“After the Crash: My Journey of Faith and Recovery,” Liahona, Apr. 2025, United States and Canada Section.
After the Crash: My Journey of Faith and Recovery
The aftermath of the accident would become my most profound trial of faith, challenging me like nothing had before.
After yet another marathon day at the office, I made my way home as the city’s lights dimmed. Pausing at a stop sign, lost in thought, I was jolted back to reality with a thunderous BOOM—the sharp impact of a car crashing into mine from behind.
Fortunately, both I and the man who hit me seemed unharmed. We called the local police to file a report, and some caring friends happened upon the scene to check on us. After exchanging our information, the other driver and I went on our way.
As I drove away from the accident site, I didn’t realize I wasn’t just leaving behind shattered glass and metal. The life I had known—my daily routines, household tasks, work projects, and the simple joy of moving without restraint—was about to shift dramatically. This would become my most profound trial of faith, challenging me like nothing had before. While the path ahead was unknown to me, my Heavenly Father had seen it all along, and I was about to discover what lay in store.
The next day, a quiet Saturday, found my husband at work, leaving just the children and me at home. They lost themselves in their play, while I grappled with a persistent headache. Yet the responsibilities of motherhood don’t pause for discomfort. That day, I seemed to be on a mission of some sort: every corner of the house was cleaned, every pile of laundry tackled. Looking back on that day, I realize it was the hand of the Lord guiding me, pushing me to prepare and fortify my family for the challenges ahead.
The Stroke
Sunday’s dawn brought with it a stillness. As my husband, Don, headed out to work at Temple Square for his Church security detail, he gently kissed me goodbye, perhaps not realizing that I was anchored to the bed. As the morning wore on and the time for church drew near, a growing alarm took hold of me. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t sit up, roll over, or even shift my position. I was paralyzed in place.
What I didn’t know was that the minor fender bender had caused a carotid dissection—a tear in the lining of my carotid artery, which led to the formation of a blood clot. A day or so later, that clot traveled to my brain, causing a stroke. My right side was paralyzed, and I couldn’t move at all. I didn’t realize at the time I had suffered a stroke; I thought I had simply slept on my arm the wrong way.
That Sunday morning, my children were getting ready for church, and they assumed I was just sleeping in. My two daughters, Ashlee and Alyssa, came to my bedroom, expecting to see me preparing for church. Instead, they found me lying on the floor, stuck between the bed and the night table, unable to move or speak. While I was trying to talk, nothing came out. In my mind, I was telling them I was OK, but no sound escaped my lips.
In that terrifying moment, they realized the severity of the situation. I heard the sharp, terrified cries of my daughters: “Call 911!” Their panic mirrored my own internal turmoil as I grasped the gravity of their concern.
The terror evident in their voices pierced through me, causing an ache deeper than any physical pain. To them, the sight was terrifying: their mother, usually strong and responsive, now rendered motionless and mute. Inside, I tried to reassure them, silently pleading, “I’m OK; it’s going to be all right. Please don’t cry. I’m here.” But my attempts at comfort remained silent.
Familiar faces soon filled the room: the paramedics, recognizable figures from our tight-knit community; my soon-to-be son-in-law, Trevor Brady, whose concern was palpable; and a young police officer, Mike Terry. Mike is a longtime family friend who, by divine intervention, had been dispatched to the scene. They were frantically trying to lift me from the floor, where I had collapsed in my attempt to rise from the bed.
The Blessing
Despite their help, the gravity of the situation made me feel isolated and overwhelmed. But suddenly the room settled into a hushed calm. These two devoted men, Trevor and Mike, stepped up to their sacred duty. In the exercise of their priesthood authority, they laid their hands upon my head and gave me a blessing. As they began, a profound sense of peace enveloped me, a tranquility I hadn’t felt until that point. I recognized this as the special role and spiritual power given to them from a loving Heavenly Father. Their actions reminded me of the words from Doctrine and Covenants 42:44, 48, reinforcing my belief in the potential for healing:
“The elders of the church, two or more, shall be called, and shall pray for and lay their hands upon them in my name. …
“… He that hath faith in me to be healed, and is not appointed unto death, shall be healed.”
While the words they uttered have since faded from my memory, one thing remains clear: the moment they began the blessing, the atmosphere in the room transformed. The weight of anxiety lifted, and it was as if a divine assurance whispered that everything would unfold as it should. I felt immensely grateful to these two selfless servants of our Heavenly Father, whose sincere and worthy actions bestowed upon me a blessing filled with profound love and hope.
I felt assurance that my Heavenly Father was in control. I sensed the love, concern, and compassion coming from these two Melchizedek Priesthood holders, empowered with the authority to bless. From that moment, I relinquished my worries and concerns, entrusting them to my Father in Heaven, confident in His divine guidance and protection. This blessing became a beacon, guiding me to surrender my worries to the Lord, secure in the belief that He would oversee everything.
“Masarvelous” was the first thing Amy said upon regaining the ability to speak and taking a sip of soda. The term has since become a symbol of faith and gratitude for the family.
My Recovery
After three months in the hospital, supplemented with rigorous therapy, I gradually regained my ability to speak and walk, albeit with the aid of a cane and a leg brace.
Today my right arm is still paralyzed, and I have limited functionality in my right leg. Yet in the grand scheme of things, these challenges seem minuscule compared to the overwhelming gratitude I feel for simply being alive. The car accident and resulting stroke have undeniably altered the course of my life, bringing about growth and deepened appreciation for each day.
I attribute the progress in my recovery to the divine intervention of my Heavenly Father and my Savior, Jesus Christ, and of course to the two devoted men who, in their worthiness, exercised priesthood authority to bless me. This blessing not only shifted the trajectory of my health but also enriched my life in ways I never could have imagined. My heart swells with gratitude, a sentiment that I hope to carry with me for a lifetime.
Officer Michael Terry greeting Amy Casey.
The author lives in Utah.