Caitlin's Bridal Shower

Saturday, June 11, 2011, Newton, Massachusetts

Caitlin's bridal shower was given by Caitlin's Aunt Judy from Florida, and her bride's maids, Jaime, Jenny and Robyn. whom I was delighted to meet. Dorri (dear friend of Caitlin's family) hosted and her home was the perfect setting for the afternoon party. Her Victorian home is beautifully decorated and very comfortable. The food was delicious. My favorites were the Wheatberry Salad and the Mexican Salad.

For the first game Caitlin was asked several questions about Peter and everytime she gave a wrong answer she had to chew a stick of gum. By the end she was chewing 4 1/2 sticks.

Some of the questions were:

1. What color was Peter's first bike? A blue Schwinn.
2. Peter's Grandmother Marple named a peak after Peter. Where is it located? Las Vegas, Nevada.
3. Peter dressed up as which Teletubbie for a little kids birthday party? Tinky Winky.
4. In middle school Peter had the lead role in the play Dogg's Hamlet and Cohoot's Macbeth. What part did he play? The inspector.
5. Who gave Peter's his first haircut? Grandpa Marple

We then played a fun game where we had to identify common household ingredients from the kitchen sealed in see thru baggies, i.e. flour, baking soda, pancake flour, garlic salt, salt, gelatin, cornstarch etc. Susan Barnhurst won with 9 out of 12 right.

We then played bingo as Caitlin opened her presents. In the squares we wrote in the gifts from the registry that we thought she would recieve. That was fun to play as she opened her many wonderful gifts.

For dessert they served yummy cookies and brownies made by Kathy, Caitlin's mother. Caitlin and her mother have a cookie exchange every Christmas, so it was nice to taste some of their favorites.

The guys Peter, Kevin, Jim (Caitlin's dad) and Ray (Dorri's husband) had there own little private party at the local pub and then crashed the shower at the end. Peter recieved two special presents from Jim and Ray which he was pretty psyched up about. He got some tools that he'll need this month when he renovates their new home in Norwood.

It was a lovely afternoon. I was so happy and grateful I could be there. Now the countdown for the wedding has started.

