While dealing with her son's violent tantrum, one LDS mother's desperate prayer was answered by a strange prompting and an even more bizarre but comforting dream of whipped cream.
It was a cold day just before Christmas, a year and a half ago. I sat in my car, on the side of the road. I was panting and sweating from deflecting the blows of my large, mentally disabled preteen son, Jack, and holding him from climbing into the backseat and hurting his younger brothers.
Jack had had a violent outburst as I ordered his fries at a drive-through window, and everything went horribly awry. He attacked me, relentlessly, as I tried to drive us home to safety. When we reached a busy intersection, Jack kicked the gearshift into reverse. The car stalled. I screamed. Cars barreled past. Jack punched and kicked me. He bashed his head against the car window and tried to unlock the door to escape.
“Lord, help me!” I yelled.
It was the first, but not the last time I have shouted a prayer.
Jack suddenly quieted down. He stopped hitting. He began to cry.