50 Years in Polygamy: Big Secrets and Little White Lies Page 24
I cried all the way home. Some of the tears drenching my shirt were from being so fearful and embarrassed, but most were from gratitude. At last, we had provisions from the grocery store rather than from the dumpsters. We would finally have balanced and nutritious meals on our tables and junk food ta boot.
*****
It seemed at times Jake and Alan argued every day over everything. They teased and tormented each other and Schuyler until I thought I could go ballistic and turn into a monster from hell. I’d plead, bribe, separate, ground, or restrict them from privileges they didn’t really have. I was the most consistent mother on earth at being the most inconsistent.
I had a paddle and my hand, but whenever I smacked there bottoms to get their attention, they’d laugh. Spanking or hitting them when I was angry was not an acceptable option. It hadn’t been for years.
If Mark happened to be reading in the bedroom when the commotion took place, he’d storm out and yell at them. “Do what your mother tells you to do! Get off of your lazy asses and stop acting like little shit heads!” Depending on his moods and patience level, he might add some smacks, punches or spankings to his demands, before he’d retreat again.
Since I could never be sure how volatile Mark might be at any given moment, I never wanted him to discipline our kids; but I hoped my idol threats of his wrath would suffice so they’d behave themselves. Sometimes it worked. Most of the time, not knowing what to do, I would withdraw further into my realm of inadequacy and cry.
*****
Diane walked up the stairs and leaned over the wrought-iron railing in my kitchen. I was sitting at the table writing in my journal. Mark was fixing some food near the stove while the three of us began to laugh about the adorable things our little kids were saying. I watched a beautiful ray of light pour through the south window. The rainbow reflection touched my right shoulder and bounced onto Diane’s left. Mark smiled at me, and then at Diane. Then she and I smiled at each other.
“This is what polygamy is supposed to feel like,” I said right out loud.
Diane loves Mark and me, and we both love her. There might be some hope in all of this mania after all.
CHAPTER 26
Cremation or Burial
1981
In the spring, two of the most beloved and respected women in our group told me they had prayed to know whom they should ask to be a girls’ camp director along with them. They said they felt inspired to ask me.
I presumed they’d chosen me because another rule of the gospel was, if a person is going astray, the best way to get a person back on the straight and narrow path to God was to give him or her an assignment (calling)—or two or three. It’s been said, “When you are busy serving the Lord, there is less chance the devil can persuade you into apostasy.” I thought I was already as busy serving God as I possibly could be, but apparently I needed more direction. Also, the past few times I’d been a camp counselor, a few ladies said I wasn’t a good example because of all of those “disgusting” pranks my girls and I were accused of doing. To a few of the women, I was too wild, light-minded, and definitely not spiritual enough. Therefore, I was quite baffled but flattered to have been “called.” Though their reasons may have been for disciplinary purposes, I considered it an honor to serve in such an enjoyable manner.
At our first meeting, I asked Ellen and Myrna, “From the myriad of qualified women in our group, why did you choose me?”
“Your perception of yourself is inaccurate, Sophia,” Ellen said. “You have always been a willing and active servant to the Lord. For years, you’ve been an excellent visiting teacher for the Relief Society. You are always in the service of the poor and needy. You faithfully attend your meetings.” Then Myrna added with big grin, “You are young, creative, and full of great ideas. The girls love you. We prayed about it and feel you’ll be a strong asset to our team.”
I figured they were right to have drafted me. When I heard what others said earlier, it boosted my confidence and self-esteem. “If you want something done, ask Sophia. She’ll not only make sure it’s done, she’ll do a great job!”
I was elated and grateful. I became so enthusiastically involved and dedicated to the camp’s planning, it seemed I had three different lives, two of which I was becoming an absolute failure at. As a wife and mother, I couldn’t seem to keep up. When I complained to my sisters in the gospel about my inability to fulfill my calling and still care for my home, husband and children, they assured me I was making the right choices. I was busy doing the work of the Lord, therefore, He would take care of things.
My mother always taught me, “Always place others before yourself. If others are in need, it’s your duty to help.” I watched Aunt Eleanor play that role to a T. Whether it was my time, energy, or God-given talents someone needed, I was there. I was everyone’s babysitter and a good listener. I would cheer a desperate saint, or talk a woman out of leaving the gospel or committing suicide because of unending feelings of hopelessness and injustice. Whenever there were baby blessings, weddings, showers, girls’ classes, school lessons, and funeral meals to prepare, I was there to serve, to assist, to give and to give.
My mother’s tireless preaching had paid off. I believed with all of my heart, my singular value and only hope in qualifying for heaven was about serving God by serving others. The tiny bit of self-confidence I had was based on the service I performed.
Still, according to LDS Church President David O McKay, all of my service was null and void if I didn’t put my family first. In Relief Society meetings, our instructor and group’s matriarch liked to remind us of his quote: “No other success can compensate for failure in the home” (David O. McKay, [Salt Lake City, Utah: Deseret Book, 1971], 284). By that creed alone, I’d already blown to smithereens my “calling” as a mother in Zion. At home I felt like a complete failure.
