Death Is an Eternal Milestone

Concluding remarks by Elder Dallin H. Oaks of the Council of the Twelve Apostles at the funeral services for Barbara Jean Fraughton Lange on Monday, February 28, 1994, in the Mueller Park Ninth Ward in Bountiful, Utah. This talk was transcribed from a recording of the funeral and published in the March 7, 1994, issue of the Family Journal. Elder Oaks’s wife, June Dixon Oaks, was Barbara Lange’s first cousin.

Marvin and David and Claudia and other members of the family and my brothers and sisters: I feel privileged to be invited to take a few moments to speak at the conclusion of this beautiful service. I complement Bishop Clegg and Brother Cleverly for the wonderful spiritual banquet that they have given us.

As I listened to what they had to say, I couldn't help contrasting that with the last funeral service I attended in another place and under a different presiding authority. It was a suitable tribute to a life well lived, but I went away spiritually undernourished because there was no testimony, there was no doctrinal comfort, there was no tribute to the Lord Jesus Christ, who makes it all possible. There was no note taken of the fact that love is immortal and marriage properly entered and covenants properly observed can be eternal, and that life has a purpose and that death is only a transition from one phase of eternal life to another.

We've had all those assurances in this service, and they're true. And I thank Bishop Clegg and Brother Cleverly for the beautiful assurances that they've given, which I affirm.

Like many of you, I've felt the warmth of Barbara's hospitality and I've taken strength from the brilliance of her example. Hers was a life well lived, hers an example appropriately followed, hers was a faith strong and bright, hers an influence that will perpetuate itself through the generations to come—as is evident from the expressions that I've observed on the faces of those who are her descendants, her companion, her friends.

Death is an eternal milestone. And a funeral, which commemorates a death, is not a time for trivial things. That's a truth forgotten in many Latter-day Saint funerals. But it wasn't forgotten here. The things spoken of here have been things important, not things trivial. And so this service has been a comforting one and an appropriate one, and all of us in tune with the Spirit that has activated what has been said and done here have recognized the benediction of approval from our Heavenly Father whose daughter Barbara is and who takes joy, as has been noted, in the death of His saints, a life well lived, a new horizon opening, for additional joy.

And when there is a sad parting here, there is a joyous reunion there. And I'm sure that joy is warmly felt by many for whom we have ties of love and affection, because our families, in every case, are on both sides of the veil. And when we have that vision, a funeral has a different meaning and death has a different significance.

I testify of Jesus Christ, who made it all possible, of the truth of His gospel, and of the authority of the holy priesthood, which makes possible the fulfillment of the promises given, contingent upon the covenants made.

I testify to you of these things and invoke His blessings upon the family to comfort and strengthen them, and especially upon our brother Marvin, who has a difficult season of adjustment despite the sweet assurances that have been given.

And I say these things and invoke these blessings, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

The Bluebird of Happiness

Remarks I gave at the funeral service for Barbara Jean Fraughton Lange (1928–1994) held on Monday, February 28, 1994, in the Mueller Park Ninth Ward, Bountiful Utah Mueller Park Stake. Grandma Lange had passed away the previous Thursday, February 24, at the age of 65. This talk was transcribed from a recording of the funeral and published in the March 7, 1994, issue of the Family Journal. Elder Dallin H. Oaks of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles and his wife were present at the funeral. June Dixon Oaks was Barbara Lange’s first cousin.

And no matter what you have,
Don't envy those you meet.
It's all the same; it's in the game:
The bitter and the sweet.
And if things don't look so cheerful,
Just show a little fight.
For every bit of darkness,
There is a little bit of light;
For every bit of hatred,
There's a little bit of love;
For every cloudy morning
There's a midnight moon above.

So don't you forget, you must search
Until you find the Bluebird.
You will find peace and contentment forever
If you will be like I,
Hold your head up high
Till you see a ray of light and cheer,
And so remember this:
Life is no abyss;
Somewhere there's a Bluebird of Happiness.

Those words fit Grandma. Whoever wrote that song must have known her because her life was filled with usefulness and purpose. She loved people. She loved doing things for them. I think she was the Bluebird of Happiness.

Most of you probably won't be able to see these if you're past about the second row, but if you've ever been in her home in the last couple of years you've seen on the mantle these little blue birds, which I think are a fitting symbol of the kind of life that she led.

She received a patriarchal blessing in March 1949. That was just a few months before she married Marvin. And the patriarch promised her, "Your counsel will be sought after by your associates and your influence will always be for good." I think this roomful of people—and many others who would be here if they could have been—is evidence that that promise was fulfilled. Her influence has always been for good. Last night at the viewing someone (I don’t remember who) talked about the good memories that people will have of Barbara Lange, the good memories that she leaves in the minds and the hearts and the lives of everyone who knew her. And I don't know of anyone who will have bad memories of her, but the memories will be sweet and hallowed and precious.

Elder Neal A. Maxwell once wrote, "The very usefulness of our lives depends upon our willingness to serve others" (Even As I Am, 62).

By that standard, the life of Barbara Jean Fraughton Lange was preeminently useful. And if we are to learn anything from her life, and the example she’s left, and the counsel she's given, we will go and do the same. We will have a willingness to serve others and bless their lives and cheer their days and soothe their hurts and encourage their best efforts. Her grandchildren, in whose lives she most delighted, knew that she was their greatest benefactor, their greatest sponsor, their best friend.

She had a fourth-great-grandfather by the name of Charles Dixon who was born in England in 1730. He immigrated to the new world in 1772. That was four years before the beginning of the American Revolution. And he lived until 1817, which was three years before Joseph Smith went into the grove of trees near Palmyra, New York, and had the First Vision. And sometime between when he came to New Brunswick, Canada, in 1772, sometime between then and his death in 1817, he wrote a letter to his son Charles. And among the things that were in it, he wrote a bit of what I think is very profound counsel to his son, and by extension to his posterity clear down to this day—200 years later.

And this is the quote: "Be thou not high minded, but remember the rock from whence thou wast hewn, and in future times, when I and thy mother shall be called home, and rest in the silent grave, you may remember, that for your sakes we crossed the ocean. See that you outstrip us in purity of heart and holiness of life. . . . Acquaint yourselves with God and be at peace—at peace with yourselves and with all men, and may the God of Peace be with you evermore."

What a sermon in just a few short sentences! That would be the wish of every righteous parent for their children and their grandchildren: See that you outstrip us in purity of heart and holiness of life. Acquaint yourselves with God. Be at peace with all men. And may the God of Peace be with you evermore.

Nearly 21 years ago Barbara Lange became a grandmother with the birth of our oldest son, Michael, who of all of her posterity is the only one not with us here today. He is serving a mission in Brazil.

And being a grandmother seemed to suit her well. (I’m not at that phase of life quite yet, but I understand that grandchildren are much more delightful than children.) But she was always involved in their lives, doing things for them, supporting them, attending their games and activities, baking lasagna for them for their birthdays if they wanted it, showering them with generous Christmas gifts, spoiling them in ways that parents can't and aren't supposed to but grandmothers can—and can get away with.

For many years, while they still lived in California, she was fortunate to be close to David and Janice and their children. And these past six or seven years, we've been delighted to have them here close to us since they moved back to Utah.

And though she never actually lived in our ward, the other night, Thursday night, when I told our bishop that she had died, because she had been there so many times when the children gave talks in church or had Primary activities or other things going on, and she was always there, our bishop said, "That’s like losing a member of our ward." (And many of them would have been here today, but we had a neighbor die in our ward the very same day, and his funeral is happening at this very same hour.)

I mentioned that her oldest grandson isn’t here today. But in a manner of speaking, he is. We aren’t even sure if he knows yet that his grandmother has died. But on Saturday, last Saturday his dear friend Shauna shared with us a letter that he had written earlier this month. And I'd like to quote just a couple paragraphs from that letter. This was written on the fifth of February, one day before he was transferred to his present assignment, which is about a thousand miles from his mission headquarters in the Amazon jungle of Brazil.

"Today I attended my first (and hopefully only) Brazilian funeral. One of the two stake presidents [here] died suddenly early Friday morning." And then he goes on and gives some details about that.

"This morning was the funeral. Elder Fails and I went with President and Sister Francesconi. The chapel was pretty much filled to capacity. I was surprised at how fast news travels. In Brazil they have to bury the body within 24 to 36 hours. . . . The service was very nice. President spoke, the bishop spoke, and his wife was the last speaker. I think that would take a lot of courage and strength to speak at your spouse’s funeral. Especially when it was such a surprise. She’s probably 37. They’d been married [only] 7 years or so. They have two children, ages 5 and 4.

"The closing hymn was 'Families Can Be Together Forever.'" And then he quotes the words of that song, all in Portuguese, but I'll translate them for you:

I have a family here on earth.
They are so good to me.
I want to share my life with them
Through all eternity.

