Our Way
April 17, 2018we were young
and war was our way
we’d fight in class
or after school
we were young
and war was our way
we’d fight in class
or after school
Dialogue 20.4 (Winter 1987): 33–76
Mauss encourages an openess about the temple to help better prepare future endowment holders and to create a better understanding among members and nonmembers.
Dialogue 20.4 (Winter 1987): 75–122
Buerger outlines the history of the endowment ceremony but does not share anything that he has covenanted not to divulge.
After serving five and a half years, Linda and Jack Newell step down as editors of DIALOGUE as this issue goes to press, turning the editorship over to Kay and Ross Peterson of Logan, Utah.…
You are required to keep the poundage low:
two large cases and a carry-on:
what you take for months overseas.
In a year of famine, you have volunteered
My acquaintance with this information packed, attractively printed, and modestly priced volume began in manuscript as a member of the Ensign editorial staff in 1975 when Sorenson, at the invitation of managing editor Jay M.…
Few states in the union had a longer or more bitterly contested statehood struggle than did Utah. Edward Leo Lyman has searched out and chronicled the detail, factors, and individuals which make up the drama in…
Levi Peterson’s first novel is an event eagerly awaited by all those who have come to appreciate such masterful, prize winning short stories as his “The Confessions of Saint Augustine” and “The Road to Damascus,”…
I have always been a flowering vine,
Seeking new trellises to trail on,
Climbing ladders to the sky,
Lusting over neighbor fences
No husband summoned me to Koshi. BYU, Washington, D.C., and a mission president in Tokyo summoned me long before a husband. And even when it was a husband, he summoned me no farther than California. But I too was my mother’s prize, her only daughter. And I suspect each time I left, my mother’s feelings were no different than Lady Otomo’s. For Mother ex pressed her longing and loneliness not in a poem or a letter, but in carefully selected personal stories shared over a sink of peach pits, skins, and sterile quart jars.