Where There's Hope

by Elizabeth A. Smart

  When I was a little girl in Sunday school, I looked up to my teacher, Jane Hinckley, for her bright smile, intelligence, and strength of spirit. She’s a bit younger than my grandmother, but she has youthful energy, plays tennis and guitar, and always wore a particular shade of coral lipstick. Sister Hinckley is married to Elder Richard G. Hinckley, who comes from a long line of influential Mormons. His late father was the Mormon prophet President Gordon B. Hinckley. Elder Hinkley has known my family for many years. I remember going over to my Sunday school teacher’s house and seeing him there when I was little. Elder Hinckley is a general authority, which means he is assigned to do different tasks by the first presidency (our prophet and his two counselors). He always has a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye. As someone who has known me my whole life and traveled the world in the name of religion and met with world leaders, he came to mind as a great person to interview.

  The Hinckleys live in Salt Lake City, not too far from the home I grew up in. As I drive into town, I keep the windows up and the AC on. The temperature must be in the high nineties if not the low hundreds. Stepping out of my air-conditioned car is like stepping into a sauna—and not a good one. It’s just a couple yards to their front door, thank goodness. I glance back at my black car, which is only partially shaded by the trees that line the sidewalk, thinking, Well, that thing is going to be an absolute inferno when I come back out. Oh well. Not a whole lot I can do about that now. Like a lot of things in life, you just have to let it be what it’s going to be and do your best to tough it out when the time comes, knowing that the trip will have been worth it.

  I knock on the door, and the friendly face of my old Sunday school teacher appears. Jane smiles and holds the door open, smiling. “Elizabeth! So good to see you!” She asks about my parents and siblings as she leads me through to the living room. Elder Hinckley strolls in, and we sit down on adjacent sofas, catching up a little bit. Then I set up my recorder and consult the list of questions I’ve prepared.

  “What has been your experience in regard to faith and hardship?”

  “I think everyone has different experiences with faith and hardship,” he says. “I think for me, probably the most significant experience in my life in that regard was about eleven years ago when I injured my right eye. Ultimately, it cost me my vision in that eye, but I was with my father. He was the president of the Church, and he’d invited me to accompany him on an around-the-world trip. He was ninety-five and in great health. We were scheduled to first go to Anchorage, then Vladivostok, Russia, and then Korea, and Taiwan, and India, and we dedicated a temple in Aba, Nigeria, and so on and so forth—several other stops. I got as far as midway between Anchorage and Vladivostok across the north Pacific and was standing up in the airplane with an exercise band under my foot. The plastic handles were both in my right hand, and I had it fully extended when it slipped out from under my foot and hit my eye, and everything went black in that eye.”

  It never ceases to amaze me just how fragile we are as human beings. In the blink of an eye, literally, the scene flashes from “everything’s fine” to “everything went black.”

  “Did you realize immediately how seriously you’d hurt yourself?” I ask.

  “It was extremely, extremely painful,” Elder Hinckley says, nodding. “Fortunately, we were able to turn around and get back to Anchorage. Long story short—in terms of faith and trial—I spent the next seven weeks in surgeries and in bed in a darkened room, unable to read or watch television or do anything. A lot of time. A lot of pain. A lot of nausea. But a lot of time to think. It was very interesting for me, Elizabeth, because after a couple of weeks of that, everything in your life boils down to very simple, basic things. Everything, you don’t care about—your bank account, your stock brokerage accounts—you don’t care about the car you drive or the house you live in. What you care about is your family, and the Lord, and the gospel, and the eternal nature of marriage and family, and nothing else matters. Nothing else matters.”

  “When you prayed then, did you ask to be healed? Or for the pain to go away? Or…?”

  “I remember during those seven weeks in bed praying a lot. Heavenly Father, please, bless me that—Teach me whatever I need to know. Because I don’t want to go through this again, so whatever it is I need to know…” He raises one hand and clarifies, “Now, it wasn’t anything like your experience, clearly, but for me it was life-changing. It really was, because you had all that time, and you were suffering, and everything just fell away like the refiner’s fire, and the dross falls away. You’re just left with a few nuggets of pure gold. That’s the gospel, and eternal life, and eternal marriage and family, and that’s it. Nothing else mattered.”

  “Have you ever felt you can’t continue?”

  “I’ll go back to that accident—and I think it was the pain I was in and the nausea I was suffering—but there were times when … I’m just embarrassed to admit that … Maybe I shouldn’t say it.”

  I don’t interrupt him, but I lean in a little, trying not to let him see that I want him to say it, whatever it is.

  “I was wishing I would die,” he says. “I just didn’t want to go through that any longer. I was pretty sedated, but I had a lot of time when I was conscious enough to think and to pray. And so you do. I did turn to prayer a lot. I think we all do. I think that’s the key. You turn to the scriptures, you turn to prayer, you turn to your wife or your husband, and trusted friends whose faith will strengthen yours. You’re never alone. Even if you’re on an island alone—or in your former situation where you were really alone—you still had prayer, and you still had your faith. So you’re never quite abandoned. That’s what you have to exercise: faith and prayer and patience. Patience is sometimes the hardest thing of all. Saying, ‘This too shall pass.’”

