Gospel Story Finder

One month ago I turned 13, and my mom wanted me to start reading the New Era, so I started looking through some old copies. In the April 1973 issue I read an article called “Becoming Saviors on Mount Zion,” which explained that we should never stop giving—not gifts of money but of service to others. All my life my sister had helped me and I had never helped her. Just then she walked into the room and said she had to get the dishes done in half an hour and that she was too tired to do them. Right then I told her I would do them, but of course, she wouldn’t let me do them alone; she had to help.
In the last month my sister and I have become very close. We have been sneaking around helping each other and doing our work together. You know, it’s a lot more fun helping someone. Before it was just me trying to keep the commandments, but now it’s both of us. My sister has told me how much she appreciates me bringing her closer to the Lord. I don’t think it was me so much as it was the New Era.
Name Withheld

Ivor, my third son, was still living in the village. He was destined not to be with me long. He had been born two months early and was so tiny that his mother carried him on a pillow. He grew to manhood but suffered from a heart disease. He was the poet in the family, and even though his health was poor he was always happy. I can hear him yet as he sang to the trees in the woods that bordered our home. I remember that day only a few days before his heart failed him that we walked together up into the meadow and we looked across the valley. He took my hand in his and spoke softly. “Listen Tad” (that’s Welsh for Father), and across the valley came the plaintive call of the cuckoo. “Isn’t it lovely? The cuckoo tells of the coming spring, and soon the meadow will be white with daisies, and the thrush will sing a joyful tune. Aye, my Tad, it’s a grand world that God has given us.”
He died in his sleep and was buried beside his mother in the little cemetery on the hill.
The funeral was quite an event in our village. It was the first LDS funeral ever conducted there. Many people came out of curiosity, but most came because Ivor was loved and respected. Jones, the undertaker, in his black suit and top hat drove the hearse with a pair of black horses.
It was less than a mile to the cemetery, and the mourners walked behind the hearse. Soon the villagers started to sing. At first their voices were quiet like the summer breeze on Rhysog Mountain. Then as the words came, “Feed me till I want no more,” their voices raised in a great crescendo like waves breaking on a rocky shore. Oh, my people from whom I came, your songs of mourning are still in my heart, and I know that my son and my Bess heard.

One Sunday afternoon when I was a bishop, a very disillusioned woman came to talk with me. She and her large family had recently moved into our ward. She told me that while she was growing up she had been taught many times that if she lived a faithful life and sought spiritual guidance, she would find her “one and only eternal companion,” and that temple marriage and righteous living would guarantee her a successful marriage. She had tried to follow this counsel, but after many years of an apparently happy marriage, her husband abandoned her for another woman, leaving her with many children and no financial foundation.
“What went wrong?” she asked. “Doesn’t God keep his promises?”
After attending to her feelings of pain and confusion, I reassured her of God’s love and suggested that the problem wasn’t with God or with her, but with her former husband—and with people who had led her to believe some things that just aren’t so.

By 1946, schools in Dortmund had reopened. But young Enzio’s remaining high school years began a period of sincere questioning and deep confusion for him. Before the war, his teachers had extolled Hitler’s doctrines as the cure for Germany’s ills; now they disavowed ever having taught them. What could this mean? Did adults not know right from wrong? As his disillusionment deepened, he became scornful and bitter and filled with the melancholy of a searcher.

Each summer, Henrik and his family take a vacation and visit their mormor (grandmother) who lives in Ålesund, on the west coast of Norway. Here the country looks very different from the rolling hills and farmlands near Lillestrøm. This coastal area of Norway has towering cliffs and deep fjords (narrow inlets of the sea). “One of our favorite things to do while we are there is to catch crabs at the seacoast,” says Henrik. “We like to go to two special places where the water is very cold and clear. We look under the stones and find the crabs, but then we let them go!” (Henrik’s dad says that the same crabs have probably been caught at least 10 times each summer!)

Last October the Bountiful Utah Stake Primary encouraged children to earn money to buy copies of the Book of Mormon—but to pay for the book with their own labor—money they would earn.
Each placed his picture and testimony inside the front cover. Six hundred and twenty copies of the Book of Mormon with pictures and testimonies were sent to missions.
A few days ago one of those Primary children, little Sarah Richards, received this letter from Mrs. Earl Mock of Tucson, Arizona:
“Dear Sarah, Thank you so much for sending us the Book of Mormon with your picture on the inside. You are a very pretty girl and a very nice one. I will treasure the book and your picture and testimony always.
“I have just finished reading all of it and I too believe it is true. I enjoyed it very much and will be reading it many more times.
“Thank you again and may God bless you.”

