The Work and the Glory

by Gerald N. Lund

  A little surprised, Mr. Whitney nodded. “Sure. Let’s sit down.”

  Before doing so, he grabbed the poker and used it to open the door on the cast-iron stove. He leaned down, got two pieces of wood and shoved them into the belly of the fire, then shut the door again. Satisfied, he sat down across from Carl. “All right, son. What is it?”

  Carl felt his face flame and knew it approached the color of his hair. He always blushed so easily. But this had been bothering him for some time, and so he was determined to seize the opportunity while he had it. “About two weeks ago I was in the store. Remember?”

  “Of course, I remember. That was the day Brother Joseph arrived.”

  “Right. Umm...that’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “I see. What in particular?”

  He blushed even more deeply. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything about this to my pa.”

  Whitney gave him an understanding smile. “Of course not.”

  “It’s not that I’m trying to hide anything, you understand.” It came out more quickly than he had planned, and he forced himself to pace his next words. “It’s just that Pa has some feelings about the Mormons and...”

  “I understand,” Whitney reassured him. “I won’t mention this to him.”

  “Thank you.”

  Whitney waited and Carl began to fidget again. He had rehearsed this over and over in his mind, but now to actually say it sounded foolish.

  Newel Whitney was a perceptive man. Not yet forty, he was already a partner in a successful mercantile establishment. He had a reputation for honesty and integrity and a wise head. It didn’t take much to guess what was on Carl’s mind. “Is this about some of the things Joseph said that day?”

  Carl felt immense relief. “Yes.”

  “About the vision?”

  He looked down, but nodded.

  Whitney sat back, pulling up one knee as he talked. “To understand what that was all about, I need to start a little earlier. Do you have time?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right.” He paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. “I think you know about the four missionaries who came here last fall from New York.”

  “Yes. I never met them, but everyone was talking about them.”

  “Yes, they were. Well, actually my wife and I had been followers of Mr. Sidney Rigdon, the Campbellite preacher.”

  “I know Mr. Rigdon.”

  “The Campbellites—or ‘Disciples,’ as we called ourselves—believed in baptism for the remission of sins, but they did not give the gift of the Holy Ghost. The book of Acts specifically says that Peter and the other Apostles had the power to give the gift of the Holy Ghost. That was the one thing about the Disciples that troubled my wife and me greatly. It was something we greatly longed to have.

  “Well, one night my wife and I were praying to the Father, asking him to show us the way. This was before the missionaries ever came. It was about midnight. We were in our house, just right over there.” He pointed across the street toward the west. “We prayed most earnestly.”

  Carl had gone very quiet now and was watching Newel Whitney intently.

  “Suddenly, the Spirit rested upon us. A cloud seemed to overshadow the house. And then it was like we were out of doors. The house passed away from our vision. We were not conscious of anything but the Spirit. A solemn awe came upon the both of us. We saw the cloud and felt the Spirit of the Lord with great power.

  “I can’t tell you how that felt, Carl.” He shook his head. “There are not words that can adequately describe it. But it was wonderful!” His voice dropped in pitch, tinged now with wonder. “Then a voice spoke out of the cloud. It said, ‘Prepare to receive the word of the Lord, for it is coming.’”

  Carl felt a little shiver go up his spine. He must have looked as if he were going to speak, for Mr. Whitney paused and looked at him expectantly. He gave a little wave of his hand to indicate that Whitney should go on.

  “At the time we didn’t know what it meant, only that somehow the word of the Lord was coming to Kirtland.”

  “And then the missionaries came?”

  His question seemed to please the storekeeper. “Yes, it was just a short time later that the four men from New York arrived with the news of the restoration of the gospel and with copies of the Book of Mormon.” He let his foot back down to the floor and leaned forward. “And they claimed that the priesthood of God had been restored to the earth. That priesthood included the authority to bestow the gift of the Holy Ghost.”

  “So your prayers were answered.” Carl had not made it a question, but a conclusion.

