Safety Assured Leaving East of Medicetti
Page 43
Acknowledgements
If you’ve read my other books (and I can’t imagine why you’d read this one first), you know my rigmarole; I’ve combed over this puppy eleventy-samillion times, and there are likely still a few errors, like tiny fleas hiding in the tufts. I believe I think dyslexically, and in my earnestness to get the message across, I assume all of the words have, too. Even though half a dozen sharp-eyed friends reviewed this as well, there likely remains a few minor problems for the critics to pounce upon. (I have to give them something to complain about, after all; it’s not enough to have 99.99% perfection. They must call “Foul!” when there are .001% errors. Every grammar nazi knows that. That’s why I quit being one.)
However, without these sharp-eyed friends, and those who encouraged me to get this completed, it wouldn’t be here now. So massive thanks to David Jensen, Paula Snyder, Kim Pearce, Cheryl Passey, Stephanie Carver, Jennifer Merrill, Debbie Beier, who finished reading just before she passed away from cancer, and Barb Goff, my favorite sister who made it into this book as a midwife. The character is completely her.
I also want to thank my family, who indulge my hobby because it doesn’t cost anyone anything and I still usually get dinner ready on time, and my husband Dave, who told me it was fine to invest a new laptop since my ancient desktop was shutting down every hour.
I especially want to acknowledge my dad, Rudy Strebel, who first introduced me to the idea of Zion. When I was seven, we moved to a suburb north of Salt Lake City. Our modest house on the hill had an extravagant view of the distant Great Salt Lake and Antelope Island, a decent-size mountain range in the middle of the lake where the buffalo (bison) literally roam. Every evening Dad, an artist obsessed with clouds, would observe the sunset. We hadn’t been living there long when Dad announced one evening, “Oh, it looks like Enoch’s returned, and he’s made Antelope Island disappear.”
Thoroughly puzzled by that strange proclamation, I asked, “Enoch? Mountains disappearing?” All I saw was that a cloud bank had descended over the island, concealing it.
My dad lived for moments like those. He was the greatest amateur scriptorian I ever knew, with a tall bookshelf filled not only of scriptures, but of commentary and analyses and testimony. I think I developed my love of the ancient prophets from him.
He loved to delve into the scriptures (I inherited his last set when he died last year) and proceeded to tell me all about Enoch, who lived before Noah, and was a timid, slow-of-speech prophet. But he bravely preached repentance before civilizations who hated him, and even wanted to kill him.
But there were those who believed and followed him, and he collected them into a safe haven which was called Zion. There, everyone shared equally in their work and in their possessions, so that there were no one poor among them. Anyone who threatened Zion, Enoch and his great faith simply took care of. He shifted rivers and even moved mountains to keep Zion safe. Zion was so pure in its collective heart that even God walked among them.
Zion existed on the earth for 365 years until God took it up to Himself, ahead of the floods which would destroy the earth except for Noah, his family, and a zoo.
Well, I was astonished at this account, and asked something like, “So why don’t we do that now? Take care of everyone equally now?”
My dad, who had known a great deal of suffering as a child in WWII Germany, and had immigrated to America to begin a new life, regarded me with tender eyes. “I wonder that, too. We’re supposed to, you know. That’s the way God wants us to live. Many groups have done it in the past, and we’re supposed to do it again.”
We had many talks over the years about Zion and what it could be again, and my dad had always hoped to live there before he passed away.
I forgot some of that as I got older, though. But I was reminded again, at the end of my undergrad studies, in a class taught by Don Norton at Brigham Young University. The subject was to be language usage, but we always strayed off course which, any college student will tell you, is when a class really gets interesting.
One day, Dr. Norton mentioned something about a book he was finishing editing—Dr. Hugh Nibley’s work, Approaching Zion, for which I provided a link in the section above. The discussion drifted to the notion of Zion, and stewardships, and consecration, and quickly dissolved into what completely astounded me: a fight, with students yelling and shouting that they should not have to share their hard-earned money or talents with those who are suffering.
Never had I been in a classroom where anger manifested itself so instantly and purely. Never had I felt the power of the adversary so immediately, trying to kick away the notion that anyone should voluntarily sacrifice their possessions for anyone else. Oh, if you’ve got a few extra bucks sitting around, sure—hand it over to some charity before you take your two-week Mediterranean cruise. But give up that cruise to help the family next door who lost everything because of a flooding river? Why? They’re the ones dumb enough to live next to the river while you were a few inches higher.
Granted, this was 1990—the height of wealth-chasing and stock market-investing and preppy-living, and everyone was after those three magic letters behind their name: MBA. But still I was astonished at the lack of empathy and the unapologetic greed displayed that day.
I was also surprised that Dr. Norton simply smirked at the responses. Many years later I contacted him again, and asked him about that day. As I suspected, he initiated an argument like that every year, in every class, trying to gauge the attitudes of the rising generation.
I told him that day was the most memorable of my entire education, and I felt it was the whole reason I was at BYU. He graciously agreed to read an early draft of my descriptions of Salem, gave a couple of suggestions, then told me what I was really hoping: I’d got it just about right.
I also wish to acknowledge Larry Barkdull, whose Three Pillars of Zion fascinated and inspired me; and Brigham Young, who wrote and taught extensively about the United Order, and was immensely frustrated with its failures.
Last but not least, I acknowledge Dr. Hugh Nibley, whose vast and thorough research to help others approach Zion made my own study a lot easier, although it took me nearly a year to get through and digest his deep and rich essays my first time around. (Subsequent feastings have occurred slightly faster.) I wish I could have met the man, who reportedly wore such a ragged, old coat to campus that occasionally BYU students thought he was a homeless bum, and who didn’t bother remodeling his small, paid-off home when all around him his neighbors were building McMansions.
He had better things to do with his money and time.
About the author . . .
Trish Strebel Mercer has been teaching writing, or editing graduate papers, or changing diapers since the early 1990’s. She earned a BA in English from Brigham Young University and an MA in Composition Theory and Rhetoric from Utah State University. She and her husband David have nine children (and now adding grandchildren) and have raised them in Utah, Idaho, Maryland, Virginia, and South Carolina. Currently they live in the rural west and dream of the day they will be old enough to be campground managers in Yellowstone National Park.
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Other titles in the series:
The Forest at the Edge of the World, Book 1: Captain Perrin Shin’s out to uncover the secrets of the Guarders. But first he has to get a nosy school teacher out of the way. Click here to purchase.
Soldier at the Door, Book 2: Just when the Shins least need it, they’re sent some “help.” Click here to purchase.
The Mansions of Idumea, Book 3: When a major disaster strikes Edge, naturally Idumea pulls them away from their village and insists they return to the city. Click here to purchase.
The Falcon in the Barn, Book 4: His enemies have Perrin trapped, but his friends are gathering. Click here to purchase.
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