Afghanistan

(Disclaimer: this is not an official statement by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints)
Introduction

            Over the last few years, I have had many experiences that took me to different locations around the world. These endeavors have allowed me to meet and befriend various great people whom I learned from and shared life experiences with. As I became accustomed to these people, I noticed that nearly all of them expressed some form of curiosity towards me and my unique nature. They would ask me why I am usually in good spirits, calm, understanding, and slow to anger. They would observe me and wonder why my mannerisms were not harsh and why I chose to live a relatively healthy lifestyle. I always had trouble answering these questions, and I would commonly generalize my answers in reference to my faith. I didn't know how to explain the light that I found that continues to grow exponentially over time—although with much turbulence along the way.  I couldn't formulate a clear and concise answer to convey my magnitude of understanding, and as a result I think many of them guessed that my faithfulness was the result of immaturity, ignorance, or culture. 

            The purpose of this blog is to finally provide a clear answer to the questions I have been asked. I want to help people to find God. In order to bring forth the best possible understanding, I have determined that I should comprehensively share miracles in my life that helped me to discover the works of God in the most unexpected of places. Of course, anyone can make up a story and call it a truth, but I assure you that I don't write to deceive (those who know me well may also vouch that I am not creative enough to make things up if I wanted to). However, it is ultimately up to you to decide for yourself that whether or not these things are true. People see things from different perspectives, and for this reason, those who experienced these things with me may disagree with me on some details. In the end, the small details become irrelevant and the overall outcome is what is significant and indisputable. I imagine that there are hundreds of thousands of publications about amazing experiences of people throughout history, but it hits closer to home when you have an experience shared by someone who you personally know.

                In order to provide understanding of the significance of this story, I feel that I should first describe an ordinance practiced by members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints known as “baptisms for the dead.” According to the Gospel of Jesus Christ, a person needs to be baptized in Christ’s name by the proper Priesthood authority in order to receive the gift of the Holy Ghost and to be exalted in the kingdom of God. The obvious question is: what about those who did not get the chance to receive such an ordinance in their lifetime? Since God complies with universal justice, a baptism by proxy by mortals on earth must be conducted in order to fulfill the requirements of this law. The family unit is highly esteemed in the Gospel of Jesus Christ, and therefore Latter-Day Saints bear the responsibility of baptism by proxy for their ancestors. This ordinance can only be performed by worthy followers inside of the walls of the holy temples.
                In the summer of 2012, when I was nineteen years old, I was visiting my family for the last time before I would deploy to Afghanistan. It was during this visit that my grandmother expressed her concern for my imminent departure, and she invited me to perform proxy baptisms for 40 ancestors whose names she had recently recovered. She felt that I could benefit from the added protection of family members in the Spirit World. Having been very inexperienced in the Gospel, I had not previously been to a temple, nor did I have an understanding of the ordinances performed therein, but I accepted her offer. Keep these things in mind as you read, and I will explain their significance after the story in the post-script.  

            One last thought before I start: I would like to emphasize that even though my first article is about an experience I had in Afghanistan in 2012, this is not a "war storytelling" forum, and you will be severely disappointed if this is your expectation. If you're looking for actual stories of combat, hardship, heroism, and valor, I can point you to many good books. The experience I am about to tell you is an event that has frequented my memory, and I can still recall the events of that day vividly. This is a story I've seldom talked about—partially out of my own embarrassment of the situation and how I feel accountable for the near-catastrophe, and also because of how difficult it is to communicate the story in a way that can be understood.

Afghanistan

           I can still recall the warmth of that September afternoon as I sat next to the entrance watching intently as Afghan locals began to crowd in. A Marine stood by the door letting the travelers in by ones and twos. Another Marine kindly greeted the Afghans and searched them as they entered. Older-looking bearded men wearing traditional garments and turbans began to crowd up inside the compound. We were on the Afghan National Army Patrol Base Mateen in Sangin, Afghanistan. We had just been inserted via convoy. A shura was being conducted for the locals to address issues about the local government, the occupation of U.S. and Afghan forces, the Taliban presence, and any other issues that the Sangin valley residents were concerned about. I felt uneasy in the presence so many people, understanding that it was a political convention that would likely be a target for the Taliban. However, I wasn't too concerned about the mission assigned to my squad for that day. Earlier, my squad leader issued the order for the mission and briefed us on the route. Having just arrived in Afghanistan, I was excited to get outside of the wire again, but I was disappointed to see that the route on the map displayed only a circle with a 200-meter radius encompassing the patrol base at Mateen. My squad leader's instruction was to patrol around Mateen until the shura was finished. The intent of the patrol was to discourage any coordinated attacks by the Taliban on the shura. It wasn't the most desired mission to get, but I was still eager to get outside friendly lines once again. In addition to the usual seven members of Charlie Squad, we would have on this patrol three Afghan soldiers, two Marines from 1st Battalion (the battalion we were in the process of replacing), a Navy Corpsman, an interpreter, and our Lieutenant.

