This is the preface and first several pages of my book,
Preface
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I am surrounded by mountains in every direction. The
little valley where I live in the geographical center of Utah was originally
inhabited by several Native American tribes, but they were displaced by Mormon
Pioneers who fled the United States in the Nineteenth Century for what was then
a territory of Mexico. Later, they were joined by thousands of Scandinavian
immigrants. Those were my ancestors.
The region was
thought to be Zion, and God was thought to be the grand architect.
Here in the most drought-stricken parts of North
America, my ancestors clashed with and displaced the tribes; fought wars;
experimented with theocracy, polygamy, and communism; built temples, churches,
schools. They instilled in their children an apocalyptic mythology; a faith in
unique symbols, doctrines, and rituals; a sense of responsibility toward the
living and the dead; traditions, food, dialect; and so many other things that
still flavor the culture today.
My ancestors established an iron-clad patriarchal
system, in which men alone are believed to have the divine authority and power
to rule in God’s Kingdom, and they embraced a social doctrine that made obedience
to their authority the first law of heaven.
But they also established the legendary Mormon work
ethic, a social doctrine of charitable service, and the teaching that humanity
is a family and all human beings are children of
God. The curses and blessings that rise from these traditions are evident today
like a city on a hill.
Interstate Fifteen now cuts right through the earliest
Mormon settlements, extending from Southern Nevada, through the middle of Utah,
and into Idaho.
I am a part of this culture. For better and for worse
we are peculiar. The founders of my culture with all their justices,
injustices, fears, loves, hatreds, and joys are my parents. And I am their
child.
Consecration
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T
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he voices of
nearly two hundred people rose into the chapel’s vaulted ceiling, echoed from
its neutral cream walls, and dissipated. The organ crooned along.
A family of latecomers could hear the organ from the parking lot. Mother
and father wiped the sweat from their foreheads as they walked across the
sunbaked asphalt and stepped onto the sidewalk. Their children ran behind them
like a brood of ducklings. They entered through the church’s double doors just
as the congregation sang the last line of a hymn taken from Job’s declaration,
“I know that my redeemer lives!”
The hymnals were closed and returned to the wooden slots built into the
backs of the pews. Then an old woman offered a rambling invocation.
“Our dear, kind, gracious Heavenly Father. We thank thee for this
beautiful day. We thank thee for our good bishop, Bishop Argyle…” She prayed
for the bishop’s counselors, and for the men who oversaw the bishop, then for
everyone on up through the hierarchy of church leadership. She prayed for the
nation’s leaders, the worlds leaders, and for rain needed to water the parched
high desert in which many congregants grew their crops. She prayed for everyone
who was suffering, for struggling families, for the homeless. Nearly every soul
in the world, living or dead, might have considered itself blessed when she
finally said “Amen.”
The bishop rose from his seat behind the pulpit. He was
in his mid-thirties but seemed a decade younger than he was.
The congregation loved him, and smiled up at him as he
made the announcements. Outside their meetings they all spoke proudly of him,
as if he were their own son, often describing him as Christlike. In
appearance he did not look like the Jesus depicted in paintings. He was short,
built like a bulldog, and his black hair was cut nearly to the scalp. He wore
an ill-fitting blue suit and a Dr. Who themed tie.
His young wife and three small children sat among the crowd, but the
toddler had wandered away from his family, toward the front of the chapel,
where a teenaged girl had taken him under her wing.
Before he moved on with the meeting, the bishop had to settle the day’s
administrative business. When he announced three new Sunday School positions,
the congregation raised their hands in unanimous approval.
Down in the benches, young parents distracted their fussing, fidgeting
toddlers with snacks, games, coloring books, toys. Babies whined. Women, young
and old, paid attention, or wrestled their over-active children into their
seats, read their volumes of scripture, or stared at the screens on their
phones. Older couples sat close to one another, holding hands. Widows and
widowers sat together in cliques, sometimes whispering to each other. All the
pleasant scents of colognes, perfumes, deodorants, blended with the chapel’s
sweet clean scent, creating a smell familiar and comforting to everyone
present. Some men and teenaged boys leaned forward with their elbows on their
knees, resting their foreheads on the back of the pews in front of them,
napping.
A handful of twelve-year-old boys and older teens, the deacons and
priests, charged with blessing and offering the sacrament of the Last Supper to
the congregation, sat in the front, at attention, with tired eyes.
Most congregants had not taken food or water since dinnertime the night
before. This was the first Sunday of the month, when Mormons around the world
fasted.
When the bishop finished the
administrative matters, there was one last piece of important business to
address. This was the reason several families had come from out of town.
“Before we partake of the Sacrament,” the bishop said, “we have a very
special baby blessing. I’d like to invite Brother Kendall Sanderson to come up
with his beautiful baby girl. Also, anyone who has been invited to participate,
please come up.”
The young father, no older than his early twenties, made his way out of
a long bench, shuffling past several pairs of knees. He cradled his infant
daughter, whose little white dress flowed far past her tiny feet and hung from
her father’s arms. She had been sleeping, but in all the jostling she stirred.
A half-dozen other men, grandfathers and uncles, came out from the
congregation to the front, just below the pulpit. The bishop, too, stepped
down and joined them as they formed a tight circle. Each man had to turn
sideways to make room for everyone. The baby’s father held her out into the
center, and the other men placed their right hands beneath the father’s hands.
Then each placed his left hand on the right shoulder of the man in front of
him.
The baby, who had been fussing, looked at the dark suits and at the mens
faces, and began to cry.
“Dear Heavenly Father,” began the young father. “By the authority of the
Melchizedek Priesthood, we hold this baby in our hands to give her a name and a
blessing. The name by which she shall be known upon the records of the church
is Diedra Anne Sanderson…” In the prayer that followed he went on to express
hopes for his daughter’s future, that she would always be surrounded by loved
ones, that she would stay true to the faith, that she would grow healthy,
strong, intelligent, and that she would make proper life choices. Tender
emotions overcame him during the blessing. His voice shook, and he continued
through his tears.
In the circle’s midst, on the altar made of men’s hands, the baby
screamed, red-faced, mouth open wide, lips curled. Her arms flailed and her
legs kicked frantically beneath the flowing white gown.
Only one minute passed. The blessing was over, and the congregation
unanimously responded “Amen.” The circle of men parted and went back to their
seats. The proud father turned to the crowd and lifted the wailing baby to the
view of every eye. People smiled and made various subtle sounds of approval.
By this time, several other babies in the crowd were crying and the
chapel’s high ceiling dispensed the sound equally into everyone’s ears.
The bishop stood again at the pulpit and spoke through the noise. “We’ll
now prepare for the Sacrament by singing ‘God Loved Us So He Sent His Son,’
after which the bread and water will be blessed and passed by the young men.”
He nodded to his left, smiling at the deacons and priests. The boys smiled
back.
Then the organ commenced with a prelude.