“Blessings by Morning Light,” Ensign, Mar. 1988, 49
The mountains are beautiful this morning. They stand above the valley like great purple sentinels guarding the portals of dawn. As I look, the sunlight touches the peaks and gives them life. The mountains have awakened, and the sight stirs my soul.
But something more than the mountains has stirred me this morning. I feel that strange sensation that stirs tears, and I wonder at it. I reflect upon the Savior’s creations—the earth and all it contains. I ponder the living things that inhabit this world—animals, trees, flowers—and all else that makes it glorious. But wonderful and beautiful as these things are, they can’t account for my urge to cry. It’s the kind of urge that comes when I listen to a friend with my heart and feel her pain, or when I see a baby sleeping or a child playing.
I think of friends and neighbors and how nice it is to have people to share thoughts and experiences with, but those dear people are not the source of my emotions. I silently ask my Heavenly Father to help me understand.
A noise interrupts my thoughts, and at first I am irritated by the disturbance. It seems that whenever I attempt to communicate with Heavenly Father, the interruptions start. These voices—demanding, imploring, inquisitive—are always present, no matter what the time of day or night. “Oh why,” I wonder, “can’t I have a little peace and quiet?”
But strangely, that warm feeling becomes stronger with each little noise. “Mommy, I want up!”
“Mom, what’s for breakfast?”
“Honey, is my white shirt clean?”
I am suddenly aware that the sources of these sounds are the reasons for the wonderful emotions I have been feeling. The noise increases. The baby grunts softly as babies do, giving fair warning of louder complaints to come. I stand and savor the hubbub that has replaced the peace of a moment ago and realize my prayer to understand has been answered. The joy I feel comes not from the world outside my home, but from the loved ones inside.