  “That they were. However, that was not the end of it. I am of a much more practical mind than my wife. I tend to undertake every endeavor with some caution.” He smiled, as though chiding himself a little. “I suppose that partly accounts for my success in the mercantile business. Elizabeth was baptized right away. I took a few more days before I was convinced. Then I too was baptized.”

  “And did you receive the gift of the Holy Ghost?”

  “Indeed. It was a most marvelous experience. At the baptismal service, the gifts of the Spirit were clearly manifest. Some prophesied; others, like myself, felt a great joy infuse our souls, purging our sins as though by fire.”

  Carl felt quick envy. “That must have been wonderful.”

  “It was,” Whitney said in a faraway voice. “I still bask in the light of that experience.”

  A movement out of the corner of his eye caught Carl’s attention. He turned and saw a woman and her two children coming down the hill from town. She had a large bag on one arm and was obviously headed for the store. He turned back to Mr. Whitney and spoke quickly. “But Joseph—Mr. Smith—said you had prayed him here. You didn’t actually pray for him to come, then?”

  “No, not specifically. The voice we heard only said that we were to prepare for the word of the Lord, because it was coming.”

  “But Joseph actually saw you praying?”

  He lifted his hands, palms upward, as though the evidence spoke for itself. “You heard what he said. And you saw that he knew me the moment he saw me, though we had never before laid eyes on one another.”

  Carl sighed. His face was puzzled. “I don’t understand how that is possible, Mr. Whitney.”

  The older man chuckled. “If you understand one thing, then understanding the other becomes very simple.”

  “What is that?”

  “You have to understand that Joseph Smith is a prophet. Like Moses and Abraham and Peter and Paul. Once you believe that, then visions and the ability to give the gifts of the Spirit are much easier to comprehend.”

  The bell tinkled softly as the door opened and the lady and her two children came in the store. Carl stood quickly and stuck out his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Whitney. Thank you for your time.”

  Whitney gripped his hand and held it for a moment, even when Carl started to pull it back. “Think about it, Carl. Just think about it.”

  “I will, Mr. Whitney. I promise.”

  As Carl Rogers walked back up the hill from Kirtland Flats, he moved slowly, barely aware of his surroundings. He was at that moment a very thoughtful and, in many ways, a very troubled young man.

  It was quiet in the Steed home on this March midmorning. It was still too wet to work the fields, and Benjamin had gone into town to have some metalwork done at the blacksmith shop. Melissa had gone with him. Matthew and Rebecca were attending the school just about a mile down the road. That was another sign of their growing prosperity. Both children were now attending the primary school in Palmyra Village. The bread was mixed and rising; the breakfast dishes were done; the laundry and ironing weren’t due to be done until Thursday. That meant Mary Ann Steed had an hour or more before she had to start lunch for Benjamin. It was one of those times that were starting to come to her more frequently now that her family was growing up.

  She went to the chest in the corner of the parlor
and opened the top drawer. Inside there were two books, both treasured by her. A large family Bible with black leather cover took up most of the room. Next to it was the Book of Mormon. She reached down and caressed its cover. This was the book Nathan had bought for her, one of the first ones off the Grandin press. But it was the Bible she took out.

  Moving to her favorite rocking chair, she sat down. It was located next to the south-facing window in the kitchen. It was her favorite chair because not only did it catch the sun, but from here she could see Ben when he brought the team back to the barn or the children when they came from school.

  She settled in, letting the warmth of the sunshine soak in for several moments. Finally she took her reading spectacles from the small lamp table and put them on. Mary Ann treasured the Book of Mormon. She had read it now four times and was going through it for the fifth. But she had grown up with the Bible, and if anything, the Book of Mormon had only served to deepen her love for it. She made it a point each week to spend time with both books. Today, she decided, she would read something in the four Gospels.

