God Answers

Dear Little Ones,

I asked one of you what you would like to hear from me for the month of June and you requested the following story. It is truly for you. I will leave little out, so you know all contexts of why it all has become so important to me. Reader, if you are not one of my children, this story is long winded and I will not be offended if you choose to skip this week’s letter.

Settle in.

Recently, I have been feeling sorry for myself. I wish I could say that does not happen, but my imaginative brain comes up with scenarios between every blink; most of them good! However, it happens so quickly and often without any effort on my part, that before I know it I am staring at a brick wall of my own making, blocking me from looking at anything other than the faults and sorrows listed on each brick.

My most recent brick wall was centered around the fear that we moved to the wrong part of our neighborhood. Because this is a public letter, I cannot go into details of all the reasons why, but suffice it to say, the reasons are legitimate. On top of which, my dearest friends are not in easy walking distance living over here, but would be “over there”. This is not my first time building this wall, it resurfaces from time to time, but it has increased in strength over the last several months.

It culminated two Wednesdays ago.

I was in a car with five other women who all live on the other side of the neighborhood when one said, “It’s just so sad over here. No one is outside playing, it must be a bunch of old people.” She pointed to houses along the way and continued her vocalized thoughts. I did not say anything, but that comment festered into the night. By morning, my brick wall had exponentialized.

I prayed out loud while I got ready for the day, asking the Lord if daddy and I had made the right decision, if we were supposed to be on the other side of the neighborhood from the beginning and didn’t explore that option enough. I said that I was sorry. I was sorry that I couldn’t hold onto the confirmation I’d already received, I was so full of doubt and sadness, I could hardly remember, let alone feel, what I had once known. It was a “help my unbelief” type of prayer.

My thoughts were of little else as the day wore on. In the late afternoon, when dinner would soon be upon us, Amelia and I went to the grocery store for last minute ingredients. On the way home, I asked, “Do you want to drive by the temple with me?”

“What kind of a question is that?!” she answered, “The answer is always, yes!”

I decided I needed to stop telling myself stories and go see for myself. You see, the “other side of the neighborhood” is the area around the temple. I have walked and driven around there many times and see kids, friends, and neighbors outside, but I am not exaggerating when I say I saw not a single person. No kid on a bike, no sweet older lady weeding their flower beds, no walkers, no runners, I didn’t even see someone driving a car.

It was honestly somewhat shocking.

As we finished our drive around the temple and through a portion of the neighborhood, I received a text from a friend on “that side of the neighborhood” inviting me to come over.

I was not forgotten.

I called my mom and we talked about all my fears and how much I felt God was answering my prayer from that morning.

And yet, God was not done.

That evening, we had so many kids and adults walking, biking, on 4x4’s and dirt bikes come up our street, waving and saying hi. A friend from church came by on her electric bike, pulling her two grandsons and stopped to say, “I just thought tonight was a lovely night to see if I could sit in your gazebo and chat.” So we visited while her grandsons played with my kids in the river, on the swings, and on the trampoline. Abby had friends come over and others continued to stop by on their evening outing.

My mom gave me a knowing look at the end of the night; a thousand words spoken in that small smile and short nod.

And yet, God was not done.

After you all were tucked in bed, the sun setting late into the Idaho summer night, my neighbors visiting from the Middle East asked if I could talk. I sat on their back porch for almost two hours discussing many things, but most of the conversation was centered around religion. They shared what it is like to be Catholic in Jordan where only 2% of the population is Christian. I shared with them about the Book of Mormon and my beliefs. It was wonderful and challenging as we discussed our mutual testimonies of Jesus Christ in a language that is not their native tongue. I told them about modern day prophets and miracles, about ancient America and the people who wrote the Book of Mormon. They taught me about the miracle of The Holy Fire and their earnest prayer to Mother Mary. They gave me rosary beads blessed in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem. I cried. I told them I would give them a Book of Mormon in return for the beads. They were so grateful and accepting.

I live for deep discussions and connections like that. As I went to bed that night, I thanked God for answering my prayer in many ways that day.

And God was not done.

The next day, I took Miram and Nataly mini golfing. It was fun and hilarious! Afterward, I asked if they would like to drive by the temple in our neighborhood before we went home. They enthusiastically agreed.

“Can we go inside?” Nataly asked in her beautiful Jordanian accent.

“I’m so sorry, only members can go inside. It is a sacred place to make promises with God, so it’s only open to the public before it’s dedicated,” I replied.

Their awe when they saw our temple for the first time was palpable. I readily agreed to park to let Miram and Nataly walk around. I explained what we do in the temple and why it is so important to us. I offered to take them inside the foyer of the temple. With reverence, we went inside. Needless to say, the three temple workers were surprised to see us. “I’m here to show my friends our Holy Temple,” I said with a smile. All three of them stood up straighter and smiled, welcoming us.

“Everyone dresses in white after entering,” I explained.

“Oh! It is heaven inside!” said Nataly.

We moved to the waiting room and talked about many things. Then Nataly asked, “How do you get in?”

“You have to be baptized, then you can meet with a Bishop, or Father (that is what men of God are called in Catholicism) and he asks you questions, like do you have a testimony of Jesus Christ, do you pay tithes, do you obey the Word of Wisdom (which we had already talked about in length because I never took them up on tasting their coffee, haha)”

“I’d like to go inside, I’ll answer the questions now,” said Nataly with brimming tears.

I don’t know how to describe how I felt in that moment, all of you children with us inside the temple, in our street clothes no less, conversing with this woman who had so much faith. I replied, “I’m so sorry, you have to be baptized first.”

“Yes, I have been baptized. I pay tithes, I have a testimony of Jesus Christ. I’d like to go inside now.”

My tears are spilling remembering that moment.

After explaining and discussing more, Nataly asked, “Who is that man on top of the temple?”

“Oh! That’s Angel Moroni!” She remembered him from our discussion the night before.

We went outside again. “He holds a trumpet to call all people to come to the temple to commune with God,” I explained.

“When does he call, I’d like to hear him.”

In predominately Muslim countries, there are calls to prayer, literal people who call for the time to pray, five times each day for all Muslim people. Though Miram and Nataly do not participate, this is a typical part of their day back home. It was a reasonable question and yet I found myself awed again at seeing my own religion through different eyes. I want to hear him calling, too!

The moment we left the temple grounds, we drove by where we most likely would have moved to had we built our home on that side of the neighborhood when the Spirit whispered to me, “Had you moved here, you would have never met and I needed you to meet them.” I smiled knowing God had answered my prayer again.

And He was still not done.

On Tuesday, we had our last night together with dinner at our house. We talked, ate, showed them the go kart, and had a wonderful time. At the end of the night, I gave them a Book of Mormon in Arabic and another in English.

They held them sacredly and said, “Yes, we will read it because we want to feel blessed like we do in this home.”

Those words mean everything to me.

God answered my prayer. I sought help in knowing if we had made the right decision, and he answered me tenfold. We are where we are supposed to be. I have a strong testimony that God led us to Pocatello. Now my testimony is honed to a small portion of land at the end of a hilly street where flowers grow alongside too many weeds. The snow piles high and the wind blows long and we are exactly where God wants us to be.

God will answer your prayers, little ones. It is not always quick or as thorough as above, but the answers will come. Keep praying, keep listening, you are a child of a loving God who wants what is best for you. Trust that He is leading you and earnestly pray when you, like me, run into walls of doubt.

Love,

Mom