Gregory Rich Hart, 9th Ward Priest

Read "On the Death of a Son" by H. J. Hart below for the touching story about this jacket.

One of the beautiful products of digging into the past of the Ninth Ward has been my introduction to remarkable individuals. I came across the following minute entry and wanted to know more.

"August 14, 1964. Gregory Rich Hart, Age 17 and a Priest died of Cancer. He was an outstanding member and school athlete. His unwavering testimony during his long illness was a source of spiritual strength that was felt throughout the ward membership."

In the July 1964 Ward Newsletter, the Bishopric's message included an invitation to join in a ward fast for Greg. The bishopric wrote, "Greggory, whose seventeen year old body is plagued by disease, is one of the very fine boys of the Church, filled with faith and whose life is spotless and clean" They continued, "Much faith has already been exercised in his behalf and we are not unmindful of the Lord's goodness to the family. This is a time for real faith. While a miracle could easily solve the whole problem, and miracles do happen and have happened right in our own ward, miracles are not always intended and it takes much faith to even discern whether it is right to ask for one. We do not ask that you pray for miracles. The thing to pray for is that the Lord's will be known, and that this intense suffering may not be destructive to Greggory's spirit or faith. Sunday, July 5, a day of fasting and prayer, and a special day for Greggory Hart, who needs our faith and prayers."

Thanks to the efforts of family members who uploaded family histories into FamilySearch, we are able to become better acquainted with Greg Hart. His last journal entry, dictated by his mother and later shared by her in an essay, suggests that the faith and prayers of family and friends were answered. Greg shared, "Life has been good to me. Although I have had many disappointments, I have had many, many satisfactions. ... My prayers have been answered many times, and I am grateful to the Lord for his many blessings. Somehow, the mere physical sports, which I valued so highly before, seem as nothing compared to the tasks that I will soon embark upon. I bid the reader farewell, wishing the Lord's blessings upon him. I have no feeling of bitterness, no malice of any kind, for I know in my heart that this is the Lord's will. I know truly that the Lord does live. And I know that only through obeying his commandments can we be happy on earth."

Gregory Rich Hart clearly impacted for good the lives of Bountiful 9th Ward members who knew and loved him in life. It seems right that almost 60 years after his death, he still blesses the lives of 9th Ward members who are inspired by his faith and acceptance of God's will. As the bishopric shared, God could have cured Greg of this disease. The cancer was left to follow its natural path. We are left to wrestle for an understanding of God's ways. Perhaps Greg's example can help our hearts and minds be more open to God in that search.

Greg was the oldest of his parents' children.

Two essays written by Greg Hart's parents are moving tributes to their son. As we face our own struggles, may we find strength in their examples.

"I Knew Courage," by Jean Hart The Improvement Era, April 1970

The hot pain in my chest burned in sharp contrast to the cold fear that iced my heart. Here, in the vast, lonesome, black, interminable night, I lay trying to make myself face the possibility that I had cancer. As days and fearsome, sleepless nights of pain followed, I found myself constantly thinking about what it would be like to die. But it was another drama, a year earlier, that made this thought more poignant. It wasn’t until now that a true realization of the depth and breadth of Greg’s courage came to me. Greg was a big, handsome, clean-cut 17-year-old, and a fine runner. When he had announced, five years before, his decision to follow a family tradition of competing in the mile run, my heart sank. He was poorly coordinated, and I could foresee nothing but heartbreak for him. His life had been full enough of this already, I felt. He had always had to do things the hard way; events conspired against him, making everything he desired an uphill struggle. Instead of quitting, however, he always seemed more determined to work even harder than before. With his running, instead of the usual practice of training only during track season, Greg trained the year around. He severely denied himself every food or activity that he felt would impair his running. He spent summers working for his grandfather on his cattle ranch. After spending a full, hard day in the hayfields, he would care for a large vegetable garden which he had insisted on planting, and then go for long runs in the nearby foothills. Everyone pleaded with him to stop demanding so much of himself, worried about the rigorous