  Elder Hinckley points out the obvious here, that patience is sometimes the hardest thing of all. For me, patience doesn’t come naturally, but the older I’ve gotten, the better I’ve become at waiting.

  When I was kidnapped, I would pray every day that somehow someone would find me, or that I would find a way to escape, or that my captors would go into a coma, or whatever. Well, none of these things happened in the way I imagined them happening. Each day seemed to stretch on for eternity until it seemed that the majority of my soul had shut down and only the minimum was running on autopilot through the days and nights. Nights were easier, because I could escape into my dreams and no one could hurt me there. As the days dragged on, my spirit and hope faded. How could I keep going? All my prayers seemed to go unanswered. Or were they unheard? I didn’t know. I just felt lost, alone, and scared.

  It was summer, and the heat was almost unbearable. The trees that surrounded the hideaway seemed to do nothing to keep the heat out. Even the shade was hot. Because we were high on the mountainside—and not to be indelicate, but this camp didn’t exactly have indoor plumbing—water was very hard to come by and had to be used very sparingly. I wasn’t allowed to make the hike down to the nearby stream. Only Mitchell went to this place where cool, clear water bubbled out of the ground. Barzee was always left behind on guard duty. The water would be retrieved in empty gallon milk containers, and then the containers would be put into two separate green army bags, which would then be tied together with a navy blue sash. The bags would be slung over Mitchell’s shoulder, one bag in front, and one bag in back. It was tricky getting back to the hideout with the water because the mountainside was so steep and the vegetation unfriendly for the most part. So it wasn’t something that Mitchell relished doing. He should have thought about that before he kidnapped me.

  Finally, there was a day when we ran out of water. The night before had been hot and felt humid. That morning, I was so thirsty, I went through all the containers hoping for a few drops of water. But they were bone dry. It was another scorcher that day. I asked Mitchell if he planned on going back down for water.

  He looked at me and said, “No.”

  Even Barzee asked
him if he would go down for water. He told her he didn’t feel it was safe to wander out to get water because there were too many searchers in the area. He didn’t want to leave any tracks.

  We went to sleep yet again with dry throats. I had a very difficult time falling asleep that night, which was far from the norm. Usually, as soon as I lay down, I would fall asleep. I prayed to my Father in Heaven, asking for some relief. I’ll take it in any form. Just please help me. I finally fell into a fitful sleep. I don’t remember if I had any dreams or not, but I wasn’t sleeping well.

  All of a sudden, I awoke. I was confused. It wasn’t morning yet, wasn’t light outside. Why was I awake? I looked around the tent. As usual, both Mitchell and Barzee were there by the tent door, guarding it even in their sleep. Then I noticed the small plastic cup we used every day. It was just above my pillow. How had it gotten there? I certainly hadn’t brought it in. Last I’d seen, it had been outside with the other plates and cups. I reached for it, and when I picked it up, I realized it was full to the brim with ice-cold, delicious water. I immediately put the cup to my lips and began to drink. I could feel the cool liquid running down my throat and reviving my parched innards. To this day, that water was the best drink I have ever had. Although that simple cup full of water wasn’t someone there to rescue me, or a yellow brick path to my home, it was a sign to me. It was my Heavenly Father’s way of telling me that He knew where I was and what I was going through, and He had not forsaken me. I had to have faith and patience and keep surviving and somehow, someway, I would find my way home to my family again. Finding the cup filled with water wasn’t the only miracle or tender mercy I experienced while I was kidnapped, but it is one of the most sacred for me. I do not speak of it very often because it is so special to me. But it is true. It did happen, and I will never forget it.

  Each one of us strives to find peace and happiness in this life, and we hope for a better future in the next. For me, my faith and my religion provide me with that peace and happiness. It’s not always easy, and I have been asked how I would feel if I found out it wasn’t true.

  My answer is simple: It’s my truth. It makes me a better person. If at the end of my life I die and find out it isn’t true, I will have lived life being the best person that I can be—hopefully someone who is kind, compassionate, and patient. Knowing I will never regret my dedication to these ideals—that’s what faith is for me. But I can’t claim that this faith has never wavered or made me wonder. It’s comforting to hear Elder Hinckley say the same is true for him.

  “I struggled with my faith,” he says. “Not terribly, but I had a lot of questions, particularly as an older teenager, prior to my mission and some after my mission, which was a German-speaking mission from 1961 to ’63. We served two and a half years in those days, because there was no language training program, no missionary training center, so we just went, and that extra six months was intended to give us more language skills. I think my mission experience was very, very influential—along with the example of my parents, of course. I don’t think I ever wavered or had any questions about the divinity of Jesus Christ or of his atonement, but the other things had to be fit into the jigsaw puzzle a piece at a time. They’re mostly all in place now, and those very few that are still questions are very insignificant. I have complete faith and hope that they’ll be resolved and make sense when the time is right.”

