“I vividly remember an experience I had in my sunrise season of young motherhood. One afternoon, my infant woke up from her nap incredibly hungry and in a state that audibly notified me of that fact. As her cries grew louder, I rushed to prepare her normal bottle of formula and feed her so she could be satiated. In that ravenous way that babies can at times drink when they’re both hungry and upset, she voraciously consumed the several ounces that I had prepared. And as soon as the last drop was dispensed, she began to clearly and loudly express her urgency for more. So I went to prepare another bottle to repeat her feeding. But to my absolute bewilderment, I soon realized that I had no more formula in my house. Likely due to the lack of sleep that often comes with this stage of parenthood and a small dose of inexperience incorporated into the mix, I now found myself standing in my kitchen completely surrounded by the stunning absence of baby milk—and with an agitated infant in the background bellowing out an aria of such epic proportions that it would rival any soprano’s vocal performance. I’ve wondered if in that moment I might have shared in a possible union of feeling with Nephi when he broke his bow and felt the weight of his family’s hunger on his shoulders. Could he have had a moment of disbelief? A moment of personal recrimination? A moment of self-doubt like I was feeling?

“I quickly bundled up my wailing infant so that I could speedily head to the local grocers to get her some milk. My daughter cried as I dressed her, cried as I strapped her into her car seat, and cried as I began the less than 10-minute drive to the store. No less than 5 minutes along the route, in my rearview mirror came the familiar flashing of blue and red lights of a police car. I knew immediately that in my fatigued and agitated state, my foot was likely pressed very heavily and firmly on the accelerator pedal. As the officer approached my driver’s side window, I defeatedly rolled it down and watched his face transform from a stern expression to complete shock as he was overwhelmed by the unrelentingly high-pitched peal coming from my daughter in the back seat. His countenance immediately softened to what I can only describe as a kind paternal gaze. I nervously and apologetically sputtered out disjointed explanations about the lack of formula at home and the urgency to get milk from the store. But rather than issuing admonishments and tickets, he simply said, ‘I understand. You’re going to be fine. Go safely.’ He then gently patted my car’s window seal and returned to his patrol car. As I watched him pull away and drive down the road, I added to my daughter’s tears with a few of my own. But not from frustration or self-pity. I cried because I felt seen. That anonymous officer, with his simple message, became a much-needed reminder from an all-knowing Heavenly Father and a loving Savior that They understood how tired and overwhelmed I was. They understood that in those early days I felt unprepared and unqualified for motherhood, that what I believed about myself and my circumstances was that I was less deserving of paternal love and more accustomed to harmful self-criticism and inadequacy. They knew I needed gentleness and validation that this life I was building was secure on our Savior’s bedrock, that God’s power would remain with me and be a source of strength in all my experiences as I kept my priesthood covenants and steadfastly looked to Him.” 

-Tracy Y. Browning, from her BYU Devotional, Discipleship: Your Life Can Be “Another Testament of Jesus Christ.”