The projected patrol route.

           "Let's go, Charlie!" my squad leader yelled as we prepared to start the patrol.

            I grabbed my pack and threw it over my shoulders before deploying my metal detector. I turned it on and listened as it sang a series of beeps while completing its self-test. I waved it over the dog tag in my left boot, and it responded appropriately with a loud whine. I stepped up to the door and waited for the rest of the squad to finish preparing to leave. My heart began to pace itself as it normally did before leaving friendly lines. Not knowing what lay ahead in the near future was always nerve-wracking, but I felt comforted from a prayer that I said that morning that I would be able to capably dictate the route I would take us.

             "Go ahead, Burgon," my squad leader said. The assistant patrol leader posted himself at the entrance and propped open the door, and he began to get accountability of the patrol leaving friendly lines. As I passed through the door, he slapped me on my shoulder while shouting "One!" as he counted aloud to himself. I stepped outside of the east side of the compound and I began to experience the most exhilarating rush. The adrenaline in my body activated as the reality of it all hit me: there was no longer protection from IED's; there was no longer protection from bullets; there was no longer protection from enemy observation. The feeling was surprisingly thrilling and addictive, and I felt relieved to be outside once again. As I walked forward with my rifle gripped tightly in my right hand and my metal detector in my left, I swung the metal detector in front of my feet as I cleared a safe path for the squad to patrol through. One after the other, each squad member left the compound in my footsteps, forming a single file. The Marine directly behind me was marking my cleared path on the ground with dashes of shaving cream so that our successors could follow in trace.

Toting the squad's medium machinegun, Lance Corporal Cody Lindeman 

deaprts Mateen. (Photo courtesy of Corporal Mathew Brian)

        I oriented myself north and began clearing the route in that direction. Remembering the circular route drawn on the map, I looked around at the green scenery that surrounded me in all directions. Thick, tall, green bushes and trees bordered canals and fields in every which way. Being able to determine the correct distance and direction from Mateen immediately appeared impossible, and I knew that these circumstances would create much difficulty throughout the mission as the patrol base would become obstructed from our view. I would have to estimate our location for the duration of the patrol by observing the Musa'Qala mountains that bordered the Helmand River to the north, and the two blimps that were flown over our forward operating bases a few kilometers to the east and southwest.

        Beads of sweat were already beginning to drip from my brow as I pressed into the thick vegetation. The density of the vegetation created humidity in warmer temperatures, and it almost made the environment feel like a jungle. It didn't help that I was bearing body armor, a helmet, ammunition, a kevlar diaper, and a pack full of about 40 pounds of water, food, batteries, and other necessities for the squad. Each Marine in the patrol was a pack mule weighed down by approximately a hundred pounds of gear, weapons, and equipment.

The metal detector.
(Photo courtesy of  Kyler Wubs)

            It would have been easier to stick to dirt roads and goat trails for navigation, but traveling on predictable routes would put the patrol at risk of running into an IED ("Improvised Explosive Device"—essentially a homemade bomb constructed of household supplies and easily accessible materials. The Taliban would place IED's on pathways, choke-points, bridges, canal crossings, alleyways, and anywhere else that was considered predictable or would create convenience for a squad of tired and complacent Marines. The two best options for a route were through large fields because the Taliban could not predict how we would cross through them, and through canals since the Taliban did not possess the capabilities to make waterproof IED’s. I kept these things in mind as I came up to the first canal.

            We would have to cross it, but it was up to me to determine how the canal would be crossed. I looked to my right and notice a bridge a bit further downstream. Understanding that the bridge was an anticipated location for an IED, I looked upstream to find another way across. I had to choose the most undesirable location to traverse the canal in order to significantly reduce the chances of encountering an IED. I scanned the edge of the canal and noticed a thick thorn bush, and I decided that was where I would cross. Clenching my teeth, I forced my way through the thorn bush. I sat down in the bush and dangled my legs into the water, and I pushed off the side of the canal and clumsily slid in. It was always difficult to determine how deep a canal would be, but I was relieved to see that the water only rose midway up my shins. I trudged my feet through the swampy, cold water to the opposite side and waved my metal detector over the muddy surface. The metal detector did not detect anything, so I determined it was safe and climbed out of the canal, struggling a bit with all of the weight I was bearing.