Families can be together forever
Through Heavenly Father’s plan.
I always want to be with my own family,
And the Lord has shown me how I can.
The Lord has shown me how I can.

While I am in my early years,
I'll prepare most carefully,
So I can marry in God's temple
For eternity.

Families can be together forever
Through Heavenly Father's plan.
I always want to be with my own family,
And the Lord has shown me how I can.
The Lord has shown me how I can.

And after quoting that, he says: "And it was strange. Sitting there at the funeral singing the song. Many people singing with tears in their eyes. In a chapel in Brazil. Then we went to the cemetery. The funeral procession consisted of a VW-Van thingy with the coffin and three busses that had been rented to help take the people who didn't own a car."

And then he says, "To back track momentarily, the closing song." [And I should mention, well it's been announced already, the grandchildren are going to sing this as part of the closing song] "As it was being sung I had wave after wave of tingling-shivers come over me. It was as if even here when a friend and a leader had passed on to the other side of the veil, and though all were saddened I just seemed to realize even more that yes, families can be forever. And most everyone else there knew that. And that brought a comfort that the vast majority of people don't know. And I also realized how important it was to live a life correctly so that we can be worthy to qualify for those blessings. That's why the ordinances and covenants of the gospel are so vital and important. And therein lies the profoundness of the simplicity of the gospel."

And then he talks about the experience of going to the cemetery and watching the burial: "And both Elder Fails and I felt as if we were caught up in some weird whirlwind time-warp. As if everything was happening in a film, and we were there watching it all happen, but as if we weren't at the same time, and as if no one else could see us. It was a very strange sensation that I don't know if I'd ever be able to accurately put into words.

"It’s funny how our lives weave patterns into the lives of so many others in ways often so deep and profound that we aren't even aware of the influence we have (for good or bad). The whole funeral was one of those quiet moments when the vastness of eternity seemed to distill on my soul. And it made me realize how ungrateful we really are as people, and how we really should treasure life, even the small simple daily things. I have been so richly blessed and I feel so undeserving and as if I am so ungrateful."

We are so amazingly blessed that I sometimes wonder if we don't take for granted what we've been given. Certainly we do in our relationships with each other. And often we do it with the marvelous insights and blessings and knowledge the Lord has revealed to us.

One of the great blessings we enjoy as Latter-day Saints is the knowledge we receive from the Holy Ghost that God really lives. Much of the world does not know that He lives. And even those who believe in God do not know much about Him or what He is like. And yet we read in the holy scriptures where Jesus the night before He was crucified prayed to His Father and said, "And this is life eternal, that they might know thee the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast sent" (John 17:3).

Back in January 1988, a little over six years ago, I asked my three youngest children, then six-year-old Camilla, four-year-old Eliza, and three-year-old Mary what they knew about Heavenly Father and Jesus. And with a little prompting, they came up with these answers:

"Heavenly Father loves children.
"He's a friend of us.
"He gives us good food. And our house.
"Jesus was born on Christmas in Bethlehem.
"Mary was the mother of Jesus.
"Heavenly Father was the father of Jesus.
"Heavenly Father is kind.
"He made the world.
"He is the father of our spirits.
"We lived with Him before we were born.
"We lived with both Heavenly Father and Jesus.
"We can become like Them.
"They want us to be happy.
"We can be happy by keeping God's commandments.
"They like us a lot.
"He wants us for a sunbeam. To shine for Him each day.
"And be good."

Now let's talk for a moment about the timing of her passing. To us it seemed so unexpected; it caught us off guard. Just last Wednesday, the evening before she died, Grandma had prepared dinner and brought it to our house, and we had a lovely meal and visit together. And that was so like Grandma. And then the next evening she was gone.

But death, sooner or later, comes to each of us. And in her case, as the bishop intimated and as I firmly believe, I think she did have a feeling, perhaps not consciously, but an intimation that she was leaving us.

Another interesting promise from her patriarchal blessing: "You will fill your mission upon the earth and will live until it is fully accomplished, and you will find great joy and satisfaction in it."

She did find joy and satisfaction in blessing the lives of other people. Surely that was much of what her mission was all about, and she lived until she accomplished it fully. She had done all that was required of her. She had passed the test. She had finished the race. There was no more to be done.

Earth life is a school. We can understand that. Elder Orson F. Whitney, who was a member of the Council of Twelve Apostles at the first part of this century, taught, "This earth was made for God's children, his spirit sons and daughters, who take bodies and pass through the experiences of joy and sorrow for their development and education, and to demonstrate through time's vicissitudes that they will be true to God and do all that he requires at their hands.

"When we have done the things that we were sent to do, when we have gained all the experience that this life affords, then is the best time to depart. School being out, why not go home? The mission ended, why not return? That is what death means to a Latter-day Saint. The only sad thing about it is parting with the loved ones who go, . . . but it is simply a passing into the spirit world, to await the resurrection, when our bodies and spirits will be reunited—the righteous to enjoy the presence of God. . . .

"If we can be patient and resigned, and by God's help do his holy will, all will come out well. Trials purify us, educate us, develop us." And I might say parenthetically Grandma had her share of those with the health challenges she experienced.

"Trials purify us, educate us, develop us. The great reason why [we were] placed upon the earth was that [we] might become like [our] Father and [our] God. That is why we are here, children at school. What matters it when school is out and the time comes to go back home?" (Improvement Era, Nov. 1918, 9–11).

There's a revelation in the Doctrine and Covenants that has been referred to as the Law of the Mourner. Prefacing it the Lord talks about if there any who are sick, we are to call for the elders of the Church, and they are to come and administer to them, and if they're not appointed unto death then they'll be healed, but He says if they die they die unto Me, and if they live they live unto Me (see D&C 42:44).

And this is the part I wanted to read particularly, "Thou shalt live together in love, insomuch that thou shalt weep for the loss of them that die [and so the Lord sanctions that, commands it I think—thou shalt live together in love, insomuch that thou shalt weep for the loss of them that die], and more especially for those that have not hope of a glorious resurrection.

"And it shall come to pass that those that die in me shall not taste of death, for it shall be sweet unto them" (D&C 42:45–46).

I think Grandma, Barbara Lange, has died in the Lord. Her death, her passing was certainly sweet. It was peaceful. And though it's hard, it was right, and we can all feel that. Her time had come.

The Apostle John in the book of Revelation uses this same phrase: Blessed are they that die in me, that "die in the Lord," for "they . . . rest from their labours; and their works do follow them" (Revelation 14:13).

What do we mean? What does that expression mean—they who die in the Lord?

Elder Bruce R. McConkie speaking at a funeral once made these comments. He quoted first from the Psalms, "Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints" (Psalm 116:15). Now, that's an interesting way of putting it: precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints.

"Now does that do something to death in the eternal perspective of things? Precious unto the Lord is the death of his saints! Not something that brings sorrow and anguish and anxiety into the soul, but something that announces a reward and a triumph and the beginning of a day of glory and peace and reward. Something that indicates that a soul has come from the presence of God and passed through a mortal probation and ended dying in the Lord. Or, in other words, ended life having kept the faith.

"Now the people that die in the Lord are the people that keep the faith but are not [yet] perfect. They are not perfect many of them by any manner of means. There was only one perfect being and that was the Lord Jesus Christ, and if you had to be perfect in this life to gain salvation there would only be one saved person. Now, yes, they become perfect eventually in eternity, but as pertaining to this life they die in the faith, in the Lord” (Bruce R. McConkie, funeral sermon for Wilford Payne, Dec. 6, 1982).

And I'm skipping some of what Elder McConkie said. He quotes Paul writing to Timothy, and he says that this applies to every righteous person that goes out of this life:

"I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith:

"Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, shall give me at that day: and not to me only, but unto all them also that love his appearing" (2 Timothy 4:7–8).

"Now that is the benediction spoken or unspoken that in thought content is in the heart and the mind and the soul of every person who departs this life in the faith, who dies in the Lord.

"What we do in this life is to chart a course leading to eternal life. That means we believe in the Lord Jesus Christ. We are baptized for the remission of sins. We receive by the laying on of hands the gift of the Holy Ghost, which is the right to the constant companionship of that member of the Godhead based on faithfulness, and then we struggle and labor and strive to endure to the end, to keep the commandments after baptism" (Payne funeral sermon).

As Nephi said, we "press forward with a steadfastness in Christ, having a perfect brightness of hope, and a love of God and of all men" (2 Nephi 31:20). And we feast upon the words of Christ. Then He gave a glorious promise to those who so do: "Thus saith the Father: Ye shall have eternal life" (2 Nephi 31:20).

