Part 1: Lisa Marshall

The soft glow of the computer screen cast a pale light across my face as I initiated the Skype call to Lisa and Will in Salt Lake City. I leaned forward, the weight of the monumental news from the Temple pressing upon me. Regardless of their individual reactions, I trusted both Lisa and Will enough to keep the information to themselves. Ideally, Greta and I should have shared this opportunity together, but the warning from last night's dream echoed in my mind, urging me to act swiftly. I felt a strong impression that time was not on our side. The spirit seemed to whisper to me, nudging me to rally as many of my children as possible to our cause. I especially believed that Lisa and Eli could be instrumental in persuading Luke to reconsider his current path and return to the fold.

"Hey, Dad!" Lisa's cheerful voice broke through the screen, but her eyes seemed distracted, fixated on something beyond the camera's reach.

"Morning!" Will's voice chimed in from a distance, his presence felt rather than seen.

"Good morning, you two," I responded, a knot of anxiety forming in my stomach as I tried to gauge the right moment to bring up the Temple revelation. "I wanted to talk to you about something significant that happened recently."

But before I could delve into the details of our family's divine calling, Lisa's attention wavered, her gaze shifting off-screen. "Oh, hang on, Dad. Will, did you grab the sleeping bags from the closet?”

"Uh, yeah, I think they're in the trunk," Will responded, his voice carrying from somewhere in the background.

I paused, momentarily thrown off by the interruption. The mundane nature of their conversation juxtaposed sharply with the gravity of what I needed to discuss. I realised then the delicate balance of blending the ordinary aspects of our daily lives with the extraordinary nature of our spiritual journey. The moment highlighted the challenge of weaving the sacred revelations into the fabric of our everyday existence.

As I waited for Lisa to refocus on our call, I contemplated how best to share the revelation. The importance of conveying the message clearly and with the right sense of urgency weighed heavily on me. My heart raced as I prepared to reveal a truth that would undoubtedly change the course of our family's journey. In that brief pause, I gathered my thoughts, steeling myself for the conversation that would follow, a conversation that would set in motion a series of events that could redefine the future of our family.

"Alright, Dad, sorry. What were you saying?" Lisa refocused on the screen, her attention returning to me after the brief distraction.

I took a deep breath, steeling myself to restart the conversation, the importance of the revelation weighing heavily on my mind. "I wanted to share something important that happened at the Temple the other night. There was a revelation—" I began, hoping to convey the gravity of the message.

"Wait, Dad. Will, do you have the camping stove in the car?" Lisa interrupted again, her gaze drifting off-screen, drawn away by another concern.

"It's in the garage, I think," Will's voice floated in from a distance, somewhat muffled.

"Okay, Dad, sorry about that. Go on," Lisa urged, turning her attention back to me.

As I resumed, poised to delve into the details of the revelation, yet another interruption followed. "Oh, hold on, Dad. Will, did you grab the marshmallows?"

I sighed heavily, the distractions continuing to chip away at my resolve, leaving me in a state of lighthearted surrender. The urgency of sharing the revelation from the Temple was overshadowed by the simplicity and immediacy of Lisa's present moment. "Maybe we can talk after your camping trip. You go and enjoy your hiking adventure,” I conceded, a smile creeping onto my face despite the inner turmoil.

“Yeah, thanks Dad. We love you too,” Lisa replied, her cheerful voice cutting through my disappointment. She blew a kiss from the palm of her hand towards the screen, a gesture of affection that was typical of her.

Feeling the conversation slipping away but not wanting to lose the opportunity to connect with another of my children, I interjected quickly, “Can I talk to Eli before you go?” There was a part of me that clung to the hope of sharing at least a part of what weighed on me.

“Yeah sure,” Lisa answered casually. Then, turning away from the screen, she called out, “Eli! Dad’s on Skype for you!” Her voice echoed, a clear signal that she was moving away from the computer.

Lisa waved a quick goodbye, her face disappearing from view as the screen transitioned from what I presumed to be Lisa and Will’s bedroom to the guest bedroom where Eli was staying during his visit. The change of scenery on the screen was a stark reminder of the physical distance between us, yet it also represented a bridge of communication across that gap.

