I like to mark anniversaries, landmarks in our lives so I'm noticing that I'll turn 70, "the age of a man." When people die in their 70's, no one says, "Too young." At 70 you've had your turn, and anything extra is a bonus. I don't mind, but it makes me want to clean house, pack up, be ready. No, I don't have a premonition about my impending demise.
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| Donna 1945. Dad developed his own film which I think this is |
Born and raised in the Church, I believed what I was taught. My parents not only took us to Church and held callings, but instigated Family Night in Sherman Oaks when it was first announced. But we were being taught all the time. We were always the last to leave the Ward Dinners because my Dad was helping put away chairs, sweeping the floors.
By the way, I noticed the art, but there wasn't much. The picture of the young Christ in the Temple was on the wall in our Sherman Oaks Ward, actually a dance hall that required the brethren to come early to set up the wooden, folding chairs. There was also a picture of the Savior.
I had faith. After we moved to Maywood, when I was six or seven, the light went out in the bathroom so Mother set up a crook-necked, metal desk lamp on the floor near the tub while we bathed. I stood and reached over to move it, taking it by the neck. I was immediately shocked, so intensely that I couldn't let go but just shrieked. Mother came running, unplugged the lamp, and swooped me up in a towel and took me to her bed. She knelt beside me and prayed. I asked why and she said she was just so grateful I didn't die. I said, "I wasn't going to die. Your Patriarchal Blessing says you'll raise your children to be adults, so I couldn't die." |
| At Grandma and Grandpa Evan's place in Westwood, CA. |
The first hint I had that there might be influences from beyond the veil also came at age seven. It was time to go to bed, to say prayers. But I felt crabby, a strong feeling that I shouldn't pray. I sat on the floor by my bed, struggling with it. I even got up and went and told Mother. "I don't feel like saying my prayers," I complained. "Then don't." Not what I wanted. I went back, struggled some more, said a hurried prayer, and jumped in bed.
Baptism was a matter of course. I felt special but I would say that was all. We got to go for ice cream at Curries on the way home.
Always interested in religion, as a school child, I would ask new friends what church they went to. I became accustomed to hearing "Catholic" or "I don't go to church; I'm Jewish." When one girl said "Mormon" I was happy and I asked her why she never came. I told her my Mom could pick her up for Primary, so we did.
My mother shared her faith with us as I grew. I would find her reading scriptures, but mostly we would talk as she shared spiritual experiences. For instance, as a Relief Society President she felt compelled to drive over to visit a sister she hardly knew, not even knowing where she lived; mother stopped at a home she thought was likely and sure enough found the sister, needing help. She really did teach me as I came to her with questions.
In school about the fourth grade, our teacher told us about the American Indians and said no one knew where they had come from. Thinking of Book of Mormon stories I thought, "I know where they came from!!" I wanted to raise my hand but sensed it was somehow out of place, but the excitement I felt was a confirming feeling, the Holy Ghost.
The Gospel always interested me. I read the Sunday School lessons on Sunday mornings because I liked to. We had student manuals with pictures in them. Incidentally, there was nothing for the Book of Mormon. I don't remember even so much as a sketch.
During the 1950's the Los Angeles Temple was being built in Westwood, near my grandparents. My wonderful father got "dime banks" for us and encouraged us to put money in them for the new Temple fund. When each little metal cash register hit $10 you could get the dimes out. We donated the money to the Sunday School children's fund to buy nails for the Temple, and at church we won a prize. Of course, Dad had enthusiastically brought home the dimes for us to fill the banks. When I pointed out that we weren't actually donating our own money he didn't want to discuss my nit-picking.
I was in 5th grade when the Temple was dedicated and
for the only time other than dentist appointments, we got out of school
to attend. President McKay came. Mother had prepared white
handkerchiefs and gave strict instructions, especially to me, about the
Hosannah Shout. It was sacred and I had better not giggle during it.
As we went to Church each week I listened, and I sometimes spoke up when something was unclear. I felt a degree of envy for people like Joseph Smith who got to see angels, have visions. "I want to see Heavenly Father. I want to see Jesus." But I was assured that experiences like that were reserved for Apostles and I should expect nothing.
At about age 12 or 13 I began babysitting for a neighbor. When I got my first check, $15.00, I was overjoyed. My path home through the block took me under eucalyptus and walnut trees, and I danced along with check in hand, literally jumping for joy. I wanted to express gratitude, and since Norma Hadlock, our Sunday School teacher, taught us that we could pray even while walking, I thanked Heavenly Father. To my surprise, I felt a response. A clear impression came that my Father heard me, responded. The feeling was so strong that I felt awe and respect and immediately stopped jumping but walked on reverently but with an even greater sense of joy.