schedule he set for himself, but to no avail. He was a perfectionist and had decided this would give him the strength and stamina in running he needed. When he returned from the ranch to begin school, he didn’t look well and always seemed tired. Since he had had rheumatic fever as a child, we watched his heart rather closely. To allay our worry, we had him undergo a cardiogram and complete physical examination. But all tests indicated he was well. We knew he had driven himself too hard all summer and supposed this accounted for his looking and feeling poorly. Cross-country racing began, and Greg went on driving himself unmercifully. After school each day he would come home, change into old clothes, and sit on the kitchen hearth to chat for a few minutes about how the day had gone, while he laced up his heavy hiking boots. He ran daily in the mountains, wearing those heavy boots to build his strength and stamina. He joked about how good it seemed in competitive racing to run in track shoes after running in heavy boots. There was more to running in the mountains; he loved nature and depended on that time in the mountains to replenish his soul while training his body. This October afternoon Greg looked unusually tired and commented on the soreness in his upper left leg. He wondered what he had done to injure it. However, it wasn’t unusual for him to have stiff muscles. Runners seem to have lots of these, so I was used to it. But what was unusual was for him to allow me to dissuade him from running that day. Not many days later a race important to the school was scheduled. Though he admitted wishing he didn’t have to further strain his sore leg, he insisted on participating. During the race, the leg completely failed, and he was in an agony of pain. When we took him to the doctor, Greg told how his leg had given way during the race. The doctor said he could feel a torn muscle and further told him it would continue to be painful; it would take a long time to heal, and it probably meant that Greg couldn’t run again. He had to walk with crutches. As always, Greg reacted with a determination to find a way through and build back the leg so he could someday run again. The doctor had told him to come back for a checkup. At school someone kicked the crutch as he was going downstairs and he fell the full flight. The pain was intense, but Greg thought it would just be a matter of being careful and giving the muscle time to heal again, so he didn’t go back to the doctor. He steeled himself to suffer it through, but each day he looked worse and he lost considerable weight. The suffering that spoke from his eyes and his wasted body told us how really excruciating his pain was. When we finally returned to the doctor, we discovered that Greg’s “torn muscle” was osteogenic sarcoma (bone-origin cancer). His left leg was amputated near the hip. Greg faced the rebuilding of a shattered life and dreams. How does one convincingly tell a 17-year-old in December that there is a satisfying life left for him, a boy who in August had had his first date and danced his first dance; who was just learning to drive a car; who had just tasted his first success in sports and was a leading contender for the mile race championship; who at long last could see life going his way after heartbreaking struggles? Since it was necessary to amputate high, Greg was left with less than a four-inch stump – not much to which to fit a prosthesis. His legs were long, creating a difficult problem in manipulating an artificial limb. It was some time before he found a way to get into the driver’s seat of the car. Then a new problem loomed. Because of the short stump, his artificial limb would lose its suction when he sat squarely, so he sat on one hip, throwing his spine out of line. The resulting pain left him ill. He constantly feared the prosthesis would come loose when he was away from home. The doctors advised going back to school and being among people as soon as possible, but Greg was determined not to return until he could walk well. Does anyone stop to think how complex the simple procedure of walking is? Together we studied how one walks. I walked across the room and he followed, trying to imitate a natural leg swing with his artificial limb. Hour after hour, day after day, he practiced, stopped only by sheer exhaustion. Finally came the deadline we had set for his starting school, the beginning of spring term. He knew everyone was watching. Besides psychological obstacles, he faced new physical hazards, such as school ramps and stairs. Greg resented any efforts to be treated less independently than before the amputation. He didn’t want special concessions, even though he desperately needed them. No one will ever know, I’m sure, the mental torment one in such a position endures. I believe physical pain is minor in comparison. Having to be driven everywhere he went, passing the track