Spiritual healing is illustrated in the story of Warren M. Johnson, pioneer ferryman at Lee’s Ferry, Arizona. As a young man, Warren Johnson came west seeking his fortune in gold in the summer of 1866. He became very ill, and his companions left him under a tree in the yard of a family in Bountiful. One of the daughters found him and reported there was a dead man out in the yard. Although he was a complete stranger, this kind family took him in and nursed him back to health. They taught him the gospel, and he was baptized. He eventually ended up as the ferryman at Lee’s Ferry.
In 1891 the Warren Johnson family suffered a great tragedy. Within a period of a short time, they lost four children to diphtheria. All four were buried in a row next to each other. In a letter to President Wilford Woodruff, dated July 29, 1891, Warren told the story:
“Dear Brother …
“In May 1891 a family residing in Tuba City, came here from Richfield Utah, where they … spent the winter visiting friends. At Panguitch they buried a child, … without disinfecting the wagon or themselves, [and] not even stopping to wash the dead child’s clothes, they came to our house, and remained overnight, mingling with my little children. …
“We knew nothing of the nature of the disease, but had faith in God, as we were here on a very hard mission, and had tried as hard as we knew how to obey the word of Wisdom, [to] attend to the other duties of our religion, such as paying [our] tithing, family prayers, etc. etc., that our children would be spared. But alas, in four and a half days [the oldest boy] choked to death in my arms. Two more were taken down with the disease and we fasted and prayed as much as we thought it wisdom as we had many duties to perform here. We fasted [for] twenty-four hours and once I fasted [for] forty hours, but [to] no avail for both my little girls died also. About a week after their death my fifteen year old daughter Melinda was [also] stricken down and we did all we could for her but she [soon] followed the others. … Three of my dear girls and one boy [have] been taken from us, and the end is not yet. My oldest girl nineteen years old is now prostrate [from] the disease, and we are fasting and praying in her behalf today. … I would ask for your faith and prayers in our behalf however. What have we done that the Lord has left us, and what can we do to gain his favor again[?]
“Yours in the gospel
“Warren M. Johnson” (in P. T. Riely, “Warren Marshall Johnson, Forgotten Saint,” Utah Historical Quarterly, Winter 1971, p. 19; spelling modernized).
In a subsequent letter dated August 16, 1891, to his friend Warren Foote, Brother Johnson testified that he had found a spiritual peace:
“I can assure you, however, that it is the hardest trial of my life, but I set out for salvation and am determined that … through the help of Heavenly Father that I [would] hold fast to the iron rod no matter what troubles [came] upon me. I have not slackened in the performance of my duties, and hope and trust that I shall have the faith and prayers of my brethren, that I can live so as to receive the blessings you having authority … placed on my head” (“Autobiography of Warren Foote of Glendale, Kane County, Utah,” vol. 2, 16 Aug. 1891; in LDS Church archives).

He gave his final talk in the Dewsbury Ward, Huddersfield Stake. The chapel was packed with past and present service missionaries who came to hear him and celebrate his great success. One brother, who had not been to Church for some time, commented that he felt the Spirit very strongly in the meeting and would be coming back to Church. This Spirit was probably due to the many angels who I believe attended that meeting to offer their appreciation for his wonderful missionary service, as he helped in gathering Israel on the other side of the veil.