Part 2: Eli Smith

As the room came into view, I prepared myself for a different kind of conversation with Eli. The dynamics with each of my children were unique, and I wondered how Eli would receive or react to any part of the revelation I might share. The anticipation of this new interaction brought a mix of hope and apprehension. My heart raced slightly as I waited for Eli to appear on the screen, each second stretching longer than the last.

In that brief transition, I found myself reflecting on the intricate web of relationships within our family. Each child was a unique individual with their own beliefs, experiences, and perspectives. As a father, my role was to guide, support, and love them, all the while navigating the complex terrain of our collective spiritual journey. This moment of connection with Eli, though facilitated by technology, was an important link in maintaining the bonds that held our family together, especially in light of the significant changes that loomed on the horizon.

"Eli, how's it going?" I greeted him, offering a warm smile and hoping that this conversation would be more focused than the previous one.

"Hey, Dad! Sorry, Lisa and Will are getting ready for our camping trip. What's up?" Eli responded, his voice carrying a hint of distraction as he adjusted the laptop to get a better view. Despite the casual tone, I sensed an openness in him, a willingness to listen that I hadn’t found with Lisa.

I seized the opportunity, eager to convey the message. "I wanted to talk to you about something significant that happened at the Temple the other night. There was a revelation," I began, my voice steady but filled with the importance of what I was about to reveal.

"Whoa, seriously? That sounds important," Eli said, his casual demeanour shifting to one of genuine interest. His eyes widened slightly, indicating that he understood the seriousness of what I was saying.

A small smile tugged at the corner of my mouth, encouraged by his response. "Yes, it is," I affirmed, my brow creasing as I considered how best to explain the revelation. "An Apostle shared a vision about building the New Jerusalem, and we're called to prepare for a significant move to Salt Lake City," I explained, keeping my tone measured but earnest.

Eli's expression shifted, a clear sign of his engagement, as he leaned in closer to the screen. "That's huge, Dad. What does it mean for us?" His voice conveyed a mix of surprise and curiosity, which gave me a sense of relief that at least one of my children was ready to grasp the gravity of the situation.

As I started explaining the profound nature of the revelation, emphasising that specific details were still rather unclear, Eli's focus didn't waver. He absorbed the information, nodding at key points, showing an understanding that was both comforting and encouraging. It felt like a small victory, a moment of connection in a time fraught with uncertainty and apprehension.

The conversation, however, was going well only until Lisa's voice echoed from the background. "Eli, we need your help with the tent. Can you come here for a sec?" Her request, though simple, felt like an abrupt interruption to the crucial discussion we were having.

Eli sighed, his gaze shifting to somewhere off-screen. He glanced apologetically at the camera. "Sorry, Dad, duty calls. I'll get back to you on this, okay?" The regret in his voice was evident, but so was the necessity of his immediate attention elsewhere.

"Of course, Eli. Help your sister, and we'll talk more when you're free. Love you," I replied, my voice tinged with a mix of understanding and disappointment. As the screen went suddenly black, I was left staring at my own reflection on the blank monitor.

I frowned, slumping back into the computer chair. A sense of disappointment lingered in the air, my attempt to share this profound experience with my children falling victim to the practicalities of camping preparations. The news would have to wait, leaving me in a state of contemplation about the unfinished revelation.

Just as I was lost in these thoughts, Greta’s voice gently pulled me back to reality. “Noah,” she chimed, poking her head into the study with a concerned look on her face. “Would you go and speak to Jerome? He refuses to get out of bed for seminary.”

“Of course,” I sighed, feeling the weariness of the day's events compounded by this new task. I rubbed my forehead with my fingertips, a gesture of fatigue, but also of readiness to switch gears and attend to another aspect of our family life.

Standing up from the computer chair, I prepared myself to shift from the realm of divine revelations to the more mundane, yet equally important, task of parenting. Each step towards Jerome's room felt like a step back into the role of a father trying to navigate the everyday challenges that came with guiding a family through both spiritual and earthly journeys.

