It is the Sunday before Christmas in Sydney, Australia. During sacrament meeting, I survey the assembled ward members from my vantage point on the stand, where I sit to conduct the congregational singing. With something of a shock I realize how few of them I really know and how little of their lives I share. There, in their accustomed pew, are my mother and aunt, my husband, and our adult daughters. There are Ellen and Heather, Geoff and Thelma, all good friends with whom we have shared good and bad times for nearly half a century. There on the stand is our bishop, Indonesian-born Dutch, survivor of World War II internment during his childhood; and in the congregation is his wife, my childhood friend and Primary classmate Marie. These people are part of my past as well as my present.