"Now this is what is expected of us: to chart a course leading to eternal life. And then if we are on the course and in the path and struggling and striving and trying to do what we best can [as Barbara Lange was clearly doing], if we are trying to utilize the talents that the Lord has given us [as she was clearly doing], and we depart this life still on the path, having died in the faith, it is as though at that moment our calling and election is made sure, because no one departs from the path after this life if he died in the Lord.

"Now I am not saying that all people are equal in the eternal worlds," Elder McConkie continues, "neither in the spirit world, nor in the resurrection. The Prophet told us that 'whatever principle of intelligence we attain unto in this life, it will rise with us in the resurrection' (D&C 130:18), that if a man [or a woman] 'gains more knowledge and intelligence in this life through his diligence and obedience than another, he will have so much the advantage in the world to come' (D&C 130:19).

"But what I am saying is that if we believe the gospel and if we enter into the eternal covenants, chiefly and primarily marriage, and if we strive and struggle and keep the faith and are doing the best we can, though we haven't attained the perfection that ultimately is our potential, if we go forward and die in the Lord, we filled the measure of our creation, and what more can we ask" (Payne funeral sermon).

I think that’s exactly where we are with Grandma.

In behalf of the family, I would express appreciation to any and all who have helped during these last five days. And to many who will yet help in countless ways in future days. The Lord will bless your quiet, kindly deeds.

We quoted earlier from Elder Orson F. Whitney. He said, "A funeral sermon is not for the benefit of the departed; rather it is for the good of those who remain. The dead, as we call them—though they are no more dead than we are, and are as much alive now as ever—are [simply] beyond our reach, just as they are beyond our vision. We cannot add to anything that they have done, nor can we take anything away. They have made their record and are in the keeping of a higher Power. But we can do something to comfort those who mourn, and by acts of kindness lessen human suffering. [And have you ever known anyone who by acts of kindness lessened human suffering more than Barbara Lange did?] Our Father in heaven expects this at our hands" (Improvement Era, Nov. 1918, 3).

Well, Grandma has made her record. She is in the keeping of a higher Power, even the Father of us all.

President Ezra Taft Benson has taught that nothing will startle us more when we pass through the veil, as Grandma has now done, to realize how well we know our Heavenly Father and how familiar His face will be to us.

So we don't mourn for her; we mourn for us. And it's all right that we do so: for as we quoted earlier, the Lord has commanded that we are to "weep for the loss of them that die" (D&C 42:45).

There is something sanctifying about a funeral, especially the funeral of a faithful person, like Grandma, because (as Elder McConkie taught on a similar occasion), "it is an occasion for us to be reminded of the eternal things that are involved in life and how thin the veil is and of how gracious and wondrous it is that a noble soul has gone on and, as a consequence, for us to make the determinations that we need to make so that we can be as they were" (Payne funeral sermon).

The words of a hymn express the thoughts of all of us:

Each life that touches ours for good
Reflects thine own great mercy, Lord;
Thou sendest blessings from above
Thru words and deeds of those who love.

What greater gift dost thou bestow,
What greater goodness can we know
Than Christlike friends, whose gentle ways
Strengthen our faith, enrich our days.

When such a friend from us departs,
We hold forever in our hearts
A sweet and hallowed memory,
Bringing us nearer, Lord, to thee.

For worthy friends whose lives proclaim
Devotion to the Savior’s name,
Who bless our days with peace and love,
We praise thy goodness, Lord above.
(Karen Lynn Davidson, Hymns [1985], 293)

God lives. As Elder Marion D. Hanks taught so eloquently in his final address in general conference as a General Authority, "To believe in God is to know that all the rules will be fair and there will be wonderful surprises" (Ensign, Nov. 1992, 65).

And to us, with our understanding, this may not seem like a wonderful surprise—a surprise, but maybe not wonderful. But try to imagine the wonderful surprise it's been for her in meeting again her parents, her sister, and many, many loved ones who have gone on before her. All the rules will be fair and there will be wonderful surprises.

God lives. He’s given us a plan for our happiness. He sent His Son to make it all effective by working out the atoning sacrifice. And He has so graciously and kindly revealed it to us all in this day, together with all the ordinances and everything that makes it possible.

We can be grateful that we have known and been touched by and influenced by the life of Barbara Lange. We will miss her deeply. It’s appropriate that we should. But she would want us to go on and live our lives by the example she gave us.

In fact, I don't know if it's appropriate in a funeral sermon to give you an assignment, but I'm going to give you an assignment, because she would want you to do this: Before this day is over I want each of you who is here to go out and hug someone and to tell them you love them and to be nice to people and to be the kind of Christian, gentle, wonderful folk that she was, that we should be, and that our Heavenly Father expects of us. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

A Temporary Loss

Claudia's mother, Barbara Jean Fraughton Lange (1928-1994), was born April 27, 1928, in Salt Lake City, Utah, the older of two daughters born to Lowell Dee Fraughton and Bernice Dixon. She married John Marvin Lange on June 15, 1949, and they were the parents of two children: Claudia and David. Grandma Lange died on February 24, 1994, in Bountiful, Utah, at the age of 65 from causes incident to kidney disease. Bishop Richard R. Clegg, bishop of the Mueller Park Ninth Ward, conducted Grandma’s funeral on Monday, February 28, 1994, read the obituary, and offered brief remarks. His comments were published a month later in the March 28, 1994, issue of the Family Journal.

Brothers, sisters, and friends, we are here today as an expression of our love and respect for Barbara Lange, who passed away last Thursday evening, February 24, here in Bountiful.

These services are under the direction of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and I am Bishop Richard R. Clegg of the Mueller Park Ninth Ward, whom the family has asked to conduct these services. I wish to extend to Marvin, Claudia, and David my deepest sympathy and love on this sacred occasion as we honor and pay tribute to their mother and sweetheart.

Seated on the stand with me is Alan Collier, who is a counselor in the Ninth ward bishopric and who will be conducting the grave-side services.

We want to thank Nan Knoles for the music provided in these services. As part of these services, the family prayer was offered by J. Marvin Lange. The opening song will be "I Am a Child of God," sung by Barbara’s grandchildren. The invocation will be offered by a neighbor and friend, John Harmer.

OBITUARY

"Barbara Jean Fraughton Lange, 65, died February 24, 1994, in Bountiful.

"Born April 27, 1928, in Salt Lake City, the daughter of Lowell Dee Fraughton and Bernice Dixon. Married John Marvin Lange on June 15, 1949, in the Salt Lake LDS temple.

"Attended school in Provo and Salt Lake City, where she graduated from East High School in 1945 and the University of Utah in 1949. She taught first grade at Wasatch Elementary [for one year] before moving in 1954 to San Gabriel, California. In 1987 she returned with her husband to Bountiful.

"Active in the LDS Church, she held many positions in the Sunday School, Primary, and Relief Society. She delighted in her family, especially her grandchildren who loved her dearly. She spent her life serving others and being a generous friend and neighbor. She had a special gift of bringing family and friends together and loved to host them in her home.

"Survived by her husband, Marvin; daughter, Claudia (and Dean) Cleverly, Bountiful; son, David (and Janice) Lange, La Crescenta, California; and 14 grandchildren. Preceded in death by her parents and her only sister, Patricia Fraughton Smedley Hunter."

REMARKS

Prior to the foundations of this world, in heavenly council with our spiritual parents, brothers, and sisters, the plan of mortal life was presented to us all. We were to receive a mortal body and be guided through trials and tests by earthly parents. This transition from spiritual preexistence to mortal existence is called birth.

We have all made this transition. Even our Savior, Jesus Christ, was required to enter this earthly realm the same way.

Even as birth was the way we arrived to begin our test here, death will be the means by which we will pass from this earth back to a spiritual existence, to await the reuniting of our resurrected body and spirit, having been tried and tested, never to die physically again, exalted and glorified through our faithfulness while in this proba-tionary state.

Our Savior was released from these earthly bonds this same way as well.

We mourn today, not the death of Barbara Lange, but we mourn our temporary loss. I emphasize our loss as well as temporary, for we believe, as did this faithful woman, that death was as I described—a welcome return to a limitless coexistence with Deity, even eternal life. What a glorious promise!

Who would not look forward to such a promise? To rise with a perfected, resurrected body and continue to serve man and God as one has served on earth, but without the earthly restrictions and imperfections of the natural man.

I emphasize our loss because we have been separated from a wife, mother, grandmother, and friend. This will create an admitted and understandable void in our lives.

I also emphasize temporary because we too, at some future time, must pass from here to there by means of death, at which time we will have the opportunity to see those waiting for us to return.

Barbara Lange understood and accepted these eternal principles and would admonish us to continue in the paths of righteousness.

