Hettie Hilda Harper was the young girl of Dudley Port, England, who started a Primary for her two younger sisters when their mother died in 1922. Somewhat against her own inclinations, Hettie opened that Primary to scores of other children in the neighborhood, filling her father’s house with noise and dirty faces and gospel stories. Her efforts with the children attracted their parents, and after a few years, Hettie’s home Primary had grown into a full branch. I’ve learned, since telling that story here at Keepa what an influence Hettie had on the entire British Mission, as her example prompted the formal organization of Primaries throughout the Mission, for non-member children as well as for members – who knows how many Later-day Saints today owe their family’s introduction to the gospel to a grandparent who, as a child, learned to pray and sing in such an organization?
Later, as Hettie’s two sisters grew into teenagers, she began to hold Beehive Girl activities for them and for their friends. And then, in 1935, Hettie married and began her own family.
From the Relief Society Magazine, June 1957 –
By Deone R. Sutherland
Katherine stirred the wheat cereal into the boiling water and looked across Peterson’s back yard into Arnolds’ next door. Carrie Arnold sat in the early spring-frayed grape arbor painting a picture of what? “Of Mount Majestic.” Katherine’s eyes filled with tears. What was the matter with her? She had been like this almost ever since Bobby had been born just three weeks ago. She was so happy to have this fourth baby, she knew. Yet what was it that filled her with resentment every time she looked toward Carrie’s? Katherine blinked the tears from her eyes as the Arnolds’ back door slammed.
“Carrie! Carrie!” Tom Arnold’s strident, exasperated voice carried into the Petersons’ neat little kitchen. From habit Katherine Peterson shut her ears to it, but she couldn’t help noticing how slowly Carrie rose to answer the summons, how she stopped to dab once more at the painting before, with the utmost serenity, she turned and, with flapping house slippers, went dilatorily into the Arnold house.
16 January 1948
‘Don’t Call Us Mormons’ Founder’s Grandson Begs
by Monroe Johnson
Don’t call W. Wallace Smith, grandson of the Joseph Smith, the founder of the Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, a Mormon.
For Mr. Smith, a friendly six-footer, from Portland, Oregon, will tell you: “We have always fought the connotation of this term. Mormonism as applied to a person is synonymous to a degrading practice, polygamy, and the courts have ruled we can recover damages for slander if the term is used to describe our church membership.”
Here’s another schedule for the “Missionary Home” – the early 20th century equivalent of the Mission Training Center – from some of its earliest days:
Lesson 39: “How Beautiful upon the Mountains”
Purpose: To strengthen each class member’s testimony of the Atonement of Jesus Christ.
1. Isaiah speaks of messengers who bring glad tidings.
2. Isaiah prophesies of the Savior’s atoning sacrifice.
3. Isaiah describes some of our responsibilities.
Scripture Discussion and Application
[Draw familiar timeline on board: United Israel, division into two kingdoms, Northern kingdom cut off, Southern kingdom taken captive to Babylon; indicate that today’s scripture comes at the end of the captivity]
The passages we are discussing today were spoken by Isaiah about the time when the Babylonian captivity is coming to an end, and the king Cyrus has given permission to the Israelites to return to Jerusalem.
“The baby swallowed a bottle of ink!”
From the Relief Society Magazine, July 1961 –
The Missing Ingredient
By Pansye H. Powell
At four o’clock Miss Fannie placed the last jar of cherry preserves on the cellar shelf and stood back contentedly to survey the results of the hard work she had been doing for two days. There they were, lined up neatly in a row all to themselves – twenty pint jars of what she hoped would be the best cherry preserves put up that year in Clinton County.
Her hope was based upon experience. For thirty years Miss Fannie Himes had taken the blue ribbon at the Clinton County Fair for the unsurpassed tastiness of her cherry preserves. She had experimented with recipes, finding none that produced results entirely to her liking, adding to and taking away from the original ingredients, until, finally, she had developed a recipe that never failed to win her plaudits from the judges. The slightly tart, uncloying sweetness of her red cherry preserves had no equal, so the critics had said year after year.
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Death is the dusty whiff that
heralds heaven’s tears splattering on bone dry earth.
Grief’s curtains, lavender-grey
absterge high desert valleys and earth moves forth.
I grew up in a family where the afterlife was all around us. My father often told about how he had seen an angel. In time, the story retold became an encounter with Jesus Christ. He said that he was visited in the bathroom while shaving, that he could see the angel’s bare chest through an opening in his white robe. Dad would hold out his thumb and index finger measuring an inch, describing how the hair on the figure’s legs stood straight out.
My mother would describe a period early in their marriage when my father would leave for his paper route. She says she would hear Dad’s footsteps exit through the front door, but soon the screen door would creak open again and footsteps would return up the hall. A man with black eyes would come sit on the side of the bed and stare at her, as she lay frozen. She would pray, and the man would eventually disperse through the ceiling.
My siblings took these cues and began sharing their own stories. My oldest brother came to the point where he spoke to angels and other supernatural creatures daily.
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