team out for practice as he left school each afternoon, and not being able to run in his beloved mountains were a few of the thorns that pricked him. I glimpsed the extent of his frustration and his complete mastery of it one day when he had prevailed upon me to drive him up by his mountain haunts. The snow was deep there, but without his prosthesis he insisted on making his way up the hillside on one leg and his crutches. He reminded me of a great and noble bird with broken wings still trying to fly. I wanted to run up the hillside screaming, why? why? why? But when he came back to the car, he calmly brushed the snow from his leg and said, “Shall we go, mother?” When we arrived home, he shoveled snow from the driveway and sidewalk. Greg made the adjustments as he had conquered all other obstacles in his life. No one had thought he could possible do so well. Not content with this, he set about to out-swim and out-wrestle his friends. At the time of his amputation, we were told that his was a particularly insidious type of cancer that three out of four times attacks the lungs and is fatal. But one always thinks he will be the exception. Greg wasn’t. When he went for his three-month x-ray check, the doctors discovered cancer in both his lungs. From the beginning, Greg had known his full hazard. Now he knew there was no possibility for cure, as it was not possible to perform surgery, and any treatment could merely hold the cancer at bay, if effective at all. Until now I had been able to build up his morale, but now I could find nothing to say. It was an insult to his honesty and forthrightness to say there was hope, when we both knew there was none. I felt abject desolation. Greg said little in the ten-mile ride home from the doctor’s office. When we arrived home, Greg’s best friend was there helping his small brother fly a kite in the March wind. By this time, the little brother had tired of the sport and run off, leaving the kite. Greg liked to see everything in perfect order, so he picked up the kite and let out the string, and it began to soar. Soon he sent for more twine. Higher and higher it soared. A second time he sent for another ball of twine. By this time the kite was only a speck and we were all breathless at the dizzy heights to which it had flown. Greg turned to me and said, “A new high, Mother.” I knew he wasn’t talking just about the kite. The weekend that followed was one of complete depression. By Sunday night when the rest of the family had retired and Greg, his father, and I were alone, our feeble efforts at cheerful talk finally bogged down in speechless grief and dejection. Finally, Greg said, “I can’t go on like this. I have to go on planning to live. There is always time for dying, but there isn’t always time for living.” And Greg went on “planning for living.” He had an exercise set with which to rebuild his muscles. To the last, he exercised, however feebly, his one leg and arms. Unlike him, I was given a reprieve, and my chest pain proved to have been emotionally induced. But in the interim I was brought to a realization of Greg’s true courage. His was not the fright-incited courage of battle heroics; rather, it was calm, calculated, raw courage. Yes, I saw Courage. I saw it in Greg, who kept a calm face when I told him, an outstanding runner, he had to lose his leg. I saw it when he defiantly climbed a mountain, hip deep in snow, with one leg. I saw it in his face, again calm, as the doctor told him he had only a few months before he would die of lung cancer. I saw it when he came home and, in the face of a death warrant, flew a kite to real and symbolic new heights. I saw Courage, as Greg lived nobly up to the final moment in hundreds of mundane words and ways, undaunted by the terrible pain and fear I now know were his to bear. He dictated to me a final entry for his journal, which is its own testimony: “Life has been good to me. Although I have had many disappointments, I have had many, many satisfactions. One of the worst kinds of torture I remember is the mental torture…the monotony of staying in the same place. Saturday, August 1, my soul was wrought up. It was extremely difficult for me to get a breath, and I hurt every time I tried. Now a feeling of peace has come over me, and I feel as though every night is Sunday night. (Sunday night was a special family night to us) My prayers have been answered many times, and I am grateful to the Lord for his many blessings. Somehow, the mere physical sports, which I valued so highly before, seem as nothing compared to the tasks that I will soon embark upon. I bid the reader farewell, wishing the Lord’s blessings upon him. I have no feeling of bitterness, no malice of any kind, for I know in my heart that this is the Lord’s will. I know truly that the Lord does live. And I know that only through obeying his commandments can we be happy on earth.” Yes, I knew Courage. 

