by Dean Hughes
Liz was also finding her strength, and she was beginning to feel some satisfaction in her capacity to deal with hardships. She taught her pupils each day, and after they left, she saw to her chores. During Jacob’s naps, she hurried out, chopped firewood, and stacked it. She knew there were men about who would help—and did, from time to time—but she didn’t seek help. She felt rather proud of herself that she could go out in the cold, wield an ax, and haul in armloads of wood. She also carried in heavy pails of water for the night, and in the evening she sat by her fire and worked on the shirts she had promised to make for temple workers. She was surprised at how quickly she was learning to cut the cloth and stitch the pieces together. Every time she finished a shirt she told herself that she had helped the cause of Zion—and more days of Will’s mission had passed.
One afternoon she packed up the shirts she had sewn. With her parcel under one arm and Jacob in the other, she walked all the way to the flats and out to the river, where Sarah Granger Kimball lived. Sister Kimball, according to what Liz had heard, had been the first to suggest a women’s organization in Nauvoo, along with Eliza Snow. Under Joseph Smith’s direction, the organization had blossomed into something much larger than a benevolent society. Joseph had admonished the women to prepare the Saints for the day when the temple would be ready and members would be blessed to make covenants there. The women were to educate one another, but also to prod the brothers as well as the sisters in Nauvoo toward greater spiritual commitment.
Sarah Kimball was involved in almost all the charitable work that happened in Nauvoo. Liz had been introduced to her at the grove one Sunday and had been surprised, after learning about her prominence, to realize that she was not much older than Liz. Still, her husband was one of the richest men in town, and her two-story frame house, though not a large place, was ever so much nicer than Liz’s log house.
Liz knocked on the front door and waited, a little nervous, although she wasn’t exactly sure why. She knew her shirts weren’t as expertly sewn as she would have liked, but she wasn’t ashamed of that. She was, however, a little self-conscious about presenting herself to Sarah, a stately woman, tall and straight, self-assured and very intelligent. Liz wanted to be liked by such women, but she felt herself a newcomer to the gospel and not a truly educated woman.
When the door opened, however, Sarah didn’t seem so austere as Liz had expected. She was wearing an everyday wool dress covered with a white apron, and even though she seemed tidy and correct, she smiled at Liz as though genuinely happy to see her. “Oh, Sister Lewis,” she said, “have you shirts for me?”
“I do.” Liz held out the parcel to her.
“Come in. Rest for a minute and warm yourself. Did you walk all the way off the bluffs to bring these? It’s very cold, isn’t it?”
“Not quite so cold as it’s been. This seemed my best opportunity to get these to you.”
“I’m so thankful. I haven’t received many lately, and the men wear through their shirts faster than I ever could have imagined. There’s not much work on the temple now, but men are still quarrying stone when the weather allows for it.” She motioned for Liz to walk into the little parlor just left of the front door. “May I see your baby?”
Liz laughed. “He’s a heavy weight to pack around. But he’s not yet five months old, so I suppose he is a baby.”
Little Jacob was squirming by then, eager to see where he was. Liz pulled his blanket away and let him sit up on her lap. His head swung about as though he wanted to take everything in.
“Oh, what a fine boy,” Sister Kimball said. “He’s big for his age. We have a son too, you know. He’s a year old. I’m happy to say that he ran down, like an unwound clock, just a short time ago. He doesn’t always nap these days, but I’m thankful when he does.”
“I won’t take your time. I know how valuable those minutes are when a little one finally goes down.”
“But stay a bit. I’ve been wanting to know you. Sister Eliza tells me you’re an intelligent woman—and I’m only too happy to hear it. We need more sisters who can think and lead. Too many have been raised to believe they should cook and clean and serve their husbands—and other than that, keep their mouths closed.”
Liz was a little surprised by this assessment. “I don’t know, Sister Kimball. Sister Snow may have given me too much credit for intelligence. What I wish is that I were better prepared to keep a home running.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I didn’t learn any of the household arts in my home. We had help to do those things. So I’ve had to learn to cook at a fireplace, milk a cow, and make butter—and everything else. When it came to sewing these shirts, I was all thumbs at first. I hope they’ve gotten a little better as I’ve gone along.”
“Oh, Sister Lewis, don’t worry about that. If you want to know the truth, I have a seamstress, Sister Cook. Margaret and I started this project to sew for the workers, but she’s the one who does most of the sewing, and I usually do the organizing. I can sew well enough, but—and let me whisper this—I don’t really like to do it.”
This made Liz laugh. She had a whole new appreciation of Sister Kimball.
“Sister Lewis, I wasn’t—”
“Please call me Elizabeth, or better yet, Liz.”
“I will. And call me Sarah.” She had a lovely smile, and she seemed very much at ease. Liz liked her. “As I was saying, I wasn’t raised in a well-to-do family. I was fortunate that Mr. Kimball took a liking to me and provided me with the time and means to do some good in this world. But God didn’t create women so they could work like plow horses with a husband behind, cracking a whip. I believe with all my heart—and I know Brother Joseph believes this too—that women are capable of much more than they’re usually allowed to do. And I might add—as my own opinion—they often correct what men make a shambles of.” She laughed, and suddenly she sounded mischievous.
