Why Christ Still Asks Us to Feed His Sheep
Article by Lynnette Sheppard
To say life was difficult at home would have been the understatement of a lifetime. My dad had been unemployed for over a year, and our family of eight felt the crushing strain financially and otherwise. While I was used to a life of financial worry, this time felt different—desperate, even.
As a new high school graduate, I had my whole life before me, and I could not wait! With a small nest egg of money I earned at a local ice cream shop, I excitedly began a new chapter of life at BYU. In my naïve 18-year-old mind, I believed my family’s worries would remain at home in Arizona, allowing me to build a carefree existence in Provo.
I could not have been more wrong.
As I settled into college, I did all I could to support myself, not wanting to ask my parents for a single dollar. And, while I was getting by on my own, I could not hide from my family’s financial devastation. Just weeks into the fall semester, in an unexpected blow, I learned we would soon lose our home to foreclosure.
No job. No home. No money. What would become of us?
Trying to distract myself, I buried myself in school, work, and social activities. I was outwardly stoic, driven, and composed. But, beneath the surface, I was crumbling. While I loved being away at school, I could not shake the feeling that I had abandoned my family in their time of need. Perhaps, had I stayed, I could have worked hard enough to save our home. Maybe this financial tsunami that threatened to destroy us was partially my fault.
As I read those words through tear-filled eyes, I knew they had come from Him through the willing hands of someone who had followed a simple prompting.
As illogical as those thoughts were, the crushing guilt I felt destroyed my peace and left me standing, breathless, in a pile of rubble. But, except for my sister, nobody in Provo knew of my struggle. Desperately wanting to fit in with my peers and leave the troubles of home behind, I kept my family’s deteriorating plight to myself.
One day, amid this escalating trial, I stopped by the desk in the Morris Center to retrieve my mail. Hiding in the small stack of envelopes was a folded piece of paper with my name on it. Opening it, I read these simple words: “Lynnette, let those pearly whites shine, and know that you are loved.”
There was no signature, and the absence of a stamp told me this note had been dropped into my mailbox by someone who knew which box was mine. But nobody fitting that description knew anything about my heart-wrenching challenges.
To read the entire article: Public Square Magazine
