The final fragment of my journal begins almost as abruptly as the previous one broke off: right in the middle of The Great Big Mission Conference. Let me say at first that they don’t do big deals like this for missionaries, any longer: the rules and the Kingdom were a lot different, four and five decades ago.
I’m sure I wrote down a blow-by-blow account of the whole marvelous thing. I’m grateful for what has survived and hope the rest will surface, while I can still insert it. For now, as hazardous as the prospect is, you’ll have to rely on what I can dredge up out of memory.
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It was surely not on my account that our beloved
President Hinckley arranged for this marvelous experience to happen during the last full month of my first French Mission. But it surely felt like it. I was surely not the only one to cherish it in those terms.
We all, three hundred or so of us, gathered in Paris and boarded buses bound for the Temple in Zollikofen (near Bern), Switzerland.
That’s y’r h’ble s’rv’t, by the main doors, where Pappy and
Mammy stood less than a year earlier. Below,
Elaine McMeen; can’t tell who that is with her.
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