On the sweetness of Mormon Life.
Going in to church. You hold the door for a family you home taught, come back to visit. You worry that the father will notice you don’t remember his kid’s names, so much that you don’t notice he doesn’t remember yours.
A stash of fliers in the foyer, full color photos of a young soldier from your ward, fit, gun-toting. Blind now, both eyes shrapneled out. Come, the fliers say, come to a fundraiser. Donate. Volunteer. Pray. Your fists clench. Inadequately, you note the fundraiser’s date.
Testimony meeting. Red and white carnations bunched on the stand. My testimony is forgiveness, a brother says. His jaw works. My father was a bad father, he says. I left home and cut all ties. I hated him. I joined the church. The Spirit told me to forgive. I visited him. He was sorry. We had peace. I buried him Wednesday.
Ye cannot behold with your natural eyes, for the present time, the design of your God concerning those things which shall come hereafter, and the glory which shall follow after much tribulation.