“I’ve suspected the same thing all my life,” Liz said, and she laughed too. “But I didn’t ever dare to say it.”
“Well, you just learned something about me. I say things. I believe in the goodness and refinement of spirit I see in women—but I also know they can understand anything men understand. When I was fifteen, in Kirtland, Ohio, I attended one of the sessions of the School of the Prophets. I met women there who were able to test the wits of the priesthood holders who taught us.”
Liz wanted to hear more of this. She had wondered since entering the Church—and had wondered as a member of the United Brethren—whether women always had to listen quietly to the things men had to say, whether they couldn’t speak their opinions openly.
“When President Smith created the Female Relief Society of Nauvoo,” Sarah said, “he told Emma—and all of us—that the Church had never been fully organized until the women had been established after the manner of the priesthood. When the temple is completed one day, women will receive a new endowment, the same as the men. I’ve heard Joseph promise that.”
“Sister Kimball, I don’t know what an endowment is.”
“I know something about it. But most members don’t so far. There was a ceremony in Kirtland—a series of promises made to God, and from God—but Joseph has received a full form of that ceremony now. We’ll all hear about it soon. I’ll tell you, just between the two of us, that some of the leaders have already received it. But once the temple is completed, we’ll all have our opportunity.”
Jacob was still squirming, and he was whimpering a little. Liz wondered how long it would be before he would be howling. The walk back to her home would take her at least half an hour, and he might not let her get away with that.
“If you need to nurse that baby,” Sarah said, “I’ll give you some privacy.”
“I do need to, I think. But don’t let me take more of your time. I can just sit here, and you go about your work.”
“That’s fine, but let m
e ask about you a little more before I do.”
“Certainly,” Liz agreed. Sarah seemed entirely at ease, but she sat very straight in her chair. She appeared almost regal. Liz found herself sitting up a little straighter herself.
“Are you managing all right by yourself?”
“It’s not so bad. I keep busy. It’s the night I hate. I don’t like to be alone.”
“I know. I’ve experienced that when Mr. Kimball travels with his business, which he does a great deal. He’s not a member of our Church, you know—not yet, anyway.” She smiled. “So he won’t be called away on a mission, but I know what it is to be home with a baby. May I give you some advice?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Use that time in the evenings—when your baby is asleep—to learn more than you’ve ever known before. I have some things you can take home if you like: books and pamphlets by the Pratt brothers—brilliant men who open up this world and the next with their understanding of the eternities. And by the way, I have it on good authority that Brother Orson has resolved his difficulties with Joseph Smith and will soon be rebaptized.”
“I’m glad to know that.”
“But my point is, we women can’t teach the gospel unless we know it, and if we lag behind and let the men do all the thinking in this life, we’ll miss our chance to be all we’re capable of being. Some may tell you that you’re not wise or bright enough to understand the grand truths, but it isn’t so. This Church—and this nation—will prosper as men and women think and work together. And it’s we young women who will have to see that change through to the end. Our mothers were too content to sit by the fire and do needlework.”
Liz thought of her own mother, who deferred to her husband on everything. Liz had sometimes worried that she was too quick to assert her own opinions, but she had the feeling that Sarah—and Eliza and Emma—were showing her what women could become.
• • •
Will was standing at the pulpit of a little country church. A congregation of about thirty people from Pleasant View, a small Alabama town, had gathered to hear what he had to say. But he had sensed from the beginning that the preacher who had arranged the meeting had also warned his people against the doctrines Will would teach. Will wasn’t sure why the man wanted to bother people that way, if that was his attitude, but he didn’t ever pass up a chance to preach.
Will was learning. He had rarely had a chance to explain the gospel to anyone, especially doubters, but in the last several weeks he had begun to find a way to organize his presentation and engage the interest of his audience. He had begun this meeting by raising questions about common Christian beliefs. Were babies really damned if they died unbaptized? Was the afterlife really a time for nothing but peace and rest? How long would that make a person happy?
Then he introduced the idea that prophets were needed on this earth. There were important questions to ask, important doctrines to understand, but the various sects were merely inventing their own interpretations of scripture. “We need someone in our own time who can talk with God and bring us truths, just as the prophets of olden times were able to do. Why would God speak to the children of Israel and not to us?”
But a man sitting near the front, in a center pew, suddenly stood up. “Enough of this,” he shouted. “You’re a blasphemer.” He was a plain man, hardly noticeable until now, but his voice scratched like claws.
“And how so?” Will asked.
“It’s for God to know how He’ll speak to us, not for some charlatan to make claims that he’s a prophet. In the last days there will be wolves in sheep’s clothing who will try to lead the people away from the Lord. That’s what your Joe Smith is. Don’t speak of him in the same breath as Isaiah and Jeremiah. It’s a wonder God doesn’t strike you down.”
Will had been praying for patience every day of his mission. He knew that this would be another moment to prove that he could be humble and kind in his response to such animosity. “Sir, what do you know about Joseph Smith, and where have you learned it?”
“I am the editor of our local newspaper, Mr. Lewis. I receive reliable information from all of the great newspapers of this land. I don’t listen to rumor and innuendo; I listen to those who have looked into this matter and know the truth.”
