On Sunday, April 7, 2013 I sat by a window in a straight-backed chair for most of six hours.  With both ears I listened to the proceedings of general conference; while with one eye I watched conference on the computer monitor, and with the other eye I watched our mountains.  The mountains and the weather were doing spectacular things.

The mountains begin rising three-quarters of a mile to the south and the west of the back of our house.  They’re steep, forested, and beautiful.  Four 8,000-foot-high peaks are literally in our backyard.  To the left is Hunt Mountain.  It’s the closest.  Behind it is the Willow Creek Ridge that leads up to Maxwell Butte.  Sitting a little farther back is the pointed peak of Red Mountain.  In front of Red Mountain is our low Reservoir Ridge, and then to the right are the two peaks of Twin Mountain.

The mountains dominate the landscape.  I’ve climbed them all.  They’ve been a major part of my life.  They’ve always been there—except on that spring day as I watched and listened to general conference.  On that day they repeatedly disappeared.

Conference began to sunshine, my mountains, green fields, and blue skies.  Dieter F. Uchtdorf spoke of Jane, a girl whose world was filled with darkness.  As he spoke, the mountains rapidly began disappearing.  Clouds rolled in and engulfed one mountain after another in a spring snow squall.  First Red Mountain disappeared.  Then Maxwell Butte, the Willow Creek Ridge, and Twin Mountain.  Then Reservoir Ridge was swallowed by the clouds and storm.  The wind blew.  The new catkins on the aspen tree stood straight out.  Many snapped off, and blew over the house.  Rain came in horizontally, and beat against the window.  Hunt Mountain was the last to go.  I watched the snow squall roll down the slopes until the huge mountain—that was just a stone’s throw away—was lost to view.  The sun ceased shining.  The emerald green of the new grass became gray like the clouds.

President Uchtdorf continued speaking.  He told how Jane’s dark world became one of light when she found the gospel.  “Darkness cannot exist in the presence of light,” he said.  I was warmly wrapped in the blanket my wife had made for me.  The lights were on, and there was a fire in the fireplace.  We were together, our priesthood leaders were speaking, and we were safe.  It occurred to me that if I wanted to do so, I could go out into the storm or open the back door and let the storm come in; but why would any sensible person abandon the warmth of his blanket, his fireplace, and his family to do such an idiotic thing?

It would be like turning President Uchtdorf off in favor of listening to a dismal news broadcast, or clicking onto something even worse.  It would be like preferring to privately play a video game instead of playing with the kids.  It would be like turning off the heat and the lights on a cold, dark night and sitting in the darkness without benefit of coat or blanket.

As I listened to President Uchtdorf and watched the storm, my outside world went from sunshine, majestic mountains, blue skies and new spring greenery; to a raging storm that blocked everything out, including the view of my daughter’s house a half-mile up the hill.  But by the time President Uchtdorf was concluding his talk with words of optimism and comfort, the squall had passed, the mountains had reappeared, big billowing clouds were blowing away to the east, blue skies replaced them, and the mountains and fields were bathed in sunshine.  The changes were most dramatic—almost sudden.

I sat at that window through both sessions of conference, and was so mesmerized that I sat there watching the mountains for an hour between the sessions, too.  The mountains and sunshine probably disappeared and reappeared five times in those six hours, and continued the drama right up until nightfall.

While the mountains were disappearing and reappearing, Elder Holland told us that we would all have periods of darkness, storm, and affliction; but urged us to “hold the ground that you’ve already won.”  He assured us that “God will send help from both sides of the veil, and urged us to “fan the flame of your faith.”

Bruce D. Porter told us that we live in a world of tribulation and uncertainty, but reminded us that the Savior repeatedly said, “Fear not,” and “Be of good cheer; I have overcome the world.”  (John 16:33).  He quoted President Boyd K. Packer as saying, “I do not fear the future.”

As I watched the raging elements, Elder Porter said that “the Church stands as a bulwark of safety.”  He told about his college roommate who was the most optimistic person he’d ever known.  The roommate was heard crossing the dark, early-morning campus at BYU in a blizzard singing, “O, what a beautiful morning, O what a beautiful day.”

Elder Porter reminded us of two spring mornings that contained contrasts between light and darkness, optimism and gloom that were even more dramatic than the contrasts I was observing outside on my own spring day.  “On the morning of a beautiful, clear day, early in the spring of eighteen hundred and twenty” Joseph Smith went into a grove of trees to pray.  That was 193 years ago, almost to the day.  It would have been a day just like mine before the clouds rolled in.  The sun was shining, the grass was greening, the robins were singing their hearts out, and the world was beautiful.  Joseph knelt to pray, and the storm rolled in.  He wrote, “I had scarcely (knelt), when immediately I was seized upon by some power which entirely overcame me, and had such an astonishing influence over me as to bind my tongue so that I could not speak.  Thick darkness gathered around me, and it seemed to me for a time as if I were doomed to sudden destruction.”  (Joseph Smith-History, 1:15).  Exerting all his powers he called upon God for help.  As immediately as it had come, the darkness disappeared, and was replaced by a light above the brightness of the sun.

The other spring morning took place nearly 2000 years earlier as the grieving Mary Magdalene approached the tomb of her Savior.  It was very early in the morning of the first day of the week.  Dawn was approaching, but darkness still reigned over the earth.  The physical darkness around Mary was not as great as the darkness that filled her soul.  Her Savior, her best friend, her God had just been killed.  So had her hope and all joy and all understanding.  The world and life made no sense.  Her world was as black as it could possibly be.  Surprisingly, the tomb was open.  She looked in.  Her grief was compounded when she saw that the tomb was empty, and realized that there was no body there for her to anoint.  Sobbing, she turned herself and found a man standing there whom she assumed was the gardener.

“Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away.”  (John 20:15).

“Mary,” the man said, and she recognized the voice.

With that one word the lights came back on in Mary’s world.  The storm was suddenly over.  The greatest sorrow imaginable was suddenly replaced by a joy unimaginable.  Jesus stood before her.  Mary became the first person to witness her resurrected Lord.

The storms were all over for Jesus.  There would be more storms for Mary to endure in life, however, but from that moment on she’d possess hope, faith, and knowledge that all storms would eventually pass.

Five times during conference my outside world went from sunshine to raging storm and back again.  Five times the mountains disappeared and reappeared.

At the close of conference President Monson quoted the lines, “Weeping may endure for the night, but joy cometh in the morning.”

The closing prayer was offered in which it was said, “Bless us that we may not only walk in the light, but that we may be the light of the world.”

As I opened my eyes from prayer, I glanced out the window, and my son said, “The sunshine is back—right on cue.”

And that’s the way life will be.