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Poem for a Prophet

I cannot breathe today,
stagnant air burning my lungs,
my mind mired in sorrowful yesterdays,
So
many
wasted
days and anger cemented in my mind,
spackled mud on the toes of a child
who is carefree laughing full of joy
Not me, anyone but me.

Your dark and twisted philosophies of love and life
shadow me throughout my days and I cannot
shake
them
off
no matter the care I take
in long sandpaper showers and scrubbing
my skin raw with soap,
it bleeds between my fingers
and sticks in my mind.
The mud won't wash off.

Why I cannot rid myself of this darkness you call glory
and mockery you sing hymns about,
seems most apparent in your everyday life, when
time stands still and you dress up in
your
blue
suited
Sunday best and make your way to
a building I cannot even fathom,
to a world I will not join
and a life I cannot embrace.
I don't belong.

You cannot touch me there, anymore, that deep
abyss I reserve for truth and you
amaze me still that giving up is the last thing
you will ever do, trying once again to
swallow
me
whole
in your words and your ironies and your
twin knives of love and harmony.
Your temple is my nightmare, your endowments
the very last thing I will ever touch.

I will destroy myself first, slowly and methodically,
drink acid from a rusted cup, recite nonsensical
prose and utter foolishness, and pass it off as
bright,
glorious
praise.
I shed my clothes and revel in a naked dance
of sex and lust and bodies intertwined and only
now does my future appear before me,
possible at last.

---

"Will you love your brothers or sisters likewise, when they have committed a sin that cannot be atoned for without the shedding of their blood? Will you love that man or woman well enough to shed their blood?. . . I could refer to plenty of instances where men have been righteously slain, in order to atone for their sins. I have seen scores and hundreds of people for whom there would have been a chance (in the last resurrection if there will be) if their lives had been taken and their blood spilled on the ground. . . This is loving our neighbor as ourselves; if he needs help, help him; and if he wants salvation and it is necessary to spill his blood on the earth in order that he may be saved, spill it. . . That is the way to love mankind."

—Brigham Young, second president of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints
(Deseret News, Feb. 18, 1857.)

---

Chapter One

I was six years old the first time I had an inkling God would not always protect me.

My parents raised their children according to the strict tenets of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. What was offered to us as truth was simple: all one had to do was be baptized, pay a faithful tithe, and follow the teachings of the Lord's prophets—nothing too difficult, even for a first-grader to grasp. I swallowed it dutifully, wholeheartedly, relieved that life was simple and easy. I knew the difference between right and wrong. I knew the basic truths of God's plan for us. I felt comfortable and assured that I would wake up the next day knowing exactly what to expect.

On a sunny, warm April afternoon in 1972 my friend Cindy Caldwell and I blissfully played on their property, two miles from the nearest house. Eight-year-old Cindy had picked me as her best friend in the Farmington Fifth Ward, despite our two-year age difference. I had a serious case of hero worship.

Our playground was two acres of big boulders, trees and brush and lots of places to hide—a child's paradise. We'd received permission to go there from Cindy's mother, who was grateful for anything to distract us so she could plan her Relief Society lesson.

We knelt by the side of the shallow, ice-cold creek that flowed down from high up in the Wasatch Mountains. By the time it reached us—near the valley floor—it had divided many times, and was now no more than a small stream of water. We dipped our Barbies into the swimming hole we'd formed for them by damming up the water with rocks and twigs. The older and wiser Cindy explained to me the consequences of being baptized, something that had happened to her just a month before.

". . . And when you get baptized, you can't sin anymore, 'cause God won't automatically forgive you." She gave me a knowing look. "You don't have to worry about that yet, Alli. You still have two more years."

"What's a sin?"

"A sin is when you do something really bad, like steal something, or touch somebody's private parts. After you get baptized, if you do that stuff, you have to repent and tell the bishop."

I was quiet as I digested this information. I thought of the time several weeks before when my good friend Bernice Franklin and I had explored each other's girl parts while we played doctor. I remembered it felt really good when Bernice touched me there, and I squirmed with the memory. Feeling good was a sin? I was in deep trouble.

I also did not want to have to tell our bishop about my sins. Bishop Harwood was a big, loud, jovial man with shiny red cheeks, almost no hair on his head, and great tufts of it everywhere else we could see, including his nostrils. It sprang from the dark holes like a big unruly hair forest, hiding all types of unknown beasts and vengeful creatures. I had a hard time looking at him without fixating on his nose and all the wiry hair that came out of it.

Our neighbor, Rodney Crowell, who was in my first grade class at school, spent the entire summer a year before trying to convince Bernice and I the bishop was a werewolf. I told my mother, and Rodney didn't come out of his house for a week. He never brought up the werewolf theory again.

"Now, when they baptize you, they do this," Cindy prattled on, apparently not noticing my discomfort. She took her Barbie and placed her in the water. "I baptize you, Barbie Caldwell, in the name of God the Father, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Ghost."

She dipped her Barbie under the water and held her there.

"How do you keep from drowning?"

"Silly!" Cindy giggled as she pulled the doll from the water and shook it off. "They don't hold you down very long. They just dip you down and then lift you back up."

She moved from the side of the creek to the little chapel we had built a short distance away. "Now we need to confirm them. . . "

A crrrr-aaaackkk filled our ears, and we both jumped and screamed, as only little girls can. After our first shaken moments of terror, we looked at each other, and Cindy said "Ralph!"

