Some years ago, my wife and I were in Salt Lake City and decided to attend an endowment session at the Salt Lake Temple. Not being familiar with the layout of temple, we found ourselves lost inside of the temple annex.
Looking around for someone to assist us, I noticed a brother dressed in a white suit wearing a name tag. I looked at his name tag and noted he was an emeritus member of the Seventy, whose name I have since forgotten.
He came over to my wife and me and asked how he could help us. I mentioned that we were from out of town and needed directions to the locker rooms.
I wipe the sweat from my brow on the sleeve of the white jumpsuit. The red smear left behind on the sleeve is unexpected. Leaving the hammer drill on the partially-tiled floor, I stand up to look in the large mirror on a nearby wall. Sure enough, there’s a tiny nick on my forehead. I step around another brother dressed in white to reach the box of tissues concealed beneath a cover of white yarn on a matrix of plastic. Satisfied that the bleeding has stopped, I adjust my earplugs, grab the Hilti, and continue tearing up the tiles of the baptistry.
The evening hasn’t gone quite as I anticipated.