Peter Jeppson took the gasoline pump hose out of his tank and with a quick twist of his wrist, secured the tank cap. It was late Saturday night, and he had stopped for gasoline on his way home from his date. He was still thinking of his best friend’s news—a mission call. Peter, himself, would be sending in his own papers in just a few weeks.
As Peter drove through an intersection into the traffic on the main highway leading into Boise, Idaho, his car smashed head-on into another. On impact, the windshield of his car was knocked out and shattered on the street. The full gas tank located in the front of his rear-engined car burst.
Gas sloshed up the hood right through the open window catching me right in the eyes, covering me and the inside of the car completely. Somehow flames were ignited, and the car burst into a blazing fire. It was then that some people who were passing by saw the accident and quickly stopped. Three men were able to get close enough to my car to open the door. The flames were two times as high as the car. They couldn’t find me because the flames were so intense. They threw their coats in the open car door to cover the flames until they could see my hand. The three of them grabbed my hand and pulled me from the wreckage. They rolled me over and over to put out the fire.
Peter had borrowed his brother’s thick, Scottish wool sweater for his date that night. The trunk of his body and his arms down to the wrists, the areas covered by the sweater, were the only parts not burned. It was the fact that he was wearing this sweater that saved his life.
In 1965, Peter was living in his hometown of Boise, Idaho, preparing for a mission like many of his friends. The day of the accident changed all that. He was forced into an experience that would test him to the limit. And it was his triumph over adversity that changed his life.

During my junior year of high school, the bishopric called a new Sunday School teacher for my class. It was wonderful because this new teacher was very entertaining. At that time I didn’t go to Sunday School regularly. Before Brother Dahl was called, I hardly went at all.
One Sunday, I was walking down the hall to throw away my little brother’s leftover Cheerios from sacrament meeting and head for the bathroom to spend Sunday School time with my friends. On my way, Brother Dahl greeted me. Shaking my hand he said, “How are you doing, Sister Whitworth?” I just smiled, pushed open the garbage can, and dropped the bag in. “I hope you are coming to Sunday School today. The lesson is one of my favorites.”
“Brother Dahl, all the lessons are your favorites.” He smiled and left for class, leaving me with a weird feeling that he knew I had not planned on going to class that day. I am always one to do exactly the opposite of what everyone thinks I will do, so I went to the bathroom and casually said, “Come on, Kristina, let’s go to Sunday School.” Kristina always went to Sunday School, but I could see the surprise on her face when I was the one who suggested it.
As we entered the class, Brother Dahl asked, “Annie, what would you like for Christmas this year?”
“Money,” I said. Everyone giggled, even Brother Dahl. Brother Dahl asked everyone in the class the same question. Some wanted a mountain bike, others a stereo, and others didn’t really care as long as they got something.
Brother Dahl said, “Every year about this time I start wondering if my wife knows what I want for Christmas. I hope this year she gets me a new tennis racket and shirt, because my old ones are getting a little worn out.” Everyone knew he was joking because he was grinning.
“But that is not what Christmas is all about,” he said in a voice that changed the tone of the lesson. He started handing out paper and pencils. “At Christmastime we should be in the spirit of giving, but we should also remember what Christmas really is. On this paper I want you to write a letter to Jesus, thanking Him for all He has given you. And tell Him what present you will give Him.”
This was not an easy assignment for me. At first, I wrote down that I would give Him all of my money so He could build temples and churches, but I realized that the money really wasn’t mine anyway; it was His.
When class ended I still hadn’t thought of anything I could give Jesus that He had not already given me. I had found someone who truly had it all, and what kind of a present can you get the person who gave you everything?
That afternoon I had to set the table for Sunday dinner. While I was matching up knives with spoons, I tried to think of a really good present, but I still couldn’t think of anything. As we ate dinner, we talked about the lessons we learned at church. No one had any suggestions for what I should give Jesus for Christmas. But when my family read scriptures that night, I found my answer.
We were taking turns reading in Matthew. When I started reading, I wasn’t paying attention until I read Matthew 25:40: “Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” Now I realized the Savior had already told us what the best present is. I only needed to read His words for myself to understand.

When my baby sisters were born, I was worried that they wouldn’t be OK, because they were born early and were so tiny. When we went to each hospital, I put some friendly pictures in their beds to help them feel a little better.
I prayed for them every day. I asked Heavenly Father to bless them that they would be OK. I told Him that I was scared for them. After I prayed, I felt good. I knew that Heavenly Father would answer my prayers.
Next week is my little sisters’ first birthday. They are both doing well now. I am thankful that Heavenly Father answered my prayers.

