For Time and Eternity

by Allison Pittman

  “That’s not true.” And it wasn’t. Right after the funeral I went to Sabbath services, where I’d had to endure all those long, pitying looks from women whose children trailed like ducklings behind them. “I couldn’t bear the sound of all those babies. . . .”

  Melissa was staring at her plate, listlessly moving her food around its surface.

  “How do you think it makes me look,” Nathan said, his voice eerily calm, “not to have my wife and children at my side for the church service?”

  “We attended all through Advent,” I offered, “and the New Year.”

  “I won’t stand for this.”

  “Then Lottie had a sore throat, remember? And I . . .”

  “You what?”

  What could I say? This wasn’t the time to air my misgivings. I’d been thinking that perhaps my doubts were somehow wrapped up with my grief, and I’d allowed myself to remain mired in mourning, leaving all thoughts beyond my own heavy heart largely unnoticed.

  “I’ll go tomorrow,” I said finally. “We all will. Kimana can cook while we’re gone.”

  He smiled, revealing a hint of the boy who had met me on the road all those years ago, and reached for my hand.

  “You need the healing of Heavenly Father. We all do.”

  That evening Kimana and I bathed the girls, washing their hair and combing out the tangles by the warmth of the firelight. The wind blew cold outside, bringing in a frigid rush when Nathan came in from tending the stock.

  On nights like this, Kimana would spend the evening sitting with us until it was time for her to go to bed in her own small cabin behind our house. She busied herself braiding rags into what would someday be a thick, warm rug just like the one the girls sat on now. As I sat knitting in the rocking chair in the corner, they clutched their dolls and listened with rapt attention while Nathan told the story of the angel Moroni appearing to Joseph Smith. It was not a new story to the girls; they piped up with details every time Nathan paused for breath.

  “And a light filled the room!”

  “And he was as tall as the ceiling!”

  “Yes,” Nathan said, restoring solemnity, “and his robe was exceedingly white, and his whole person glorious beyond description.”

  “And his countenance truly like lightning,” Melissa said, quoting the text she’d heard so many times.

  “That’s right,” Nathan said, leaning forward in his chair and holding our older daughter’s face in his hands. “Like lightning. And Moroni told Joseph that God had work for him to do. That his name would be had for both good and evil in all the nations.”

  “Who would think he was evil?” By this time Lottie was in her father’s lap.

  “Many people,” Nathan said. I could feel his eyes upon me, but I continued to focus on the reflection of the firelight on my knitting needles, knowing we were both envisioning the same thing—a group of riders illuminated by torches on the bank of the Missouri River. “You know the stories of our people. Not everybody is ready to believe the truth, especially if it’s different from what they’ve been taught all their lives.”

  “But Joseph Smith believed the angel,” Lottie prompted.

  “About the golden plates,” Melissa added.

  “Indeed.” Nathan picked up the story. “Moroni said there was a book, written on gold plates, and that book told the truth of the everlasting gospel of the savior.”

  “Jesus!” Lottie bounced on her father’s knee.

  “How he came to America,” Melissa said with the authority of an older girl who had the experience of going to Sunday school. “And he began to quote the Bible, from the book of Malachi.”

  “Although not exactly,” I said, not as quietly as I intended.

  “What was that, darling?”

  I looked up to see Nathan holding a contented Lottie against his broad, strong chest, Melissa sitting at his feet. A quick glance at Kimana showed the woman bent lower over her work, her face its usual placid mask.

  “That’s part of the story.” I returned to my knitting. The clicking of the needles echoed in the room, competing with the crackling of the fire.

  “She’s right,” Melissa said. “He said the angel changed some of the words. We learned it in Sunday school. Do you want to hear?”

  “Of course,” Nathan said, and I paused midstitch.