"On the Death of a Son," by H. J. Hart

How do you tell your teen-age son he is going to lose a leg to cancer? Actually, the task of telling our son that the “pulled muscle” in his upper leg probably was a tumor was borne by his mother. Because of the urgency to transfer him from a suburban hospital observation ward to a metropolitan hospital where the biopsy—and probable amputation—would be performed, Greg had to be told promptly—literally while being transferred. His mother broke it to him as only a loving mother could—understandingly, compassionately, but without tears. Meanwhile, I had hurriedly left work, made admission arrangements and met them at the receiving desk. Hobbling miserably on crutches, Greg was the picture of stoic dejection. During the 20-minute ride into town, he had fought the tears and won. Now he displayed a stark realism I hadn’t witnessed in anyone since World War II years in the Marines. “Well, I guess I’ve had it,” he said simply. In combat you see and expect to see raw courage and tragedy. You view persons and events with deliberate, detached insouciance and contrived callousness. You can be surrounded by but not an intimate part of the play and the players. When disaster overtakes a loved one there is no buoyancy to be had from gruff and bluff braggadocio. There is no escape through bombast and forced indifference. There is no escape, no way to take a detached, impersonal view. There is nothing to do but face the facts—stare at them unswervingly until you overcome . . . or are overcome. It was only a few weeks before that Greg had asked that I watch him run in a track meet. A distance runner on his high school track team, he was proud of his stamina, his lengthy stride and ability to set the pace. In the cross-country race he gave it all he had but tied for second. His upper leg felt tender and unresponsive, he told us afterward. He was sure he’d pulled a muscle. In his next—and last—race a week later, he hobbled in, determined to finish regardless of how far behind he was. Discouraged but not dispirited, he was treated for muscle strain and stayed in training through a variety of calisthenics. Then came x-rays and the crushing diagnosis: probable osteogenic sarcoma—bone-origin cancer. Immediate amputation is the only possible solution—and even then, the cancer reappears, most often in the lungs, in three of four cases. Greg didn’t know the odds at the time, otherwise the ordeal might have been unbearable. As it was, the agony for all of us was tinged with hope, however faint. The day of preparation before the biopsy helped accustom Greg and us to the likelihood of an amputation. Greg had gloried in his physical prowess, relished his long and solitary hikes through the mountains and meadows, loved nature and reveled in his ability to meet and master it. Now he accepted the impending loss of a limb more manfully than I could imagine. All I could do was marvel at his transcendent courage. Life had not been easy for Greg. Perhaps this fact prepared him for the greatest tests of character man can face . . . loss of limb and loss of life. A natural “loner” in boyhood, he played dual roles at times in his solitary amusements. Large for his age he could defend himself well despite the lack of polished coordination. He often had to stand up for himself, and others. Through this and other experiences he developed rigid devotion to what he considered the correct course. He forged unswerving honesty, self-respect and nobility of purpose during those bitter sub-teen years—characteristics that were to make his life not only bearable but sweet beyond his earlier dreams. In his early teens, Greg acquired friends, obviously drawn by his high moral code—friends who achieved in the fields of athletics, scholarship and youth leadership. He grew in poise and he grew in stature, a handsome, clean, fresh, delightful boy with a ready smile, obvious sincerity and humility that never deserted him. Life for him became sweet, and through his unfeigned love of life, those nearest him tasted of his sweetness, too. Now a supreme moment of truth faced him in the loss of his left leg. The principal surgeon returned to the hospital room before Greg did. He told us the biopsy showed cancer, that his leg was taken near the hip and that Greg withstood surgery well and was now in recovery. After what seemed eternities, they wheeled our unconscious son back to his room where we waited. His mother hurried to his side. I couldn’t. From the foot of his bed I saw a weight suspended from a cord I knew was attached to the stump of his left leg. I felt faint, yet a flash of heat filled my head. Scalding tears seared