Shortly after I became pregnant with our first child, complications developed. After several days of hemorrhaging, I miscarried. A few days later I lay on my couch, emotionally as well as physically drained, and watched my husband, Ron, leave for a church meeting. When he was gone I looked around the house. From my couch bed I could see the dishes stacked in the sink. A week of neglect had left my furniture coated with dust and the floors in need of vacuuming and sweeping. The cluttered house plunged my spirits even lower.

Ron had not been gone long when I heard a car pull into the driveway. We had lived in the Bannock Creek ward for about five months, and I knew Mary Harris only well enough to shake her hand and exchange greetings with her each Sunday.

Seeing me on the couch, she came over and put her arms around me. Then she told me how sorry she was. “I would have come sooner,” she said, “but I just found out what happened this morning.” She hugged me again and then sat up and said, “I want to visit with you, but I’d like to do something while I visit.” She looked around the room. “How about if I wash those dishes?” Without waiting for a reply, she went to the sink, pushed up the sleeves of her dress, and plunged in. Not only did she wash the dishes, but she wiped the counters and table and swept the floor.

Normally having someone else do my housework makes me feel a bit ill-at-ease, but Mary’s attitude and amiable chatting put me completely at ease. She made me feel as though I was doing her the favor. By the time Ron returned, she had finished in the kitchen and had also dusted and vacuumed the living room. When she left, I found that my dark mood had lifted and gone with her, and I was grateful for a sister who could so willingly and ably serve one of the least of these. Dayle King Searle, Pocatello, Idaho