An Instrument in His Hand

From the dimly lighted parking lot at the university, I noticed a young man staring at me. Thinking that perhaps he was waiting for someone, I looked around. But even when I looked away, I could sense that he was still looking in my direction. He was sitting near the front entrance to the building.

I considered using the rear entrance, but when I saw other teachers and students entering the building, I walked toward the door, pretending to be unaware of his scrutiny. When I came within a few feet of him, he turned away, and I climbed the long flight of stairs to begin teaching my three-hour evening class.

I did get a good glimpse of him. He looked like a student—perhaps a senior or a graduate student. He was dressed in an open-collar shirt and khakis, and he seemed upset.

I forgot about him as I began teaching the class. But during the break in the class, I walked over to the window and looked down to where he had been sitting. I felt a sense of relief when I saw that he was not there. There had been a great deal of crime on campus lately. Several professors and students had been robbed. “The unrest on this campus is getting to you,” I thought, and determined not to worry so much.

I continued teaching the class. Afterwards, a few students lingered to chat. One by one, they drifted away, and I packed my few books and materials and headed down the stairs. The building seemed isolated—as it typically was this late in the evening.

As I descended the stairs, I thought of the young man I had seen earlier that evening. But I quickly dismissed such thoughts as I walked through the open glass doors and began to cross the parking lot.

It was a beautiful fall evening. The sky was clear, and the air was crisp. This walk was always refreshing after a three-hour class. I took a deep breath, thinking about my return home. Suddenly, I again felt that I was being stared at or followed. This time, the feeling was more intense than earlier. I glanced over my shoulder, and in the distance, I could see a figure approaching rapidly. I tried to calm down. “It’s probably just a student hurrying somewhere,” I thought. I kept telling myself to be calm and to think rationally.

I looked around the parking lot, but I couldn’t see anyone. I felt a sense of relief as I approached my car—glad that I had remembered where I had parked. Just as I reached to open the door, I heard a voice say, “Dr. Byrd, may I talk to you for a minute?”

I turned around, intending to give my office hours. It was the young man whom I had seen earlier. He looked distraught and tense, quite out of breath from the jog across the parking lot. He apologized for alarming me and told me that he had been waiting for me most of the afternoon. His name was Mike. He told me that he had felt impressed to come to the university to talk to someone, and as he had seen me approaching the building earlier in the evening, he had felt moved to walk toward me. He had decided not to because I had seemed to be in a hurry. But he had gone over to the evening school to ask who I was.

He said that he had expected to have been led to a teacher of religion or philosophy. When he had discovered that I was a psychology professor, he had felt a little apprehensive. He said, “I have just been dismissed from one of the seminaries in the Washington, D.C., area because I questioned the nature of God and the tenets of religion. I need to know who God is and which church is true.”

I stared in disbelief. I had read stories about such experiences happening to other people. Quickly, in my mind, I offered a prayer for the Lord’s guidance. I told Mike that I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. We spent the next two hours at the student union building discussing the gospel.

As we talked, I watched the tenseness leave Mike’s face. His countenance began to glow. He had already thought about many of the principles we were discussing. I seemed to be simply validating what he already believed. He accepted the principles of faith, baptism, and repentance as well as the First Vision, tithing, temple, genealogy, and missionary work—all without question. The words seemed to flow from me with a conviction that I did not know I had.

The union building was closing. We had to leave. We walked across the same dimly lighted parking lot—this time with a feeling of peace and protection. I gave Mike the name of a local bishop and told him about the missionary discussions. He seemed grateful as he shared his testimony with me. He knew that he had been led to the university, and he was glad he had waited for me. He left me, and I remained in the car for a few minutes, this time watching him walk away. I felt a peace and calmness as I pondered the evening’s events. The tears softly came. I left the university feeling uplifted and refreshed that I had witnessed the Spirit’s guidance and had been allowed to be an instrument in introducing Mike to the restored gospel of Jesus Christ.