As the Lord disclosed to His apostles the certainty of His approaching death and resurrection, He gave them a blessing, which may appropriately be extended to each of us here today. "Peace I leave with you," He said, "my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid" (John 14:27).

Permit me a brief quote from the late President Harold B. Lee: "Having gone through some similar experiences in losing loved ones in death, I speak from personal experience when I say to you who mourn, do not try to live too many days ahead. The all-important thing is not that tragedies and sorrows come into our lives, but what we do with them. Death of a loved one is the most severe test that you will ever face, and if you can rise above your griefs and if you will trust in God, then you will be able to surmount any other difficulty with which you may be faced" (Teachings of Harold B. Lee, 53).

I bear solemn witness of the truths of the gospel of Jesus Christ. I know by the powers of inspiration and revelation that God lives, that the Lord will come again to the earth in power and bring with Him those who have been faithful. I further testify that the faithful, whose bodies yet lie in their graves, will be resurrected and caught up to meet Him in glory.

I fervently pray that our lives may be so ordered that on that day, at the appointed signal, we may be ushered into the presence of loved ones once again, and that we may merit their never-ending association, for this is the plan. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Berenice Peterson

A brief history of Berenice Peterson Lange Anderson (1896-1964), daughter of Gustav Hjalmer Malstedt Peterson and Karen or Carrie Hansen, wife of Hans Friedrich Karl Lange, mother of Helen Carrie Lange Amundsen, John Marvin Lange, and Ruth Irene Lange Smith. The history appears to have been written by Berenice's daughter Helen. Curiously, the history does not mention Berenice's divorce from Hans Lange and her second marriage on April 7, 1941, to Joseph Andrew Anderson. Claudia, daughter of J. Marvin Lange, always heard this grandmother referred to as "Grandma A."

"Yours may be a little dream, a little idea, a little good work in some obscure place, unknown, unseen, unheard as yet.

"Hold fast to the dream, develop the idea, keep up the good work. Keep your little light shining and remember that there is not enough darkness in all the world to put out the light of even one small candle."

So is the life of Berenice Peterson—for from the time of her birth to Gustav Hjalmer Molstedt Peterson and Karen Hansen on 15 October 1896 until her death on 4 September 1964 the candle of her faith in the Lord and His work never was dimmed, and she endeavored all of her days to let this candle shine as a guide to those around her.

She was born in Salt Lake City, Utah. Her father was a contractor and builder. At times he made good money, but he also enjoyed drinking liquor—consequently his wife had to do housework for others to help support the family. Berenice was the only daughter born to Gustav and Karen. They had four sons, and Berenice was the fourth child of the five children.

Gustav was born in Sweden. His parents came to Utah because of the gospel of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. His mother and father were later divorced, and his mother remarried Jens Christian Peterson in the Endowment House. Though Gustav had been baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, he later apostatized and was not affiliated with any religion—though he favored the teachings of Swedenborg in his later years.

Karen was of Danish ancestry, and unlike her husband, remained faithful to the testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

In her early years Berenice must have been protected by a guardian angel, for on several occasions she was extremely close to disaster. One time she and her girl friend were playing house on the hillside. Berenice had received a real stove for Christmas, and the girls had built a fire in it. While playing, Berenice's dress caught fire, and instead of rolling in the dirt to smother the flames, Berenice ran down the hill to her brothers. It is a miracle she was not severely burned.

Another time the handle of an ax in use came off, and the ax flew in her direction, missing her only by the breadth of a hair.

Another time, when she was only a toddler, she fell into the irrigation ditch and was unnoticed for some time.

Her life must have been guarded so that she could teach the gospel and bear testimony of God's plan of salvation. Though Berenice was never called on a full-time mission, she taught Sunday School, Primary, and Mutual and served as a stake missionary in the Emigration Stake. She had been Mutual president in the Great Falls Branch in Montana, Relief Society president in the Twentieth Ward in Salt Lake City, and in the Primary presidency in the Emigration Ward. Near the end of her life, she was secretary to the genealogical committee of the Marlborough Ward in Salt Lake. Her faith and testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel and that Joseph Smith was a prophet of the Lord has been acknowledged by many. She was a pillar of strength.

Her life had not been an easy one. From the time she was sixteen, until two years before her death, it was necessary for her to earn a living for herself and others.

She married Hans or Johannes Frederick Carl Lange 30 August 1922 in the Salt Lake Temple. They had three children—two girls and a boy. She had wanted to be at home with her children, but this was not to be her privilege, for not long after her marriage it became evident that her husband suffered shell-shock from the First World War, and he was unable to take care of his family. Berenice had to care for her family and provide guidance and the monetary support as well. Her mother helped her while the children were young, and this made it easier for Berenice to leave them each day.

After the family returned from Great Falls, Montana, Berenice found work at the LDS Hospital as a telephone operator on the night shift. This eventually worked into the auditor for all the bookkeeping at the hospital. She also kept books for the LDS Children's Hospital and for Capson-Bowman and Richards-Woodbury realty companies.

Berenice was very active in sports while she was still in school. She played on the championship teams for both the Salt Lake City basketball and baseball. She won first place in the 20-yard dash and the relay races, Drama was also one of her talents, and she took the lead in one of the University of Utah Preparation School's dramas—also several Church plays. She took first place in one of the U of U Prep School's oratory contests. She enjoyed reading both poetry and prose and felt life was too short to waste time on anything of a degrading nature. She continually tried to better herself and those around her by building character and gaining knowledge—the glory of God is intelligence.

She died of cancer 4 September 1964—still full of faith that if the Lord wanted her to live that she would be made well. Her faith in the Lord and His power were the greatest memories I have of her life.

Shortly after her death, while I was walking on the Tabernacle grounds, a woman approached me and asked me if I was Berenice Peterson's daughter. I answered yes, and she indicated that my mother had taught her during her years in Mutual. Because of my mother's teachings, her testimony grew and also her understanding of the gospel. She appreciated my mother, and I appreciated her comments about my mother.

A Missionary Letter from Marvin

A letter from Elder J. Marvin Lange, serving in the Western Canadian Mission, written on Sunday, July 25, 1948, to his mother in Salt Lake City, Utah. A copy of this letter was included in notes attached to a family group record in a large binder of genealogical records from Marvin's sister Helen [Helen Carrie Lange Amundsen] that we received on May 9, 2008, nearly fifty years after the letter was written.

Dearest Mother:

The day is slipping by and I should like to write you a worthwhile letter before the opportunity is gone altogether. I have spent one hour before I have to begin preparing for sacrament meeting. That should give me a start anyway, and maybe this evening will afford the necessary time for me to complete the letter.

In checking over some of your letters to me I see that you have asked me to retell the story of Yellowface that we heard from Pres. Card the night of conference at Cardston. My memory isn't very good, and I always have difficulty in repeating a story, but I took a few notes and perhaps from them you can reconstruct the salient points.

"YELLOWFACE"

The story is about a tribe of Cree Indians. Yellowface being their Chief. They were an independent tribe and had refused to take a reservation from the government (because they said you took the land from us, it is ours). There were perhaps less than 100 persons in the tribe, but they wandered through Saskatchewan not having any permanent home.

About 25 or 30 years ago a messenger came to Yellowface from the "unseen world" and told him to take the tribe and travel west until he came to a people who had a record of their forefathers. Yellowface was informed of five signs by which he could distinguish this people who were in possession of the book of his ancestors.

The messenger departed (can't recall if Pres. Card inferred that he might have been one of the Three Nephites or not), and Yellowface and his tribe set out west. Finally they landed on the Church ranch. Brother Caldwell was the foreman at the time, and he went down to greet them. Brother Caldwell said, "You are on our land, but you are welcome; stay as long as you want; fish in our streams; graze your cattle on our land; our cowboys will be passing through here often but in your camps they will act as gentlemen."

Pres. Card pointed out that to have 100 people suddenly park on your land would be very exasperating for most ranchers and the possibility is that others would have driven them off since such procedures would be most conducive to the rancher's economic welfare, or so they would suppose.

Well Yellowface was pleased at the reception given his tribe for more reasons than one. The signs that the messenger had given him were in the process of fulfillment, for these are the five ways he was to know the people who had the history of his forefathers: 1 = they will let you camp on their lands and they won't drive you off; 2 = their men will go through your camp and not molest your women; 3 = they will trade with you and not cheat you; 4 = they will invite you to their church; 5 = they will invite you into their homes and feed you.

It wasn't long until there was a ward reunion in Cardston. Bishop Parker went over to Yellowface and said, "We're having a banquet at the church and would like you to come over." Afterwards Yellowface was invited into their home and given food. The signs were complete. For once the Indians had been dealt with honestly, the Mormons had not sought advantage over the Redman, being honest and virtuous in all their relations together.

