When life gets hectic, I need to stop and remember a miracle, that not only are miracles possible, but I worship a God of miracles! Remembering times when I see the hand of God in my life reminds me that:

I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.

The miracle I first remember happened when I was five years old.

Dad farmed alfalfa in San Simon, Arizona, a tiny community in southeastern Arizona. Tall trees surrounded our yellow farmhouse, which sat in the middle of dusty roads and irrigated fields. We could always tell where Dad was because of the dust cloud behind his truck. When he rode the motorcycle, the dust cloud was smaller and moved quicker.

I learned to ride my bike on that bumpy, uneven dirt road. That was another miracle.

The farm did have a small amount of “sidewalk” in the form of concrete around a cement, rectangular pool. That space was magical to me. I’d ride my trike around the pool at “top speed.” To this day, my siblings and I love top speed.

At that point, I was an only child with busy parents. I was so excited for a sibling to arrive. When he did, I was three years older and patiently waited for him to grow up enough so we could really play and do exciting things.

I guess I determined that was when Donovan was two.

I can’t remember if this was the first time I attempted to help him ride the tricycle or if we’d done it before. Donovan, always ready for an adventure from the moment he could breathe, sat on the trike seat. He couldn’t reach the pedals and he could barely reach the handles but that was enough. He could steer while I pushed him from behind.

This would be great! He would love it!

I still remember the moment. The hot afternoon sun had cooled into a lovely spring evening. Trees shaded the pool area as we headed around the right side of that empty concrete pool with Donovan steering and me pushing the trike as fast as I could go.

Suddenly, in a split second, the steering went left while I continued pushing with all my might, and my little brother careened over the pool’s edge on the tricycle and down into the deep end of the pool!

Before I could even compute what happened, Donovan lay motionless and quiet at the bottom of the pool with the tricycle partially on him.

I screamed for my parents who came running.

Commanding a Miracle

Dad lifted lifeless Donovan out of the pool. He wasn’t bleeding. He was breathing, but just barely. He was so motionless, which was very unusual for both of us.

As darkness fell, Mom jumped onto the front bench seat of the car and dad laid Donovan on her lap. I climbed in next to them and shut the door. Donovan’s feet lay on my lap.

Our local hospital was in Safford, Arizona, 59 miles away.

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From the driver’s side, Dad anointed Donovan’s head with oil. With the inside dome light on, I distinctly remember Dad’s huge hands engulfing Donovan’s head as he commanded Donovan’s body to heal through the priesthood authority of Jesus Christ and pled for his son’s life.

As I watched and listened, I felt a distinct peace enter my horrified heart.

Dad jumped in the driver’s seat, yanked his door closed, and we sped off in the darkness down the dusty, dirt roads at top speed.

And that 10, maybe 20, minute moment in time is all I remember. I don’t remember the long drive to or from Safford. I don’t remember the emergency room’s bright lights and bustling nurses and doctors. I don’t remember when Donovan “came back to life,” because that’s what the miracle was for me.

I remember the thrill of the trike ride opportunity, the horror of the fall, and the power of the priesthood. Dad commanded Donovan to be OK. And I believed him.

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