my eyelids. I walked the corridor to become composed, then joined my courageous wife at the side of our son. As the hours and days inexorably passed, his remarkable spirit buoyed us up. Far from feeling discouraged, he made plans for his future, cheerfully rationalizing his lot and probing determinedly toward a vocation in which he could be proficient and happy. He returned home just before Christmas. It was indeed a joyous season for all of us—him, his parents, two brothers and three sisters. Greg had asked for and received a set of exercising implements with which to rebuild his emaciated body. He also received a painting set, a dozen or so books, tropical fish for his aquarium, models, puzzles—the things his friends thought would occupy his mind. During the holidays his bandages were removed and with due ceremony and high glee, he took his first regular bath in weeks. Even before the tenderness disappeared, Greg insisted on being measured for a prosthesis. And three months after the operation he was learning to walk again—his left leg a yard-long mechanical monster that somehow worked! How he practiced, and how happy that he could walk without crutches! Wielding that huge plastic, wood and metal limb with only four inches of leg-stump made him justifiably proud. To us and to him it seemed a miracle. Life for him again took a roseate hue, the glow to last but briefly. Knowing the course of osteogenic sarcoma, his doctors advised x-rays about this time. A radiologist spotted what we had prayed would not appear— several tiny lesions, in both lungs. Since follow-up x-rays and specialized treatment were called for, Greg had to be told, of course. How he took it was a marvel. Without bitterness, he said simply, “Well, I’ve sort of known this would happen.” He couldn’t have known from physical effects, however, because he’d regained his amazing strength and often he’d told us he had never felt better. He could do fifty pushups, balancing on one leg—then chin himself on a bar an equal number of times. Except for his lost limb he appeared a perfect specimen of robust health. There followed a decline in his health, rapid and pronounced—almost beyond belief for anyone not in daily contact. Yet never did he lose the twinkle of his eye, his sense of humor nor the serious methodical analysis of life he’d had since boyhood. He proceeded with school, passed his driver’s license examination and continued making plans for a career. He bought an ancient pickup truck, installed a hand-lever clutch, then began tearing down the engine so he could rebuild it from scratch. He was not able to complete the job. The waning days of school were misery for Greg. He wanted so much to return to his grandfather’s ranch. He had little patience for the closing events—with one exception, the lettermen’s banquet. He had earned a letter in track the year before but had not been present to receive it. This time the track team had purchased for him a school jacket on which the letter was sewn. The student body president praised Greg’s courage and ability, then the coach and principal added a few kind words. Greg responded, standing rather uncertainly on his long “store leg”, blinking back tears of gratitude for his teammates’ gesture. He talked of sports, of the influence his teammates had had upon him, of the benefits he’d derived from competing—and how he would miss his teammates. His friends and teachers wept openly. School out, nothing would do but we hasten him to his grandfather’s ranch. En route, we stopped so he could “just say hello” to a girl he’d met the summer before. He wore his new letterman’s jacket, stood tall and straight, and walked ever so carefully so he’d not appear a cripple. Although she had been uncertain, his simple, direct approach melted Gloria’s reserve. She gave obvious signs of liking him, and he her. They drove together for an hour while his family sat out the time in a malt shop. It was a highlight in his pitifully brief career of romance. Anticipating the ordeal that faced his mother, I arranged that she and I go east for two weeks while Greg spent time at the ranch. We drove aimlessly through New England, attempting to get our bearings for what we knew lay ahead, although knowing at the outset that a continent’s breadth could not remove the heartache or soften the apprehension we felt. Momentarily, of course, we would be distracted by a new sight or sound. And later, in New York, the plays brought escape in bits and pieces. Then one evening of a sudden the unbelievably heavy weight we were trying to juggle fell with a sickening thud. We were flattened into despair through what was intended as a humorous