It wasn't long afterward that Yellowface invited Bishop Parker over to his lodge and asked him to talk. Yellowface listened to hear something of "his" book, for surely these were the people the messenger had told him to find, but Bishop Parker didn't mention the Book of Mormon at all. Sometime later Yellowface asked him back to talk some more. This time as Bishop Parker was leaving his home he picked up the Book of Mormon. He told Yellowface of the contents of the book, the thing which the Chief had been awaiting. He took the book from the bishop and put it inside his robe, saying "My book."

The Chief had some of the young braves read the Book of Mormon to him. (I don't know what affect the Book of Mormon had on the Chief, but he certainly had learned to respect the Mormon people.)

Some 20 to 25 years later Yellowface and his tribe were being put over on a little tract of land west of Calgary. The government officials gave them the right to choose their own school system, or in other other words, the church which they wanted to administer their secular affairs. The established churches, Roman Catholic and Anglican, were suggested but Yellowface would have none but the Mormons.

(The rest of the story is rather uncertain on my notes, but I think V. Wood, brother to Pres. Wood, was a member of parliament at the time, and he was put in charge of their schools.) Anyway, the news soon reached other members of the Church, and there were many volunteers to teach at the Indians' school. One who went was an Elder Kimball. It seems that Elder Kimball was the lad who had given a copy of the Book of Mormon to the Pope while in the service overseas. George Spencer of Leavitt also taught on this Indian reserve.

Well, Mother, that is about all that I can give you on "Yellowface." Perhaps you can fill in where the story isn't complete. It is now Monday morning and time for us to start tracting. Sorry that I didn't finish this yesterday when I could have written something other than the Indian story. I'll send this anyway hoping that even such as it is will be better than nothing.

The missionary work is coming along alright. We have another good contact, a lady who just seemed to be awaiting the message of the gospel. Perhaps I have mentioned her before. We received her name through the Eastern Canadian missionaries from one of their contacts. Her name is Mrs. Miles. We haven't spent many visits with her but last Wednesday when we called she practically bore her testimony to us. She wondered how it was that the other churches couldn't see that there was more to the Plan of Salvation than they were teaching. She is a lovely lady and has two of the nicest children I have seen anywhere; they are well-mannered, polite, and clean. Mrs. Miles is an avid reader and is hungry for a knowledge of the gospel. It is a pleasure to work with her.

I just received a letter from Joseph F. Smith, the former Patriarch. He is at Banff teaching for a few weeks this summer. He wrote to me from Hawaii before he left, thinking I was in Alberta and that we could probably arrange a meeting before he left the Province.

Well, I guess this will have to be 30 for now I have to get going. Thanks for all the encouragement. I don't know what I would have done without you and my sisters.

All my love and may the Lord bless you, always = Marvin

Hans Friedrich Karl Lange

A history of Hans Friedrich Karl Lange (1895-1967), son of August Ferdinand Lange (1865-1950) and Emma Bertha Wilhelmine Mattick (1865-1952), and the father of Helen Carrie Lange Amundsen, John Marvin Lange, and Ruth Irene Lange Smith. Variants of his name include Hans or Johannes, Friedrich or Frederick, and Karl or Carl.

Hans or Johannes Frederick Carl Lange was born in Bredow, a small city about five to eight miles from Stettin, Germany [now Szczecin, Poland]. Stettin is a Baltic Sea port at the mouth of the Oder River and is a shipbuilding and ship-repairing center. Factories there manufacture iron, paper, and textiles.

It was the 24th of June 1895 when Hans first voiced his opinion of the world. Since the language of most infants is more readily understood by their parents, August Ferdinand Lange and Emma Bertha Wilhelmine Mattick probably were the only ones who comprehended this opinion in its more specific meaning. Hans was the second child of six children born to Emma and August. Shortly after his birth, the family moved to Stettin. Here two more children were born to August and Emma.

August was a blacksmith in Stettin and well established. He and his wife were of the Lutheran faith and when they heard the gospel of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints they believed it and were baptized. Their testimonies never faltered, and they were active members from the 30th of May 1898 through the remainder of their mortal existence, and without a doubt into the eternities. They were both strong of character and hard workers.

Hans was a happy boy and brought pleasure to his mother. He was a very generous person—sometimes to a fault—for he would give the shirt off of his own back. At one time when he did not have anything himself and someone came to him in need, Hans sent him to his brother Bruno's office for assistance. He was of an artistic nature—he both played the violin beautifully and with feeling, had an artistic penmanship (which he used to help earn his living at different intervals in his life), and drew and painted pictures which were entered in the State Fair. He was not known to say anything of a detrimental nature about anyone.

Hans, his sister, two brothers, and parents came to America when Hans was about five years old. After arriving in America, August and Emma had two more children—both girls.

Several times during Hans's life he was seriously ill. The first time was before they emigrated to America. At this time he had spinal meningitis. His temperature was dangerously high, but he recovered, which was somewhat of a miracle. Another time was after arriving in America during his boyhood days. He was a messenger boy (by this means he earned part of his own support) and had an accident while riding his bicycle. Along with the accident came an acute case of erysipelas. His mother spent many hours caring for Hans, and once more he recovered.

Before the First World War was over Hans was part of the American Army even though he had been born in Germany. At one time he rescued one of his buddies who was drowning. As he dove into the water he hit his head, injuring himself, but still he pulled his companion out of the water and saved his life. This act received notice in the papers. Whether it was because of the blow on his head or perhaps due to shell shock, his years shortly after his marriage were ones of periods of confinement.

He married Berenice Peterson in the Salt Lake Temple on the 30th of August 1922. They had three children—two girls and one boy. It seemed difficult for him to earn a living. He felt uncomfortable in crowds. It was necessary that his wife work. It seems there were periods when he was normal and other times when he could not be controlled. After their last daughter was born in 1926, his wife went to Great Falls, Montana. From this time on the government cared for him in the Veteran's Hospital.

The last few years of his life he was placed in a rest home in the southeast part of Salt Lake City, Utah, and he died at the age of 71 on the 26th of January 1967.

In Memory of Grandma Lange

A blog posted by Eliza Cleverly Challis on Sunday, February 24, concerning her grandmother, Barbara Jean Fraughton Lange (1928-1994)

Grandma Lange died fourteen years ago today. Boy, did I love her! I was in the fourth grade when she died, and she was the only grandma I ever knew. My dad’s mother passed away when I was baking in my mama’s belly. Grandma Cleverly and I may have had brief hellos and hugs as we each slipped through the veil.

My Grandma Lange was an extraordinary person, much like my mother is. Grandma certainly loved to laugh and she loved deeply. I imagine the charity that comes without any second thoughts or reservations to my own mother, grew in my mom under the example, love, and care of her mom (and Grandpa too!).

Grandma was a college graduate (from the University of Utah, I might add. See, she had great taste!). Back in public school days when you had to fill out those sheets that listed how much education your parents and grandparents attained, I loved that I could fill out college graduate for all the women and so even at a young age I knew that I wanted to be a college grad too.

I ended up in the emergency room at Lakeview Hospital on April 27, 1994 (two months after her death), with a kidney infection. My Grandma died of kidney failure after many, many years on dialysis. Grandma was my guardian angel that day. You see, April 27th was her birthday. She was taking care of me and making sure that I was taken care of. I’m sure later times in my life she was also there to help me too. That’s what grandmothers do for their grandchildren after all.

I was quite young when Grandma died and I only ever knew her through the eyes of a child. I wonder sometimes how it would have been and what my relationship with her would be like now as I’m an adult, if she were still alive today. But then again, I don’t wonder. She was my Grandma and I was her granddaughter—we’d love each other. And I still do!

An Interview with J. Marvin Lange

An account of John Marvin Lange’s life from his birth in Salt Lake City until his love affair with compost piles in his backyard in San Gabriel in the late 1970s and early 1980s. This account was written from a 1996 interview conducted by his oldest grandson, Michael Adam Cleverly, when Michael was a history major at Brigham Young University. The account was published in the September 2004 issue of the Family Journal in honor of Grandpa Lange’s 80th birthday on Sunday, September 12, 2004. His older sister, Helen Lange Amundsen, has told me there are inaccuracies in this account, although she has never specified exactly what they are. They could result from their differing perceptions of what happened in their long-ago childhood.

Marvin was born in Salt Lake City, Utah, on September 12, 1924. He married Barbara Jean Fraughton on June 15, 1949, in the Salt Lake Temple. Elder Ezra Taft Benson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles officiated. Marvin and Barbara were the parents of two children, Claudia (born February 6, 1951, in Utah) and David (born September 14, 1954, in California).