Memorial Day by Jon H. Marple

The Sergeant reached for his tools in a holster secured to his hip. His hands were cold, almost frozen it seemed. The temperature was below freezing and colder still at the thirty feet in the air he stood, at the top of a telephone pole. The wind made it seem colder still. It is January 13, 1944, France, and as the soldier reached for the damaged wire he heard the noise he most dreaded.
A German Messerschmitt fighter plane had spotted him and was in a dive position at 200 miles an hour hurling directly toward him. The Sergeant knew it was too high to jump and too short of time to shimmy down the pole. With only seconds to think, the Sergeant could do only one thing. He moved to the other side of the pole and held tight to take his chances that the pole would shield him. The fighter pilot, aiming at the lone soldier opened fire with his twin mounted machine guns blasting at the Sergeant. Bullets sprayed and splintered the pole as the Ssergeant held on, literally, for his life.
Once the Sergeant realized that the spray of bullets had hit the pole and left him unscathed he also realized that the enemy was banking in the distance and was to return to attack the lone soldier once more. The Sergeant scrambled as far down the pole as time allowed, but the plane was bearing down on him. Knowing he was in the enemy’s sights, and realizing he was running out of time to escape, ten or twelve feet off the ground the Sergeant jumped, ramming one of his spear-like climbing spikes into his leg and opening a gash as he fell. He then dove for cover as the Messerschmitt fired its machine guns again. The bullets destroyed the soldier’s truck, but missed the Sergeant.
A little over a year later the Sergeant, William Wesley “Jack” Marple returned to his family in Columbus, Ohio. That Sergeant was my father and his brush with death won him the Purple Heart. He loved surviving much better than receiving the medal for his valor.
That was the last pass by the plane. A fitting symbol of the war and the battle that finished off Germany and the Nazi’s, because this event was part of the “Battle of the Bulge”. One of the most famous battles in the history of the U.S. Military. It was the longest (December 16, 1944 to the end of January, 1945), and, the bloodiest battle of World War II. Of the 600,000 America troops in the battle almost one in six were killed, wounded or captured.
My wife Mary’s, Uncle Tommie was engaged in the very same battle. He was a Methodist Minister with a wife and young daughter at home. He could have received a deferment because of his religious position, or he could have entered the conflict as a Chaplin which would have been much safer. But, he went in like everyone else, and would not take any advantage because of his position. His platoon came upon some telegraph lines that were cut and Tommie volunteered to go up the pole and repair the cut wire. Once he reached the top, he was shot and killed by a sniper. This was a real, live danger every time a Signal Corp lineman climbed a pole. Their job was as important as any in the war. They kept the lines of communication open between the various battlegrounds. They went out in a team of nine or ten in two trucks and their job was to repair damaged lines and string new ones. They were on their own and hoped they didn’t make a wrong turn and end-up behind enemy lines. Every day was a challenge to stay alive. They were seldom in the relative comfort zone of being surrounded by allies and friends.
Always out there alone. Hoping they didn’t get captured or shot. Hoping a plane didn’t pick them off or a sniper see them on a pole as an easy target; sleeping in pup tents and fox holes every night for years.
Dad would tell this story of his platoon. He was the ranking man of his merry little troup and one day, having taken a wrong turn, they stopped at a farm house where a little French girl was outside playing. They asked the child if she had seen any German soldiers go by. She said no. They asked her if she had ever seen any German soldiers. She pointed to a hillside not more than 200 yards away. “Only those, over there,” she said. The boys looked up to see what looked like half the German army within a stone’s throw. When dad said they got out of there fast, we can believe it. Such was the life of a signal corpsman operating outside any army protection.
We got dad back with us. Can you imagine our life without him? I can’t. It would have been a far different life for me and many of us. I really don’t want to think about that.
Tommie Blake’s family was not so fortunate. He didn’t return. But, his brother, Charlie Blake, Mary’s dad, did return after five and a half years following Patton through North Africa and Italy in the Army Air Corps. He had joined up to be a pilot, but his eyesight made him relegated to serving as a plane mechanic. They wouldn’t let those guys out of the army until the war was over because we had to keep our airplanes flying. Once home, he married Tommie’s widow, Sidney, and a few years later Mary Blake, your Nana, was born. So the widow and baby that Tommie left behind became Mary’s mother and sister.
Charlie’s little brother, Wilborn Blake was in the navy in the Pacific Conflict and came home safe, but Sidney’s little brother, Jimmy Allen, was not so lucky. So, she lost both, her husband and a brother to WWII.
We just want to say, thank you to Jack and Tommie and Jimmy and Charlie, who were brave enough to serve us so well. Thank you also Uncle Hooch, Milt and Helen Newell, Pap-Pap and all the others who have fought and risked their life, or given their lives, or were ready to, so that the rest of us did not have to go to war. Dean and Mollie and I did not go to war, although I would have done so if the need had been there. Nor did any of our children have to go off to battle and perhaps our grandchildren as well. We shall see on that score.
Thanks too, to our ancestors that fought in all the other conflicts that came before that made America what it is, “…a shining light on a hill.”
These are our hero’s and it is why we honor those who have gone before and made us proud. It is for them that we celebrate Memorial Day. It is for them that our eyes mist when Old Glory passes by. We are eternally grateful.

“Land where our fathers died,
Land of our pilgrims’ pride,
From every mountainside,
LET FREEDOM RING!”

