He stopped and took a quick breath. “And that only gets us to January. Add in another two-hundred-mile exodus with four children; living in a one-room cabin with seventeen or eighteen people for weeks at a time; getting—”
She was shaking her head and he stopped. “Other people have faced worse than I have. It’s true, we were crowded in that cabin, but we
had
a cabin, thanks to Joshua. I lost a son, but Jessica lost her husband. Amanda Smith lost a husband and a son. Emma? I could name more. They went through worse than I did, and you don’t see them falling apart like some child who doesn’t get his way on the school playground.”
“You lost your son, Lydia. That alone is enough to put many women over the edge, but add that to everything else and it’s an incredible load. It’s like you were put in a barrel and then rolled off a mountain. You bounce and you crash, you bruise your ribs and your arms and your legs. And all it does is roll faster and hit harder and crash louder than before. No wonder you’re feeling a little battered. No wonder you feel like you’ve lost your bearings. But your heart is all right. Your faith is there, as strong as it ever was. All you need to do is what you do when your body is sick. You need rest. You need a chance to recover. And this is why we came—and why we aren’t going to pack and leave in the morning.”
He stopped, letting out his breath. He hadn’t planned on quite so passionate a speech.
After several moments of searching his face, she finally spoke. “And you really think that’s all it is?” she asked again, finally starting to accept his words.
“I know that’s all it is.” There was a fleeting smile. “In fact, I can prove to you that you haven’t lost your faith.”
“How?”
“Why were you so angry just now about your father and young Joshua?”
“Because he’s trying to convince Joshua not to believe in . . .” She saw the trap he had sprung on her, and stopped.
“If you really had lost your testimony, you wouldn’t care what your father believes or what Joshua believes.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
He kissed her tenderly. “Well, while you’re thinking about that, let me say something else. The next time you start whipping yourself because you’re not all that you’d like to be, you just walk into your son’s bedroom and take a long look.”
“You mean at young Joshua?”
He nodded. “There he is, not yet nine years old. His grandfather—a man in his sixties, wise, sophisticated, good with words, whom this boy admires and loves very much—challenges the very fundamentals of his faith. Does he falter? No. Does he doubt? No! Does he run away in fear? No! He bears his testimony to the man.” His eyes were misty with pride now. “And he does it more simply and more profoundly than many men—including his own father—could ever do.”
“Yes.” It was only one word but it said it all. Yes, I know that what young Joshua did is all you say. Yes, I know that what you say about my anger toward Papa is true. Yes, I know that what you are saying about faith and testimony and healing are true.
“That boy would not be what he is if you were not what you are, Lydia. You think about that, because you know it is true. And that should give you a joy and satisfaction that runs more deeply than all the mobs, all the persecutions, and all the losses that this life can hold for us.”
Melissa was sitting in front of the mirror, brushing her hair with long, even strokes. She watched as Carl polished his boots, brushing them to a high gleam with the same methodical rhythm she was using. Finished finally, he held them up, peering at the shining surface. He gave them one last rub on the sleeve of his robe, then set them down beneath the chair where he already had tomorrow’s clothes laid out.
He looked around for a moment, as if he had misplaced something, and caught her looking at him in the mirror. He smiled briefly, then went to the wardrobe and began rummaging through it.
“Carl?”
He poked his head around the door.
She took a quick breath. “The brethren are having worship services tomorrow. This will be their last before they leave.”
He nodded perfunctorily. “I know.”
Her one eyebrow arched a little. “You do?”
“Yes. Derek told me about it this morning.”
He was so matter-of-fact about it, she was taken aback.
Shutting the wardrobe door, he came over and stood behind her. He took the hairbrush from her and began brushing her hair for her. “You want to go?” he finally asked.
She stopped herself from jerking around to stare at him, but her eyes were staring at him in the mirror. “Yes. Yes, I would. Would you mind?”
He had a sardonic expression as he met her eyes in the mirror. “No. I was hoping we could go to the evening meeting Brigham was telling us about as well as the ones during the day. It will be held in the temple too, but he said that it was only for a few of the elders.”