Part 3: Jerome Smith

Knocking gently on Jerome's door, I pushed it open to find him slouched on his bed, his eyes heavy with the telltale signs of exhaustion. "Jerome, it's time for seminary. Let's get going," I said, trying to sound encouraging but firm.

Jerome let out a groan, the sound muffled as he rubbed his tired eyes. "Dad, I'm really tired. Can I skip today?" His voice was a mix of weariness and a plea for understanding.

I sighed, my mind wrestling with the significance of the recent revelation and the importance of maintaining our religious duties. "Jerome, we've been called to something significant," I explained, hoping to impart a sense of urgency. "Going to seminary is part of our commitment. It's more crucial now than ever.”

“But I’m far too tired. These super early mornings are making my grades suffer,” Jerome complained, his voice laced with frustration. I could see the genuine struggle in his expression, a conflict between his physical exhaustion and his responsibilities.

I frowned, knowing well the cause of his tiredness. “If you listened to us and didn’t stay up until midnight playing computer games, perhaps you wouldn’t feel so tired.” My words were a mix of concern and reprimand, a reflection of the parental challenge of balancing understanding with discipline.

As Jerome opened his mouth to protest further, raised voices from the kitchen, where Greta was dealing with Charles, reached our ears, interrupting our conversation.

Finding myself sighing once more, I conceded, “Just do what you feel is best,” I told my teenage son. It was a reluctant surrender, born out of a mix of frustration and the realisation that I needed to pick my battles wisely.

Jerome nodded appreciatively, relief evident in his posture, and I left him to his solitude, closing the door behind me. Heading towards the kitchen to mediate the ongoing chaos with Charles, I braced myself for another challenge. The day was already proving to be a series of hurdles, each one testing my patience and resolve.

Part 4: Charles Smith

Stepping into the kitchen, the familiar family chaos greeted me, though today it seemed more pronounced. Greta was engaged in a tug-of-war with Charles over some leftovers he had grabbed for breakfast, his playful antics starkly at odds with the solemnity of the morning. Charles, with a mischievous grin that seemed to light up the room, clearly irked Greta with his choice.

“I was saving that food for dinner tonight,” Greta said, her blazing eyes meeting mine as I entered the room. Her voice carried a tone of frustration, a clear indication that this was more than just about leftovers.

"Charles, this is important. You can't be silly about your meals. Put the food back and have a proper breakfast," I chided, my voice a mix of authority and concern. I hoped to convey the importance of routine and respect, especially given the recent stresses we were under.

“As if this little bit of spaghetti would feed us all,” Charles scoffed, wedging the container between two others in the fridge in a way that was both dismissive and defiant.

“That’s not the point,” Greta continued, her scowl deepening. “I was going to put it with something else.” Her frustration was palpable, indicative of the underlying tensions we were all feeling.

Charles’s eyes rolled obviously, his typical teenage response that did little to defuse the situation.

“And besides that, you didn't ask!" Greta added, her tone laced with contempt.

“You didn’t ask to eat my last piece of chocolate either,” Charles retorted, his voice rising as he slammed the fridge closed, signalling the end of the argument.

There was a brief moment’s pause, a fleeting hope that the morning's drama might be over. But Greta had one last comment. “You know it gives you eczema, anyway,” she replied, a mixture of concern and exasperation in her voice.

Charles, having seemingly given up the fight, brushed past his mother and stepped into the hallway. “Where are you going?” Greta asked pointedly, her voice carrying no small hint of annoyance.

Charles didn’t stop as he called back, “I’ve got seminary, remember,” his voice trailing off as he continued up the hallway.

As the tension in the kitchen eased with Charles’s departure, my thoughts turned to Paul, the next child on my list to talk to about the Temple revelation. The challenge of conveying the significance of this revelation persisted, and I couldn't shake the feeling that the day was far from over. It was still early, barely six-thirty in the morning, and the events thus far seemed to hint at a day filled with more surprises and challenges. I took a moment to gather my thoughts, preparing myself for the next conversation, aware that each interaction with my children would require patience, understanding, and a delicate touch.

