Pillar of Light

by Gerald N. Lund

  “I don’t know. I think so.” Joseph laid a hand on his arm. “That’s why I need the counsel of wise men like you, Ben. Then I want to take the idea to the Lord for his final approval.”

  “I like the idea, Joseph. Let me think on it. I think it has real merit. Anything else?”

  The blue eyes clouded, and when Joseph spoke, it sent a quick chill through Benjamin’s soul. “We lost the privilege of laying the foundations of Zion, Brother Ben, because the Lord will not be mocked. He warned us that we had to be pure in heart. But we were filled with petty jealousies, covetousness, contentions.” He looked down at his hands. The palms were open, as if in supplication. Then he looked at Benjamin. “And if we are not careful, the Lord may have to chasten us again. And I, for one, do not look forward to that in the least bit, Benjamin. Not in the least bit.”

  * * *

  There was a soft knock on the door. Elizabeth Ann Whitney, wife of Bishop Newel Whitney, arose and went to the door. The chatter among the dozen or so women in the room instantly stopped. Sister Whitney opened the door, smiling, then stepped back. “How glad we are that you could come!”

  She moved back, and three women stepped into the house. The first was tiny Mother Smith, still as full of fire and spunk at sixty-one as many women half her age. Next came Emma. In her arms she carried a small bundle wrapped in a white blanket. Behind her was Eliza Snow, who was living with Joseph and Emma.

  In one moment the women were around Emma. Soft oohs and aahs came out in a chorus. Smiling, her dark eyes filled with unabashed joy, Emma pulled back the blanket.

  “Oh, would you look at that!”

  “He’s darling, Emma. Just darling.”

  “I think he’s got Joseph’s nose and mouth.”

  “I can see a little of Mother Smith in him too, can’t you?”

  Joseph’s mother beamed at that, nodding as though she had seen the same thing herself.

  Mary Ann Steed looked into Emma’s face. “So he’s almost a month now?”

  Mother Smith answered for Emma. “He was born on the twentieth of June. So he’ll be a month one week from today.”

  Mary Ann reached out and touched Emma’s arm. Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. “We are so happy for you, Emma.”

  Emma turned. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I almost can’t believe it. He’s so perfect.”

  Sister Whitney interrupted them. “I believe our food is ready. Shall we eat?”

  * * *

  Mary Ann gazed down into the tiny round face. One eye was fluttering slightly, as though little Frederick Granger Williams Smith were dreaming some unknown thoughts of the heaven whence he had so recently come. Mary Ann reached out and touched the eyelid very gently with the tip of her finger. It steadied. There was a soft sigh, and then he seemed to settle even deeper into sleep.

  She settled back on the sofa, glad she had waited to be last to hold the baby. Now he was sleeping and she would have him for the longest amount of time. She looked across the room to where Melissa, her older daughter, sat. She and Thirza Cahoon, wife of Reynolds Cahoon, were crocheting a lace tablecloth for the sacrament table in the temple. Melissa had the ball of yarn propped on the roundness of her belly. Mary Ann’s mouth softened at the sight of her. Two more months and there would be a new baby in the Steed family too. She looked forward to that eagerly. The last one born—Lydia’s little Nathan Joseph—was now nine months old and pulling himself up to everything around the house. Cute as they were at that stage, there was nothing quite like having a newborn.

  Lydia was sitting next to Mary Ann. She leaned over, her eyes tender as she looked down at Joseph and Emma’s newborn son. “Isn’t he adorable?”

  Mother Smith was sitting in a rocking chair next to the sofa. She chuckled softly. “He’s not a whole lot bigger than his name, is he?”

  From across the room, Emma laughed. She and Joseph had decided to call the baby after Frederick G. Williams, Emma’s doctor and Joseph’s Second Counselor in the First Presidency. “Father Smith says we should just call him ‘F. G.W. S.’ for short.”

  Sister Cahoon looked up. “Can you imagine calling him and my son to dinner at the same time?”

  Melissa gave her a puzzled look. “What is your son’s name?”

  Eliza Snow, sitting two chairs away, lowered the needlepoint piece she was working on. “You mean you haven’t heard that story?” she asked.

