The Gift of Wisdom, the Gift of Perspective

When I was a young child, too young to remember, my grandmother taught me a lesson I will never forget. As a tiny tot, I romped around her California home and one day romped right into an exquisite, standing, Thai vase. The vase tottered, tumbled, and shattered. My mother, filled with dread, apologized over and over for my mistake. My grandmother looked at her and smiling, said, "It's okay. People are more important than things." The vase could not be replaced or repaired, but to Grandma, I mattered more. She gently gathered up the broken pieces and removed them so that the shattered remains of the vase could not hurt me the way I had hurt it. Though Grandma never would have guessed it then, her words that day shaped who I have tried to become.


Years later, Grandma developed macular degeneration, a disease that gradually took her sight. One Sunday, she awoke to discover that she had lost about 80 percent of her sight overnight. We brought her over to our house for dinner that day. I still remember where we sat when she told us of her feelings concerning this new loss. "I have had my physical sight for many years," she said. "Now my spiritual sight can grow." 


Even at the end of her life, when her challenges were greatest, she worked to lift others. She could not see well, hear well, or walk well. Two years ago,she lost her beloved Alvin. Yet she always put a smile on her face and went about brightening the world she lived in. She visited her neighbors. She gave everything she knew how to give. And every time I saw her she would tell me how beautiful I looked. I wondered how she knew, because she could barely see my red hair to distinguish me from my brunette sister, but she always sounded so earnest when she said it that I could never argue. Grandma loved beautiful things, especially beautiful music. Her life made the world more beautiful. It made my world more beautiful. 


Now we must part for a while. I love you, Grandma.

What Is This Thing That Men Call Death

President Gordon B. Hinckley


What is this thing that men call death,
This quiet passing in the night?

'Tis not the end, but genesis

Of better worlds and greater light.

O God, touch thou my aching heart,

And calm my troubled, haunting fears.

Let hope and faith, transcendent, pure,

Give strength and peace beyond my tears.

There is no death, but only change,

With recompense for vict'ry won.

The gift of him who loved all men,

The Son of God, the Holy One.