Cindy's brother Ralph, sixteen and a bully, lived to torment us. He'd gotten his first shotgun for Christmas that year and was always up at the Caldwell property looking for rabbits, squirrels, birds, and other small creatures he could torture and murder.

"Ralph!" she yelled, standing up. Her knees were covered with dirt and little red dents from the pebbles we knelt on. She had her hands on her hips, like my mother did when she scolded us. "Ralph, where are you? You're gonna get it. When I tell Mom you shot around us with your gun, you'll never see it again! You know Dad will take it."

No answer came, no snicker, no sign of Ralph. I fidgeted with uneasiness, and realized I had to pee badly and the only toilet was far away.

Cindy looked around, shrugged her shoulders, and sat back down. As she reached for her Barbie, we heard the snap of a tree branch and we both jumped again.

"Knock it off, Ralph! Dammit! Mom's gonna kill you."

"You said a bad word!"

Cindy gave me an impatient look and turned back to the trees where we believed Ralph to be hidden.

"Is swearing a sin?" I needed to know, because my devoutly religious father swore all the time.

"Alli!"

We looked over to the area across the creek where we'd heard the noise, and I saw a sight that caused my heart to jump in my chest—the barrel of a rifle pointed directly at us. We couldn't clearly see the person holding the rifle because he wore camouflage, but he sported a dark beard peppered with gray. Ralph shaved once a month at best.

Slowly it hit me. This was not Cindy's brother.

We were going to die.

"Stand up," ordered the man. His unfamiliar gruff voice caused prickles of sheer terror to run up and down my legs and arms.

I couldn't move.

Slowly, Cindy stood up.

"Stand up!" he ordered again. Cindy grabbed me by the hand and pulled me to my feet. I'd sat too long, and my feet and legs had gone to sleep. Now pins and needles ran through them as the blood began to circulate. I couldn't help it—I hopped up and down trying to ease the pain.

"Knock it off, you little bitch!" he ordered. I couldn't stop dancing, and he lifted his rifle and aimed it directly at me. I think my heart stopped, and Cindy jumped in front of me, as though she were going to save me. He jerked the rifle up into the sky and fired a warning shot.

I peed my pants right then.

"Take off your clothes," he commanded. "Take them off now!"

We still could not see much of him besides his beard and the gun as he stayed hidden behind the tree and heavy brush.

"We won't take off our clothes!" Cindy said in a brave voice. "We won't. You'll have to kill us."

It was quiet for a moment. I imagined he was deciding whether or not he wanted to murder us. I was too young to consider any of the implications of our removing our clothes. Silently, I prayed, vowing fervently to never tattle again, never sneak cookies when I had been told no, never pick on my brother Kevin.

Please, God, please, don't let us die. Don't let the man kill us. Please save us. I promise I'll be good.

"All right," he yelled. "Little blond girl, you run. Run now. Run fast. Don't look back or I'll shoot you."

He meant me. Cindy had beautiful long brown hair that curled up at the ends. I hesitated. I wasn't going to leave my friend.

"No," I said in a squeaky voice, the loudest I could manage. "No. I won't leave her." I grabbed Cindy's hand and pulled her with me, and we ran. My shoes were loose, because Mom always bought them big so they would last. I lost them both as we ran and didn't dare stop to look back or to pick them up. Fleetingly, I thought of my mother and father. They would be mad I had lost my shoes. We didn't have much money.

I heard him crashing through the brush as he chased us. I held tightly to Cindy's hand, and I turned for just one second to see if he was close.

It was a mistake.

I tripped over a large root pushing up through the dirt, and the last thing I remembered was hitting my head on a large rock. When I woke up, cold, wet, and terrified, there was no sign of Cindy. Frozen with fear, I couldn't move, afraid the man was still there, afraid he would shoot me. I prayed silently, the same words over and over: Dear God, please save us. Dear God, please save us.

But there was no longer an "us." It was only me. Where was Cindy? How long I lay there I didn't know, but the cold, desperate fear that kept me unmoving gradually released its hold and I slowly, cautiously sat up. I looked around but could see no one.

"Cindy?" I whispered. "Cindy?"

She didn't answer. I moved my head slowly, and the world swayed as I sat up and looked around me.

"Cindy?" A little louder, but still no answer. The sun was setting now in the late afternoon sky, and soon it would be dark. Our mothers would be wondering where we were. Did Cindy go home without me? Was she tired of a littler girl tagging along with her?

I stood, all shaky, looking around carefully, watching for the bearded man with a gun.

"Cindy? Where are you?"

I heard a slight crack from behind me, like the sound a twig makes when somebody steps on it, and I whirled around but could see nothing. I walked backward away from the noise, Dear God, please save us, running through my head; and I mouthed the words silently. I heard nothing more, but knew someone was out there. Someone was watching and waiting for me.

Still walking backwards, I tiptoed off the pathway and into a copse of trees and bushes, heavy and scratchy. I tore my arms and legs on the brambles, and there was blood in my eyes from my earlier fall, but I didn't care. My fear numbed my pain. I settled down onto the ground in the bushes and waited, praying silently all the while, ignoring the tickles that could be bugs. I couldn't move.

I waited for Cindy to come back. I waited for God to save us. I waited.

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