  “Oh, tell her, Thirza,” Elizabeth Ann Whitney spoke up. “This is delightful.”

  “All right.” She looked at Melissa. “A few months ago I had a little boy. Reynolds and I couldn’t seem to settle on a name for him. Even after four or five days we hadn’t come up with something that was satisfying to the both of us. Well, one afternoon my husband looked out of the window and saw the Prophet Joseph passing by. On impulse, he hurried to the door and called after him. ‘Brother Joseph,’ he said, ‘how would you like to come in and give my son a blessing?’ Joseph, of course, immediately agreed to do so and came into our home. Then, as Reynolds handed him the baby, he suggested that since we hadn’t been able to settle on a name, perhaps Joseph could name him as well.”

  Melissa was nodding. “And?”

  “And so Joseph named him . . .” She paused for effect. “Mahonri Moriancumer Cahoon.”

  Melissa blinked. “Mah . . . Mah–what?”

  Eliza Snow clapped her hands in delight. “Mahonri Moriancumer.”

  “Oh my goodness,” Melissa managed.

  Thirza Cahoon laughed. “That’s what I thought too.”

  Lydia leaned forward. “It’s quite an unusual name, but tell Melissa what Joseph said about it.”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth Ann said, “that’s the most interesting part.”

  Sister Cahoon turned back to Melissa. “Do you recollect that in the Book of Mormon there is one prophet who was never called by his own name? His brother was named Jared, but all they ever called this man was—”

  “The brother of Jared,” Melissa finished for her.

  “That’s right.” She was nodding. “Well, Joseph said it had been revealed to him that Mahonri Moriancumer was the name of the brother of Jared. And so he named our son Mahonri Moriancumer.”

  “Really?” Melissa said, suitably impressed.

  “Isn’t that just like Brother Joseph?” Sister Cahoon said. “Even in little, day-to-day things, the Spirit whispers to him. While I joke about it a little, we’re very proud it was through our son that we came to know the actual name of this great prophet.”

  “It is a noble name,” Mary Ann spoke up. “The brother of Jared was a man of great faith and righteousness.”

  Emma and Brigham Young’s wife, Mary Ann Young, were in the process of hackling flax, combing out the long fibers and letting the tow, or short fibers, pile up on the floor at their feet. Sister Young turned to Eliza Snow. “Speaking of brothers, Eliza, I understand your brother Lorenzo was finally baptized.”

  “Yes,” Eliza said, “yes, he was. On the third of June.”

  “Good for him,” Mary Ann said. “He is such a handsome and fine young man.”

  “Yes, but so stubborn. I’ve been trying to get him to make up his mind to be baptized for the longest time now.”

  Mother Smith leaned forward, putting on a face of mock amazement. “Of course, he’s the only one in the Snow family who is strong-minded.”

  They all laughed at that. Eliza had first met Joseph Smith shortly after his arrival in Ohio early in 1831, but she had not joined the Church until 1835. She wanted to “prove all things” before doing anything as important as being baptized.

  Emma spoke up. “Joseph says he is an unusual young man and that the Lord has great things in mind for him.”

  “Well,” Mother Smith said, “then he shall have to be strong. Especially now.”

  That took Mary Ann aback a little. Careful so as not to wake the baby, she half turned. “Why do you say that, Mother Smith? Why especially now?”

  “Well,” she answered, �
�after such an outpouring of the Spirit as we have seen in the last few months, you know that Satan cannot be pleased. He will redouble his efforts to destroy the Church now.”

  “It’s already starting,” Eliza intoned, her face grave. “Look what’s happening among the people.”

  Many nodded in vigorous agreement with that. Sewing was laid in laps, knitting needles paused, the combing of the flax slowed as several began to talk at once. In a lull, Jerusha Smith, wife of Joseph’s brother Hyrum, spoke up. “Can you believe the price of food right now? Six cents a pound for pork. Four for beef. Flour is seven dollars a barrel!”

  Vilate Kimball, wife of Heber C. Kimball, chimed in. “I went to buy some butter the other day. Twenty-five cents a pound! I couldn’t believe it.”