prelude to one of the popular Broadway musical comedies. The artifice of using a spare leg—an artificial leg—in the chorus line slapped us like a pail of ice-water. I’m sure our gasps were audible—and nothing in the play thereafter had the slightest tinge of humor for us. Suddenly my wife and I realized the futility of trying to escape reality— even during a distant holiday. We flew home immediately, anxious to see the children, fearful of how Greg had fared, but determined to make his last days pleasant as possible. The next day we returned Greg from the ranch. Through our most exaggerated imaginings we could not have been prepared for the shock of his appearance. The doctors had warned us that his speed of descent would seem to multiply daily. Still we were not prepared for the change two weeks could make. Hearty and robust when we left him at the ranch, he now was sallow, dark circles ringed his eyes—and he could hardly breathe. His chest had swollen, and his limbs contracted. The prosthesis had lost suction, and Greg preferred not to wear it. He had a deep, haunted look in his eyes, yet he joked about himself and others, refusing absolutely to grow morbid or permit his family to feel despondent. The hematologist took one look and knew Greg was drowning. Bony growth in his left lung had punctured membranes. Fluid had half-filled his chest cavity. While Greg sat stoically, his chin resting on the back of a chair, the doctor penetrated his chest with a hollow needle and drew off five pints of reddish-brown fluid. More x-rays confirmed the doctor’s analysis: Greg’s left lung was used up by bone-like cancer cells. After the first drawing of fluid, he and I drove home through the soft June evening. The hematologist had given Greg a new medicine—something comprised of nitrogen and mustard. He was deathly sick from its effect, but looked at me squarely and said feelingly, “I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment to you. While you were pushing me in the wheelchair down to x-ray, I caught a glimpse of your face. You were obviously disappointed and ashamed of me. And I don’t blame you. I’m disappointed in myself.” At that my composure collapsed. I couldn’t see the road and pulled over. I told him how wrong he was, that what he saw was a determined effort not to blubber all over him, that my pride and love and admiration for him were boundless. As we sat parked on the hillside, watching the evening sun disappear, we talked of many things personal and close, of life and the hope we shared for life after death, of admiration and love for each other and the family circle. Then we drove home slowly - serene and thoughtful. Once at home, Greg grew violently ill as the nitrogen-mustard took full effect. He went to bed straightaway, and on only a few occasions did he ever leave the house again. His mother arbitrarily canceled further treatment by the hematologist, who admitted there was nothing further he could do. Our family doctor took over the case. Then Greg’s closest friend returned from an out-of-town job for the July 4th holiday. Together they rode about, singing and joking, both knowing this would be their last visit together. That evening Greg and I drove again, this time into the city to watch fireworks. He was tired and having difficulty breathing and I didn’t attempt to press conversation. Finally, he said, “Dad, this is undoubtedly my last Fourth of July. I can feel myself sinking further each day. It’s hard to breathe and I can never seem to get a full breath. My eyes ache in bright daylight and one side of my chest doesn’t rise and fall. Unless there’s a miracle, I’ve had it. But that’s a strange thing—I’m not sure I want a miracle. I really believe I’m reconciled to leaving.” “Well, Greg,” I remember telling him, “life is uncertain for all of us. You have the advantage of preparing yourself for the end that comes to all. You have lived an honorable, exemplary life. If there is an after-life, and we believe there is, with just rewards for the way we conduct ourselves in this brief span of mortality, then you are being favored by an early call. Long life or short, though, the mortal span is like the briefest finger snap in the overall perspective of eternity.” He seemed pleased and comforted. “Yes,” he said, “I’ve sensed enough of the other side to know I’m being favored, that it’s you who stay here longer who should be envious.” Shortly after the Fourth, the doctor ordered oxygen. This helped his breathing and miraculously, he needed only slight sedative and painkiller. He continued, alert, vital, interested and interesting to the very last. During those final bedfast weeks, Greg felt