The crispness of the morning air seemed to underline the stark contrast between the serene environment and the emotional storm brewing at our campfire. My parents, each lost in their own whirlwind of feelings, painted a picture of a family teetering on the edge of catastrophe.
Mum paced restlessly, her hands fidgeting with a small, worn handkerchief she always carried—a memento from her own mother. Each fold and twist of the fabric seemed to echo her inner turmoil. Meanwhile, Dad sat in silent contemplation, his expression a mix of worry and disappointment. He stared into the dying embers of the campfire, as if seeking answers in their fading glow.
Taking a deep breath to steady my own swirling thoughts, I approached them, my voice carrying a blend of tenderness and trepidation. "Mum, Dad, can we talk?" I asked, the simplicity of the question belying the complexity of the conversation that awaited us.
Mum halted her pacing and faced me, her eyes glistening with unshed tears that reflected the morning light, making them appear as if they held their own galaxies of sorrow. "Paul, how could Luke do this to us? The New Jerusalem... it was all a lie!" Her voice trembled with a mix of anger and betrayal, a poignant reminder of the shattered dreams and broken promises they were grappling with.
Feeling a heavy sense of guilt weighing on my shoulders, I exhaled deeply. "I know, Mum, and I'm sorry. Luke... he thought he was doing the right thing." The words felt hollow even as I spoke them, dissolving into the morning like smoke from the campfire.
Dad, his gaze lifting to meet mine, expressed his own sense of disillusionment. His eyes, usually a beacon of strength and resolve, now mirrored an unsettling vulnerability. "We were prepared to leave everything behind, Paul. For our faith, for our family. But this... this is not what we were promised." His voice, usually steady and reassuring, betrayed a hint of sadness, a crack in his usually unshakeable demeanour.
I sat down beside Dad, the bench creaking under our combined weight, an audible testament to the burden we shared. The worn wood, rough beneath my palms, grounded me in the moment as I faced the daunting task of offering solace. "I understand, and I'm sorry you were misled. But we're here now, and we need to make the best of it." I tried to inject a note of optimism into my voice, a fragile attempt to pierce the veil of uncertainty that shrouded my heart.
Mum, visibly agitated, resumed her nervous pacing, her footsteps a rhythmic echo of our collective anxiety. "But we'll never go home again, will we? I can't... I can't accept that." Her voice broke, a poignant reflection of her inner turmoil, her words slicing through the morning calm like a knife.
I reached out and gently took her hand, feeling the tremble of her skin, the physical manifestation of her distress. "Mum, I know this is hard. It's hard for all of us. But we're together, and that's what matters. We'll build a new life here, a new home.” My words, though sincere, felt like a meagre offering against the magnitude of loss. The hint of resignation in Mum’s posture, her shoulders drooping slightly, told me she was far from convinced, her spirit tethered to the life she left behind.
Her reaction was sharp, a raw outburst filled with the pain of separation. “But we’re not all together, are we!?” she snapped, her voice laced with bitterness, highlighting the harsh reality of our fragmented family, a reminder of the gaping wounds yet to heal.
Dad's voice, soft but firm, carried a weight of unwavering strength as he placed his hand on Mum's shoulder, a silent pillar of support. "He's right, Greta. We have each other, and that's more than many can say." His words, steeped in a blend of empathy and resolve, were a heartfelt attempt to console, yet they floated in the air, tinged with the inescapable gravity of our situation, a sombre cloud that loomed over us.
Mum finally settled beside Dad, her form sinking into the bench with a weary resignation. Her breaths came out in long, drawn-out sighs, each one seeming to carry the weight of our lost past. "I just miss our home, our church, our community." Her words, laden with nostalgia, floated in the air, painting images of our abandoned life.
"I miss them too," I whispered, the admission feeling like a confession, a release of bottled-up emotions I had scarcely admitted to myself. It was as if giving voice to my longing made it all the more real, more palpable. "But we have a chance to build something new here. Together." My attempt at optimism was tinged with my own doubts.
Dad's grip on Mum's shoulder tightened slightly, his fingers pressing into her, as if trying to transfer his strength to her. "Paul's right. We've always been a strong family. We can get through this, as long as we stick together." His voice, always a bastion of resilience, seemed to waver ever so slightly, betraying the strain of our predicament.
Mum leaned into Dad, her body language softening as she sought comfort in his embrace, her head resting against his chest. "I just need time, Noah. Time to adjust." Her voice was a mere whisper, a delicate admittance of her vulnerability.
I moved closer to Mum, offering an arm around her in a gesture of solidarity, trying to envelop her in the warmth of familial love. "Take all the time you need, Mum. We're here for you, always." My words were a pledge, a commitment to stand by her through the storm of adaptation and change.
A solemn quietude enveloped us, a shared understanding of the challenges ahead, wrapping around us like a thick blanket. Despite the reassurances and the physical closeness, Mum’s unease was palpable, a silent scream against the injustice of our situation. She soon resumed her pacing, her steps echoing her unsettled mind, a rhythmic reminder of the continuous journey of adjustment and acceptance we all faced.