When I was a child, my parents took me to church only occasionally. I was baptized and ordained a deacon, but attending church was not a big part of our lives. By the time I was 14, I wasn’t attending church at all. I was in the middle of yet another custody battle between my parents. When I moved in with my mom, I had no motivation to study, because I saw no purpose in my life. A lot of people stayed away from me in my new school because I wore black clothing and combat boots. My grades were terrible. That was the year I entered ninth grade.
One day I was visiting my grandma when she told me that if I would graduate from seminary, she would give me $100. For me that was a lot of money. I said I’d think about it.
When I went to my new school to register, the school counselor signed me up for three shop classes because other classes were full. I didn’t want to take shop, and then I remembered Grandma’s offer. Suddenly the idea of getting out of shop and getting $100 sounded pretty good. I signed up for released-time seminary. I went to class, but I sat in the back and participated as little as possible.
One day I got to seminary class late, and the only seat available was on the front row. I sat down and heard our teacher, Brother Peck, say, “I don’t know why, but I feel like we need to watch this today.”
We watched How Rare a Possession, a movie about how the Book of Mormon affected the lives of different people. As the movie ended and we got up to leave, something unexpected happened: I realized that I felt peaceful. It was such a foreign feeling that I wondered what it could mean. An impression came: I was feeling the Spirit. At that moment I knew the Book of Mormon was an inspired book.
I started going to church with some friends in our neighborhood. But then we moved and I stopped going.
In my new school I signed up for seminary. I began reading the scriptures daily. One night it hit me just how much my life needed changing. I had been learning about the gospel, but I hadn’t been living it. I was still hanging out with people who made it difficult to live righteously. I knew I had to get serious about changing my life. The next day I went and talked to Brother Porter, my seminary teacher. He told me when and where my ward met.
The next Sunday I went to church but sat down in the back of the chapel. It took a while to make friends because of my reputation, but I kept going each week because I knew that was where I was supposed to be. For my 15th birthday, my other grandma gave me a gift certificate for a haircut and some new clothes. A few days later I was ordained a teacher.
When general conference came, Brother Porter gave us an assignment to watch at least one session. I put off the assignment until Sunday morning. When the session started, I rolled over in my bed and turned on the TV. As I watched President Thomas S. Monson, then the Second Counselor in the First Presidency, talk about the history of the Church in the German Democratic Republic, I felt that same feeling of peace. I recognized it as the Spirit testifying that I was listening to prophets. That afternoon my mom and brothers went grocery shopping. I stayed home to watch another session.
By that point I had made two very important decisions: I would live the gospel, and I wanted to get married in the temple. But I wasn’t going to spend two years on a mission. Then our seminary teacher gave some lessons on missionary work. By the end of the week, I knew that going on a mission was the right thing to do.
I went to the bishop to get a recommend for my patriarchal blessing. Through that experience, I learned that God had a plan for my life. That knowledge helped me form my own plans for the future. My grades improved, and I started getting involved in clubs and activities at school. I was assigned to be a home teacher with a neighbor, who taught me about service and how a priesthood holder should live.
Despite the changes I made, my life wasn’t easy. In some ways it became more difficult. Going to church meant more conflicts with my family over the kinds of activities we engaged in on Sunday and the kinds of movies we watched. Most of the time I went to church by myself. I missed out on dinners, movies, and visits to amusement parks. But that was more than made up for by the Spirit I felt. The Holy Ghost comforted me in difficult times and taught me as I read the scriptures.
When I graduated from high school and seminary, my grandma gave me the promised check for $100. I thanked her and told her I didn’t want it, but she insisted. The testimony I had gained of a loving Heavenly Father, the Savior, the Holy Ghost, the restored Church, and prophets who lead us today was worth far more than any amount of money.