  That faith in faith itself reminds me of Fatima’s quiet sense of solid ground as she ambled down the hill behind my house. She can feel it with one foot; her other foot steps forward on faith alone. It’s humbling sitting next to Elder Hinckley because of the extent of his education and the depth of his understanding, but I felt the same way listening to Fatima speak. Her understanding is based in experience—what’s happened to her and what she’s witnessed—and she’s not afraid to claim her truth for herself and take strength from it. She is not loud or boisterous in any way. She’s very calm and quiet. Many people might pass her by or think her nothing more than a simple wallflower. But she shows dignity and strength of character. There’s something solid about her presence that you can’t deny, even if you don’t know that she’s been tested beyond the limits few people ever face and has come through intact. Both she and Elder Hinkley are devoted to a faith that is easily misunderstood, but they practice their respective religions without apology, without getting distracted.

  Mormons are often teased for our standards. We’re often asked if we’re allowed to have fun, why we don’t do things on Sunday. We have a set of guidelines that we try to live our lives by. We believe that they are there to protect us. And trust me, if anyone knows how to throw a completely sober yet entertaining party, it is the Mormon Church. Mormons have been the subject of a Broadway musical and episodes of South Park. There are lots of jokes about Mormons, our beliefs, and how we act. A lot of them aren’t exactly what you would call complimentary, but the following one makes me crack a smile each time I hear it.

  There was a plane about to crash, and on that plane, there was a bishop (a lay minister whom you would consider the “father” of the congregation), a primary president (a sister in charge of teaching the children), and a high priest (another layman who meets with other high priests from the surrounding congregations to discuss different matters and dilemmas).

  As the plane lost altitude, the high priest, who was notorious for giving long, dry sermons, got up and prayed, “Please, God, let me give one last sermon.”

  The primary president closed her eyes and prayed, “Please, God, let me sing one last song.”

  “Please, God,” the bishop prayed, “let us live long enough for the primary president’s song and crash before the high priest can give his sermon.”

  It’s funny, but in the end, maybe that’s how religion and faith work together best: We take the song and leave the sermon; we cherish the faith of our fathers but decide for ourselves what resonates in our own hearts. And I think we must be clear with ourselves when we answer the simple, imperative questions:

  What do I believe and how do I put my beliefs into practice?

  Will my beliefs sustain me through life’s refining fire?

  Do they make me happy?

  Do they bring me peace?

  6

  Strength of Spirit

  Survival is not so much about the body, but rather it is about the triumph of the human spirit.

  —DANITRA VANCE

  Often people say to me, “I could never survive what you went through.” Or worse, they say, “I went through some difficult experience—but of course, that’s nothing like what you went through.” It’s not a competition. There’s no prize for the biggest tragedy and no value in comparing our trials to the trials of others. I promise: You are stronger than you think you are. If you haven’t been tested, you may not fathom that reservoir of inner strength, but I guarantee, there will be an occasion for you to rise to.

  I first heard of Diane von Furstenberg when I was studying abroad in London. I shared a room with five other girls, two of them twins who were both into fashion—and not just trendy fashion. High fashion. We went to Wimbledon one day to explore the legendary tennis courts, and walking around the small town, we passed a boutique where both the twins were like, “DVF! We have to go in! I love DVF!” We walked into the boutique, and it was filled with beautiful clothes. Unfortunately, being a poor college student at the time, I could not afford a single item, but I looked at everything and left with some lovely things to dream about. I don’t remember tons about the tennis courts, but I remember that boutique.

  The more I learned about Diane von Furstenberg, the more fascinated I became with her and all she’s been able to accomplish. I consumed her memoir, The Woman I Wanted to Be, which is exciting, full of life, color, and movement. When I finished reading it, there were three words that stood out in my mind describing her: love, freedom, and sexy. My admiration for her grew, and so did my admiration for her mother, who reminds me a lot of my own mom. Diane von
Furstenberg is the daughter of an incredible woman, Liliane Nahmias, who was a prisoner at both Ravensbrück and Auschwitz. Liliane had been working for the Belgian Resistance, living in a safe house. It was her job to deliver fake documents and papers to those who needed them. When she was arrested, she was able to quickly scribble a note to her parents using a burnt match as a pencil. She told her parents she didn’t know where she was going, but she was leaving with a smile on her face. Also on the note was a plea to anyone who found it to please deliver it to her parents. Her family did receive the note; Diane came across it years and years later, after her mother had passed away.

  Liliane survived thirteen months total in both camps. When she was liberated, she weighed a mere fifty-nine pounds—barely the weight of her bones. Reading that struck such a chord for me. I could relate to that moment, though I was the opposite of emaciated when I was brought home, swollen from sunburn and bloated by malnutrition. But just as my mom cared for me in those joyful but difficult days of readjustment, Liliane’s mother nursed her back to health. Liliane married and, though she’d been warned she wouldn’t survive childbirth, she had her daughter and raised her up with an indomitable spirit. Diane von Furstenberg always attributes her strength to her mother, who told her, “By giving you life, you gave me my life back. You are my torch, my flag of freedom.”