. . . orange soda . . .

. . . we visited the cemetery

at this time

last year . . .

. . . so ~ tender-hearted addi

requested we do the same

this year . . .

. . . amber left a special keepsake . . .

. . . what follows is an excerpt

from my dad's life story

~ written by him . . .

. . . it is near and dear to me . . .

. . . i love you, dad . . .

"In my poor and not-too-skilled way, I want to let my children and grandchildren know that I know that God loves us and He gives us our daily needs and hears our prayers for special help . . . “Coincidence” just doesn’t cut it to explain why so many things came together at just the right time and in the right way for actual preservation of my life once again. Were they only “coincidences” or were they genuine “mini-miracles” in answer to our prayers? I know the answer for me—and I urge any one of my descendants who might choose to read this some day to know of my conviction of God’s love for, recognition of, and response to our personal needs. He loves me, and I love Him. It’s that simple! And He loves you, too.

It is much easier to see the effects of events on our lives in retrospect than it is at the time of actual occurrences. From the vantage point of 76 years, I can better evaluate those events and give them perspective. Seemingly small events gain significance when viewed against the backdrop of years. The event I will try to describe was not, by itself, any truly memorable experience. It was just one of many little events (happenings, coincidences—small miracles) that have shaped my life.

In the early fall of 1947, I was discharged from the US Army and almost immediately traveled to Provo, Utah, to enroll at BYU. Very soon, it was Thanksgiving time, and, since I had been away from home on the two previous Thanksgivings, I very much wanted to be at home with my family. There was, of course, no money available for bus fare, so I rashly decided to hitchhike the 700 miles. The world is far too dangerous today to even consider such a course of action—but 1947 was a rather kinder, gentler time in history. And so, I packed my clothes in my only little suitcase and walked down to US 91 South, put out my thumb and headed for home.

Some kind soul gave me a lift and in the wee hours of the next morning we arrived in Las Vegas. I even drove part of the way—I believe it was my first experience driving a car and it was a thrill a minute each time I had to shift gears or perform any kind of maneuver on the highway. In any event, we arrived.

My benefactor was on his way to California and I needed to get to Kingman, so we parted in Las Vegas and I found the highway to Henderson, Boulder City and Hoover Dam. This involved a lot of walking to find the right highway—with no sleep, carrying an increasingly heavy suitcase, and increasing fatigue with every step. [But] I trudged along, my little suitcase with its BYU sticker catching the early morning sun.

At last, a man who was going to Katherine’s Landing on the Colorado River in Arizona to fish for trout gave me a ride. When we got to the turnoff to where he was headed, I found myself once again on the asphalt with that case that now weighed a ton!

There was really no traffic on the road to Kingman. Gas was still rationed, there were few cars on the road at the end of the 2^nd World War, and tires were almost unobtainable. Besides, it was November and in Arizona it can be hot in November. Especially in the middle of the desert with no shade, no food, and no water—not even a hat! It became painfully apparent to me that I was in a seriously dangerous situation, weary and miles from nowhere with a merciless sun beating down on my unprotected head. The occasional car that came by must have been sure I was at best an escapee from somewhere or an apparition concocted from heat and miles. No one even slowed down to offer help.

At last, it dawned on me that I had to have help—and soon—or I would perish! And then, I knew that I would have to ask the only One who knew where I was for help. In the blazing sun, on that hot asphalt, I knelt down and asked the Lord for His help. I rested briefly there on the highway, picked up the suitcase, and turned my face south toward Kingman once again. I’m not sure how long I stumbled along, but suddenly I caught a flash of light from the boulders that tumbled down the road fill. I clambered over the guard rail and down into the boulders. In the shadow of one of those great granite rocks, in complete shade and protected from the heat of the sun, lay a bottle of orange soda pop. It was unbroken and undamaged and cool. I struggled up the embankment, removed the cap on the guardrail, and drank that wonderful, sweet, cool liquid. And in that moment, I knew in my very soul that God lives, He loves us, He hears our prayers, and He answers them. Was it only coincidence? Or was it truly a miracle? A small miracle, to be sure, but a miracle none the less.

If we believe, and ask in faith, then God can and does provide the miracles. I got a ride, got to Kingman, got a ride to Phoenix (with my brother-in-law on a mail train car from Ashfork) and was home for Thanksgiving. Was it foolish to do what I did? You bet! Was the lesson learned worthwhile? Absolutely! I gained testimony of the power of prayer and of the reality of a loving Father in Heaven. I want my descendants to know, as I do, that of such small miracles, testimonies that shape our very lives are born. Please borrow from mine if you ever need to! You are a part of me, and I of you, though we have not yet met! But we shall, one day, and hopefully I won’t be a complete stranger to you then. I love you."