As Lambs to His Fold, Page 2

CHAPTER ONE

  I think, when I read

  That sweet story of old,

  When Jesus was here among men,

  How he called little children

  As lambs to His fold,

  I should like to have been

  with Him then.

  — Jemima T. Luke

  Flourishing the curling iron and attempting to make me look like Shirley Temple, Mamma spoke with some difficulty around a mouthful of bobby pins. “What does the weather look like?”

  Going to the window, Daddy observed gathering clouds and remarked, “Well, you know what they say: ‘When the Mormons meet, the heavens weep.’”

  “Paul!” Mamma took the bobby pins out of her mouth and looked reproachful. “Who would say a thing like that?”

  “It’s a joke, dear. It means it’s going to rain.”

  “Well! I still don’t think it’s very nice!”

  Mamma pushed in the bobby pins and tied a bow atop my crowning glory. I knew it would be a brief glory, at best. I had the stubborn Markham hair, and, stubbornly, it would soon reassert itself. But, one way or another, I was ready for Sunday school.

  I strolled out on the porch to wait for Leatrice.

  __________

  We were nine that summer of 1938, Bethany Markham and Leatrice Latimer, cousins and best friends. My brown hair was cut Dutch-boy style. Leatrice’s hair was dark blonde and wispy-fine. It was always escaping from the ribbon that was supposed to hold it back. I was short, she was tall; Uncle Jack called us “Mutt and Jeff.”

  We shared something else in addition to kinship and friendship, a large and lofty ambition — not to go to Hollywood, although that ranked a close second, but to go to heaven. How had we arrived at this desire? We had been hit, each of us, with a wonderful revelation.

  However, someone forgot to warn us how difficult the way to glory would be. We supposed that we had merely to continue as we were — two perfect little Mormon girls. We would find, to our shock and dismay, that it was not so.

  __________

  We sat in our best dresses and black, patent-leather slippers, listening to our Sunday school teacher, Sister Tattersall, tell us the story of The Iron Rod: of how the Prophet Lehi had a dream that showed him a beautiful tree with delicious fruit on it. To get to the tree you had to grasp the Iron Rod that went along by a filthy river. Those who didn’t keep a tight hold on the Iron Rod would slip off into the filthy river.

  “Now”, said Sister Tattersall, looking popeyed with earnestness and a tight girdle, “did any of us know what the Iron Rod represented?” We all shook our heads.

  “It was”, she said, “the Word of God; and we must stick to it like glue if we wanted to get to heaven, which was represented by the tree and the delicious fruit.” Only the faithful would make it.

  It was then that the heavens resounded with good news for Leatrice and me. The faithful! That was us! We were as faithful as all-Billy-heck; and we never did anything wrong.

  Heaven? A piece of cake. We had been hearing about heaven all our lives. But, until now, “going to heaven” had held no more appeal than “going to Provo.” Now, suddenly, we realized that there was something in it for us.

  “Men are that they might have joy.” There it was, right in the scriptures: 2nd Nephi 2:5.

  Up until now we had missed the significance of that promise. Now we had a vision of what it meant: that tree with the luscious fruit on it; and under its spreading branches there would be a picnic, with fried chicken, and lemonade, and potato salad, and cookies to go with the fruit.

  Who could ask for anything more? And it was ours, because we deserved it. We went to church, and we paid our tithing: four cents each month to the bishop, ten percent of our allowance. We also didn’t lie, steal, cuss, drink bad stuff, smoke, or spit on the sidewalk. Sister Tattersall hadn’t told us very much about the particulars of heaven. But that very evening we were to be wonderfully enlightened.

  __________

  By late afternoon, the rain had stopped, and the air was cool and pleasant. Daddy had said, “It’s a fine evening. Let’s walk to church.”

  So, there we were, on our way to Sacrament meeting. Daddy and Mamma were ahead of us, Daddy walking with long strides, Mamma trotting beside him. It was the end of May, and Daddy was wearing his summer seersucker suit and straw hat. Mamma had on her go-to-meeting dress, a pretty flowered rayon.

