"We seldom get into trouble when we speak softly. It is only when we raise our voices that the sparks fly and tiny molehills become great mountains of contention."
I
didn’t really know anybody yet; we had just moved to Tacoma.
I’m not sure if it was the first or second time that I had come
to Relief Society here on that Thursday morning, but they were having
a special program with an older sister as the featured speaker. I
tiptoed in during the opening song, and was seated in time for the
prayer.
Sister
H. spoke of growing up on the mountain edge of Idaho, in a farming
community well removed from any populous areas. All she wanted,
growing up, was to become a teacher. (Me too, I thought.) She
didn’t know if she would have any chance to go to college, but
she had talked with her parents and they knew her dreams.
One
evening the stake president came to meet with them. He told Sister
H. that he wanted to call her on an unusual mission. She would be
sent to Brigham Young Academy to be trained as a nurse and midwife,
and then return home to their community to serve. There was no
doctor nearby, and any kind of medical care was far away; there was a
real need. Would she accept?
This
would get her to college, but not for the path she most desired. She
expressed her feelings to her stake president, and turned to her
parents in distress. What about her own plans? What did this do to
her hopes? She wanted to be a schoolteacher. She had never
contemplated becoming a nurse. This was not what she would choose,
for herself.
The
stake president promised her that she would have lifelong
opportunities to teach in the Church, and that she had the capacity
to succeed in this training. Her town needed her. I think she said
that she struggled with this for a day or two; she didn’t have
an immediate answer. With some turmoil in her heart, she accepted.
All
across the country, students graduate high school or college in
ceremonies that outfit them in cap and gown, walk them smiling across
a stage one after another as their names are called, and for that
brief moment they are individually acknowledged. The moment may be
captured by a beaming parent’s camera, or met on the other end
of the stage with an embrace, or be part of a mob scene that requires
a meeting point after it’s all done.
For
Sister H., graduation was not just a diploma. Each nursing student
was set apart by priesthood power before being sent home. She was
there as a calling from God, having laid aside her own goals, and she
told us how B. H. Roberts, a member of the Seventy, set her apart. In
that blessing, he made her a remarkable promise that no woman would
ever die in her care.
Ponder
that for a moment. This would have been the early 1920’s, and
women still died in childbirth. (One of my grandmother’s
sisters did.) Less often than in centuries past, but far more often
than now. Such deaths are rare today. It’s not something we
even consider today, when that pregnancy test is positive.
So
Sister H. returned home to rural, remote Idaho with that singular
promise still filling her soul. She was an important asset to a
community without a doctor, as she delivered babies and provided
basic community care.
Then,
on a winter day, she was attending a woman whose labor was not going
well. The woman was hemorrhaging severely, and nothing she tried
seemed to stop the bleeding. She was afraid she would lose mother
and baby both. She remembered that God had promised her that no
woman would die under her care — and this mother was going to
die.
She
told us that she had not forgotten that promise, but she thought God
had forgotten it. She pleaded, she wracked her brain, and she all
but demanded that God make good on his word. Then she found a
heavenly messenger at her side whose words were simple: “You
have plenty of snow.”
She
ran outside, over and over, and brought in all the snow she could
carry and packed it around this woman’s lower body, continuing
to pray and monitor her condition; the bleeding stopped. The woman
was weakened but alive, and she recovered.
That
child, she told us, was now a woman in her forties in Salt Lake City
and still alive and well, and a mother herself. Her cry, her call
upon the promise given to her, was answered in her extremity, and by
miraculous means that she could not have anticipated. That miracle
was a foundational experience for her, for her entire life.
“I
remembered that promise, but I thought that maybe God had forgotten
it.”
Can
you identify with that? I have felt from my own heart, over the
years, how much is contained in those few words as I have remembered
her story. Heavenly Father, I’m in trouble, I’m in pain
beyond what I know how to bear, I can’t seem to keep hold of
your presence even though I know, I know, by all my experience
that you are really there — but I can’t find you, I can’t
feel it. Help.