Memorial Day, 2011

JHM
Splendid editing, as usual, by MEB


Note from brother Dean to brother Jon:

Dad had to stay several months after the war during the transition to peace in Germany. I would imagine he was putting up communication lines. This winter he shot 32 deer for his men and the locals to eat. The Germans were starving because of the devistation and dad would shoot a deer and they would dress it and he would take the hind qtrs. for his men and leave the rest to the german people. One of my favorite stories about Dad. When some new recruits arrived after the war, dad took a young kid out to shoot deer. He told the kid that he only shot the deer in the eye, that way, none of the meat would be destroyed by the bullet. They were on a ridge and saw a small herd of deer below them over 100 yards away. Dad said he would take a certain deer and the other fella should shoot another. Dad's lucky shot was just under the eye but any good hunter would have aimed for the heart. The kid was so impressed that he told everyone that Jack Marple was the best shot he'd seen.

Happy Birthday Dad!

We miss Dad today and everyday. We honor him because he was such a wonderful father, grandfather and great grandfather.

My nephew Jon Marple wrote:

My Late Grandfather, Jack Marple, was born May 25, 1919. He had to drop out of school in the 10th grade and go to work in the steel mill when his father had a stroke and could no longer work. He was only 15 years old (to work in the steel mill you had to be 16), so his family doctor made a false birth certificate dated 1918 so he could get the job. With the job at the mill, he provided for his 5 sisters, his mother and his father. Now that's what you call "manning up."

My Thoughts on April Conference

This week I received a call from Bishop Makechnie asking me to take five minutes in sacrament meeting and talk about my thoughts on any address given at the April General Conference in Salt Lake City on April 3, 2011. I told him I’d be happy too. Here is the testimony I gave 10 April, 2001, in Weston.

In the early ninety’s my husband and I lived in Provo, Utah. One day I drove to Salt Lake City to visit my husband’s grandmother who was living there in a nursing home. I remember this visit well for two reasons. The first reason was that it was one of the last times I saw Grandma Hansen (Ruth Timmerman Bowring Hansen) before she passed away. As I sat with her that day I especially remember looking at her hands. They were very crippled with rheumatoid arthritis. She could not feed herself or take care of her daily needs. It was very sad. But we did have a very sweet visit. The second reason I remember this visit so well is that as I left her room and walked down the hall I looked up and saw a large statured man walking toward me. We both looked at each other, smiled and said, “hello.” That man was President Thomas S. Monson, who then was second counselor to President Ezra Taft Benson of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

I tell you this because in General Conference when President Monson talks about caring for the 84 widows, I smile and remember the passing in the hall of this wonderful man. As our prophet he has set the standard of service very high. His love for the Savior and his willingness to be like Him has been such an example to me.

President Monson’s talk on The Holy Temple—a Beacon to the World, given at the close of the Sunday morning session, April 3, 2011, really touched my heart. He talked about the sacrifices that people have made throughout the years and continue to make to build temples and to attend them. He said, “My brothers and sisters, temples are more than stone and mortar. They are filled with faith and fasting. They are built of trials and testimonies. They are sanctified by sacrifice and service.”

Last fall while I was visiting teaching Sister Jan Evans, the mission president’s wife here is Boston, she mentioned that years ago she decided to attend the temple once a week. She had the faith and vision that this opportunity would bless her and her family. And it has. For weeks her passing comment kept ringing in my ears when finally I too decided that in the New Year of 2011 I would also attend the temple once a week. The season of my life is such that I can realistically keep this goal. At first I didn’t know how it would go. But now only four months in I have been blessed with the desire and urning to be at the temple even more. I go to put names on the prayer rolls and to remember my family on both sides of the veil. The power of the priesthood in the temples protects us, heals us, seals us and saves us eternally.

In President Monson’s closing remarks, which I’ll close with, he said, “Each one [temple] stands as a beacon to the world, an expression of our testimony that God, our Eternal Father, lives, that He desires to bless us and, indeed, to bless his sons and daughters of all generations. Each of our temples is an expression of our testimony that life beyond the grave is as real and as certain as is our life on earth."