That experience was important. For the first time I realized that the Heavens were open, even for ordinary people like me. I realized that God lives and that He loves me. That was it. In looking back on it, I realized that I got nothing about Joseph Smith or the Book of Mormon or Living Prophets.
Later on, in Seminary, when we were each asked to bear our testimony, everyone in class testified to the things they knew. All I would say was that I knew God lived and He loved me.
I should mention, too, that my parents grew. Although raised LDS, they were still learning. In Sherman Oaks they started a habit of taking us for Sunday drives into the hills above the San Fernando Valley where we lived. We would go between Sunday School and Sacrament Mtg. We only went a handful of times, but the last time we got back late and missed Sacrament meeting. My Dad was upset on the way home and said emphatically, "We're not doing this again!"
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| photo: Brighams's Blog |
Always interested in religion, as a school child, I would ask new friends what church they went to. I became accustomed to hearing "Catholic" or "I don't go to church; I'm Jewish." When one girl said "Mormon" I was happy and I asked her why she never came. I told her my Mom could pick her up for Primary, so we did.
My mother shared her faith with us as I grew. I would find her reading scriptures, but mostly we would talk as she shared spiritual experiences. For instance, as a Relief Society President she felt compelled to drive over to visit a sister she hardly knew, not even knowing where she lived; mother stopped at a home she thought was likely and sure enough found the sister, needing help. She really did teach me as I came to her with questions.
In school about the fourth grade, our teacher told us about the American Indians and said no one knew where they had come from. Thinking of Book of Mormon stories I thought, "I know where they came from!!" I wanted to raise my hand but sensed it was somehow out of place, but the excitement I felt was a confirming feeling, the Holy Ghost.
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| Early Sunday School manual, 1946. |
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| Easter 1954 in front of our house on Hart St. in Van Nuys, CA. (Baby Rachel by the front door) |
During the 1950's the Los Angeles Temple was being built in Westwood, near my grandparents. My wonderful father got "dime banks" for us and encouraged us to put money in them for the new Temple fund. When each little metal cash register hit $10 you could get the dimes out. We donated the money to the Sunday School children's fund to buy nails for the Temple, and at church we won a prize. Of course, Dad had enthusiastically brought home the dimes for us to fill the banks. When I pointed out that we weren't actually donating our own money he didn't want to discuss my nit-picking.
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| Janet, MaryLu, Lyle, Dad at the Temple Dedication; Mother was there somewhere, too. 1956 ( photo says 59, but it's 56.)They're holding cameras, etc.; we didn't routinely take scriptures to Church then. |
As we went to Church each week I listened, and I sometimes spoke up when something was unclear. I felt a degree of envy for people like Joseph Smith who got to see angels, have visions. "I want to see Heavenly Father. I want to see Jesus." But I was assured that experiences like that were reserved for Apostles and I should expect nothing.
At about age 12 or 13 I began babysitting for a neighbor. When I got my first check, $15.00, I was overjoyed. My path home through the block took me under eucalyptus and walnut trees, and I danced along with check in hand, literally jumping for joy. I wanted to express gratitude, and since Norma Hadlock, our Sunday School teacher, taught us that we could pray even while walking, I thanked Heavenly Father. To my surprise, I felt a response. A clear impression came that my Father heard me, responded. The feeling was so strong that I felt awe and respect and immediately stopped jumping but walked on reverently but with an even greater sense of joy.
That experience was important. For the first time I realized that the Heavens were open, even for ordinary people like me. I realized that God lives and that He loves me. That was it. In looking back on it, I realized that I got nothing about Joseph Smith or the Book of Mormon or Living Prophets.
Later on, in Seminary, when we were each asked to bear our testimony, everyone in class testified to the things they knew. All I would say was that I knew God lived and He loved me.
I should mention, too, that my parents grew. Although raised LDS, they were still learning. In Sherman Oaks they started a habit of taking us for Sunday drives into the hills above the San Fernando Valley where we lived. We would go between Sunday School and Sacrament Mtg. We only went a handful of times, but the last time we got back late and missed Sacrament meeting. My Dad was upset on the way home and said emphatically, "We're not doing this again!"
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| 1951 outing among the oak trees around the Valley with friends, Helen and Tommy Carlisle, also LDS. |
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