food, crochet, merriment
“We can begin to become more diligent and concerned at home by telling the people we love that we love them. Such expressions do not need to be flowery or lengthy. We simply should sincerely and frequently express love.”-Elder David A. Bednar
579
Fragile treasure found by Dane in the branches of a tree–the morning after it was hit by lightening. :}
“Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.”
600
Look at this sweet baby…
sitting soooo still…getting her hair combed.
Oh, but she wouldn’t let mommy do it.
She wouldn’t let Grammy do it.
It positively, absolutely HAD to be…Uncle Dane.
And those big, old, football throwing hands worked hard—I’ll tell you–to get every hair to stay where they belonged.
And those same big, old hands had a heck of a time making the teeny tiny rubber bands behave properly.
He wasn’t very happy with the end result. Said Chompy looked “more like George Washington than our baby girl,” and that I “shouldn’t post pictures of such a silly thing.”
But you know I will, because, I say, whenever you find evidence of love like this–you should capture it—
and hold it close to your heart…as proof…
that no matter what happens in this life–deep down…
everything really will be all right.
605
Our father never told us how to live...
but rather…
he lived…
and let us watch him do it.”
~Clarence Budington Kelland
Happy Father’s Day, Daddy.
I love you.
614
In 1918 Brother George Goates was a farmer who raised sugar beets in Lehi, Utah. . . . An influenza epidemic . . . claimed the lives of George’s son Charles and three of Charles’s small children—two little girls and a boy. In the course of only six days, a grieving George Goates made three separate trips to Ogden, Utah, to bring the bodies home for burial. At the end of this terrible interlude, George and [his young son] Francis hitched up their wagon and headed back to the beet field.
On the way they passed wagon after wagon-load of beets being hauled to the factory and driven by neighborhood farmers. As they passed by, each driver would wave a greeting: “Hi ya, Uncle George,” “Sure sorry, George,” “Tough break, George,” “You’ve got a lot of friends, George.”
On the last wagon was freckled-faced Jasper Rolfe. He waved a cheery greeting and called out: “That’s all of ’em, Uncle George.”
When they arrived at the farm gate, Francis jumped down off the big red beet wagon and opened the gate as [his father] drove onto the field. George pulled up, stopped the team, and scanned the field. There wasn’t a sugar beet on the whole field. Then it dawned upon him what Jasper Rolfe meant when he called out: “That’s all of ’em, Uncle George!” . . .
This man who brought four of his loved ones home for burial in the course of only six days; made caskets, dug graves, and even helped with the burial clothing—this amazing man who never faltered, nor flinched, nor wavered throughout this agonizing ordeal—sat down on a pile of beet tops and sobbed like a little child.
Then he arose, wiped his eyes, . . . looked up at the sky, and said: “Thanks, Father, for the love of these dear friends.”
Vaughn J. Featherstone
621