In 1987 Grandpa retired from the Southern California Gas Company, and he and Grandma moved to Bountiful, Utah, to be closer to their Utah grandchildren. She died from complications of nephritis (a kidney disease) on February 24, 1994, following 14 years on kidney dialysis. Grandpa married Venna Watkins Swalberg on June 23, 1995, and continues to live with her in the home he designed and built in the Bountiful foothills. For his 80th birthday, he rode his bicycle 80 miles (from Bountiful to Willard Bay and back to Layton) with some of his granddaughters.

I was born in Salt Lake City. I don’t know exactly where, if it was in a hospital. I don’t know where a birth certificate is. My first memories are not of Salt Lake, but of Great Falls, Montana. We must have moved when I was two or so, because my sister Ruth, who is two years younger than I, was also up in Great Falls. I think she was born in Salt Lake.


I was the second Lange. The oldest, my sister Helen, was a year older than I was. We lived with my mother and my grand­mother (her mother) in a house up in Great Falls some­place. I never did know my father, though I sort of vaguely remember that a man came one day while we were up there and played with the balls. Mother always told us our father was dead. It turns out that later on we discovered that he’d been in a veterans’ hospital—I don’t know where he was at that time; he spent most of his adult life in a hospital, something to do with World War I, but I don’t know.

He emigrated from Germany with his family when he was a young boy. He was born in Stettin, which is now Poland, I think, but it wasn’t Poland at that time. Then sometime later we got in a car one night and drove to Salt Lake, from Montana. I can sort of remember that old car. It had a seat and a back seat—I can’t remember if it had removable top or not. It may have been a convertible.

I don’t remember anything except that it was a long trip. I can remember we started in the nighttime, so I probably slept most of the way. I don’t know if my mother drove or if we came with one of her brothers.

We lived in a little home at 645 Grand Court in Salt Lake. That is where my maternal grandfather owned that little house; he lived in a little house kind of on the same property. He had a shop and was divorced from Grandma. A finish carpenter, he had all kinds of tools and other things in his shop. We never did get acquainted with him. It’s strange. There we were right next door living in his house, and we didn’t see him. I don’t remember if Grandma lived with us at that house on Grand Court. (If she did, that would explain why we didn’t see Grandpa much.)

I started in Douglas School on 13th East and about 6th South. I may have started school in Montana, but I don’t re­member it. It’s kind of crazy. The first school I remember is Douglas School in Salt Lake.

There was a big hill to climb to go to school, up near Judge Memorial High School. In the winter time we used to go skiing on those hills and down those slopes. We used to go sleigh riding down 7th South. We’d start up by Judge and go down till about 11th East, 11th to 10th, from 10th toward 9th. That hill was pretty good, a great hill.

We went to church at a chapel near our house. I guess it is still there on the corner. I remember running around the church and making a lot of noise, getting people upset. I can remember going to Primary. We went to pretty much all the meetings. We had to give talks and do all those fun things. Primary was during the week in those days.

I don’t remember any conflicts between my sisters and me. The neighborhood kids used to play neighborhood games at night on the street, like kick the can, run sheepy run—things like that. That was a lot of fun, as I recall. A couple of kids who lived close were pretty close in age, and we all did the same things, like roller skating down from 10th to 9th East on 7th South. We’d get going pretty fast. I fell once, and to this day I have a gash in my knee.

While we were there, the boundaries for the school were changed, so when I was starting the 6th grade I had to leave the Douglas School and go to the Hamilton School (down below us a few blocks, west and south from where we were living.) I think I was in the drum and bugle corps there. There is a pic­ture of us somewhere, all of us in the drum and bugle corps, 30 people or so in all. I played the bugle (though not very well). I think we mainly just posed for our picture. Maybe we were there when the flag was raised. I probably wouldn’t remember the drum and bugle corps if it hadn’t been for that picture.


When I was going to start the seventh grade, we moved from that little house on Grand Court up to the Avenues—on 7th Avenue between E and F Streets. It was an old adobe house that had been plastered over inside and outside. It had a fairly large yard in the back. The house was really quite comfortable, cool in the summer and warm in the winter. We had coal stoves in the living room and the kitchen. The kitchen did get a little hot in the summertime. The house also had a partial basement, just earth filled (like an earth cellar). To get into it you had to go outside, and there was a cellar door on the slant. We had a garden and planted vegetables. I think Grandma (Karen Hansen) lived with us at least part of the time. Later on she got a little one-room apartment on the Avenues, over by J Street. She’d stay with us during the day while Mother worked, then at night I’d walk her home.

I remember during the wintertime when I would walk Grandma home, it was often snowing. The hill we would come down had arc lights, and the falling snow made a halo around the lights; there was a kind of a mood about it.

In the summertime I used to put on my roller skates and catch onto the back of a bus and ride over to Grandma’s. Usually the bus would stop about every intersection, when someone would get on or off. I don’t think the bus driver knew we were hanging on, because the back window was kind of high. All you had to do was hold onto the bumper. The last time I ever did this was one day when nobody got on or off the bus—it really got going pretty fast. I soon lost control of my skates (I was tumbling around in the middle of the road) and had to let go of the bus. I ended up getting all skinned up— road rash. My skates weren’t like today’s modern skates. I probably could have hung on with a good pair of inline skates.

I went to seventh grade, my last year of elementary school, at Ensign Elementary School. (When I was a student, elemen­tary school went through the seventh grade.) Later I think they did away with the seventh grade and made it an “articulating unit.” I don’t know what an articulating unit was; that is just what they called it once they didn’t have the seventh grade any­more. After attending seventh grade at the Ensign School, I went to Bryant Junior High and later to West High School.


When I was in high school I bought a little Model A Road­ster convertible for $50. The first day after I had gotten pos­session of it, I had all my friends in it and was speeding along 11th Avenue until I got stopped by a policeman for going too fast. I had just barely gotten my driver’s license. They didn’t have radar guns in those days—the officer just saw me going by too fast. I ended up having to go to court. As a punishment the court revoked my driver’s license for 30 days.

I didn’t date at all in high school. There were some neigh­borhood boys I played with, but no girls at all. Gene Spencer lived down on F Street just below 6th Avenue. He and I built a little crystal set radio that we listened to with earphones. I don’t think we had a parabola—just a little wire running along this crystal. It may have been a tuning condenser, but we didn’t have enough stations. Anyway, this gave us the idea of putting in our own phone line. We ended up stringing a wire from his house to my house along the telephone poles. We had to cross 7th Avenue and 6th Avenue. We’d climb the telephone poles and put up our little wire. Sixth Avenue was pretty busy, and it had a bus line that went by all the time. Fortunately, it wasn’t a trolley bus or we would have had to cross the trolley wires. We used the earphones for a mouth piece (you could talk in one end and listen in the other end). We must have had a bell to ring. I don’t think anyone knew about our little phone system but us.

We also built a kayak in his basement. We made the frame and covered it with canvass and painted it. It was a lot of fun to build, although I don’t remember ever using it.

At that time junior high lasted two years, and high school was two years. In those days you got out of school earlier (at age 16), but you had the option, if you wanted to, of electing to go a third year in high school. I had elected to go to the third year. That December the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. I dropped out and took an aircraft instrument training course which was given at West High in the shop area. That led to a job at Hill Field, which was just getting going. There at Hill Field we worked servicing instruments on airplanes. I only worked there for about six months. After that I had saved enough money so I could start at the University of Utah.


The University of Utah was much smaller in those days, with a student body of around 4,000 or so. I only went one semester before joining the Navy. One of our good friends, Doyle Olsen, had joined the Navy Air Corps, so on New Year’s Day I went with Gene and another friend, Fred Titel (who lived down on 6th Avenue near F Street), to the Hotel Utah to join the Navy Air Corps. In the end only Gene got in. I couldn’t pass the eye test because it turns out I don’t have any depth percep­tion. Fred couldn’t get in because he found out he was a German alien. Eventually he did get in as a paratrooper.

Later on, Gene ended up getting washed out of the Navy Air Corps. Just as they were finishing up flight school in Nevada, and getting ready to move onto the next phase of their training, someone came down with the measles and they all got quaran­tined. While they were stuck there in Nevada, some of them used to go out and buzz wild horses. One day he and a friend were doing this, and they landed out in the desert. Either there was an accident, or some kind of trouble out there, but in any case, they ended up getting court martialed because there was a rule against flying below a certain elevation. Gene ended up in the Navy as a radioman.

I ended up in the Navy. I wasn’t drafted; I volunteered for the draft. If I’d waited I would have been drafted. I could volunteer to be drafted in the Navy whereas if I were drafted I would probably have been drafted into the Army. (That was probably the motivation—to stay out of the Army!) It turned out to be a pretty good choice. We always had a good bunk, a place to sleep, and food. At least it wasn’t the infantry out in all the mud and the muck. It was pretty good.