  Melissa stood up and handed her doll to her little sister before assuming a very poised posture, hands clasped before her. “‘And he shall plant in the hearts of the children the promises made to the fathers, and the hearts of the children shall turn to their fathers. If it were not so, the whole earth would be utterly wasted at his coming.’”

  “Marvelous!” Nathan reached around Lottie to clap his hands.

  “And did you ever study the true Scripture?”

  As much as I hated how my question crushed her triumphant spirit, I feared the increasingly familiar tugging on my spirit that caused me to ask it.

  “That is the truth, Mama. That’s what the angel said.”

  “But that’s not what the Bible says,” I insisted. “I was just wondering if you were taught both.”

  “What are you saying, Camilla?” For the second time that evening, there it was—that tone of chastisement and distrust. “Do you know the true version? You grew up reading your Bible. Every day, you told me. Can you quote those verses from the fourth chapter of Malachi?”

  The three of them stared at me, waiting, and it broke my heart to see Melissa now looking smaller than her younger sister.

  “No,” I said. “I can’t.” I looked straight at Melissa. “I suppose I wasn’t taught as well as you have been.”

  That brought back my girl’s smile—or at least a shadow of it. She took her doll back into her arms and sat again at her father’s feet. Moving noiselessly, Kimana rose from her seat and, wrapping a length of towel around the handle, lifted the bed warmer from the hearth and disappeared into the girls’ room to run it along their blankets.

  “And the golden plates?” Lottie demanded, tugging on Nathan’s sleeve. But the magic of the tale had disappeared. He gathered her close and kissed her good night, promising to finish the story the next evening. I set my work aside and held out my arms, gathering each little girl to me, breathing in the scent of soap and damp hair. Lottie crumbled warm against me, but I couldn’t ignore Melissa’s stick-straight posture, identical to the one she held as she recited from Smith’s story.

  “I love you, Missy.” Perhaps the familiar name would warm her.

  As an answer, she kissed my cheek—a quick, dry peck—before waiting patiently for me to drop my embrace.

  “I’m afraid I hurt her feelings,” I said once Kimana ushered the girls to their room.

  “You need to be careful, Camilla.” Undeniable warning in his voice. “Your salvation rests in your belief. In your faith.”

  “I know.”

  “And your eternity rests with me.”

  That’s when I realized I’d been pressing the knitting needle into my palm. I concentrated on the pain there, pushing it harder against the flesh.

  He rose from his chair and came to kneel beside me. “I can understand your grief. But don’t let that turn into doubt.”

  “I love you, Nathan.” It was all I could think to say.

  “And I love you. And I thank God that he’s given you to me.”

  “Lately . . .” I couldn’t finish, but I didn’t have to.

  “I know,” he said, pushing my work aside and burying his head in my lap. “I know.”

  I ran my fingers through his hair. Short and coarse it was, still bearing the dust of his workshop. We didn’t speak, and I realized he was weeping. These were the first tears he’d shed since the day he held his son, and I sat perfectly still, allowing them to seep into my skirt. When his body finally became still, I reached down, prompting him to look at me. His tear-streaked face took on a particular shine in the firelight, and I thought of the words of Joseph Smith describing the angel. A countenance
like lightning. There was no lightning here, just a soft, warm glow, and in his eyes everything I loved in this world.

  “Do you still love me, Nathan? as much as you did when I was just an ignorant, Gentile girl?”

  He stood and, in that motion, lifted me out of the chair. From the corner of my eye I saw the figure of Kimana, wrapping her bright wool shawl around her shoulders. There was a tiny shock of cold air as the door opened and closed behind her, but by the time I heard the click of the latch, my husband had carried me into our bedroom. Soon the frigid cold disappeared, powerless against the warmth of rekindled love. Later, in the dark, I folded myself against him, my ear to his heart, forcing myself to think of nothing else.

  At least not until the morning.

  * * *

  “A mighty fortress is our God,

  A tower of strength ne’er failing.

  A helper mighty is our God,

  O’er ills of life prevailing.