Now she did spin around to look at him directly. “ ‘We’?” she echoed.
He tossed the hairbrush onto the night table and leaned down, putting his face into her hair. He always loved to smell it after she had just washed it. He breathed deeply. Only then did he straighten and find her eyes in the mirror again. When he spoke, it was with studied nonchalance. “After having those brethren living with us for two weeks now, I think it would be a nice thing if we went to hear them preach their last Sunday. Don’t you?”
Her expression made him laugh. “Now, don’t be jumping to conclusions here,” he warned. “I’m just curious, that’s all. I’ve been impressed with these two Apostles of yours. They’re good men. I’d like to see what kind of preachers they make.”
She stood up slowly, moving close to him. “You’re not teasing me?” she asked softly. “You really would go?”
He kissed her on the nose. “Yes, I really would.”
“That’s wonderful!” Then she immediately frowned. “What will your father say?”
“Well,” he said slowly, not seeming too concerned, “my father has never been a profaning man. That could very possibly change after tomorrow.”
By spring of 1836, when the Kirtland Temple was dedicated, Carl and Melissa Rogers had been married almost five years and had their first two sons. By that time, Carl’s initial indifference toward the Church had, with persistent encouragement from his father, turned into open antagonism. At first as a concession, Melissa started going to his Methodist church services on one Sunday, then to her own on another Sunday. But each new request on her part to attend this meeting or that triggered additional conflict. None of it was terribly ugly or uncontrollably bitter, but it could often get heated and left a residue of tension in the home that lasted sometimes for days. So gradually concession turned to compromise and then to surrender. By nature Melissa was more of a peacemaker than a confronter, and contention bothered her deeply. Eventually, not only did her attendance at church stop, but even her personal forms of worship died away, and she and Carl slipped into a mutual understanding to leave discussions of Mormonism alone.
Her keenest regret over her willingness to settle for peace over principle was that she had not attended the dedicatory services of the Kirtland Temple with her family. She had gone to her father’s home that evening and listened to them all as they described the almost unbelievable outpourings of the Spirit they had experienced. Even now, three years after the fact, almost any time she walked past the great building with its beautiful Gothic windows, the regrets for giving in on that particular point came flooding back.
But on the afternoon of this day, as she and Carl walked slowly homeward from the temple, those feelings did not surface. She didn’t even think of them. She was still in a near-euphoric state of mind to think that Carl—and at his request—had gone with her to two meetings of the Saints. The group was nothing like the crowds that had once filled the temple, but the smallness of the congregation made for a more intimate service. And it gave Brigham, who spoke in the morning meeting, considerable time to develop his message on how The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was like the church that Christ established while he was on the earth. She was particularly grateful that Brigham had quoted almost exclusively from the Bible. Melissa suspected that that was partially for Carl’s benefit. She couldn’t be sure, because during the hour-long sermon Brigham hadn’t seemed to look directly at Carl more than a time or two.
This afternoon John Taylor had also preached a fine sermon and acted as though there was nothing at all unusual about having Carl present.
“Do you know what Derek told me?” Carl asked.
“What?” she said, coming out of her thoughts.
“He said that Brigham considers himself to be a very poor preacher. Says that it is sheer pain for him to talk because his grammar is so poor. Says he always ends up with a headache trying to choose the words he needs in order to say what he wants to say.”
“Really? Did you feel that way while he was preaching today?”
“Not at all. I thought he spoke clearly and made his points well.”
Wonderful!
She wanted to sing it out, but did nothing more than slip her arm through his. “Me neither. I was impressed with how well he knows the scriptures. And did you notice? He didn’t have a single page of notes.”
“I did,” came the quick reply, and he seemed impressed. The pastor at Carl’s church, which was really Carl’s father’s church, always brought in a large sheaf of meticulously written text, then read from it word for word. They were polished and wonderful sermons, but somehow Brigham’s simple, straightforward presentation seemed a welcome change to him.