I went to Camp Farragut, in Idaho, on Lake Mulberry, for basic training. Spokane, Washington, was fairly close. We got out on the lake a couple of times during boot camp. After boot camp, I signed up for the Quartermaster Service School, which was also held at Camp Farragut. The quartermaster had to be trained in using both signal flags and Morse code by light. We had all these different flags. Each had a name, and you’d run them up on the yard arms in certain combinations to send dif­ferent messages. We ended up learning how to control the helm of the ship, keep the log, wind the clocks, etc. We would also have to wake up the captain or other officers when they needed to be awakened for their watch. Our watch stations were on the bridge.

All this time I’d never seen the ocean. I thought going on board a ship would be kind of fun. After I graduated from quarter­master school, I was assigned to the USS Reno, a light cruiser. I didn’t have any leave after either boot camp or service school but was sent directly to Treasure Island in San Francisco. The Reno was still being built at the Navy shipyard.

Most of the quartermasters were like me: they hadn’t been on a ship before. While we were waiting for the Reno to be completed, our captain arranged for us, one day, to go on a four-stack destroyer at Treasure Island. We were supposed to escort a submarine out so it could do some practice diving. This was to be an opportunity for us to take the helm and steer the destroyer. We got up really early to go on board. This was going to be a great experience—at least that was the theory. I was seasick the whole time we were out there. The others didn’t seem to mind it as much. When I came back I wondered how I could get out of the Navy. It turned out to be a real disaster.

When the Reno got finished, we had to take it out on a shakedown cruise. We had what we called special sea details. When you came in or went out, you had to go to your special sea details. Mine was the quartermaster on watch. I was sup­posed to keep the log, keep the captain informed of what buoys we were passing, and where we were in the channel, except I got seasick again. They have other special sea details and general quarters when you are in battle. They have watertight security systems; every time you went from one compartment to the next one, you had to release the cam-operated levers that tighten the door up against the gaskets. (This made it water­tight.) If you go through, you have to unloosen them all, and after getting on the other side you have to tighten them all up again. I was trying to get down to my bunk, and only made it as far as the infirmary. I just stopped right there; I never did get to my bunk. One of the guys on duty there was a Hawaiian mem­ber of the Church named Charlie Kamoha.

When we finally got out, we’d stay at sea for months at a time. They’d refuel us at sea, bring provisions on, etc., and I eventually got over it. It was just a matter of hanging in there. If I were to go to sea today, I’d probably be seasick again. When we were in California, I’d get invited on deep sea fishing trips, and I’d always get sea sick. I finally decided it was a waste of time. I have to be having that rolling motion con­stantly for a certain length of time before it doesn’t bother me anymore.

After leaving Treasure Island we went to Pearl Harbor, where we joined up with our group. We traveled in formation: four aircraft carriers in the center, a ring of battleships and cruisers in the middle, and then a third ring of destroyers. After we left Pearl Harbor we went out into the Pacific. We were making our way to some Japanese islands. We didn’t see much other than the daily launch of planes from the aircraft carriers. A few times we had enemy planes (we never did see enemy ships) come into the formation.

One day a group of 15 planes came in low on the water, so they weren’t picked up on radar. They flew right into our for­mation. They were trying to get the aircraft carriers. I was on the bridge, and I could see one of the Japanese planes come up right behind the aircraft carrier. I even saw the torpedo leave the airplane and go in the water; it didn’t land properly. Instead of landing, it tumbled, and there wasn’t an explosion, since it didn’t hit anything. Another plane crashed into the Reno’s after-gun turret, glanced off, and went over the other side into the ocean. (This occurred before the Japanese started that kamikaze stuff, so I don’t know if this guy was an early kami­kaze or if he’d just been shot and crashed.) The crash started a little fire, which resulted in a couple of casualties on board ship.

One other time a lone plane flew over really high, and it hit one of our aircraft carriers. It was one of the smaller carriers that had been converted from some other kind of vessel and made into an aircraft carrier. The carrier caught on fire and was finally abandoned. We picked up some of the survivors. The Reno, along with another cruiser and two or three destroyers, stayed back, and the rest of the formation went on.

We’d go alongside with our fire hoses and try and put the fires out. The other cruiser was a bigger cruiser, and it was in charge of everything. While they were there alongside there was an internal explosion, and their captain got injured. Once he was out of commission, out captain was put in charge. We finally decided to sink the thing so it wouldn’t become a navigational hazard. We picked up the rest of the carrier’s crew. Then our captain told the destroyers to torpedo it. Some­how they missed—it’s crazy! It was a stationary target! The Reno happened to have torpedo tubes, so we decided that we’d make a pass at it. We made a run at it and we fired two torpedoes. The first one hit and blew up, and the next one probably went right through, since there was nothing left. We were probably some of the only people who got a chance to sink one of our own aircraft carriers.

Later, while we were in formation, we got hit by a torpedo from a Japanese submarine. Nobody detected the submarine. It was really a bright moonlit night, and the sea was very calm. They figure the submarine must have fired into the formation, really hoping to hit an aircraft carrier. I guess that is why we were out around the aircraft carriers, so they’d hit us before they hit the aircraft carrier.

We got hit just before midnight before the watch was re­lieved. I was asleep on the deck. The torpedo hit in the after en­gine room. The people in the com­partment below me were all killed, as were half of the people in the compartment where I was. The deck tore alongside where I was sleeping. It was thrown up against the overhang, so everyone on that side of the compartment was killed. I just happened to be right on the dividing line. I was asleep when it happened; when I woke up I was somewhat disoriented. I didn’t know which way to go. If I had stepped the wrong way, I would have been out in the ocean and probably would have died. I managed to make it up on the deck.

In the explosion the rudder was damaged, and we ended up just going around in circles. We were listing badly; the next morning we had to abandon ship, leaving only a small crew on board. We put on our life jackets and walked off the fan tail. We didn’t have to jump in, we just walked right off. We had a big long rope. As we walked off we grabbed onto it so we wouldn’t drift apart. Several destroyers stayed back and picked us up.

A seagoing tug went out and got the ship. They were able to put on a temporary patch. After that we went down south of the equator to a place called Manas, where there was a floating dry dock so the ship could be repaired. While I was there I was flown home for 30 days of leave.

After my leave was over, I wasn’t assigned to the Reno any­more. I was sent back to Treasure Island receiving ship. They sent me from there to Pearl Harbor receiving ship. While I was in Pearl Harbor, I was assigned to a little wooden sub chaser which had just been back from the Pacific. It was like a little ski boat with 20mm guns and depth charges. It only had one officer and only one quartermaster. There were eight or ten people total. It immediately went into dry dock next to all these other big ships there. Nobody got out until everything is finished, so all I had to do was hitchhike around Oahu. At a Church function on Oahu, I met Wayne Proctor, who had been in the air force as a B-24 gunner.

The war ended soon after that. I had gone into the service in January of 1943. We were torpedoed in the end of 1944, and then the war ended in 1945. They sent you home on the basis of your points—how long you’d been in the service and other things. I got transferred off the little sub chaser to a couple of other small ships. On one of these other ships I got a trip to Maui and one to Hawaii. I had been to the temple after I’d joined the Navy but before I went overseas, so while I was in Hawaii I was able to go to the Hawaiian Temple. Charlie Kamoha’s parents lived on Maui, and I was able to visit them. I still didn’t have enough points to go home.

We’d get mail, although it wouldn’t come every day, it did come and go. Mother saved all the letters I sent to her. I still have them all boxed up. We were not allowed to tell what we were doing or reveal our whereabouts. The Navy would censor all the mail to make sure we didn’t. As a result I’m pretty sure there wasn’t a lot about what was happening in the letters. Servicemen could write postage free; we just wrote “free” on them. It would have been three cents otherwise.

The night the Reno had been torpedoed, my mother couldn’t get to sleep; she felt very uneasy. Finally she said, “Oh Mother [speaking to my grandma], something happened to Marvin.” She got down on her knees and prayed. When I finally got that letter (it was an extra long time before we got mail), I figured out that her experience coincided more or less with the timing (time zones being what they are) of when the torpedo hit.

The service at that time was a pretty good thing. Service­men got treated very well wherever they went. You could hitch­hike anyplace, and people would pick you up. When I was at Treasure Island I’d hitchhike to San Francisco or Oakland or wherever. I could always get a ride. There was a nice family in Oakland that would invite the servicemen home and feed us and put us up over the weekend.


When the war was over, servicemen were treated well. They had the GI bill, really a nice thing. It enabled us to get an edu­cation.

When I came home I elected not to be in the reserves. Some people did stay in the reserves. When the Korean War came along a lot of those people got to go again. In fact, Si’s sister, who was married to Grant Madsen, Truman Madsen’s brother, was in the air force and elected to stay in the reserves. Grant got called back and ended up being a casualty in Korea. I didn’t want anything more to do with the military.