A typical Afghan cornfield.

An unknown Marine pictured navigating a cornfield.
(Can someone identify this Marine?)

        I led the patrol across a goat trail and into a corn field across the way. The corn normally stood 6-8 feet tall and was extremely dense and scattered, unlike the irrigated and organized cornrows that western society is familiar with. I turned off my metal detector to conserve the battery, and I propped it up onto my shoulder knowing that sweeping through the field would be redundant and unnecessary.
        Unable to use the blimps and mountains for navigational reference points, I had to walk blindly while attempting to maintain the same direction of travel. It was easy for a Marine to get lost in a cornfield if he became distanced from the Marine whom he is following in trace. To prevent this, I tried stomping down the corn as I walked through, and I was careful to frequently look behind me to ensure the next Marine in formation could still see me. It was exhausting work. The patrol continued in this fashion throughout the afternoon. At one point during the patrol, we passed two kids—a boy and a girl—who were flying kites next to a dirt road that we were patrolling on. I later learned that these two kids were assisting the Taliban in tracking our position.

Patrolling through a canal.
(Photo courtesy of Kyler Wubs)

            Later on that afternoon, I began to feel some anxiety about how far away I had taken the squad from Mateen. I had just made exit out of a corn field when I had noticed a man walking down a trail that ran along the parameter of the corn field.  He looked to be in his mid-twenties, and was wearing matching blue garments with a blue turban wrapped around his head. "Salaam Alaykum," I greeted him. He glanced at me and looked away, mumbling "Wah alaykum Salaam" as he nervously continued down the trail and passed the patrol. I continued forward and crossed the trail into a corn field on the other side. I began knocking down corn stalks when I heard a shout.

            "No, Marine!" I looked to my right to see the man in blue facing me. "I show you path," he said, making gestures with his hands.

            I guessed that it was his family’s corn that I was stomping down, and I knew that this was an ideal opportunity because the locals are familiar with the area and know where the IED's have been emplaced. The local Afghans were typically hesitant to be seen aiding Marines because they feared the Taliban would punish them and their families. Understanding this, I knew that I had to take advantage of this rare opportunity. Accepting his invitation, I followed him down the trail.

            "Make sure you are still sweeping behind him!" my I heard my Lieutenant squawk from the cornfield.

            My new guide was walking very fast, and I was having trouble keeping up behind him while I swept the metal detector in front of my feet. He led us about 150 meters down the trail through a break in a waist-high mud wall before stopping and turning to me. He gestured with one hand pointing left and the other pointing right, and I guessed he was asking me which way I wanted to go. I looked back and noticed that part of the patrol was lagging behind as Marines were still trying to stammer their way out of the corn field. I told him that I needed to wait in order to allow everyone to catch up. "Cigarette?" he asked, hoping for some sort of compensation for his assistance. I told him I that did not have a cigarette to give him, and by his reaction I could tell that he did not wish to assist us any further. As I waited, I tried to reorient myself. I was in a small village comprised of compounds with tall walls constructed of dried mud. Next to where I was standing was a large family with kids playing. Their parents were watching and they greeted us welcomingly. The children were cheerful and seemed to enjoy our presence. The atmosphere made me feel safe.

An Afghan compound with mud walls.

        I looked straight ahead and noticed a large concrete bridge running over a canal. A man was pushing a wheel barrow with a flat tire over it. I looked beyond the bridge to see a large, open field and—my heart dropped in my chest—The Helmand River. I had taken the patrol much too far north. I had lost my bearing while crossing through all of the corn fields and somehow lead the patrol to this location. I looked to the sky and noticed that the sun was getting low as the evening began to set in. I faced left towards the direction I needed to go, and it was through the village. Unfortunately, the only way to go through it was down an alleyway. I had to make a decision quickly to keep from losing time.  I had three options: patrol further north over the bridge, take the patrol down the alleyway, or back-track the way we came. I ruled out the latter option because the Marines from 1st Battalion had previously testified that following a route previously traveled got them into trouble. For the sake of time, and because of the good vibes the villagers were giving, I made the decision to take the patrol westward down the alleyway. I stepped past a white van that was parked at the entrance of the alley and peered down the 100-meter long walkway. The dirt pathway was packed down with a small irrigation canal running along the right side of the path. Large, eight-foot mud walls towered over both sides of the alley. I hesitated for a moment. I'm going for it, I thought to myself.