  Right behind Mamma and Daddy came my sister, Irene, and Leatrice’s sister, Dorajean. They were both fifteen and a great trial to Leatrice and me. They were wearing their first high heels — platform pumps; and the way they were wobbling and staggering, their feet must have been killing them. But they would have staggered to the end of town, just so people could see them.

  Leatrice and I brought up the rear. I was scuffling my feet and complaining at having to walk eight blocks to church — although, at other times, I trotted all over town with Leatrice and thought nothing of it. But, Sunday ought to be different. Wasn’t that the day you were supposed to rest?

  Most of the time, we rode to church in the car, going around to pick up dear, old Brother Nickelbee, who was ninety-eight years old and our particular friend. But, Brother Nickelbee was in bed with a cold; so Daddy had said, “Let’s walk.”

  Now he turned his head and addressed me in a tone of mild reproof.

  “Beth, when I was a boy we walked three miles to church and three back. My father believed in living the Laws of the Lord very strictly, including the one about letting your animals rest on the Sabbath. So our horses stayed in the barn on the Lord’s Day, and we walked.”

  I didn’t want a lecture, so, forgetting that a moment ago I had complained of being tired, I raced ahead with Leatrice to get to the tabernacle, so we could climb up in the balcony, where we were allowed to sit — if we behaved ourselves.

  Our tabernacle was a handsome building standing in the middle of the tree-adorned town square. It had arched and leaded windows and was built of noble, gray limestone. The double front doors were of solid oak with hand-wrought iron hinges and handles. Two grand spires pointed at the sky. Inside, the ceiling of the chapel was arched and beamed, like the upturned hull of a ship. And, indeed, the master builder, from England, had at one time built ships.

  The chapel contained a pipe organ with golden pipes. Everyone said it sounded every bit as good as the one in the Salt Lake Tabernacle. And, between the pipes, was a stained-glass window showing Jesus holding a lamb.

  I loved to look at it. I wondered, however, why it was called “stained” glass. To me that meant something ugly; and this was beautiful.

  Another reason for pride: Our tabernacle was the first and only one in the Welcome Valley. Let the town of Hope, ten miles to the north of us, make jokes that we were beyond Hope; let Prosperity, ten miles to the south, make teasing remarks that we would never reach Prosperity. They worshiped in plain, ordinary meeting houses. We had the tabernacle, large enough to hold all the Saints in the valley desirous of attending stake conference every three months — when General Authorities would come down from Salt Lake to speak to us.

  Our town of Welcome would undoubtedly have been the county seat, we said, if the railroad hadn’t passed us right by and put in a station down at Prosperity. If we had gotten the station, we said wistfully, we could have put up a beautiful sign that said, “Welcome.”

  __________

  We climbed the circular stairs to the balcony. It was hot up there, but we liked it because we were the sole occupants (except at stake conference time), and we could see over the heads of everyone below; and, if we wiggled or decided to take a snooze during a boring sermon, no one whispered, “Stop it!”

  We couldn’t get away with very much up there. Leatrice’s mother, Aunt Mabel, played the organ. She could shoot us a glare and never miss a note. Leatrice’s father, Uncle Roland, was the ward clerk. He did a lot of gazing out over the congregation, counting heads, and his gaze often rose to us. And Grandpa, when he wasn’t visiting
other wards as a member of the stake high council, sat up on the stand next to the bishop.

  So we were under the surveillance of most of our relatives. My parents were sitting below with our sisters, and Grandma, and Uncle Jack. They were facing forward, but experience had taught us that they had mysterious eyes in the backs of their heads.

  If there wasn’t much chance for funny stuff, that isn’t to say we didn’t try. Our mothers made us carry clean handkerchiefs tucked in our sleeves. When the talks got boring, we would make handkerchief mice and run them along the railing in front of us. Once, I tied a jawbreaker in the corner of my handkerchief. It made a large lump on the end of my mouse’s tail. Somehow, mouse and jawbreaker slipped from my hand and landed on the top of Sister Higpen’s head. She looked up and glared; and she didn’t give me back my mouse and jawbreaker. She handed them to my mother. After that, I was always searched before I went to church.

  We sat with our chins resting on our folded arms, gazing over the balcony railing at the people below. Up on the stand sat Doctor/Bishop Lindblum. (We called him that because he answered to both names.) Next to him sat his two counselors, Brother Lillyfield and Brother Alsop. And next to them sat our speaker for the evening, Brother Lubeker.