“So you believe what John C. Bennett has been saying. Is he your source of truth?”
“He is one source. The man lived in your city, and he led your church alongside this Joe Smith. He knows your people in and out, and he proclaims that Smith is a seducer and a liar. He enriches himself at the expense of dupes like you, and he steals from women that which is most holy and sacred, as no prophet would do.”
Will felt that old fire of his temper, but he gritted his teeth and waited, tried to calm himself. He thought of Joseph living in a log home in Nauvoo, serving his people, and it was infuriating to think of this man who knew nothing about him believing a scoundrel like John Bennett. “Mr... . may I know your name?”
“Erastus Mikkelson,” the man said. “Everyone here knows me. They know I’m fair-minded and honest. But when I’ve heard enough, I’ve heard enough. What you’ve told us so far is all lies.”
Mikkelson may have thought of himself as fair-minded, but his eyes were aglow with anger. He was a middlish man, of no special distinction, except that his long forehead seemed to draw attention to those fiery eyes. He was dressed better than anyone in the room, however, and clearly he thought it his right to speak for the rest.
“Mr. Mikkelson, you should read a recent statement by one Mr. James Arlington Bennet, not a relative of John C. Bennett’s. James Bennet reports, in a nationally published editorial, that John C. Bennett has been untrue to his wife and is a notorious liar, a man set on feathering his own nest at any cost. He admonished this nation to give John C. Bennett no heed. Mr. James Bennet, in fact, tells of meeting with Joseph Smith and finding him to be a man of intelligence and humility—exactly opposite of the person you describe.”
“A charlatan can often deceive the unwary.”
“Then let me speak for myself and offer my own testimony. I know Joseph Smith well. I have watched him as he leads our people. He speaks with wisdom and inspiration. He lives simply and does nothing to improve his own lot in life above the rest of us. And sir, I have looked into his eyes and received, through the spirit of the Holy Ghost, a confirmation that he is, indeed, a prophet. I proclaim it on my honor, and I hope you see in me a man who has no desire to speak anything but the truth.”
“Unless you come here on the same mission as your Joe Smith. I suspect you want to teach our daughters the damnable doctrine of ‘spiritual wifery.’” Mikkelson took his time and looked around at the congregation. “This false teaching would sanction licentiousness. Is that what we want our daughters to be taught?”
This impassioned accusation brought some murmurs from the little gathering. Will had thought the people had been rather interested in the things he had said at first, but now he saw them stirring, whispering to one another. And Mr. Fields, the minister, looked pleased. He was a heavy man with whiskered jowls and a huge bulb of a nose. He had lost a couple of his dark front teeth, and the gaps were visible now even though he seemed to be making an effort not to smile.
“My friends,” Will said, “I assure you that my purposes are honorable in every way. May I explain, as was my intent from the beginning, some of the tenets of my faith?”
“We get our tenets from the Holy Bible,” Mr. Mikkelson announced. “Why should we ask to learn from someone who has cast the Bible aside for a crazy book written by Joe Smith?”
“I know you’re speaking of the Book of Mormon,” Will said. “But let me explain a little of what that book is, and how Joseph Smith came to receive it—and translate it.”
“We don’t need to hear anything about that,” Reverend Fields said. “I asked you to tell us what you believe—but not if you want to p
reach from some trumped-up scripture, and not the Holy Bible.”
“That’s fine, sir. I’ll use the Bible. I raised a question earlier about life eternal. Perhaps I could say something more about that. Some would have you believe that in the eternities we have nothing more to learn or accomplish. But the Lord’s great plan of happiness assures us that we can continue to grow and become more like Jesus Christ.”
“I see where you’re going with that, and it’s wrong,” Reverend Fields said. “It’s by faith that we’re saved, not by works. And not one of us can ever be like God. We are so far beneath Him that we can only throw ourselves on His mercy and hope that He raises us up to heaven—not for anything we’ve done, but because He condescends to bless us through His grace.”
“I don’t disagree with that, sir. It’s through Jesus Christ, and only Jesus Christ, that we are saved. But didn’t He say to his disciples, ‘Come follow me,’ and what did He mean by that? Does He not invite us to follow His teachings, humble ourselves as He humbled Himself, and do good works that—”
“You were right, Reverend Fields,” Mr. Mikkelson said. “It’s a doctrine of works—the very thing you said it was. This man is only here to distort the truth. I’ve heard enough. I do believe everyone has.”
Will thought he noticed a few who actually wanted to listen, but Reverend Fields was saying, “Yes, indeed, we’ve heard enough. I invite all who profess the true word of God to enter our doors and proclaim the gospel, but this is a waste of our time.”
Will looked around for support. “Would anyone like to hear what I have prepared to say?”
“I would,” one young man said, and his wife was nodding.
But this only angered Reverend Fields. “No, you wouldn’t, Jake Winthrop. I told you already, we’ve heard all we want to hear. Pick up your false scripture and whatever else you brought with you, Mr. Lewis, and leave now. I’ll take your place this evening, and teach truth—so these believers will not go away disappointed.”
