What Does A Ward Do?

Today we had a wonderful lesson in R.S. on service. We had a very riveting discussion. I loved it. The question was, "What have I done to help someone today?" Are we living up to our true potential as members of the church? I have more thoughts on this, but I think more importantly I want you to read this very touching story from the Mormon Mommy Wars blog. I don't follow this faithfully, but I'm glad I checked today.

What a Ward Does24 Jan 2010 05:30 pm
By Tracy M
I’m losing my house. It’s been a long, private and painful process coming to terms with it, and I’ve written about it on Dandelion, if you’re interested. Some might scoff in derision, as I, a blogger, use the word “private”, but for as much as I share, there are hours of quiet contemplation and pain before I open up the parts I’ve prepared for consumption. I’m losing my house, and it hurts like hell. But it’s something that is going to happen, no matter how much I wring my heart out.
But like so often happens, that pain is turning into a springboard for the unfolding of an amazing process. Once I finally accepted the inevitable, I told my Bishop I was going to look for a rental, and the well-oiled wheels of the Mormon Relief Society for Women and the Priesthood Quorums started to turn. Within days, my RS president was on the phone, calling about rentals she had seen, and I was getting emails from other women in the ward who were scouring for signs in their neighborhood. When, unbeknownst to me, a small house next door to the Bishop for our YSA ward was spotted by a friend with a moving van in the driveway, both my Bishop and my RS president were on the phone to convince the landlords to rent the not-yet vacant house to me and my children.
Before I knew it, without my having to wrangle or wrestle anything, a house had been secured for us. While I have been wrestling with sorrow and heartache letting go of the home I wanted to live out my life in, others were preparing the way for us to be kept safe and loved.
In the ensuing single week, teams have been organized to clean the house, to fix up and fence the yard so my kids will be safe, to supply me with moving boxes and a schedule of people who’ve volunteered to come help me sort, pack and box up my life. Babysitters have been signed up for my children so they will not only be safe, but entertained and happy during this hard process. The young women have volunteered to scrub floors and the young men to take the debris left by the previous tenant to the dump. There is even a family with a large flatbed tractor who are coming to dismantle the kids’ Rainbow play fort and set it up at the rental.
As if that’s not enough…
The ward is guaranteeing my rent payment to the landlord, so if I fall short while I try and get back on my feet and find part time work, I will not lose my new little house. The landlord has waived the deposit in lieu of the amount of work the ward is donating to fix up the house.
When I stop and look back and the events of the last several weeks, I am humbled with appreciation and awe. While I was sorrowful and myopic about what I was losing, the windows were being flung open and a way was being made safe and smooth. I am 1200 miles from my flesh-and-blood family, now a single mother with three small kids and no visible means of support. And yet… I am overwhelmed with love and support.
Earlier this week, a tough-love friend kindly reminded about the trials of Job. Usually I want to growl when someone in a comfortable life points out Job to me, but I trust my friend, so I listened. He said we focus unduly on the crap Job had to deal with, the loss and the boils and pain. But… The part so many people forget is that as bad as it got, because Job kept his faith, all was restored- and then some. He said I had one legitimate week to mourn, and then it was time for getting-on. I don’t think I’ll even need the full week. Saturday is moving-day- In more ways than one.