It was a typical Saturday afternoon. I was super excited because after doing my chores, I was going to hang out with some of my new friends from my cheerleading squad. Being a new seventh-grade cheerleader had helped me make tons of friends at my new school.
I bounced up the sidewalk to Macy’s* house as I watched my mom drive away. “Ah, sweet freedom,” I thought. “I love being a teenager. I can finally go to the mall and movies with my friends.”
Macy opened the door, and I could see that my friend Lisa was already there. We started curling each other’s hair, laughing, and dancing and singing to music as we got ready. Macy explained that there would be several kids from school meeting us at the movie—not just girls but boys too. Even the cute boy at school I just met. I started to feel a little uneasy. I kept listening as she told me what movie they wanted to see. I got chills and knew instantly it was the Holy Ghost letting me know it was not a good movie. I asked to see the trailer for it. As I watched, I knew it was a movie I definitely didn’t want to watch.
What was I going to do? What would they say? I started thinking of plan B.
I began texting my mom privately. “What should I do, Mom?” I asked. She quickly texted back and said she didn’t feel good about the movie but she would let me decide. I knew I shouldn’t watch it; there was no doubt about that. I made up my mind. I was going to tell them I wasn’t comfortable with watching this movie. Surely they would understand, right? They were my friends. We could do something else instead.
“What? You don’t want to see the movie?” Lisa asked.
“Is it because your mom doesn’t want you to? Tell her that you saw something else.”
“What, are you too good for us?”
“Don’t be such a loser.”
My heart broke as I listened to my friends. My worst nightmares were coming true. For a moment I thought to myself, maybe I should just go. It won’t be that big of a deal. Mom said I could …
No. I knew I shouldn’t.
“Come on, guys,” I said. “My mom said she would pick us up and we could go back to my house and eat pizza and do a movie there. Or we could go get our nails done and hang out at the mall.” They weren’t interested. They wanted to go see this movie with all of our friends from school.
I texted my mom and told her I needed her to come pick me up. I was devastated. How could this happen? I thought they were my friends. I thought they wanted to hang out with me. All I wished for right then was my good friend Sandy from my Beehive class. She was a true friend. I knew she would’ve understood my decision.
I’d been so excited for this day and now it was turning out to be the worst day ever. When I saw my mom pull up, I quickly grabbed my stuff and headed out. As I walked to the car I felt a tear roll down my cheek. I’d just made one of the hardest decisions of my life, but I knew it was the right one.
I felt good knowing I had followed the promptings of the Holy Ghost. I know that I am a much stronger girl because I chose not to go.

I started backpacking with my family the summer I turned six years old. I carried a small pack that had a change of clothes in it and eight rolls of lifesavers—one for each day of the trip! That year we hiked fifty miles. We went over Sawtooth Pass, one of the most difficult passes in the Sierras. It’s 11,700 feet high. A ranger we met said I was the youngest hiker he had ever seen that far into the backcountry. He even took my picture!

When my wife and I were young parents with little children at home, we challenged our children to memorize the Articles of Faith. The prize, or reward, for completing them was a night out with Dad. We were pleased that our three oldest completed the challenge. When our seven-year-old son first memorized all 13 Articles of Faith, we sat down to pick out a night and activity that we could do together. I was so busy with work, social activities, and Church responsibilities that I couldn’t give my son a night out for about two weeks. He was sorely disappointed. However, I found that in the city where we lived there was an all-night bowling alley. We immediately picked a date and chose to start our activity at 5:00 in the morning. Our plan was to get up at 4:00, have breakfast, and then go downtown.
When that day arrived, I felt someone shaking my shoulder very early in the morning. As I tried to open my eyes I heard my son say, “Is it time, Dad?” I looked at my alarm clock; it was only 2:00 a.m.!
“Go to sleep, Son,” I said. “It’s not time yet.”
An hour later the same thing happened. “Dad, Dad, is it time to go?” After sending him to bed for a second time, I couldn’t help but feel his excitement.
Then at 4:00 a.m. we got up, had something to eat, and left for the bowling alley. We had a wonderful time.

I remember a while ago, my companion and I were ministering in a family with people of various ages (at the time it was called home teaching). My companion would give the lesson from the First Presidency monthly message, and I would focus on the children, tailoring the lessons to their needs and level to make sure they understood. One day at the end of one visit, one of the parents expressed his gratitude for the fact these visits had a different meaning to their children—and even more meaning to the parents because we were meeting the needs of everyone in their home.