the ennui of inaction, true, but he and his mother overcame boredom in several ways. She read to him a great deal—adventure stories and scriptures. He dictated farewell messages to family and friends. To each he offered encouragement, analyzed strong and weak points, gave advice and comfort. It was as though he had captured a special insight to each. Through his illness Greg continued his journal, recording the poignancy of each development: “After my amputation, I had extreme pain due to spasms. They only lasted a little while, though, and within two weeks I was walking on crutches. My stump is only 3-7/8 inches. Not much chance of me being a good walker, I’m afraid.” “I got my leg a while ago and now I can walk quite well, but I limp badly . . . I hate to go back to school this way, but I have to in about two weeks.” “In the past weeks I have gone back to school and have learned to walk great distances without rubbing my stump raw . . . Last week the Lettermen’s Club bought me a letter jacket. It about made me cry. I felt so glad that I had such nice friends, who would stick by me through such trials.” “I found out that the cancer I had has come back and is in three places in my lungs—both lungs, that is—and I have at least a 100 to 1 chance of dying. I have hardly any desire to go on living . . . I weigh 130 lbs. without the leg. I would weigh 160 if I had my real leg. I don’t feel too bad except for pain in my chest. I’ve been picking up weight. They gave me a drug. It made me sick and didn’t kill the cancer, although it slowed it down.” “The pains in my lungs keep increasing. Sometimes I get spots before my eyes and ringing in my ears. Nevertheless, I can out-swim two of my friends. About my weight, I don’t seem to be gaining any lately . . . I pray that I will be taken quickly. I want to die righteously, after a good life . . . Tomorrow is the last day of school, and I’m looking forward to its ending. This has been my junior year.” Then the final journal entry, dictated to his mother: “In the past two months I have seen my health decline from a fairly robust nature to that of an invalid. I had little desire to go on living. I seemed to know within me that I was dying even then. However, there were many things in life I did not want to leave . . . I went back to the doctor and began a series of pills and shots that seemed to make me sicker and sicker, but after a week or so of this torture my mother (who is writing this down because I am too weak to write and my eyes are unable to see the lines distinctly) and I agreed that it was foolhardy to continue since I had barely enough strength to get out of bed and take a daily bath, let alone go into the hospital for treatments.” “I had several thoracenteses (a needle drains fluid from the chest cavity, making room for the lungs to expand again). Finally, I was so weak that the last two times it had to be done at home, and the last time lying down instead of the preferable position of sitting up. There is much pain associated with the after-effects of this. However, I was happy to find that after a few days my body was able to heal except for the needle puncture.” “During this period, I feel that my parents and I have gained a closeness which we otherwise never would have had.” “Life has been good to me. Although I have had many disappointments, I have had many satisfactions . . . One of the worst kinds of torture I remember is the mental torture of staying in the same place. Last Saturday my soul was wrought up. It was extremely difficult for me to get a breath and hurt every time I tried. Now a feeling of peace has come over me and I feel as though every night is a Sunday night. My prayers have been answered many times and I am grateful to the Lord for his blessings.” “Somehow the mere physical sports I valued so highly before seem as nothing compared to the tasks I will soon embark upon . . . I have no feelings of bitterness, no malice of any kind, for I know in my heart that this is the Lord’s will. I know truly that the Lord does live, and I know that only through obeying His commandments can we be happy on earth . . .” That evening he ate heartily, then asked to see some movies we had taken of him walking with his new leg. We reran that section several times. He seemed pleased. Then he retired and asked me to scratch off another day on the calendar he kept by his bed. “Chalk up one more day for me,” he grinned. Just before dawn he stopped breathing and passed peacefully in his sleep, his mother at his side. Disappointed beyond expression though we of the family remain, we know the lessons of life and death he taught make his passing far from futile.