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It was in February of 1993, a winter of record snowfall in Salt Lake City. Storm after storm piled snow to unprecedented heights, causing extensive damage to the roof of many dwellings. My husband and I had been away in Israel for two weeks during the heaviest of the storms, labeled "the storm of the century," which broke all the records for snowfall in a 24-hour period. Schools had been closed, and most activity came to a halt as residents began the arduous task of "digging out".
When Brent and I returned home after our trip, we had been amazed at the huge snow banks surrounding our house. Nevertheless, we were happy to return to our home, made more dear to us because it had housed my beloved parents before us. My father, Harold B. Lee, the eleventh president of the Church, had purchased the home in 1961. My mother had been so thrilled with it that she always called it her "dream home". She had lived there contented and happy, not quite a year before she died.
My father had subsequently remarried again and he and his new wife continued to enjoy the home together until his death in 1973. My stepmother remained there until her death in 1981. We felt there was a special spirit these loved ones had left behind, one which my husband and I hoped to perpetuate in this home when it became ours.
We had only been home a few days when we began to hear creaking sounds. One morning I heard a definite cracking noise coming from the living room area at the front of the house. Upon investigation, we were appalled to find there were cracks in the walls and evidence of unmistakable structural damage in each corner. We immediately called a young man to come the next day to shovel the show off the rood to relieve the weight. The creaking stopped, but the damage remained. We contacted the insurance adjusted, who, already "snowed under" with similar demands, was unable to come.
So, on that Saturday before our ward temple group was to gather in our home, my impatience with yet another problem, even a minor one like a faulty doorbell was understandable.
The electrician came to repair the doorbell lake Monday afternoon. "The problem must be in the transformer" he said. He looked in the basement, but failing to find the transformer, he went up into the attic to look for it. Moments later, he called down with unmistakeable alarm in his voice, "Mr. Goates, do you have any idea what damage there is up here?! It looks like a war zone!"
My husband followed him up and was dismayed by the broken beams everywhere and the severely bent struts. The ridge of the roof had been split open by over three inches.
Fearing that the roof might collapse at any time, the electrician was reluctant to stay there longer; but before he left, he strongly urged us to call for an expert opinion.
In light of this new development, we made arrangements for our supper party to be transferred to another home in the ward. When Arnold Fluckinger, our home teacher and a busy architect, heard of our plight, he appeared at our door the next morning, bringing with him a business associate who was a prominent structural engineer. We had not called either of them; they came out of concern. They concluded that we were indeed in jeopardy of our roof collapsing over our heads. They recommended immediate removal of the new show on the roof and a covering of heavy plastic over the entire surface.
"But if you hear one more creak, get out immediately!" warned the engineer as he left.
As we were unable to locate anyone who could help us relieve the oppressive weight on the roof, our home teacher, fully sensing the danger, went home, changed his clothes, put on his heavy boots, and returned to do the job himself. Over our repeated protests, he climbed up on the roof and began to task that lasted until dark and all the next day. It was truly an act of Christian love.
The emergency "band-aid" treatment was accomplished and the immediate danger was over. More storms came, but this time the snow slid off the roof.
At last, we were able to get the attention of the harried insurance adjuster. Three competent contractors began preparing bids for our home repairs. Arnold, our home teacher, drew up complete drawings of the structure, and the engineer made his recommendations. Our home and its irreplaceable contents would soon be safe and secure again.
A few days later, I was alone in the house and was startled to hear the doorbell RING. I went to the door expecting that no one would be there. To my surprise, I found a salesman at the door. After he left, I pushed the bell again to test it. It rang loud and clear, as did the doorbell at our back door, just as they had done so faithfully for the eleven years we had occupied the home. What had caused its mysterious malfunction? And why, now, without any repair, had it begun suddenly to operate again?
Doorbells are intended to allow visitors to obtain the attention of the occupants within. Had a visitor, unseen and unheard sought to gain our attention to warn us?
As we pondered this question, comfort and reassurance came that someone, somewhere, was mindful of the dangers to the physical structure of the home that had such a heritage of family happiness. We received that assurance that, through the brief malfunction of a most reliable doorbell and perhaps, even with the help of loved ones beyond the veil. God had protected our home.
"God also bearing them witness, both with signs and wonders, and with divers miracles." (Hebrews 2:4)
“Behold! I Am a God of Miracles” Rasband 2021
"Miracles can come as answers to prayer. They are not always what we ask for or what we expect, but when we trust in the Lord, He will be there, and He will be right. He will suit the miracle to the moment we need it."
Reference:
"Harold B. Lee Remembering the Miracles" compiled by L. Brent Goates p. 165-168