of day, I have a pit in my stomach as my imagination has run wild with the horrible what-ifs.

I know that lamp was off when we went to bed. We always tuck the kids in, turn off their lights, and pry books out from under their heavy arms. Always. The only thing I can think of is that one of the boys must have gotten up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, and turned on the bedside lamp in the process.

So, why did I wake up? There were no smoke alarms going off, no bright lights in my eyes. No noise from stumbling kids. Why?

Well, I’m a dummy if I don’t know why.

I do know why.

My Heavenly Father woke me up, directed me to their bedroom, and helped prevent anything bad from happening to my sweet boys.

Simple as that.

What isn’t so simple is why sometimes bad things happen without such intervention. I can’t answer all those whys. But still, I cannot deny the overwhelming feeling of love and protection that I had in my heart after this experience. In this great big world of ours, Someone is aware of me. Someone is aware of my family. Someone is watching over us. He really is. Even in the middle of the night, when a simple lamp shade is turned too far the wrong way.

This experience awakened much in me, things I sometimes forget. I am grateful. I am grateful to remember that God loves me. That He is aware of me. He is watching over me, and my sleeping angels. Even though I swear sometimes. Even though sometimes I complain about having to go to church on really pretty Sunday afternoons. Even though I get annoyed with my kids. Even though sometimes I tuck my spirituality away, and pretend it’s not there. He still loves me. He still loves us.

I just wanted to share that with you, in case, like me, you had forgotten, too.

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Several years ago I was in Relief Society and our teacher was teaching us with an object lesson. She pulled out of her pocket a crisp $20 bill and offered it to anyone in the class. Someone jumped right up and collected it. When the teacher handed over the money, she said, now you can keep that $20, or while holding up a beautifully wrapped box, you can have something that is inside this box that is far more valuable than what you are holding in your hand. What will you choose? The woman who had jumped up to grab the money was intrigued and handed over the money and opened mysterious box. She pulled out a slip of paper that read “TESTIMONY.” I was reminded that day of how truly valuable and precious our testimonies are.

So, what is a testimony?

Elder Dallin H. Oaks, a current apostle, has said, “A testimony of the gospel is a personal witness borne to our souls by the Holy Ghost that certain facts of eternal significance are true and that we know them to be true.”

As a teenager, I had a very sincere desire to know if Joseph Smith was truly a prophet who restored the gospel of Jesus Christ in our day. I wanted to know, I needed to know. So, I followed these steps. I began reading his testimony in Joseph Smith’s History of his vision of our Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. I pondered over other principles I had been taught. Then, several days later, one quiet evening I knelt in prayer, expressing my desire to know if Joseph truly saw what he said he saw and to know if he was a true prophet. I received that night, as a young teenager, such an overwhelming witness, not only of Joseph and the truths he testified of, but of the immeasurable love that my Heavenly Father had for me. It reassured my doubting soul, that there is an eternal God who loves and watches over us. I learned that when I pray in faith, when I am obedient to God’s commandments, he will hear and answer my prayers.

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My name is Heidi. I am 44 years old and have been a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints all my life. I currently serve in the Primary, and I love working with the children. My husband and I have been married for almost 23 years. We are parents to three children who are currently 19, 14 and 7. It has been interesting to have them so spread apart (by chance, not by choice) and it has given us the time to enjoy each one of them as individuals.

I love my husband and children very much. Loving them up and seeing to their needs does take up most of my time. However, when I do have extra time, I love to garden, read, write and, in the past, dance.  I am too old and tired for the dancing, now, but I absolutely adore music. I also love photography and doing family history research. Lately, blogging is pretty high up there on my list of hobbies, as is finishing my latest novel.  I am a total anglophile and have done a ton of reading on the British Isles. I adore well-researched historical fiction or any book that spoon feeds you history in a fictionalized setting. I love flowers and the color pink–those are two things that always have the power to lift my spirits, along with the best kinds of music.

I have had many experiences when I knew that my Heavenly Father was fully aware of me and my struggles. One that I often share is when my oldest was four years old. By this time I was 29 and the mother of only one child. Though we loved him with all our hearts, he was born with many disabilities and his future was unsure.  Coming from a family of eight children and the aunt of numerous nieces and nephews, it felt lonely and odd to be the mother of only one child.  Since the work of a parent is, in my estimation, the greatest/hardest/most enduring thing a person can do, I had been making our future family a matter of much prayer.  It weighed heavily on me that I felt like I had accomplished so little of lasting value at that point in my life.