Have
I been unworthy, that I’m struggling so badly? Am I lacking
something, that you don’t answer? I’m trying so hard to
hang on, I’m trying so hard to walk the right path and trust
the promises, and no one else knows all of what I’m going
through. I’m doing all I can to rely upon your word, your
promise to me, but I don’t know how to do this. Are you there?
“You
have plenty of snow.” My answers have not been “snow,”
but they have been likewise brought to me in pure assurance. Light
has come — sometimes rescue, sometimes strength to persevere.
However different the nature of his help, varying according to his
knowledge rather than mine, help has never failed.
I
thought of Sister H. when Boyd K. Packer gave this talk
in Conference. He was speaking of LeGrand Richards, who had heard
President Wilford Woodruff speak, and the power of that experience
never faded. Brother Richards was twelve, President Woodruff was
ninety-one.
Elder Packer said:
Those days of beginning
were not so far away as we sometimes think. There sits behind me on
the stand Elder LeGrand Richards of the Quorum of the Twelve
Apostles.
He remembers personally
some of those who helped to open this work.
He attended the
dedication of the Salt Lake Temple and remembers President Wilford
Woodruff very clearly. He heard him speak on several occasions….
President Woodruff was
only two years younger than the Prophet Joseph Smith, and he had been
an Apostle for five years when the Prophet was martyred.
Hands we have touched
have touched the hands that shaped the beginnings of this
dispensation.
Hands
we have touched…
We
read such stories in our manuals. We tell tales from the early
Saints. We think of these stories as long-past tales, and they might
seem remote. I told my own girls who knew Sister H., never forget
that you have heard the personal testimony of the ministering of
angels. You have known someone, personally.
Hands
that we have touched have touched the hands of those who established
this work, and have received miracles; they have been blessed under
the hands of the prophets. It’s not so distant at all. They
have been ministered to by angels — and undoubtedly so have we.
Elder Packer went on to say:
Who would dare to say
that angels do not now attend the rank and file of the Church who —
answer the calls to the mission fields,
teach the classes,
pay their tithes and offerings,
seek for the records of their forebears,
work in the temples,
raise their children in faith,
and have brought this work through 150 years?
In
the three places in scripture where the gifts of the Spirit are
listed, only Moroni includes this one: “the beholding of
angels and ministering spirits.” (Moroni 10:14)
Faith
and love continue to be exercised on our behalf on the other side of
the veil. Angels do attend us, although we may not see them with our
eyes. That might not be our gift, but the reality of their presence
and prayers is not diminished.
I
think we will be surprised, when life is done, to find how much a
part of our watchcare those angels have been. Take courage —
even when we feel alone, it is never so. Love guards us, always.
Marian J. Stoddard was born in Washington, D.C., and grew up in its Maryland suburbs. Her
father grew up in Carson City, Nevada, and her mother in Salt Lake City, so she was always
partly a Westerner at heart, and she ended up raising her family in Washington State. Her family
took road trips all over the United States and Canada, so there were lots of adventures.
The adventures of music, literature, and art were also valued and pursued. Playing tourist always
included the local museums as well as historical sites and places of natural beauty. Discussions
at home, around the dinner table or working in the kitchen, could cover politics, philosophy, or
poetry, with the perspective of the gospel underlying all. Words and ideas, and testimony and
service, were the family currency.
Marian graduated from Winston Churchill High School in Potomac, Maryland, and attended the
University of Utah as the recipient of the Ralph Hardy Memorial Scholarship, where she was
graduated with honors, receiving a B.A. in English. She also met the love of her life, a law
student, three weeks after her arrival; she jokes that she had to marry him because her mother
always wanted a tenor in the family. (She sings second soprano.) They were married two years
later and have six children and six grandchildren (so far). She treasures her family, her friends,
and her opportunities to serve.
Visit Marian at her blog, greaterthansparrows. You can contact her at
bloggermarian@gmail.com.
Marian and her husband live in Tacoma, Washington. Together they teach those who are
preparing to go to the temple for the first time, and she also teaches a Stake Relief Society
Institute class.