  But this didn’t seem to be the day for reading. She started, then in a few moments she let the book slip to her lap again and gazed out of the window. Her thoughts were on Ohio. Nathan and Lydia were now busily engaged in their preparations for departure. Melissa was still unmovable in her decision to go as well; she didn’t know when or how, but going she was. And Mary Ann would lose yet another of her children.

  Unbidden, the ache inside her rose to the surface again. The groups were forming. Hyrum had gone on ahead. Newel Knight would be taking the Colesville Branch. Mother Smith, Joseph’s mother, would take a group from around Fayette. Martin Harris was gathering the ones from Palmyra and Manchester. Soon there would be no one left. No one left to talk to about the Book of Mormon, or Joseph. No one with whom to gather for worship services. No more conferences in the warmth of the Whitmer cabin, where the Spirit had so often touched her and others. It was as though she were watching the world move slowly away from her while she stood rooted to the spot, unable to move.

  Finally she got stern with herself. She had come in here to read, not daydream or wallow in self-pity. She looked down. She was in the seventeenth chapter of Matthew. She started again, picking up where she could last remember reading with any comprehension. She decided she would read aloud to keep her focused on what she was doing.

  “‘And when they were come to the multitude, there came to him a certain man, kneeling down to him, and saying, Lord, have mercy on my son: for he is lunatick, and sore vexed: for ofttimes he falleth into the fire, and oft into the water.’”

  She stopped. This was a story that always touched her. In Vermont, a family named Chandler had lived two farms down the road from them. They had a fourteen-year-old boy, Thomas by name. One day when the Chandlers were at the Steeds’ for a cornhusking, Thomas suddenly stopped in the midst of what he was doing. His body stiffened, then his eyes rolled back. Mary Ann could still hear the anguished “Oh no!” of his mother. She lunged for him, but she was an instant too late. Thomas hurled backwards, hitting the ground with a sickening thud. He began to shake violently. White foam bubbled out of his mouth as he jerked and shook, while all looked on in horror.

  It was the Steed children’s first experience with someone afflicted by epilepsy, and it had terrified them. That night Mary Ann sat them down and read this very account to them. Then she talked about the Savior’s love for people, regardless of whether they were like other people or not. “Others will shun Thomas because they think he is strange,” she told them, “but if you are to be like the Savior you cannot do that. You must always remember, Thomas may be different, but he still needs to be loved.”

  She continued on, now caught up in the story and no longer needing to read aloud. “I brought him to thy disciples,” the anguished father told the Master, “and they could not cure him.”

  Mary Ann looked up thoughtfully. How it must have shamed the disciples—to stand and hear this sorrowing parent declare their inadequacies for all to hear. The Savior rebuked them for their lack of faith, then stepped forward. The result was clearly stated. The boy was healed “from that very hour.”

  It was one of the great miracle stories of the Gospels. For a moment, Mary Ann sat there in silence, thinking about Thomas and that day at the cornhusking. Finally, with a small sigh, she dropped her eyes and continued to read. Suddenly something leaped out at her.

  Afterwards, when the disciples were alone with Jesus, they asked him why they couldn’t cast out the evil spirit. Jesus told them it was due to their unbelief, then talked about having faith like unto a mustard seed. Then came the words that caught her eye. The account closed with these words of the Savior to his disciples: “Howbeit this kind goeth not out but by prayer and fasting.”

  Why had she never seen that verse before? She went back three or four verses and started again, reading slowly, concentrating. The disciples were troubled because they had not been able to effect the miracle. Jesus taught them about faith. But then, then...“Howbeit this kind goeth not out but by prayer and fasting.”

  She closed the book slowly, keeping a finger in the place. Were there some things so difficult, some challenges of such monumental proportions, that prayer alone was not sufficient? She opened the book and read the words one more time, feeling a quickening of her spirit. “This kind goeth not out but by prayer and fasting.”