Part 5: Paul Smith

After several unsuccessful attempts to reach Paul, each call going straight to his voicemail, a realisation hit me. Greta had made several remarks over the last few days, asking if I’d heard from Paul. At the time, they seemed like passing comments, and I hadn’t given them much thought. While Paul and I spoke regularly, it wasn’t uncommon for us to go several weeks without contact. However, given the recent developments and the need to discuss them with all the children, I felt a growing concern. I decided the best course of action was to seek Greta's insight.

“Have you heard from Paul yet?” I asked Greta as I entered the kitchen again. “I just tried to call him but it’s gone straight to his voicemail.”

Greta shook her head, her expression one of slight annoyance mixed with concern. “No,” she said bluntly. “Claire is still pestering me about him. You know how she gets. Keeps that annoying finger of hers on the dial button. It’s no wonder he’s turned his phone off.”

“Is he not in Broken Hill with her?” I inquired, trying to piece together Paul's whereabouts.

“Apparently not,” Greta replied, her tone indicating there was more to the story.

My brow raised with intrigue, silently urging Greta to share more. The situation with Paul was beginning to feel more complex than I had initially thought.

Just then, Charles’s voice cut through the air, “I’m off!” Moments later, the front door closed with a bang, loud enough to startle anyone not expecting it.

Greta frowned, her irritation evident. “I’m surprised he doesn’t wake the whole street up every morning. He’s like a bull in a china shop, that one.”

A playful smile tugged at the corner of my mouth despite the situation. Greta's tendency to get easily stressed was well-known, and I often found a little humour in her melodramatics, even though I knew I shouldn’t. It was one of the quirks of our relationship, a balance of stress and lightheartedness that had seen us through many challenges.

Either unobservant of my faint amusement or simply choosing to ignore it, Greta resumed her explanation about Paul's whereabouts, her focus solely on the matter at hand. “According to Luke, Paul’s gone to stay with him in Hobart for a few days.”

“I’m surprised he hasn’t told us about it,” I remarked, a twinge of concern threading through my words. It was unlike Paul to embark on such a trip without at least a brief mention to us.

Greta’s expression shifted, her mouth tightening into her infamous you-should-know-better pout. “I’m sure there’s plenty that son of yours doesn’t tell you.” Her tone was a blend of sarcasm and seriousness.

A twang of disappointment struck my gut. I had always considered Paul and I to have a strong line of communication, a bond that was both respectful and open. The idea that he might be keeping things from me was disconcerting. I pondered over what Greta knew that I didn’t, though I still held onto the belief that Paul was more forthcoming with me than with his mother. Or so I had thought.

“Any idea when-” I began to ask, hoping for more clarity, but Greta cut me short.

“Actually, Luke said he was going to get Paul to call me, and that was more than a few days ago. I even spoke with the police and she hasn’t called me back either,” Greta huffed out, her frustration evident.

“The police?” I asked, incredulously. My concern for Paul’s situation, and especially for the welfare of his two young children, rose sharply. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Greta’s response came with a slight shrug. “I was going to, but then with the whole New Jerusalem thing, I guess it slipped my mind,” she answered.

I found myself momentarily speechless, my mouth opening but no words emerging. The revelation of our move to New Jerusalem had indeed been all-consuming, but the news about Paul and Greta’s contact with the police was significant. Greta’s oversight, while completely understandable given the recent revelations, added another layer of complexity to the already challenging situation we were navigating.

A sharp knock at the front door instantly cut through our conversation, snapping us out of the discussion about Paul. "I’ll get it," I told Greta, quickly pulling my dressing gown tighter around me. My sense of decorum left me feeling less than thrilled about having to answer the door so early in the morning, and in my current attire, no less. But the urgency of the knock overruled any hesitation.

“It’s probably Charles forgetting something,” Greta called out down the hallway, her voice trailing behind me as I made my way to the door.

As I reached the front door, the coldness of the doorknob was a stark contrast to the warmth of my hand. I twisted it, pulling the door open, expecting to see my son on the other side.

“Luke!” The name escaped my lips in a gasp, my surprise rendering me momentarily speechless. My jaw almost dropped in disbelief at the sight of my second eldest son, who was supposed to be in Hobart with Paul, now unexpectedly on my doorstep.