  He overcometh all.

  He saveth from the Fall.

  His might and pow’r are great.

  He all things did create.

  And he shall reign for evermore.”

  My voice mingled with the others, each of us sending little puffs of steam into the room. I never tired of hearing the richness of Nathan’s voice. Truthfully, neither did the congregation, as he was often called upon to lead the singing. But this morning he stood close beside me—too close for complete propriety, had we not six years of marriage between us. We were flanked on either side by our daughters, who sang just as robustly as any other Saint.

  By the time we all settled in our benches after the time of singing and prayer had ended, the little stoves at the front and back of the building were glowing, and some semblance of warmth was working its way through the room. With my body pressed hard against Nathan’s side and Lottie in my lap, I was actually quite comfortable—enough that I could take off my gloves and place them beside me.

  Elder Justus made his way to the front and took his place behind the satin-smooth pulpit that was Nathan’s pride and joy—the result of months of work ending in seamless perfection.

  “Brothers and sisters,” he intoned. It was the voice that pronounced the blessing over my son, and the memory of it numbed me. “We gather here in the dead of winter, a month into the new year. The tenth since our people first entered into Zion.”

  A little rumble of approval ran through our congregation, few of whom had been in the first company.

  “We journeyed from persecution to prosperity. We tore free from the murderous grip of the Gentiles who would see us burned to the ground and instead have established a new kingdom of God. To think of the miracle of an inland ocean—the Great Salt Lake, our own Dead Sea. It is no mistake that Heavenly Father led us here, as we are the descendants and brothers of his chosen people.”

  Indeed, we journeyed often to the lake in the spring and summer, and in the middle of this winter afternoon I found myself harking back to our last visit. The frothing of the water at the shore, the constant chatter of the playful shorebirds. Nathan delighted in wading with the girls, letting them float on the salty water’s surface while I unpacked a basket of lunch to eat on a blanket stretched over the sand. I could almost feel the warmth of the sun on my face, so much so that I actually closed my eyes for just a moment before Lottie shifted her weight and brought me back to Elder Justus’s sermon.

  “Our city thrives, surpassing some of those cities that have been in existence for centuries in our country. It is a testament to the work of the Lord, our obedience to his will as revealed to the prophets.”

  Agreement spread through the benches, for each of us took pride in the miracle of Salt Lake City. It was the jeweled reward at the end of our pilgrimage, a welcome final step to all who walked across the country. Even when we first arrived, all those years ago, I remember marveling at the perfectly aligned streets—all of it laid out in precise squares. The girls and I eagerly awaited any time we would get a chance to visit.

  “And why do those folk in our city enjoy such prosperity? Are they harder workers than you?” An unvoiced yet understood no swept through the benches. “Are they more likely to tithe their money or their time?”

  We were bolder with our protests now, at least those around me were. I clutched Lottie closer to me and turned an ear, feeling chilled after all.

  “Ah, brothers and sisters, I urge you to look deeper into your hearts before you commit yourselves to the sin of religious pride. Perhaps you see yourselves as being out of the reach of the hand of the prophet, but no man can hide in the darkness of disobedience, not even if he makes his home in the shadows of the temple. For we are blessed to live so near God’s temple—oh, not the magnificent structure formed by the hands of men, but within reach of the very stones themselves. Such proximity should bring us to a deeper sense of obedience, but I fear the opposite has happened.”

  There was an uncomfortable restlessness in the benches now as we simultaneously dared Elder Justus to tell us where we had fallen short and feared that he would do so. I glanced at Nathan, who stared straight ahead, his face set like flint.

  “For we have had our share of disobedience, and I count myself the first among sinners. Not long ago, Brother Brigham requested that all families contribute to the production of silk, and I have yet to compel my wives to do so.”

  Nervous laughter then, as no one that I knew had taken on the responsibility of nurturing silkworms in their kitchen.