I have a testimony that these words are true. They are for us to hear. In Matthew 11:15, “He that hath ears to hear, let him hear.”

THE EARLIEST MARPLES

This next entry was written by my brother Jon. It's the third entry in his series, "Letters to Geddy." Geddy is his grandson. This is about the Marple line that goes back to Wales. I'm really glad that Jon took the time to write this and he gave me permission to post it on my blog.

LETTERS TO GEDDY
BY JON MARPLE
PART THREE
23 Dec 2010

Our earliest tracings of the Marple family tree takes us back to old England to a town appropriately called Marple and its neighbor, Marple Bridge. The town sits in north central England near a larger city, Stockport, which is part of the Manchester complex. Mary and I visited there several years ago and found Marple Bridge a charming picture perfect English cottage town. A Roman built bridge connects Marple and Marple Bridge. Marple is more of a business-industrial complex and Marple Bridge is the bedroom community across the bridge.

When Mary and I visited Marple, England we did a little research on the family. The first thing we found out was that there are not many Marple's in Marple, because they hot-footed out of town in the 1650’s, after the local nobleman had a set-to with Oliver Cromwell, who pretty much ran England at the time.

Sister Mollie, who is the genealogist of the family replacing our mother as such, believes that one “David of Marpole” was in charge of the stables of the local noble family, the Bradshawe’s. Since the Bradshawe family had a small army to defend their turf, that probably was a fairly big-deal job of keeping up with tens if not hundreds of horses and probably the armament of those horses and riders as well.
The Bradshawe family during this period consisted primarily of three brothers. The first, Henry, was Lord of the manor and the second, Frank, as was the custom at the time, was Henry’s to command, as the number two heir. But the most interesting of the brothers was the third, John, “…Marple’s Most Famous Son.” (Here I thought I was the most famous…Oh yeah, that’s infamous, but I digress.)

Tradition has it that John Bradshawe, while in grammar school, wrote the following prophetic lines upon a gravestone:

My brother Henry must heir the land,
My brother Frank must be at his command,
Whilst I, poor Jack, will do that
That all the world shall wonder at.

And the world, at least the English world, did stand in wonder before “poor Jack”.

John Bradshawe became a lawyer and then a judge who was the Lord President of the Court which tried and sentenced King Charles I to death on January 27, 1649. John’s signature was the first on the death warrant. In 1650 he was made the Chancellor of the duchy of Lancaster and held the highest public office in England. He and Oliver Cromwell were best of political friends but their relationship turned rocky when Oliver, with visions of grandeur, dissolved the English Parliament in his attempt to become “Lord Protector of England.” When John Bradshawe stood firm in his objection to the Cromwell dictatorship, he incurred the wrath of Cromwell. This is roughly the modern equivalent of getting on the bad side of Nancy Pelosi if you were a junior congressmen from Alaska in today’s political field. In fact, some of you may be of the opinion that dissolving our Congress would be a very good idea for our mutual protection and you may be right, however, England was a Parliamentary form of government and Cromwell wanted to make it his own little fiefdom, so we believe that the families old benefactor, John Bradshawe, as well as our ancestor David, were on the right and properly moral side of this particular political equation, although Cromwell did succeed in crushing Parliament for a year-and-a-half.

There is some evidence that about this time, “David…of Marpole” fled Marple after a skirmish with Cromwell’s Army. David and ten others left, poste haste, to Llandridod, Wales. This was probably about the time near John Bradshawe’s death in 1659.

Bradshawe’s last public statement was a strong protest against the action of the army and Cromwell when Oliver C again dissolved that pesky Parliament in 1659. John died shortly after, of natural causes, in that very year at the age of 57 and was buried with full honors in Westminster Abby. In 1661, by order of the new King, Charles II, his body was dug up and hanged at Tyburn, his head was cut off and displayed in Westminster Hall, apparently for years along with the others that had signed the death warrant of Charles I. His head was displayed above the seat where he had presided at the trail of Charles I. I think Charles II was sending a none too subtle message about folks that mess with the King. And you thought we played blood politics in Washington today! No, back in those days, the boys really played hardball.