I got out of the Navy in January or February of 1946. I may have gone to spring quarter at the U [the University of Utah], I don’t remember for sure. I distinctly remember taking sum­mer quarter. I took solid physics and got rid of it all in that one summer. I was going to go into electrical engineering. After that summer quarter I didn’t go back to school because I was planning on a mission. That’s when I met Barbara, in the fall of 1946.

My sister Ruth had arranged a blind date. Barbara and Ruth were sorority sisters. We went with Wayne, who took my sister Helen as his date. We went to the Old Mill, kind of a fun place for dancing. That got us acquainted. Barbara worked at Auerbachs, which was kind of like ZCMI, except it was on the other end of town, down by 3rd and State Street. I’d go down there and meet her when she got off work. I’d either ride home later on the bus or, if it was too late, walk home from her house. She lived close to 17th South and 15th East on Logan Avenue. We were living on D Street below 6th Avenue at the time, so that made for a pretty good walk.

On Christmas Eve I surprised her with a ring and we got engaged. I don’t remember exactly how I proposed, but I don’t think I did it on my knees. We had to go and talk to her parents. Both her father and her mother were still alive at that point.

In February I left on my mission. I had been called to the Western Canadian Mission. At that time our mission included the three western provinces of Canada—British Columbia, Alberta, and Saskatchewan. We reported to the mission head­quarters in Edmonton, Alberta. We traveled by train. A lot of people came down to see us off. Altogether there were six or eight elders and one lady missionary.

I can remember when we crossed the border and got on a Canadian train. When we had stopped to get something to eat, I had my first experience with the metric system. Canada had quarts and pints that were different sizes than ours. One of the other elders ordered a pint of milk and just took it and dumped it into his glass. In the States it would always just barely fill it, but this time it overflowed. Apparently there is more in a Canadian pint than in an American pint.

After we reported to mission headquarters in Edmonton, I was sent back to a little town in southern Alberta. We lived in a small one-room house that had no indoor plumbing. We’d have to go out and pump water, heat it on the stove, and put it in the big old tin to take a bath. We used the outhouse when we had to go to the bathroom. When spring came, the streets weren’t paved, and so they became really muddy.

We really didn’t have the lessons like they have today to teach. I can’t remember now what we taught. We had some tracts we would leave with people. The Anderson plan had come from the Northwestern States Mission and was starting to get used quite a bit.

From there I went over to Redcliffe, Alberta, which is now New Medicine Hat. There was a little more civilization there. The house we lived in had water inside, but it didn’t have a boiler. We still had to heat the water on the stove and put it in the tub. It did have electricity though. An Anglican minister lived fairly close to where we were staying, and we became fairly good acquaintances with him. He had a car and would give us rides. Every Saturday we’d go over to his house and take a bath (he had hot water). He told us that in his opinion the Church of England, the Roman Catholic, and Greek Orthodox churches really all had the same priesthood. He looked for the day when they would all come back together in one big church. It hasn’t happened yet.

From there I went to Vancouver, British Columbia. That was really quite a shock. Vancouver is a big city—bigger than Salt Lake. I had gotten used to the small towns out on the prairie. We didn’t make a lot of friends. People weren’t very interested in our message. We’d knock on a lot of doors—we didn’t have a good system of referrals from members in those days. We had a couple of families to teach. One lady, Sister Miles, used to exchange Christmas cards for many years. Their family turned out to be a really active family. I think the kids went to BYU and were all active in the Church. I’ve lost track of them now.

One day we knocked on the door of Brother Douglas, a former Catholic priest. He had come from Scotland but had walked away from the Catholic Church because he was having difficulty with some of its theology. When we knocked on his door he invited us in. We got into a discussion (he’d been look­ing at various faiths, including some eastern religions) and left him a copy of the Book of Mormon. He invited us back.

I guess basically I get my testimony from Brother Douglas. He would always ask us questions that were really hard to answer. I remember one day when we left his house, I felt that we really hadn’t done a very good job. I had a strong impres­sion that regardless of our ineptitude our message was true. That was kind of a confirmation of my testimony. Eventually Brother Douglas joined the Church—not while I was there but before I finished my mission. After I’d been sent to Saskatchewan (that’s where I finished my mission), I received a letter from him. I saved it for a long time—I probably still have it in a drawer somewhere.

I came back in February of 1949. We were known as the Valentine of ’49 group. I started immediately back at school. Barbara graduated June 14, 1949. We were married the next day. She used to say she got her BS on the 14th and her MRS on the 15th.

We were living in an apartment fairly close to the Salt Lake Temple on about 2nd North and 2nd West, across the street from West High School. We went on our honeymoon to Yellowstone Park. I didn’t have a car, but Charlie Kamoha (who was down at BYU) had one, and he loaned me his. (Later on Charlie was killed in a motorcycle accident. He was riding a motorcycle, and someone made a left turn into him. That was after he’d graduated and moved to southern California to teach high school. He had four children when this happened.)

We set up shop in our little apartment until housing opened up at the veterans’ housing at the University of Utah (Stadium Village). We’d been on a waiting list. The apartments turned out to be pretty nice, and we met some nice people up there.

When you had a family you got to move into a larger unit. So once Claudia was born we got to move across the street. Between my junior and senior year we went up to Washington. I had signed up for a job at the Peugeot Sound Naval Shipyard as a civilian. I did drafting. We lived in a pretty nice place. A school teacher had gone on a trip for the summer, so her house was empty, and were able to stay there. The Peugeot Sound area was a very beautiful site. We had to take a ferry or the Tacoma Bridge to get out to the shipyard. (That was the bridge that fell down.)

We came back and I finished my senior year. After I graduated we moved to California. We had packed up the few things we had and had a van line move them. I already had a job lined up with the Southern California Gas Company before I graduated. The gas company paid our moving expenses. We got down and had to find a place to live. I didn’t know any­body. Barbara knew some who lived in South Pasadena, so we ended up in that direction. We looked at a lot of places.

We had found a little house and had decided to take and put some money down on it. Afterwards neither one of us could remem­ber seeing a closet. We went back, and there wasn’t a closet! So we asked for our money back and went someplace else. We found a little place in Alhambra. There were four little apart­ments, each right behind the other. It had one bedroom, a little kitchen, and a living room. We were close to a nice little park.

We became members of the South Pasadena Ward, which was Elder [Howard W.] Hunter’s ward. He was the first bishop. (It was called the El Sereno Ward then. They didn’t meet in the same building they do now. It later became the South Pasadena Ward.)

Bishop Hunter called me to be in the Young Men’s Mutual presidency. Then I was put in the elders quorum presidency. Then I was made the elders quorum president. Then I was put in the bishopric (I ended up serving in two bishoprics). Then the ward was divided, and I was made the bishop. The ward was divided again when I was released. I was put on the high council. Then the stake was divided, and the Arcadia Stake was created. We stayed in the Pasadena Stake. I was called to be the stake clerk. Later on I was called to be the stake executive secretary to President Hunter, who was our stake president until he was called to be a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.

When David was about to be born, we figured there wasn’t enough room in the apartment, so Barbara’s mother helped us with the down payment on a house. She gave us $3,000. We looked around and ended up buying a two-bedroom house that had a little room on the back that the family had added. The house was in San Gabriel at 356 Bridge Street. We paid less than $17,000 for the house.

Our house in San Gabriel was where the garden was. When President [Spencer W.] Kimball was President of the Church, he said we should all have gardens. I decided to take out most of the back lawn, and I started to make compost. I dug a hole that was four feet square on each side and two feet deep. We had some trees on the property that dumped a lot of leaves. I picked them up, shredded them, and mixed them in with a lot of grass clippings and horse manure (I’d go to a stable to get horse manure). Then I’d put in a layer of dirt, then another layer of organic matter, then another layer of dirt. When it got up to ground level, I’d build a little box that was four feet square and two feet high. I’d take the dirt I’d dug up and I’d throw it back on, so I had in essence a four-foot cube of won­derful material. When I got that done, I’d build a hole by its side. I kept moving across the back of the lawn. When I got all the way across, I’d start doing another row.

I ordered a Troybilt tiller by mail order. One day it came. Oh, that was an exciting day! I had to put it together and put the oil in it, and the gas in it, and start it up. Then it worked just like a big Mix Master, and I got out there and churned all this dirt up with this tiller.

I’d read about the French intensive method of planting, so I planted everything so that all the plants were equal distance from each other. Tomato plants would be further apart than radishes, of course, so it depended on what kind of plant I was planting. The tomatoes really started to take off. I got some welded wire and made cages for them to grow up in. The cages were about seven feet tall and three feet in diameter. These tomatoes would grow right up to the top and down the sides. So they did really well.