A GREAT HAIL STORM - AND POWER IN THE PRIESTHOOD

I have featured a story on this blog about the exercise of Priesthood in it's fulness by a Montana rancher - who commanded the storms to part and the crops all around his spread were destroyed, whilst his were preserved.

This is the kind of faith that we should all aspire to.  I believe this is from a descendant of a reader and is too good not to share.  When we are aware of our potential, we can rise to it.  If it is dormant, either because we are not aware of it, or because we know of it and are not worthy for it or care nothing for it, then we have a lost opportunity (some called it the state of the damned - no forward progression):

The Great Hail Storm

By Sixtus E. Johnson

            David, a son of George D. Wilson and Mary Ellen Johnson, married Julia D. Johnson, a cousin, daughter of Uncle Benjamin Johnson. They moved to Mexico where Julia died. David married a second wife, Adelia Cox and moved back to Hinsdale where he died and was buried beside his father. His wife, Adelia Cox Wilson lives in Hurricane.

            Grandfather Joel Hills Johnson and Uncle George D. Wilson built a water powered sawmill at Hillsdale on the Sevier River. Later, Grandfather sold his interest to George W. Wilson. This latter man had great faith. Many the time I’ve thrilled to his wonderful and many testimonies regarding the power of the priesthood and the greatness of the Prophet Joseph whom he knew intimately. On one occasion Uncle George D. stood forth in the face of a storm and commanded it to pass over without harming his crops. I am the only one of seven witnesses to that wonderful event living. Several have asked if I would not write it up for the Informer so here it is if you care to read it.

            To us who saw it, it always was known as THE MIRACLE OF THE GREAT HAIL STORM OF JULY 29, 1880. It happened on my birthday.

            Beause of the teachings of my father, Seth Johnson, son of Joel Hills Johnson, I firmly believed that almost nothing was impossible to accomplish through the power of the priesthood used by a righteous man. George D. Wilson was a righteous man, and on this my eighth birthday, I was priviledged to see for the first time in my life, an exhibition of the marvelous power of the priesthood in action.

            The mill shed and house on Uncle George D. Wilson’s farm were at the south end of his land. A large black cloud came up from behind the hills and started moving directly for the town and its surrounding farms. It looked as if Uncle George D.’s farm would be right in the middle of the storm’s fury. For fury it had. There was thunder and lightning and the roar of hail.

            The women folks came to the doors of the houses, some of them crying and wringing their hands. Destruction of their crops and gardens seemed certain and this would mean mighty limited rations for a whole year. Uncle George D. stepped out from the mill shed as the hail began to spatter on the roof. He didn’t say anything to anybody, but stood there gazing at the beautiful garden and green wheat field. Suddenly he started walking east toward the road that led from Panguitch to Kanab. The scattered hail stones, heralds of the oncoming storm, were bouncing off anything they hit including my cloth cap covered head and bare feet.

            Instinct told me I ought to seek shelter, but something else seemed to be urging me to follow Uncle George D. which I did. I followed so close to him that I heard him above the roar of the storm as it broke near us.

            ”Father in Heaven,” he was saying, “don’t let this storm destroy our crops, Father, Thou didst not lead us from our enemies in Illinois to starve in this western desert.”

            Suddenly he stood still facing the storm. Lifting his hand he almost seemed to be defying it. “Storm,” he cried, “I command you through the power of the Priesthood which I hold, and in the name of Jesus Christ, not to destroy my crop.”

            The storm was on us, but he seemed to have tossed any worries or doubts that might have been lurking within him into the face of the fury. He turned solemnly and majestically back to the mill shed. I followed not so solemnly or majestically back with him.

            Inside the shed was his son David, about my age. The storm lasted about half an hour. When it had passed it left the whole valley white with hail. David and I started out from the shed but turned back, hail two to six inches deep was too much to bare feet. Suddenly we became aware that there was bare ground just through Uncle George D.’s fence, we crawled through. There was no hail on the garden or on the wheat field, but plenty of hail was piled along his fence which extended half a mile. It was as if the fence was an impassable barrier beyond which no hail could go. I was surprised then and puzzled, but many times since I have stood on that ground almost in awe as I fully really realized that there was a miracle had happened and I had been a witness.

            Sixtus E. Johnson, son of Seth. Nephew-in-law to George D. Wilson.

Thank you Rhonda.  That was excellent!