  Mother Smith was shaking her head. “The prices are shocking, but I’m far more concerned about the fact that we seem to be moving further away from the Spirit. There’s so much contention, it seems. The poor are angry because they feel that no one helps them. Those with more of the world’s goods are upset because there are so many poor who won’t work. It seems like everyone is becoming more critical of everyone else.” She frowned slightly. “But there are some good things happening too.”

  Thirza Cahoon had started to crochet again. She stopped. “Like what?”

  “Well, for one thing, look how many of our families have other families staying with them. And often they are receiving nothing for rent.”

  “That’s true,” Lydia said.

  “I hear stories all the time about people helping others,” Mary Ann said quickly.

  Mother Smith looked around at the women. “There are many things that should cause us concern. But there are also many good things to be grateful and happy about. We must not dwell only on the bad.”

  The conversation moved on to other topics, but Mary Ann didn’t join in. As the sisters droned on, Mary Ann suddenly made a vow to herself. She herself had made one or two comments about how this person or that person was acting, or about how someone was handling things. It was an easy thing to do. But beginning this very day she was going to watch her tongue closely. Mother Smith was right. A spirit of contention and faultfinding was not good. She, for one, would try to stop contributing to the problem.

  * * *

  “Brethren, we have to face the facts, no matter how unpleasant they may be.” Hyrum Smith looked around at the group of priesthood holders assembled in an upper room of the temple. “We are facing a crisis of immense proportions, and unless we find some solutions, the very growth of the kingdom shall be hampered.”

  There were close to fifty brethren present, and everyone seemed a little on edge. Hyrum’s comments did little to soothe them. He had laid it all out for them—the debts on the temple, the costs incurred by the Church in Missouri, the continuing drain on their resources for care of the poor. By the time he finished, a deep sense of gloom had settled over the group.

  Martin Harris and Oliver Cowdery were sitting on the row of benches second from the front. Martin stood slowly. Hyrum nodded, acknowledging him. “I know we have problems,” Martin began, “but all is not bleak. I say that in some ways we are doing better financially now than we ever have. We’re in a building boom. From dawn to dusk our streets rattle with the sound of wagons filled with lumber, brick, and stone. New buildings are going up everywhere.”

  Oliver Cowdery got up now too, his eyes on Joseph. “We would be fools to say all is well here. But on the other hand, we are making significant progress, Joseph. The Church is beginning to establish itself. We now operate several of our own businesses. We have a brickyard, an ashery, a tannery, our own shoe shop, a steam sawmill, and a lumber kiln. We have a school, a print shop, and this beautiful temple. It’s one of the largest buildings in Ohio.”

  “That’s true, Oliver,” Joseph said, “and we also still owe thirteen thousand dollars on it.”

  Brigham raised his hand again.

  “Brother Brigham.”

  “We must write to the branches and tell them to stop sending people to Kirtland unless they have a minimum amount of money and have the means for making a living.”

  Martin Harris, who had sat back down, now shot to his feet again, giving Brigham a hard look. “That’s easy for you to say, Brother Young. You’re here now. How would you have liked it if back in ’33 we told you to stay in New York?”

  “I came with nothing, that’s true,” Brigham said testily, “but I was not dependent on the Church. I worked hard.”

  Several nodded in agreement. Brigham was a skilled carpenter and glazier. Many of the finer homes in Kirtland and the surrounding area sported exquisite fireplace mantels or cantilevered staircases, thanks to Brigham Young. He had also directed most of the finish carpentry work in the temple.

  “Well,” Martin grumbled, “I say we have to accept these souls, poor or not.”

  Brigham’s eyes narrowed a little, but before he could speak, someone behind them said, just barely loud enough to be heard, “Brother Harris, your concern for these poor souls wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that you own several building lots you’re trying to sell, would it?”

  Martin whirled, his eyes blazing. “Who said that? Who dares to question my integrity?”

  Luke Johnson and his younger brother Lyman, both in the Quorum of the Twelve, were on their feet now too, staring at the men behind them. Several eyes dropped; others met their gaze with open challenge. Hyrum stepped forward. “All right, brethren,” he said calmly, “let’s keep our emotions in check. We’re not here to fight with one another. We’re here looking for solutions.”