No matter how many hours I spent cleaning, scrubbing, and picking up, my house always seemed to be a mess. I didn’t think I had the time to teach my children housekeeping skills, either. I was a self-reliant perfectionist. It was so much easier to do things myself and get them right, rather than to fight with my kids to do them.
Even sadder were my never-ending expectations and promises I made to my children that didn’t seem to change. “When I’m done with this or that, we’ll play, or we’ll go . . . or then we’ll . . . When we can afford it, we’ll sign you up for lessons or . . . When we can, I’ll buy you a new . . .” My children, like me when I was a child, knew there was never enough time or money to go around. Of all my failures, the most disappointing; I was never the perfect mother I promised myself I would be.
One day, in the midst of my fear, guilt, and stress, I slumped back on my bed. If the people in The Group really knew what a lonely, depressed, wicked mess I am. . . If they knew what a terrible, inconsistent mother I am . . . If the ladies I clean house for only knew what my home looked like . . . Tears drenched my hair and the bed underneath my head. Then my precious seven-month-old Jack woke up and began to jabber up a storm. His pudgy little fists pinched and tugged on my shirt and arms as he crawled on top of my chest and planted slobbery kisses all over my cheeks and mouth.
I kissed Jack’s chubby cheeks and his soft little neck.
There is nothing on this earth as precious as babies. They remind me of the miracle of life and the gratitude I should have. All I ever wanted, more than anything else in the world, was to be a good mother. I loved my children more than life itself, yet I continued to fail them and myself every day.
After wallowing in my guilt a while longer, I counted my many blessings as I’d done a million times before and went back to trying.
*****
I worked hard to keep my mouth shut and most of my opinions to myself. Things were much better between Mark and me when I didn’t encourage him to join us in family prayer or attend meetings, and when I didn’t mention God, Dad, priesthood, or “should” or “shouldn’t” rules. When I didn’t pressure Mark about my relig
ious expectations he showed me more love and acceptance.
Our daily lives seemed black or white. On the white side, Mark’s goodness and kindhearted ways deeply drew me in. We were strongly bonded by the fun sexual connection we enjoyed, and by his desire to be more spiritual and a better parent. On the dark side, I often felt shattered by his tirades against Diane, our kids, and me, and by his disdain for the religious requisites I believed in. When I thought about this side of things, my life seemed impossible, since I needed a man to get me to the celestial kingdom.
Mark’s study of philosophy, and his beliefs and ideas about life, death, rebirth, religions, and gods and goddesses intrigued me. Everything he told me made more sense to me than Fundamentalist Mormonism ever did. I delighted in the possibility we had a loving, kind, honest God who gives us many chances to attain perfection. I could never understand why God would give us only one lifetime to determine if we’d end up in heaven or hell.
The new ideas Mark started to talk about were always considered blasphemous and damning according to the Mormon doctrines we’d grown up with. I was taught we shouldn’t read unapproved books. To even consider something besides Mormonism meant we were “on the high road to apostasy.” Unapproved books were tools of the devil and written to turn our hearts and minds from the truth. After all, that’s what Satan was all about. “He’ll tell you a million truths just to get you to believe one lie!” Along with dozens of others, that statement sufficed to keep our minds focused on the doctrines we’d been taught all of our lives.
Even though my heart and soul felt drawn to certain philosophical ideas, most of them were considered evil. Embedded deep within my psyche were the dogmatic rules, vernacular, and systemic beliefs of twenty-eight years of life. They dominated my persona. The recorded creeds of seven generations of Fundamentalist Mormons would play in my mind, then rewind and play again and again.
“Just hold to the iron rod, the straight and narrow path to God. It’s better to stick with your testimony and be wrong than to leave and find out you are wrong.” Why? I wondered why a loving God wouldn’t want and expect us to find the truth or know if our testimony was wrong, even if we made mistakes on the road to discovery.
My problem was I had a strong testimony of plural marriage. I certainly would not have committed myself to such insanity if I hadn’t. But did I hold on to my testimony because a loving and gracious God had confirmed it, or did my testimony derive from the God of ever-present threats, eternal damnation and hell with no family ties? Was the God of my upbringing the culprit of my religious certainty? Was my confirmation of polygamy based on the list of menacing promises I’d heard a billion times since my birth?
All of that was a mystery to me. It was easier to close my eyes and just follow in the footsteps of my parents. If I didn’t have the answers, I could simply fly by the seat of my pants on faith. I wouldn’t have to study or have anything to think about. It was easier to stay in blinded bliss, where all of the doctrines I was raised to believe in could stay safe and snug in my head.
*****
In June 1981, Mark’s father died, leaving hundreds of descendants. His funeral, like most I had ever attended, turned into a church service. Those who spoke admonished his sons, daughters, and grandchildren to carry on the practice of plural marriage and bear as many polygamous children as possible; who would in turn continue to revere his name and carry out his legacy.
Someone spoke of his struggles trying to live polygamy, of his arrest, and the two terms he spent in jail for living plural marriage. Near the end of the service, Mark’s eldest brother, who lived in Colorado City with his wives and oodles of children, made an unexpected announcement. He said many family members and friends had pooled together enough funds to buy a gravesite where their father would be buried. Anyone who wanted to join them for the dedication of the grave could do so.
