Pure religion.

On Friday nights, before retiring to bed, Tim and I plan out our Saturday. Over a week ago, Tim decided that he would spend his Saturday helping out a less-active elderly lady in our ward chop wood for the winter. (She lives on the outskirts of our ward boundaries, in what might be considered a mountain cabin.) Though his service would probably take most of the day, Tim, in usual fashion, did not think twice about pitching in. The next morning, I was reluctant. No, frantic, might be a better descriptor.
I was having second thoughts about the wisdom of having him spend what he estimated would be the entire day away from our family, given the number of uncompleted projects we still had, the limited amount of time in which to finish them and the remaining exhaustion I felt from a strenuous week (you might remember, I blogged about it). As Tim was putting on his shoes to leave, I reluctantly posed the question, "Are you sure this is the best use of your time this weekend?" I then pointed out our situation, hoping that he would see that perhaps the load might better be carried by other men in our ward.
He disagreed. I couldn't argue, knowing that it was unfair to assume that others would pick up the slack, and selfish to allow their burden to be heavier because he opted out. I told him to go. After he left, I stood, crying in the kitchen for a few minutes, indulging myself in a moment of self-pity. I even compared myself to one of the wives of John Taylor or Heber C. Kimball or Brigham Young when they left on a mission to England. They all were suffering from the ague, a miserable disease, and some of them had little sustenance on which to survive during the time their husbands were gone. How immature of me. Nevertheless, my week had rendered me emotional and vulnerable to such selfish imaginations.
I cried for 5 minutes. Then I got the kids dressed, did our Saturday morning chores, and invited Anna outside to tackle the pile of bark we had had delivered earlier that week. Fortunately, bark is much lighter than rocks. We dug in and made progress much faster than a five-year old and seven-month pregnant woman should, distributing the bark via wheelbarrow to our garden beds. The other two kids played happily in our quiet cul-de-sac.
Within half an hour, one of our neighbors, with whom I've spoken on less than a handful of occasions, made his way down to our house and offered to help. I almost started crying again, avoided turning him down, and let him shovel enough loads to finish the beds in the front yard. He complained that it had been too easy, that he could help out some more. I rejoiced in the lesson I had learned, and the sweetness of his gesture.
I had once again been taught that sacrifice is never really a sacrifice. It is an opportunity for us to show our faith - then the Lord blesses us far beyond the level of our sacrifice. I feel silly suggesting that supporting my husband in his absence on a single Saturday was even a sacrifice, knowing how many don't have husbands, or have spouses that work insane hours. Regardless, it was for me at the time, and it became a lesson that service is always rewarded, either directly or indirectly, by a loving Father in Heaven.