The prolonged silence between us, heavy with unspoken thoughts and shared uncertainties, was broken by my need to understand, to seek clarity in the midst of our upheaval. "Dad?" I asked, my voice hesitant as I shifted slightly on the rickety bench we shared, the wood groaning under us like an old man weary of carrying burdens.
“Yes, Paul,” Dad replied, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of something unspoken, a depth of emotion that hinted at stories yet untold.
A question had been gnawing at me, a persistent itch that demanded to be addressed. “I can’t help it. I just have to know. What made you think that you were coming to the New Jerusalem here? Is Luke really that manipulative?” My words hung in the air, charged with the confusion of betrayal that my parents felt.
Dad turned to face me, his eyes reflecting a complex tapestry of emotions. A trace of a smile played on his lips, not of amusement, but perhaps of resignation to the surreal twist their lives had taken. "Paul, there's something I've wanted to tell you about what happened back home, well, before all of this.” His voice trailed off, as if he were navigating through a maze of memories, deciding which path to take in his narration.
Mum, her patience frayed by our situation, interjected sharply, her frustration evident in her tone. “But we couldn’t find you and you never answered your phone.”
I responded with a sombre tone, “Well, now you know why.” My words were a bridge, an attempt to connect our fragmented experiences, even as Mum's continued huffing underscored the turbulence of her emotions.
Leaning in, I encouraged Dad to continue, my curiosity mingled with a sense of dread about what revelations might unfold. "What is it, Dad?" My question was an invitation, a gentle nudge for him to unveil the truths that he longed to share.
Dad took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling with the weight of his impending confession. His gaze drifted towards the distant horizon, as if seeking guidance from the vast expanse before us. “Last Sunday, your mother and I were invited to a special meeting at the Temple by the Bishop. It was a sacred gathering, with selected members of the church and one of the Twelve Apostles." His words set the stage for a tale that seemed to bridge the divine and the earthly, a narrative that promised to shed light on the tangled web of faith and deception that had ensnared them.
I listened intently, feeling the weight of his words settle in the pit of my stomach, a tangible reminder of the monumental changes our lives had undergone. "They told us that the Lord was gathering His elect," he continued, his voice a blend of reverence and earnestness, the kind that spoke of deep-seated beliefs and the comfort they once provided.
"We were preparing to relocate to Salt Lake City soon, to join other Saints and start building the New Jerusalem." The idea of such a massive, collective endeavour sparked a flicker of admiration in me, despite the skepticism that gnawed at the edges of my thoughts.
I frowned slightly, wrestling with the information, trying to bridge the gap between the familiar tenets of faith and the fantastical reality we faced. "But Dad, walking through a Portal? How did you reconcile that with your beliefs?" My question, laden with confusion and curiosity, sought to unravel the knot of contradictions we found ourselves in.
Dad chuckled, a soft sound that carried both self-reflection and a touch of irony. "I guess I saw it as a sign, an opportunity provided by the Lord. Maybe I stretched my belief a bit too far, but it felt right at the moment." His words, tinged with hindsight's clarity, painted a picture of a man trying to navigate his faith in uncharted waters.
His response made me reflect on the intricate nature of belief, how it shapes our perceptions and decisions, often in ways we don't fully understand until much later. "It's hard to make sense of it all, isn't it?" I murmured, more to myself than to him, my voice a soft echo of our collective bewilderment.
Dad's eyes met mine, earnest and filled with an unwavering faith that seemed to transcend the doubts and uncertainties. "It is, Paul. But I have faith that we're here for a reason. Maybe this is our New Jerusalem, just not in the way we expected." His words, imbued with a hopeful resilience, suggested a willingness to find meaning and purpose even in the midst of our disarray, offering a beacon of hope in our shared quest for understanding and acceptance in this new and unfamiliar world.
I felt a surge of admiration for his steadfastness, a testament to the strength that had always been the backbone of our family. I placed a hand on his shoulder, feeling the coarse fabric of his shirt beneath my palm, a tactile connection in this moment of emotional vulnerability. "I admire your faith, Dad. You just walked through a Portal and yet you still believe. That's really something.” My words were genuine, a recognition of his unyielding spirit in the face of our surreal circumstances.
His smile was warm, a beacon of comfort in our disrupted world, and he covered my hand with his own, a gesture that spoke volumes of his gratitude and understanding. “Faith is a powerful ally, son. When our actions reflect our convictions, we can do miracles.” His voice, imbued with a mix of emotion and resolve, resonated with the core of who he was—a man of faith confronted with the unimaginable. “Even build a New Jerusalem in the desert,” he said, his eyes glinting with a mix of determination and hope as he gestured towards the dusty expanse that surrounded us, the barren landscape that we were to call home.
In the ensuing silence, heavy with our collective thoughts and the vastness of our new reality, I found the right moment to add a touch of levity, a small beacon of light in our sombre dialogue. “Actually, it’s called Bixbus.” The words tumbled out, a playful nod to our tiny settlement, offering a brief respite from our heavy hearts.
Our chuckles briefly cut through the heavy air, a moment of shared humour amidst the uncertainty. Dad and I shared this light-hearted moment, a brief interlude of normality, while Mum continued to pace, her silhouette a constant reminder of the worries that still clouded our horizon, her steps a silent echo of the unease that pervaded our makeshift sanctuary.