            I had only taken a few dozen steps into the alley when a large plume of grey smoke billowed into the sky from just behind the alleyway wall on my right side.

            "Smoke signal!" someone in the squad shouted from behind me.

            It was apparent that we were being tracked, and I felt pressured to move quickly. An elderly bearded man wearing brown garb walked out of the entrance of a qalat that bordered the alley. He looked up and noticed me, and he quickly turned himself around and made his way back into the house. Both he and I had just realized that we were at the wrong place at the wrong time. My heart began to pound intensely. I took a few steps further and stopped about 20 meters into the alley at the sight of something unusual on the ground: there appeared to be a circle drawn in the dirt where the pathway met a small footbridge that crossed over the alley's canal. This was a method that some villagers would use to mark off IED's to prevent accidents in their villages. I looked to the left of the circle and noticed the dirt had recently been dug up, and the hole had been refilled. I guessed that there subsided an explosive beneath the circle, and a power source was likely offset to the left. This method decreased the metallic signature of the explosive device and made it easier for the Taliban to safely disconnect and reconnect the battery as needed. I waved the metal detector over the area and it began respond with a whine. I gave the hand signal for the patrol to halt.

            "I think I've got an IED," I said loudly.

A satellite image of the village.

            A 1st Battalion Marine stepped out of formation and began to gently sweep away at the dirt near the circle to see if he could better identify what was buried beneath. After a few brisk sweeps, he stood up and said, "Screw this, I'm about to go back to the States."

            "It's your call, Burgon," I heard my squad leader's voice say from behind me.

            It was apparent that something bad was imminent and we weren't alone. If I chose to go back, we would be forced to bypass the village, thus lengthening the time of the mission and possibly getting us even more lost. The sun was getting low in the sky, and being outside of friendly lines in the dark was the worst possible scenario in an IED-rich environment. If I chose to continue, the possibility of a complex ambush was overwhelming and could be catastrophic. I didn't want to be held accountable for the death of any member in the squad, and time was running out. I could feel the weight of my responsibility as I became aware that the thirteen men behind me were lined up and waiting for a nineteen-year-old kid to make a decision. Sometimes I wonder if they could sense the urgency of the situation.

            The lenses on my eye protection began to fog up from my perspiration and heavy breathing. My heart felt like it was going to pound out of my chest. My mind began to accelerate, and I suddenly became so overwhelmed that I couldn't think coherently. It was at that moment something remarkable happened:

            "You have to go back!" I heard a voice shout, throwing me off guard.

            Bewildered, I looked behind me to the Marine standing closest to me.

            "What did you say?" I asked.

            "What do you mean? I didn't say anything," He confusedly replied.

            To this day, I still don't know who said it—if anyone did say it—but at that moment I knew exactly what I had to do. My state of confusion and forlornness suddenly left me as I felt compelled to follow the prompting I had just been given. I took out a can of shaving cream and sprayed a crossed-out circle over where I thought the IED was located, and I began to make my way back out of the alleyway.

            "The IED is marked! Watch your step!" I called out to the squad. "Sir, I'm taking us back. We're going around the village," I stated as I passed the Lieutenant.

            "It's all on you. Don't wait for my approval," he replied.

            I paced up the alleyway back towards the place where we had entered through the village. My memory at this point is a little vague, but I don’t recall seeing the guide or any members of the friendly family who had greeted us earlier, so I assume that they had fled to safety. My impressions led me over the concrete bridge and westbound on a footpath. Traveling on predefined paths was a tactical sin in an IED environment, but hard-packed surfaces made items that had had been recently buried easier to spot. Besides, with daylight becoming limited, we needed to travel quickly and compromises needed to be made. The pathway skirted the village to our left. To the right was a large, green wetland field that bordered the Helmand River. We were very susceptible to an attack from either side, but I continued on my course in the direction that my inspirations were leading me.