  Ben finally had had enough. He raised his hand, then stood even as Joseph turned to him. The room immediately quieted, showing the respect in which he was held. “Brother Steed,” Joseph said.

  “Martin and Oliver are right. We are in prosperous times, but that prosperity is hollow.” Martin stirred, but Benjamin went on quickly. “That doesn’t mean it is not real, just that it is hollow.”

  “Hollow? What’s that supposed to mean?” Luke Johnson demanded.

  Benjamin let his eyes sweep around the room. “It means it has no real economic base beneath it. We’re living on credit. Some of us in this room have become so-called wealthy men of late.” He smiled grimly. “But it is only on paper. Unless we get something—land, hard money, some real industry—behind all this credit we’re using, we are just dithering about the problem.”

  “You’re the only one dithering at the moment,” Lyman Johnson said with half a sneer.

  Benjamin swung around angrily, but Joseph was up instantly. His eyes were sorrowful, and when he spoke his voice was filled with gravity. “Brethren,” he began, “some of you in this room were with me on Zion’s Camp. Have we so soon forgotten those lessons? Have we so soon forgotten how the Lord chastened us when we fell to bickering and contention?”

  Heads dropped and eyes looked away quickly as he looked from man to man. “We lost fourteen to cholera!” He passed a hand over his eyes. “Fourteen good people. God warned us if we did not become one, if we did not show more Christian charity for one another, we would have no protection from the scourge when it fell upon us. Is that what it will take again? Do you not remember that God has commanded us to be one, or we cannot be his?”

  The challenge hung heavy in the air. The silence became so total that Benjamin noticed for the first time the sound of the leaves rustling outside the window. No one looked at Joseph now. Every head was down.

  Joseph moved back to stand by his chair. His voice dropped again, now to little more than a whisper. “Brethren, the Lord has said that he is bound when we do what he says, but if we don’t, we have no promise. He has promised us deliverance if we will but live his principles. But we are not living those principles. And if we do not repent we shall see the judgments of God in our lives again.” He sat down. After a moment, Frederick G. Williams raised a hand. Hyrum nodded for him to speak.

  He looked to Joseph. “Brother
Joseph, I think you need to tell them about Brother Burgess. That could be the solution to this financial crisis.”

  Joseph was impassive for a moment, considering his counselor’s suggestion, then finally he nodded. “I think you’re right, Brother Frederick.” He stood again to face the group. “Something happened yesterday that may prove to be the answer to our prayers. We’re not sure yet, but it may prove to be.”

  That caught everyone’s attention, and even the most volatile remained quiet to hear what was coming.

  Joseph let his eyes sweep over them all. “Some of you know Brother Burgess, who recently came to us. Well, Brother Burgess has brought us some exciting news. As a boy he grew up in Salem, Massachusetts. As you may know, Salem is an important seaport a short distance north of Boston. Brother Burgess says he knows of a house in Salem where years ago a large treasure was buried in the cellar.”

  Benjamin’s head came up sharply. Buried treasure? His eyes leaped to Joseph’s face, but Joseph was watching Brother Williams.

  Williams continued. “Brother Burgess says he is the only man alive who knows where the treasure is hidden.”

  “How much is it?” someone called out.

  Joseph smiled for the first time. “He isn’t sure. It’s been a long time since it was put there. But it’s a large treasure. Enough to solve our problems once and for all.”

  Joseph! Joseph! Benjamin couldn’t believe the sharpness of his disappointment. Surely not buried treasure. He spoke, his voice filled with scorn. “And what percent of the total does Brother Burgess get?”

  “Pa!” Nathan whispered in dismay.

  “Well,” Benjamin said to his son, not caring that Joseph could hear, “that’s a fair question.”

  Joseph nodded. “Yes, it is, Benjamin.” There was a soft note of rebuke in his voice. “Brother Burgess is asking for no part of it. He is willing to meet us in Salem and help us locate the treasure. If we find it, everything goes to the Church.”