In the 1980s my mother, Mai Saczkowski, directed the Swansea Ward choir. She loved her church choir. Whether it was singing in sacrament meeting or competing on the stage, she pursued perfection and was never content with second best.
As far back as I can remember, music and singing were an important part of growing up. We were encouraged to play instruments, take theory exams and develop our talents. Car journeys were filled with singing. My mother was a gifted and glorious singer with a beautiful, rich mezzo soprano voice. It has been over 20 years since her passing and I struggle to remember her speaking voice, but her singing voice I can instantly recognise.
Mai joined the Swansea Amateur Operatic Society. She appeared in many musicals and soon she was the guest artiste in concerts and fund-raising events. Her social life flourished. She attended Cardiff College where she obtained a Gold medal in singing.
But amidst this flurry of activity, my mother thought of her temple covenants and decided to curtail outside activities and concentrate on building up music in the Church. This was probably her most significant contribution. She inspired many people, especially the youth, by directing shows and teaching singing. She blessed the lives of many with her voice, adding to the spirituality of meetings.
Elder Boyd K. Packer extended a challenge in 1976 that my mother took on board:
“Go to, then, you who are gifted; cultivate your gift. [ …] If you have the ability and the desire, seek a career or employ your talent as an avocation or cultivate it as a hobby. But in all ways bless others with it.”
At age 60 she was struck down with Parkinson’s Disease, which gradually took over her body. Apart from the physical disability, it robbed her of her beautiful voice. She went through the refiner’s fire and learnt patience in her affliction.
I believe my mother used her gift properly; her contributions will be noted for generations. Her posterity has been blessed because of her, and now her grandchildren and great-grandchildren are using their inherited gift to further the work of the kingdom of God.

Ever since Grace Dywili Modiba and her mother and sisters were baptized in 1984, Grace was drawn to family history work.
“I gathered what I could from my aunts, uncles, and other relatives,” says Grace, a member of the Atteridgeville Ward, Pretoria South Africa Stake. “However, I became frustrated at every turn as I tried to find leads about my great-great-grandparents. The answer to my prayers began to unfold one Monday morning in 2001 when my mother called to tell me my cousin had passed away.
“We made arrangements to travel to the funeral, which was in the area where my parents were born. Since it is approximately 120 miles (200 km) north of Atteridgeville, near the border of Botswana, we had seldom visited that area.
“I left with my mum and two sisters on Friday, the day before the funeral. When we arrived at my aunt’s house late that night, we found the house filled with family members and friends. After finishing the arrangements for the funeral, we were tired but there was no place for us to sleep. One of my cousins graciously invited us to stay at her place, if we didn’t mind a long walk. We agreed to go. It was a very dark night, but the road was quiet, safe, and peaceful. When we arrived, everyone quickly fell asleep.
“The next morning I was the first of the visitors to awaken, and I found my cousin already up and busy. She gave me water to wash with, and after I finished, I experienced a prompting that I should go outdoors.
“As I walked a few meters away from the house, I was surprised to see two tombstones in the yard. I slowly went to them and was astonished and thrilled to find that they were the tombstones of my great-great-grandparents. They had the names and dates I so urgently needed! I quickly ran back into the house and excitedly told my cousin of my discovery and how long I had been searching for these ancestors.
“Now, as I reflect on these events, I know that everything happens for a purpose. I know that God lives and that Jesus is my Savior, and I am thankful to Them for leading me to this information.”

Our Sunday School class of 13-year-olds was not exactly known for our reverence. However, we had a wonderful teacher who tried her best to teach each lesson by the Spirit. One such lesson was on reading the scriptures.
At the end of the lesson she gave us a challenge. It was meant for all of us, but for some reason she looked directly at me as she said, “I challenge you to read from the Book of Mormon every single day!” I thought to myself, “I will show you. I will do it!”
I began 1 Nephi chapter 1 that very night and continued reading every day. I probably did not have a proper attitude when I began, but over time I began to like the way reading the Book of Mormon made me feel. Reading each night became an enjoyable habit.
Months later I came to Alma 32 and was impressed by the idea of a faith experiment. In school we had just learned about conducting scientific experiments, so I kneeled down and told Heavenly Father that I was beginning the experiment. I asked that I would come to know whether the Book of Mormon was true.
In hindsight, I know that Heavenly Father answered my prayers many times. Reading daily from the Book of Mormon gave me increased capacity to overcome evil. I felt closer to my Father in Heaven. I felt strengthened by the power of the Holy Ghost to overcome obstacles. What Alma said about experimenting with God’s word is true: “It beginneth to enlarge my soul; yea, it beginneth to enlighten my understanding, yea, it beginneth to be delicious to me” (Alma 32:28).

One time when I was young, my friend and I had climbed up on top of a concrete water tower. It was probably 10 or 12 feet tall, and the ground below it was covered with huge boulders to prevent the soil from eroding. As I was playing, I stepped over the edge. I felt myself being lowered to the ground, and I wasn’t hurt. That was one of the first inklings I had that there is Someone watching over us.