While the brother was giving directions to the cemetery, Mark stood up and loudly declared to his brother and to the congregation, “I am sorry, but that will not happen! I promised our father I would carry out his wishes to be cremated. His body will not be buried in a grave.”
“Yes it will!” Mark’s brother protested. “The majority of our father’s children believe his decision was wrong, and we’re going to—”
“I am telling you, Dad’s body will not leave this site! If it does, there will be hell to pay,” Mark yelled before he marched toward the exit door near the front of the assembly hall. There, he stopped and looked back at his brother. “I will be right back with the funeral director. Let everyone know there is no need for them to go to the cemetery.”
Their mother, Aldora, suddenly jumped up and called out, “Stop this bickering! Stop it right now!” She was sobbing and clearly mortified at her sons’ irreverent display in front of her coworkers, friends, and family. I stood up and leaned forward to touch her shoulder. But before my hand could reach her frail, slumped-over body, she walked away and exited through the side door.
The crowd sat in deathly silence for a few minutes. Then Mark’s brother started in again with what he claimed was “his priesthood duty.” He told everyone God would be displeased with them if they didn’t do their best to save their father. They should insist his body be buried so he could come forth in the morning of the first resurrection.
The funeral director announced his own decision. The body would not be removed from the premises until all of the brothers come to an agreement. Would there be a cremation or a burial?
Mark and sixteen of his brothers drew together in a large circle to debate the ramifications of their father’s written, but not legalized, last will and testament. The rest of us women and children waited—and waited.
Eighty-five minutes later, the men dispersed, gathered their families, and quietly left the building. The votes had been cast. My father-in-law would be cremated. On our way to Aldora’s home, Mark told Diane and me about their discussion.
“Everyone had a chance to speak,” he said. “I told my brothers just what your father, Owen, told me. It doesn’t matter what we want or don’t want. It doesn’t matter what we believe is right or wrong. Like all of us, our father had his God-given free agency to choose what happens to his body. Forcing our will would not guarantee his salvation even though all of you want it to. I told them Dad knew this dissension was going to happen, and that’s why he wanted me to promise him I would make sure his wishes would be granted.”
Immediately, Mark felt distance and judgments from some of his siblings and other family members. A few held on to their grudges for years. Most of the family, however, gained a newfound respect for Mark’s courage to honor his father’s choice, and stand up against the majority of his family.
Aldora was the first of Mark’s father’s six wives, and the only one still with him for many years before he died. She too, believed he should be buried; but most of her disappointment toward her sons ensued because of the ethical conflict that should have been resolved long before the services.
CHAPTER 27
Infidelity in Polygamy
1981
Our girls’ camp planning, though long and tedious, turned out to be another validation of my abilities. I was grateful to God I had so much to offer.
Ellen and Myrna had a remarkable spiritual connection with God, which I envied. With all my “might, heart, and strength,” I had fasted and prayed so I too would know what they claimed to know. I wanted to have the Spirit of God and His direction in everything, large and small. Every now and then, I thought I had it.
A few months before that planning meeting Mark, Diane, and I decided it would be nice to have dinner together on Sundays, as one big family. I would prepare the meal on my Sundays with Mark, and Diane would fix the meals on her Sundays with Mark.
We also agreed Mark’s time with each of us would begin and end at certain times of the day. He said he would not be with either one of us if it wasn’t our allotted time, and as sister-wives, we agreed to honor each other by not
stealing his time when it wasn’t ours.
During the drawn-out girls’ camp meetings, I excused myself from the table to check the pot roast I’d been cooking for my family. I’d already cut up a pot full of potatoes and set out the ingredients to make a cake. I looked forward to our family dinner together. It was my day with Mark, and I hoped when the ladies left, he’d come in from his shop to help me with the rest of the meal and hang out for a while.
When the ladies left around 4:30, I sent five-year-old Schuyler out to the shop to invite his dad inside, and then downstairs to ask Diane if we could borrow a couple eggs so I could get the cake made. Sky returned with tears rolling down his cheeks. “Dad yelled at me and told me to go back upstairs!”
I held Sky in my arms for a few minutes and made up some excuse for Mark’s anger. “I’m so sorry, honey. Maybe your dad is trying to sleep.”
“No! Dad isn’t asleep. He said I should get my ass back upstairs right now! Why is he so mad at me, Mom?”
Mark might as well have shoved his large arm and fist down my throat and pulled my stomach back up the same way. His frustration, I knew well, brought on another gut ache. He had used that tone of voice with our children when we wanted some privacy—some uninterrupted time in the bedroom.
I gave Sky some crayons and paper and asked him to draw me a picture, then went downstairs.
There wasn’t one sound in the dark basement. I wondered where Diane’s kids were. I knew what I was in for, but I was fuming. I tapped on Diane’s bedroom door and waited, even though I knew no one would answer, at least for the first few times. While the two of them pretended no one was home, my heart was pounding. I knocked a little harder. Still, there was no answer. Then I banged on the door.