“I’m going to miss Derek and Matthew,” she said. “It’s been so good to have them here.”
“I like Derek,” came the response. “He’ll be a good missionary.”
“He will, especially among his own people.”
They walked on. The evening was coming on quickly and the air was turning cold. Their breath hung in little clouds in the last of the daylight. Melissa laid her head against his shoulder as they walked. “Thank you, Carl.”
“For what?”
“For going with me today.”
He shrugged. “I told you. I did it because I wanted to hear Brigham as a preacher.”
“I know, but thank you anyway.”
He nodded. After a moment, he looked down at her. “If you want to go to your services from time to time and take the children, I wouldn’t mind, Melissa.”
Her head came up with a start. He laughed. “I don’t know if I’m just trying to be nice to you, or if I just want to pick a fight with Pa. But I’ve been thinking. I don’t think God really cares very much about which church a man goes to. I think what’s more important is how you live. How you treat people. Whether you try to be a good Christian. I’ve known some pretty good men that don’t go to any particular church at all, and they seem particularly happy.”
Melissa was almost dizzy with surprise at this unexpected turn. “Would you come with me to our services?” she asked, holding her breath.
Again his shoulders lifted and fell slightly. “Oh, perhaps. Actually, to be truthful, I’m getting tired of our services. I’ve even thought about going to the Campbellite congregation a couple of times, see what they’re like. Maybe even visit the Congregational church. That would send Father in a spin, I’ll tell you. Mormons and Congregationalists. They’re not his favorite peoples.”
Melissa’s face fell and she had to turn away lest he see it. This wasn’t so much a response to Brigham Young’s teaching—though he seemed to have genuinely enjoyed it—as it was a general restlessness. Or maybe even more to the point, a way of showing his father that he was chafing under being told what to do, where to live, whom to accept and whom to reject. It was sharply disappointing, for she had momentarily hoped for much more than that. But then her mood brightened. Even if Carl never showed interest in the Church, if he would let her start attending services with the children, and maybe even come himself occasionally, that was miles from where they had been just two weeks ago. And because of that, she would be forever grateful that Derek and Matthew had swept into town and brought Brigham Young and Heber Kimball with them.
The Apostles and their companions who had converged on Kirtland early in November left the city on the twenty-second, determined to travel together to New York City. But as usual, plans quickly changed. Heber dropped off to visit his family in western New York. Brigham Young and George A. Smith ran out of funds and stopped to work. At Brigham’s insistence, John Taylor went on with Derek and Matthew and Theodore Turley. They reached New York City two weeks before Christmas, exhausted, half-frozen, totally destitute. Gratefully, they found three of the Apostles already there and waiting for them—Parley and Orson Pratt and Wilford Woodruff. Had they delayed any further, they would have missed Wilford Woodruff, for he was planning to book passage on a packet ship scheduled to depart for Liverpool on December twentieth.
They were sitting around the small but comfortable parlor of the house Parley Pratt had procured in New York. Supper was done and they were enjoying a few minutes of each other’s company before retiring. Derek sat between Theodore Turley and John Taylor. Like John and Derek, Turley was also an English immigrant, making three of them going back to their native land to proclaim the gospel. Matthew sat on a stool beside the sofa. Wilford and Parley were across from them. Orson Pratt was on the floor beside Parley’s chair. As usual, the conversation turned immediately to the question of when to sail for England. And as usual, Wilford firmly rejected any suggestion for further delay.
“I already canceled plans to sail once. It could be weeks before Brigham and Heber arrive. The
Oxford
sails on the twentieth,” he said bluntly. “I plan to be on it.”
“I agree, Brother Wilford,” Parley said. “Orson and I can wait for the others. There is still much to do here in New York. I would like to get
A Voice of Warning
and some other tracts published so we can use them in the work.”
“Well spoken,” Wilford said quickly. “I think you should stay.” He turned to John Taylor. “But you could come with me, John. Book passage with me on the
Oxford
and we’ll be gone from here in four days.”