            We patrolled about 300 meters to another compound where I noticed a young man dressed in grey garb and a peci. He appeared to be concealing his body from the neck down as he peered around the corner while he talked to someone on the opposite side of the wall. He was somehow completely oblivious to the patrol. I don’t know how he didn’t hear the sound of my heavy feet trudging along the trail or the beeping noises from my metal detector, but I let myself get within an arm’s distance of him before saying, “Salaam Alaykum.” He was so startled that he jumped into the air. Shaken, he returned the greeting and nervously walked down the path opposite of the direction of the patrol. As I turned the corner, two men (whom I assume the young man in grey was talking to) squeezed through the narrowed opening of a tall, blue gate that led to the inside of the compound. One of the men turned to look at me, and I could feel the hatred that he had for me as our eyes locked. He hastily shut the gate behind himself. 
        Families from the village had unusually congregated to an open field west of the compound, and they all began to displace from the field at the sight of the patrol. Everyone seemed to share anxiety for the situation. Realizing that we were likely about to enter the kill-zone of an ambush—but still directed by inspiration—I knew that I needed to follow the families. Unlike us, those families knew where the enemy was, and they also knew where to find safety. I watched them cross a log bridge over a canal at the south end of the field, and I knew that was where I should go. I made my way across the field and maintained a close proximity to the villagers, using them as a shield to discourage the Taliban's use of small arms weapons against us. The open field lacked any sort of cover, and this characteristic made me feel particularly naked and exposed. Part of me was anticipating what the first burst of an enemy machinegun would sound like if an ambush were to be initiated at that moment. I tried to maintain my focus on getting to the log. 
        As I stepped onto the log, I held my metal detector horizontally to help me maintain my balance as I made my way across while bearing the weight of my gear. I looked down below to see a five-foot drop into a canal.

            “Really? Are you crazy?” A Marine wailed from behind me.

            I ignored the Marine’s murmurs and continued to the opposite side where I found a dirt road. I could feel a sudden shift in the atmosphere, giving me a sense of relief. There was no danger here. However, my “internal guide” that had led me to this location was no longer directing me, and I realized that I would now have to figure out how to get us back to Mateen on my own. I waited for the rest of the squad to finish crossing the log bridge before continuing to patrol back to Mateen. 

A satellite image of the village.

            Despite the exhaustion I had in my left arm from swinging the metal detector all evening, I continued to sweep as we passed through several fields and canals. My feet and legs began to ache from bearing the weight of all of my gear. After more than an hour had past, I brought us into the eerie remains of a small, abandoned village that had been reduced to rubble. I presumed that its poor condition was the result of an artillery barrage conducted by British forces during the initial invasion of the Sangin District years earlier.

            “This place must be littered with IED’s,” the 1^st Battalion Marine warned me. “The rubble creates many places to hide them.”

            I intended to maintain my southward bearing, so I followed a narrow footpath through the village, but it took me to a dead end where a standing mud wall met a partially crumbled qalat. Trapped again, I cursed in my head.

            “What’s the holdup?” my squad leader asked from the formation.

            “It’s a dead end. I’m going to have to go back,” I responded.

            I turned to the 1^st Battalion Marine and asked, “Do you know where we are?”

            “Not a clue. I’ve never seen this place before,” he replied.

            The songs of the evening call-to-prayer began to echo from mosque speakers across the valley. I looked to the west to see that the sun had already set beneath the mountain ridgeline. I estimated that we only had a half-hour of light left before we would have to navigate with night vision optics. The sound of sporadic gunfire from a firefight in the distance became audible. My state of helplessness returned. I began backtracking along the footpath, passing each exhausted Marine in the formation. I hung my head out of fear of seeing the look of disappointment or resentment on any of the squad members' faces. I felt ashamed for getting us lost. As I paced alongside the patrol, I noticed an Afghan soldier leave the formation to talk to our interpreter. The two began to exchange words in Pashto, and the interpreter nodded his head and looked at me.

            “This man knows how to get us back,” the interpreter said.

            Given our last experience with an Afghan leading the patrol, I felt reluctant to follow him, but time was running out. Nonetheless, I understood that he was probably more familiar with the area than any of the Marines in the patrol, so I allowed him to take the lead. I followed him as we took a detour around the ghost village and through an open field. He led us to a canal that was bordered by trees and bushes on either side. The Afghan soldier got a running start and leaped across the canal, just barely making it to the other side without getting wet. The canal was about six feet wide, and I knew that there was no chance I could make it across by jumping with all of the weight on my shoulders.

I stood at the side of the canal and eased my right foot into the mucky water, but my left foot slipped on some loose mud and my legs collapsed from fatigue, causing me to become completely submerged underwater. With much struggle, I got on my knees and hoisted myself back to the surface and gasped for air. I looked down at my rifle to see that it was covered in mud, and I realized that if we made it out of this, I would be up all night scrubbing the rust that would seen be forming on it.  Overwhelmed, I disgruntledly waded to the other side of the waist-deep canal and pulled myself out.

