"I don't want to drive up to the pearly gates in a shiny sports car, wearing beautifully, tailored clothes, my hair expertly coiffed, and with long, perfectly manicured fingernails.
I want to drive up in a station wagon that has mud on the wheels from taking kids to scout camp.
I want to be there with a smudge of peanut butter on my shirt from making sandwiches for a sick neighbors children.
I want to be there with a little dirt under my fingernails from helping to weed someone's garden.
I want to be there with children's sticky kisses on my cheeks and the tears of a friend on my shoulder.
I want the Lord to know I was really here and that I really lived."
— Marjorie Pay Hinckley

Sunday, February 24, 2013

My father worked as a custodial building supervisor in the Kimball Tower for almost 35 years. In fact, at age 69, he was going to retire in September. But his life was cut short on Feb. 15, when a car knocked him off his bike in west Provo. He was knocked onto train tracks and didn’t have the strength to get up. A FrontRunner train struck him immediately after, as he was not seen by the train operator. My dad later later died in the hospital in Provo, Utah.

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