When we turned around and got on the right road, I was able to travel along its many unfamiliar twists and turnoffs perfectly confident I was headed in the right direction. Because we were prompted to take the road to the left, we quickly discovered which one was the right one. He continued, “The Lord has taught us an important lesson today. I was relieved that my first experience with revelation had a “second witness.” My dad said, “Matty, I’ve been thinking and silently praying about that same thing all the way home, because I really did feel a very distinct impression to take the road to the left.” With my head resting on my dad’s leg and my legs stretched across the seat, I asked, “Dad, why did we both feel like Heavenly Father told us to go down the road to the left when it was the wrong road?” George, now on roads my father knew well, and the thick darkness of the night was lit by pinholes of thousands of stars.
Fortunately, there was still just enough light to help us navigate the web of dirt roads that would take us home. My father promptly whipped the truck around, roared back to that fork in the path, and started down the road to the right. We had traveled only about 10 minutes when our road came to a sudden dead-end. We started down the dirt road to the left. This was my first experience receiving and recognizing revelation. I answered and said, “All during the prayer, I just kept feeling, ‘Go to the left.’”ĭad responded, “I had the exact same impression.” After we both said amen, Dad turned and asked me what I thought we should do. Wasting time on a wrong road now meant we would face the difficult task of making our way home in the dark.Īs we did whenever we had a family problem or concern, we prayed. There wasn’t much light left, light he desperately needed to ensure he could make the correct turns the rest of the way home.
He knew he had to make the right decision. Dad was not certain which trail we had come in on. It was dusk, and we had only gone a bumpy mile or two when we came to a fork in the road. After looking at the spectacular view and launching a few stones as far as I could throw, we got back into Grandpa’s old truck and started the trek home. We reached the overlook of the Grand Canyon late in the afternoon. As we turned off the paved road, lumbered through the desert, climbed a set of hills, crossed another desert, went up another set of hills, I wondered how Grandpa or anyone else ever found this place. Grandpa Holland loaned us his truck and gave us a homemade map and a set of directions to help us find our way on a little-used dusty path along the back roads of the Utah-Arizona border. Yes, we would see the Colorado River, but we would be on a cliff about a mile (1.5 km) above it. Little did I know that he meant we were going to the Grand Canyon traveling over cow trails. Eager to see the mighty Colorado, I yelled, “Great! Let me get my skipping stones.” I was seven years old, and my family was visiting both sets of grandparents in St.
“Matt, let’s go to the Colorado River,” Dad suggested.
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