  She closed the book again and set it aside, her mind racing. If fasting and prayer could work a miracle as wondrous as casting out an evil spirit, could it soften Benjamin’s heart as well? Could it help him to see and feel the power of the Book of Mormon? Could it cast out the bitterness he felt about Joseph?

  She paused, trying to calm her soaring hopes. Could it get them to Ohio?

  An hour and a half later Benjamin returned from town. Mary Ann served him a lunch of bread and soup. As he finished, and prepared to go out again, he stopped to kiss her on the cheek. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I’ll be out in the barn.”

  “All right.” She watched him move to the door, then spoke. “Ben?”

  He stopped and turned around.

  “I...” She took a quick breath. “I’ll not be eating with you from time to time over the next few days.”

  His brows furrowed. “What?”

  “I’ll be fixing all the meals, of course, but sometimes I just won’t be eatin’ with you.”

  “Why not?” He peered at her more closely. “You feelin’ all right?”

  “Yes, yes. I’m fine. It’s just...” She let it trail off, not sure that she could explain.

  “Just what?” he demanded.

  “I’ve...I would like to fast for a time.”

  “Fast?”

  “Yes. Go without food and water.”

  He gave her a long appraising look. Then finally he nodded slowly. “Is this about the kids? Lydia and Nathan?”

  She smiled a little, feeling a quick rush of relief. “In a way.”

  He shrugged, not pleased but not really angry either. “Whatever you think is best.”

  He opened the door and was gone.

  She watched him stride across the yard and disappear around the barn. “Thank you, Ben,” she finally murmured.

  Chapter Nine

  The Benjamin Steed cabin had been started the day after the family arrived in Palmyra Township in mid-September in the year eighteen hundred twenty-six. They moved in three days before the first snowfall.

  The main floor—all one room—served as kitchen, living area, and sleeping quarters for the parents. Upstairs there were two long and narrow bedrooms—one for the boys, one for the girls. On the coldest days, thin sheets of ice formed on the sloping ceilings of each bedroom. Above his brothers and sisters, Matthew, six years old when they first moved in, slept in a narrow loft stuffed with heavy comforters.

  But the amenities were added one by one—planking for the floor, glass panes
for the windows, a big oak chest for Mary Ann’s linens. Two years after they moved in, an extension off the south wall became a separate kitchen with a large slate sink and a sluice to bring water directly into the house from the nearby creek. Last fall, after another bumper crop of wheat, Benjamin had added a second wing to the east. Now it was no longer a cabin but a spacious and comfortable home. The walls had all been plastered and painted. Oak trim had been added in the main sitting room. Each bedroom had a small wood-burning stove to heat it during the winter. There was even a painting of mountain scenery in the parlor.

  Nathan Steed stood in the yard in front of the house, letting his eyes run across the original part of the home as his mind recalled those days of huddling around the fireplace, or racing down the stairs on winter mornings to stand on the great hearthstone that held the heat through the night.

  The door opened and Lydia was there. He looked up, a little embarrassed to be caught reminiscing. “Nathan, Mother Steed has supper on.”

  “Comin’.” The mood of reverie gone now, he strode quickly across the yard and onto the porch.

  Lydia pushed open the door for him and stood back so he could enter past her. There was enough room for the two of them, but he pushed against the roundness of her belly and stopped as though he had become stuck. “Uh-oh, Mrs. Steed,” he said. “I can’t seem to get past you and this baby.”

  She slugged him and then gave him a push. “I don’t think it’s the baby; I think I’m feeding you too good.”

  He laughed and put his arm around her. “I think you’re right. How did the only daughter of a rich storekeeper ever learn to cook like that?”

  Lydia smiled, pleased at his comment. “Mostly from your mother.”

  As they entered the main part of the house, Lydia stopped and looked up at him. “What were you doing out there?”

  He looked down at her, deciding once again that the pregnancy had only deepened her loveliness—that and her conversion to the Church. He had always loved her eyes, but now they had grown even darker and were like two great windows through which Nathan could peek into the innermost recesses of her soul.