  Aunt Mabel was at the organ, poised to begin playing. And up the aisle the Saints came marching in: Meeow-Meeow Harris and her parents; Brother and Sister Higpen with their obnoxious son, Norman; sweet Sister Woolsey; prickly Sister Posey, who always looked as though she had swallowed a cactus.

  Sister Lillyfield came in brushing her daughter Candy’s curls so that every bit of her beauty, which was quite a lot, would shine before the congregation. The Malarkeys walked up the aisle with their numerous and noisy progeny and occupied an entire row. Next came one of our favorite people, Brother Sheen, Welcome’s policeman, looking strange, to us, wearing a suit instead of his weekday uniform.

  Sister Lindblum, with the sweetly resigned expression of a woman whose husband is both a bishop and a doctor, came in by herself and sat in the third row.

  Now, Great-Aunt Salina May Roundtree Gillis, a procession of one, came marching up the aisle thumping with the Brigham Young Temple cane.

  And then, Aunt Francie, our very most favorite person in the whole world, came in with her husband, Roger Winfield, and sat down by Grandma.

  We sang the opening song; listened to Brother Alsop pray; sang again; partook of the Sacrament. Then Leatrice and I slid down on the bench, prepared for a long, boring sermon from Brother Lubeker, our high council representative.

  Down below, courtesy of the Swanson funeral parlor, cardboard fans were going back and forth, back and forth in the hands of the sisters in a way to make you sleepy. I closed my eyes. Brother Lubeker’s voice came dimly to my drowsing mind.

  Then I sat up, wide-awake. Leatrice was leaning forward with great attention, her arms on the balcony railing. Brother Lubeker was talking about some really interesting stuff. He was explaining, in fact, the same things that Sister Tattersall had touched on that morning, but in much greater detail: what heaven was like and who would be worthy to go there.

  The light overhead was causing Brother Lubeker’s bald head to shine. It made him look rather holy. He was quoting from the Bible, describing God’s beautiful city with its streets of pure gold; its twelve gates covered with jewels and pearls; the throne where God sat with Jesus beside Him; the holy angels surrounding them; and the righteous coming to Zion singing songs of everlasting joy.

  As I listened, my resolve to go to that swell place crystallized. I could tell, from Leatrice’s rapt, unwinking stare, that she had caught the vision also.

  Our speaker next turned to the Book of Mormon. His mellow voice rolled out across the congregation as he described those who would be blessed to go to the celestial kingdom: the ones who loved the Lord, and kept His commandments, and endured to the end.

  Well, Leatrice and I were certainly righteous. We loved the Lord like all get-out; and we kept His commandments; and we certainly endured plenty from our sisters.

  Now Brother Lubeker was opening the Doctrine and Covenants and reading where the fortunate would “come to Zion, singing...songs of everlasting joy.”

  And we were going to march into heaven, past the angels at the gates, right up to the heavenly throne. Wow!

  Brother Lubeker closed the scriptures and leaned forward very earnestly:

  “Then, let us press forward, brothers and sisters, with great resolve and with a steadfastness in Christ. How terrible it would be if any of our number should be lost. How tragic if a mother or father, sister or brother, son or daughter should fail to attain the Celestial Kingdom.”

  The closing song was, “Beautiful Zion, Built Above.” I had a new appreciation for that hymn as the congregation raised their voices and sang about beautiful gates, and beautiful crowns, and beautiful robes.

  Walking home after sacrament meeting, Leatrice and I fell behind our family members so we could compare impressions on what we had heard. Golden streets! Would we be allowed to roller skate on them?

  We were puzzled as to why Brother Lubeker had talked about sitting on Jesus’ right hand.

  “I’d’ve thought His lap would be more comf’terble,” I observed.

  Considering the popularity of Jesus and that good seats would likely be scarce, we decided that which ever one of us got there first would save a nice spot for the other one — hopefully as close to Jesus as possible, but not on His right hand.

  __________

  We parted, I to my home, Leatrice to hers next door. I walked up the steps, across the porch, and into the house, wrapped in a glorious vision of the Celestial kingdom.