As mentioned, it was during this period of time that David, and it would appear to be a wise decision considering the fate of John Bradshawe, left Marple and headed for about a 2-year stopover in Wales before shipping out for America.

In our trip to Marple, we also found out the locals had quite a sense of humor. We paid a visit to the local town hall to gather some genealogy information. I announced that I was Marple from American and that I would be mayor of Marple for the day and should be address during the entire day as Mayor Marple of Marple. Without missing a beat, the secretary-receptionist kept on typing and proclaimed, “That is soooo like you Americans, just on the scene and taking over.” Well, I guess so. It was a lot of fun and the folks from Marple were very kind and receptive, even after being put in Cromwell like restraints by the new mayor.

From Marple, Mary and I went to Llandridod, Wales. This is where the David Marple family high tailed it after leaving Marple, England. We visited there as well. This is a charming community. We stayed in the nicest hotel in town, which was probably about a three star by our standards. The people were really helpful and we asked the concierge to help us find any Marple people in town. Apparently, word got around that we were there and inquiring about Marple’s in the area and like an alien looking for adoption …a Marple fella showed up in the hotel bar. The hotel staff didn’t tell us about him waiting in the bar to see us, however. We were told the next day, but the staff didn’t want to embarrass us because this fellow was an “agrarian” and not very presentable and in their view couldn’t possibly be a relative of ours. Apparently, he needed a lot of dental work. So not many Marple’s in Llandridod either, but the clan used this spot to gather themselves and as a launching pad to the Promised Land.

David and the others sailed away to what is now Philadelphia and secured a land commission from William Penn (I think the Bradshawe’s may have had something to do with that) and founded Marple Township, PA. David was reputedly the first Baptist minister in the Philadelphia area and founded the first Baptist church there as well. I haven’t been to Marple Township, but brother Dean tells me that it is now a rather upscale community.

These early Marple’s were brave and courageous people. Can you imagine leaving everything with all the risk attached to go to an unforgiving, untamed and wild land to live? It would be as scary as central D.C. today. With David and his wife Jane and the others I am sure there was much fear of the unknown. The trip alone, across the north Atlantic, killed many a person.

To give you a sense of what that must have been like, I want to share with you a written record as recorded by the keeper of the records of the Plymouth Colony, based on the account of William Bradford, the Governor. The year is 1620, not so many years before David & Jane Marple and their family landed in the New World. Governor Bradley tells us what it was like leaving everything that you knew and loved and sailing away, knowing that you would never see your loved ones and friends ever again. Here is the Governor’s story about their departure, probably not so unlike the Marple families feeling of joy and fear:

“So they left that goodly and pleasant city of Leyden…but they knew that they were pilgrims and stangers…and looked not much on these things, but lifted up their eyes to Heaven, their dearest country, where God hath prepared for them a city (Heb.XI, 16), and therein quieted their spirits."

When they came to Delfs-Haven they found the ship and all things ready, and such of their friends as could not come with them followed after them, and sundry came from Amsterdam to see them shipt, and to take their leaves of them. One night was spent with little sleep with the most, but with friendly entertainment and Christian discourse, and other real expressions of true Christian love. The next day they went on board, and their friends with them, where truly doleful was the sight of that sad and mournful parting, to hear what sighs and sobs and prayers did sound amongst them; what with tears did gush from every eye, and pithy speeches pierced each other’s heart, that sundry of the Dutch strangers that stood on the Key as spectators could not refrain from tears. But the tide (which stays for no man) calling them away, that were thus loath to depart, their Reverend Pastor, falling down on his knees, and they all with him, with watery cheeks commended them with the most fervent prayers unto the Lord and His blessing; and then with mutual embraces and many tears they took their leaves of one of another, which proved to be the last leave to many of them.