As I got to my feet on dry land, my frustrations left me as I beheld a wonderful and much desired sight: directly in front of me was the familiar compound of the Mateen patrol base. The unembellished structure had never before looked so welcoming against the late evening sky. After a long, exhausting evening, we had finally made it back to safety—and just in time for the dimming of twilight.

“What’s up, Charlie Squad?” I heard a Marine call out from his overwatch position on a qalat.

 Suddenly abandoning all of my anxieties, I switched off the power to my metal detector and rested it on my shoulder, and I suddenly forgot the exhaustion of my body. We are safe now.

Charlie Squad
Top: LCpl. Ben Kealey, LCpl. Devin Babb, PFC Wesley Vinent, Cpl. Raymond Mena
Bottom: LCpl. Thomas Potter, PFC Daxton Burgon, LCpl. Cody Lindeman

Post-script

            One thing that I regret from that day is the gratitude towards God that I lacked when I laid down on my cot that night. It took me quite some time to realize the miracle that had taken place on that day. A strange psychological process took place while I was on patrol where my brain would shut off all thoughts that it did not consider essential. My thoughts were instead consumed by the surrounding environment and deciding where to step next. I don’t recall anything else crossing my mind; not home, my family, my love life, God—nothing. The mission and the preservation of the squad were the only two things I was conscious of. This unique mental processing is why training for a deployment is very arduous and repetitive. I think this is why I lacked the ability to prayerfully ask for help when I needed it the most.

        I knew that I had witnessed something extraordinary on that day, but I didn't fully understand it. Some have suggested that the experience was my body's intuitive response to danger—like a sort of primal sixth sense used for survival. I considered this notion but I wasn't convinced. I tried to write about the events of that day almost a year later, but the digital document that I was writing on my iPad had unexpectedly disappeared during an operating system update, and I abandoned my efforts. It wasn't until two years later that a prompting to record my experience had reemerged, so I took a couple of weeks to collect and digest all of my memories of that day before initially publishing them on this blog.
        At this time, I was dealing with the lasting multi-dimensional effects of transition out of the military and a crushing divorce. As I lost sight of the purposefulness of my life, I frequently sought solace in the peacefulness of temples. It was there that I could feel a closeness with God, and I became a keen student of the Holy Ghost. I was taught about the importance of temple ordinances, and that as we perform services for our ancestors, they become more capable of assisting us on earth. As I listened more carefully, I learned that my family was with me in the alleyway, and some of the forty that I had baptized were numbered among them. I am convinced that the voice I heard crying out for me to go back belonged to one of them.

            So, what about everyone else? How come faithful men throughout history weren’t fortunate enough to escape ambushes? What about the recorded events of men actually being killed while praying during combat? I imagine this is the thought process of many who may have read this article. One important thing to remember is that when Jesus walked the streets of Jerusalem, he did not heal all of the sick and the handicapped, nor did he revive all of the dead. God has a plan for each of us, and His plan works in the most mysterious of ways. Usually we can’t recognize why something happened the way it did until sometime later when we reflect on it.

I know that one reason people’s lives are taken "prematurely" is because their significant contribution to God’s plan takes place in the Spirit World where they are more empowered to perform service. For others, their deaths may have served the purpose of bringing family and loved ones closer together and nearer to God through faith. Some people may have passed away simply because they exercised their free agency irresponsibly. Less commonly, scriptural text shows evidence of people dying because of their evil rebellion against the works of God. The truth is that there is no one-size-fits-all answer to explain why people die. The important thing is to recognize God’s hand in all things, and to know that He preserves our lives because we still have work to complete during our mortal existence. It is up to us to be humbled by our preservation and exercise our free agency to find our individual purposes according to His will.

I had experienced divine intervention by a Supreme Power on that day. I am sure that there is a scientific explanation for what I experienced, but every good Christian understands that science and religion do not conflict so long as they are both encompassed by truth. Both scientists and religious clergies are dedicated to discovering and teaching truth—there is no difference. God created the universe and all of the scientific properties therein. The bitter sweet prospect about finding God is that there is a fair balance in the evidence that proves and disproves His existence, but anyone who truly humbles the heart and opens the mind will find the ultimate Truth so long as he/she earnestly seeks it. The chances are that everyone has experienced miracles of some nature in his/her life. If I was so slow to recognize the significance of what I experienced on that day, what else have I missed? Have you recognized miracles in your life?