Finally I felt sure that I was pregnant, however, I took a pregnancy test and it was negative.  Great was the despair at our house but we were careful to not discuss it in front of our four-year-old.  A few days later my husband and I were sitting at the breakfast table feeling glum when our little boy walked into the room and said, “Jesus is bringing me a little sister!”  I was so upset about my negative pregnancy test that I snipped at him.  “Well, did He tell you WHEN?”  My husband was wiser and started asking questions.  After conversing with our son, we felt positive that he had had a spiritual experience that told him he would soon be the brother of a baby sister. A few days later I took another test and I was indeed pregnant.

Eight plus months later, we were thrilled to deliver a baby girl.  During the course of my pregnancy many people tried to prepare us for a boy as my parents had mostly all boy grandbabies, but I knew without a doubt that it was a girl.  People shook their heads at my foolishness in proceeding with girly decor in the nursery and buying all girl baby clothes but I didn’t let that bother me and even announced her name to everyone several months before she was born.

When my son feels discouraged and that his life amounts to nothing, we remind him of the day he answered his parents’ prayers by announcing the arrival of his baby sister.  It helps him to remember who he truly is, indeed, who we all are: children of a loving Heavenly Father who knows our joys and sorrows and who loved us enough to send His Son, Jesus Christ, whose atoning sacrifice for us is the greatest gift that any being could ever receive.  Often we forget that this atonement not only pays for our sins but also makes up for our lacks.  As humans we are far from perfect and never will be in spite of our best efforts.  It will only be through His sacrifice that our imperfections can be made perfect.  On days that I feel especially inadequate for the tasks and responsibilities with which I have been blessed, I remind myself that whatever truly needs to happen, CAN happen if I have the faith to believe in the atoning sacrifice of Jesus Christ.

Heidi Ashworth is the author of Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind (a Regency romance novel), and is currently working on the sequel to this lively book.

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One Saturday evening, I went down to the temple in St. George, Utah (45 miles (approx 72 km) from my home). My husband stayed home with the kids so I could attend an endowment session. It was lightly raining when I left my home. Seven miles into the drive, the rain started pelting the windshield. It was coming down so hard it was drowning out my music (believe me, that is LOUD). If it had been hail, it definitely would have broken my windshield. I couldn’t see the road in front of me very well; I immediately slowed down to 40 mph (approx. 64 kph) (the speed limit is 75 mph (approx. 121 kph)).

Many cars had pulled off to the side of the road. I didn’t feel safe pulling off because I couldn’t see those cars until I was practically on top of them. I even started hydroplaning a couple of times. The sky was near black. And I was scared. I thought to myself, “It’s not worth it! I’m not going to the temple. Driving in this weather is too hard and scary.”

I pulled off at the next exit, and decided to call my husband at home, where he could look up the weather on the internet and tell me what the next 34 miles (approx. 55 kilometers) would look like. I said, “Honey, this weather is bad. I’m scared. Will you please look up the radar and tell me if it is safe to go on? Or should I just come home?” He looked up the weather and said, “Oh wow. You just went through a couple of red cells (really, really bad rain). There is one more dark green cell about three to five miles away from where you are, but then right after that it is clear. The whole rest of the drive looks great.”

I decided it would be best to continue on.  If I turned around now, I would have to drive through the terrible rain storm again to get home.  I really wanted to go to the temple, and I was glad to know that it wouldn’t be too bad for the remainder of the trip.

The weather let up for about a mile, and then it got really bad again. It was almost as bad as before, and I was a little scared – but not as scared as before, because I believed what my husband told me on the phone. I noticed a few more cars pulled off to the side of the road, but I kept going.

About one mile past where those cars had pulled off, it was like a wall where the rain stopped and once I drove through it, I didn’t even need my windshield wipers anymore. And eight miles (approx. 13 km) later, the sun came out shining so brightly it almost blinded me.

As I had been praying to make it through this bad weather safely, and especially after the rain stopped right when my husband said it would, I saw meaning in my experience:

All of us go through difficult times in life, whether it is depression, family difficulties or other trials and tribulations. I saw the people pulled off to the side of the road, seemingly giving up. As I had faith in the guidance of someone one who knew more than I did, I was able to make it safely through.

But for a moment, it seemed to get worse before it got better. I had to keep going, no matter what. And then when the sun started blinding me, I saw the calmness and peacefulness after the storm.

I learned a lot on that Saturday night.

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