Being now passed the vast ocean, and a sea of troubles before them in expectations, they had now no friends to welcome them, no inns to entertain or refresh them, no houses, or much less towns, to repair unto to seek for succour; and for the season it was winter, and they that know the winters of the country know them to be sharp and violent, subject to cruel and fierce storms, dangerous to travel to known places, much more to search unknown coasts.

Besides, what could they see but a hideous and desolate wilderness, full of wilde beast and wilde men? And what multitudes of them there were, they then knew not: for which way soever they turned their eyes (save upward to Heaven) they could have but little solace or content in respect of any outward object; for summer being ended, all things stand in appearance with a weather-beaten face, and the whole country, full of woods and thickets, representing a wild and savage hew.

If they looked behind them, there was a mighty ocean which they had passed, and was now as a main bar or gulph to separate them from all the civil parts of the world.”

That’s what the Marple family faced in the new world. What courage by them to give all of us\ the wonderful blessings of being born in this great land. Never forget that America is that “…city on a hill,” for all the world to see as the pinnacle of freedom and democracy. So many people now want to make this another failed country. Let’s hope and pray and work toward keeping America that great shining light for all the world to use as their beacon of freedom that our ancestors risked so much to place us here.

From Philadelphia, our line of the family migrated to Winchester, VA, where there are many Marple families still there. Winchester is a beautiful apple farming area. From Winchester they migrated to West Virginia where I was born in 1940. We moved to Columbus, Ohio when Dad when off to the army and my mother and I moved in with Pap-Pap, my maternal grandfather. From Ohio, where my brother Dean and sister Mollie were born, as well as my children, the family has gone all over the country and the world, but you know that since none of you are in Columbus, are you?

As a footnote, we believe that some of those Philadelphia Marple’s moved to the New England area as well as Virginia. A few years ago the oldest living Harvard graduate was a Marple that had moved to the Seattle area. He was, no doubt, a distant relative. I met him in Seattle once since he had founded and published a very well received daily business report for the area called the “Marple Business Letter."

I am sending this to you on December 23, 2010, for a special reason. Today is your great-grandmother’s birthday. Helen Ruth McKinney Marple was born in 1919 and died of heart problems when she was only 70. She would have been 91 today. For those of you her knew her, you knew her to be loving and loyal, feisty and confrontational, strict yet compassionate, intelligent and opinionated and always….always, an interesting if not controversial character. But that is a story for another time and place.

Lovingly,
Grandfather Marple aka “Pops”

For more information about Marple, England visit www.marple-uk.com as well as other Internet sites that you can Google about Marple and Marple Bridge, England.
I want to thank Mary, Nana, for her wonderful edits on this and the other stories. This is very much her writing as well as mine. It is always a good thing to have the girl genius on your side.

Dean and Mollie are so helpful as well. Mollie in particular took up our mother’s life-long genealogy work and made it her own. We all should be very grateful for that. Thank you, Mollie.

And, of course, Dean is the photo-man. All of the pictures I have attached come from his extensive photo shop library. Future photos will no doubt be from Dean as well.

So thank you, little family. This is all for you and your offspring.

Christmas 1976

I had barely turned 18 and graduated from high school when we packed the car with all the things a freshman college girl would need. I arrived in Rexburg, Idaho at the end of the summer, just months after the Teton Dam broke and flooded the entire area. The place looked a bit war torn, and most people were left homeless. I remember seeing a piano and other pieces of furniture sitting out in the middle of a potato field. My boyfriend and soon-to-be fiancé at the time was a former Ohio missionary from Rexburg. His home and his father’s taxidermy business were badly damaged, so during the next few months his parents purchased an old church building in St. Anthony to start life over.

I spent a lot of time in that old church. It was quite the novelty to push the door into the "Ladies" restroom and have my pick of any stall, and, with plenty of sinks and mirrors to go around, I had lots of room to set up camp with my makeup and hair supplies.