  “And what have we to show for our disobedience?” He pointed a finger that seemed to part us all like waters. “Brother Farley, how many sheep did you find dead in their grazing pasture last summer?”

  We all knew the answer to that. Nearly a dozen, and we’d spent the better part of July in a frenzy of paranoid accusations.

  “And, Sister Maelyn, have you found any relief from your ailment?”

  I heard a chorus of rustling as my fellow Saints turned to look at Sister Maelyn, but I kept my eyes straight ahead. I didn’t need to see the woman to picture her gray pallor and wasted body. A few sympathetic clucks popped through the congregation before people returned their attention to the man behind the pulpit.

  “And Brother Nathan Fox.”

  No.

  “The birth of a long-awaited son.”

  No, no, no.

  “As fine a boy as I’ve ever seen. A Saint sent from heaven, and he couldn’t bear to be here. Couldn’t will himself to live among us.”

  I clutched the fullness of my daughter closer to me. Only the warmth of her body keeping me from turning to ice. And shattering. Looking to Nathan, I pleaded, silently, Make him stop! Stand up and tell him he’s wrong! But where Nathan would not look at me, every other eye in the congregation sought me out, and I equally froze and burned under the weight of their scrutiny.

  Somewhere through the fog, Elder Justus’s words came coiling around me. “We are not free to pick and choose which spiritual laws of the prophets we will obey. Heavenly Father has called us to total obedience and has said that he will spew the lukewarm from his mouth. Our leaders have long taught the divine necessity of plural marriage. For how else are we to build Zion and fill it with the voices of children—the very spirits waiting to be born? Men, how can you hope to reach the highest reward in the next life if you do not build that which is pleasing to God in this one?”

  What can I say? It was like a floodgate of fear opened within me. Like a blister perched upon my heart burst open. I felt the change in Nathan beside me. Felt him sit up a little straighter, the hard defiance in him dissolve.

  I knew what these people believed. Nathan was convinced—as were they all—that marrying and having children was the path to celestial rewards. The more wives and children on earth, the more glorious his family in heaven. What better eternity could there be for a man who had spent his childhood unloved and alone?

  “Listen,” Elder Justus said. “Listen to what your spirit is telling you right now. Feel that stirr
ing in your bosom, leading you to confess your sin. Where are you lacking faith? Where do you see fault in your brother? your sister? We have been called to something higher. To be the new church of Jesus Christ. We are the Saints of a new day. Our ways are not the ways of the world. Our truth is not the truth of the Gentiles.”

  By now the souls around me were stirring. Women weeping, men standing in their places, waving their hats in the air. I wanted to disappear, and in truth I don’t know that anybody would have seen me, so caught up were they in the elder’s stirring oration. In fact, I went so far as to tighten my grip on Lottie and edge slightly closer to the front of the bench, when I felt Nathan’s hand on my elbow.

  “Stay there.” His grip punctuated his words.

  “Make no mistake.” Elder Justus now had to nearly shout above the crowd. “We will come under fire for our faith. The Gentile-driven government will come down hard upon us. For they know not the truth of the prophets. Their hearts have not been stirred by the revelations of Jesus Christ. But did not each prophet in his time face persecution? Were not the first Christians stoned in the streets? And what if they had abandoned the teachings of their Lord?”

  Just the thought of it brought an uproar. Elder Justus stepped away from the pulpit, coming out in front of it, and paced the narrow width of the room, his fist stirring the air.

  “Come to me now and confess! There, in your seat, turn to your fellow Saint and confess! Fall to your knees and confess! You who are lacking in faith! You whose works are not worthy of heaven! You who have wronged your neighbor! You who have neglected worship! You who cling to your selfish desires like a blight in the eye of God!”

  By now Lottie was terrified. She’d turned in my lap and wrapped her arms around my neck, her cold nose pressed up to my ear.

  “What is he yelling about, Mama?”

  “Nothing, darling,” I whispered.