The Relief Society President held up a small, stuffed animal with button eyes. “We will be making these for an orphanage in Honduras,” she said with a little too much delight. The sisters gathered together with ready sewing machines and willing hands. My friend’s heart sank with those words. It plummeted further as she realized the entire project was useless! Buttons on toys could come loose and were not good for the small, under-supervised children chewing on them. The Central American climate would quickly transform the stuffed shapes into masses of unsanitary, soggy mildew. My family worked closely with the orphanage to improve conditions there. This was to be a pivotal project.

She slumped up to the well-meaning RS President, “What happened to the diapers we were making? The pattern we discussed?” she asked.

“Well, I couldn’t find the fabric, so I just decided to do this instead,” she exclaimed gleefully. The sisters, young and old, went home feeling satisfied they had done some good in the world that day; the RS President, for a well-executed project.

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I rounded the corner as I roamed the halls with my toddler, eyeing missionary plaques, and ward announcement boards decorated with floral paper finished off with a rick-rack border. Glossy photographs of the YM and YW cleaning the San Francisco Zoo covered orange poster board. Aloof giraffes frolicked behind smiling sixteen-year-old girls and boys, zebras and bears stood ignoring clans of Deacons and Mia-Maids giddy with delight. The yellow poster board next to it donned more glossy photos, more smiling teens, this time sidled up to gray-haired octogenarians and counting. It was the local rest home.

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There was a knock at the door. It was the last week in December. Falling snow blew into the house as the door opened. The younger children were nestled in bed, the teens still awake. YM/YW from a ward situated two stakes away had come, their cars full of gifts for the family of 14 they had adopted for the season. The oldest of the twelve children, a fifteen-year-old Young Woman herself, grabbed her sisters and headed for the safety of the basement. “What if we know them?” she whispered to her sisters. “What if we see them at school?” They lingered on the stairs, grasping the black iron railing and listening. Murmurs between her mother and unseen others were exchanged, barely audible beyond the reach of the front entryway.

“The kids would really like to come in and see your family,” pleaded a woman. The sisters quickly slinked further down the stairs. A moment later their tired mother approached her anxious and humiliated daughters.

“They aren’t coming in,” she said softly, “only the Bishop is. Come and help.” Anna and Sarah followed as their older sister crept back up the stairs. A quiet man handed boxes through the barely open door and superfluous car lights began to disappear into the night. He hefted the frozen turkey, pumpkin pie filling, and cranberry sauce onto the kitchen counter.

“Thank you,” the girls said.

He reached into his pocket and handed a small white envelope with extra sacrifices tucked inside to a teary-eyed mother. And with that, he was gone.

As we gather in ward counsels to plan meaningful service in the coming weeks, what can we do to remember it is rarely the thought that counts? How can we remind ourselves that although it isn’t warm and fuzzy to sign a check, that may be what is needed most? What can we do to help the Young Men and Women truly look beyond themselves through acts of service? How can we best teach that true sacrifice is just that?

Related posts:

1. Launching our youth into adulthood
2. A gathering of saints
3. How do we put the “society” in Relief Society (or society in general)?