In the basement, Bruce and his dad were constantly shoveling coal into the furnace. It didn’t help much because the old place was still as cold as perpetual winter. No wonder I was plagued with colds and strep throat that entire semester.

Bruce’s mother cooked all the family meals on a wood burning stove. She had a conventional stove in the kitchen, but still preferred feeding the fire. It was probably the only way she could stay warm! The foyer and bishop’s offices served as a waiting area and offices for their business, while the chapel was converted into a very large living room.

Early that December, Bruce and I decided to drive up into the mountains and find the perfect Christmas tree for the living room. After we found one tall enough, Bruce chopped it down and together we dragged that thing up the mountainside and finally managed to get it into the truck. That huge tree looked amazing in the chapel, all trimmed and lit.

But that tree did not compare to the sight that met my eyes when I returned home to Ohio. I remember I got in late on a cold snowy night. I walked in the door and as I entered each room I noticed that my mother had the entire house lit only by candle light and had dressed everything up for Christmas. The living room, dining room and kitchen were filled with a quiet, peaceful light. And in the family room dad had a fire going in the fireplace. With each candle, the light shone in the darkness—a sight that I will never forget.

I’ve thought a lot about that night and why it has stayed with me all these years. I’ve wondered if the candle light would have been similar to the light in that dark stable where the baby Jesus lay in the manger as the travelers who came to honor him, held their candles close to see His face. All I know is that that Christmas in 1976 felt familiar and warm and wonderful to me and I was grateful to be back home.

Miss Peggy's Testimony

When I was a young girl growing up on Martindale Boulevard, my father served as the Bishop of our church. During this time my parents opened their home to an elderly member in the ward. Her name was Peggy Long, but everyone called her Miss Peggy. She was deaf, mentally challenged, didn’t have any family, and had been a ward of the state all of her life. My mother didn’t have the heart to see her go into a nursing home, so we ended up taking care of her for many years.

When she first moved in, Miss Peggy and I were just about the same height. She wasn’t exactly the aunt or grandma type, and was much too old to be my sister, so for me she became kind of like a life size doll. Every night I would pick out the slip, dress, and apron that she would wear the next day. In the morning I would comb her fine gray hair back into a ponytail with a dollop of Dippity-Do, twisting it into a perfect bun secured with bobby pins, which was my favorite thing to do. After she dressed herself, I would help her with her hose and elastics and then lace up her shoes.

Because she was deaf, we would write questions on a pad of paper and she would answer us back in a loud voice. Sometimes she would get mad at someone: One day she took the broom to our neighbor’s elderly father, Joe; and although she worshiped my dad and kept a picture of him on her dresser, if she got mad at him the picture promptly went face down.

Forty years have passed now, but my memories of Miss Peggy are still vivid—especially memories of fast and testimony meetings. As if it were yesterday, I can see her sitting in her usual pew in the front of the chapel by the organ. Every first Sunday of the month she would sit eagerly waiting, with pocketbook and lacey handkerchief in hand, to stand and bear her testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel. The deacons stood ready to pass the microphone, but she always started without it, wanting to be the very first to proclaim her testimony in a loud shaky voice. Sometimes she even started before it was time and someone would have to tell her to wait. I hate to admit that on those occasions all the kids at church, myself included, would giggle quietly in our seats.

Now that I’m older I’ve come to realize that Miss Peggy was a powerful example to me. Her testimony is the one testimony I remember from my childhood. I appreciate her eagerness to stand and share something so personal. If only we could be like Miss Peggy, ever ready to tell the world that God lives and Christ is our Savior, who would be touched and what lives could be changed by the Spirit testifying, just as it testified through Miss Peggy?

I will always be grateful to my parents who had compassion and a willingness to serve her. But looking back and reflecting, it was really Miss Peggy who was serving us.