I have a very distinct memory of sitting in a car in the parking lot of the Provo Missionary Training Center. Less than 24 hours before, we had been notified that our son would be coming home early from his mission. We were there to pick him up. If someone had walked by our car that morning, they would have seen a man and a woman, clearly grief-stricken, with their heads bowed in prayer. They would not have been able to hear the soft but sincere pleadings from my lips, imploring Father in Heaven to allow our son to stay and fulfill his mission. My prayer was not answered in the way I had hoped, as about one hour later there were three of us in the car, heading back to our home in Washington.
