The crisp freshness of the morning air stood in stark contrast to the emotional turmoil simmering around the campfire. Despite my attempts to offer comfort, Greta remained visibly unsettled, pacing back and forth. Her restlessness was tangible, her hands fidgeting with a small handkerchief as she carved a path through the dust that blanketed the ground. The sight of her like this, so fraught with anxiety, tugged at my heart.
I found myself struggling to come to terms with the reality of our situation. The place we had been brought to was a far cry from the New Jerusalem I had envisioned, a promised land of divine revelation and spiritual fulfilment. Instead, we were in a makeshift settlement on an unfamiliar world, surrounded by dust and uncertainty.
Sitting in silence, I grappled with a mix of worry and disappointment. Questions churned in my mind. How were we to build a life here? What was the purpose of this unexpected journey? And most pressingly, where would we find shelter and rest when night fell? Paul's vague responses offered little reassurance.
As I watched Greta's relentless pacing, I knew that my role as her partner and as the head of our family was to find a way through this uncertainty. It was my responsibility to provide stability and hope, to be the anchor in this storm of unfamiliarity. Yet, even as I sat there, trying to muster the strength to rise to the occasion, a part of me felt as lost as she did.
I prayed silently for guidance, for a sign or an indication of what our next steps should be. My faith had always been my compass, guiding me through life's challenges. Now, more than ever, I needed that faith to show me the way, to help me lead my family through this uncharted territory.
Paul's cautious approach interrupted my contemplation, drawing my attention to his tentative figure. “Mum, Dad. Can we talk?” he asked, his voice gentle, yet underlined with an unmistakable anxiety that resonated deeply with my own unsettled feelings.
As I looked up at him, a wave of empathy washed over me. I could see the weight of responsibility in his eyes, the burden of decisions made, and the consequences that were now unfolding around us. A part of me worried that he and Luke had become entangled in complexities far beyond their control, and it pained me to think that my ability to guide and protect them in this unfamiliar environment might be limited.
As Greta halted her pacing, her emotions spilled forth, a tumult of feelings that had been simmering beneath her stern exterior. Her attention fixed on Paul, her eyes shimmering in the sunlight, reflecting the depth of her distress. “Paul! How could you do this to us?” she exclaimed, her voice echoing with weariness and pain. “The New Jerusalem… it was all a lie!” The tremor in her voice, a blend of anger and a sense of betrayal, resonated through the air, amplifying the tension around us.
Hearing her words, a pang of pain struck deep within my heart. I had always harboured trust and faith in Paul and Luke, despite not always aligning with their decisions. The thought that they might have knowingly led us into a situation fraught with real danger was almost unbearable. Yet, as my gaze once again fell upon the ghastly sight of the shadow panther's head, a symbol of the very real threats surrounding us, doubts began to cloud my mind.
The juxtaposition of Greta's palpable anguish and the stark reminder of the dangers in this new world left me wrestling with a maelstrom of emotions. I struggled to reconcile my inherent trust in my sons with the harsh reality of our current situation. Could it be that their actions, however well-intentioned, had inadvertently placed us all in jeopardy?
I looked at Paul, searching for answers in his face, for any sign that might help me understand the choices that led us here. It was crucial for me to grasp the full scope of what was at play, to comprehend the decisions that had shaped our path to this strange and perilous place.
Paul's deep exhale resonated with the gravity of the moment, a tangible release of tension and regret. “I know, Mum, and I’m sorry. Luke… he thought he was doing the right thing,” he said, but his words seemed to lack the conviction I desperately needed to hear.
Meeting Paul's eyes, I tried to convey the tumult of disillusionment and confusion within me. “We were prepared to leave everything behind, Paul,” I began, my voice carrying the strength of my convictions yet betraying the underlying emotion. “For our faith. For our family. But this…” I paused, momentarily overwhelmed, a small cough breaking the intensity of my speech. “This is not what we were promised.”
Paul moved to sit beside me, the bench creaking under our shared weight, symbolising the shared burden of our current predicament. His attempt to console us was palpable as he spoke, “I understand, and I’m sorry you were misled. But we’re here now, and we need to make the best of it.” His words carried a forced optimism, but the uncertainty that laced his tone was unmistakable.
In that moment, as I sat next to my son, a flood of conflicting emotions surged through me. There was disappointment in the realisation that our leap of faith had brought us to a place so far removed from our expectations. There was a sense of betrayal, not just in the situation we found ourselves in, but in the notion that we had been led here under false pretences.
Greta's agitated pacing resumed, her movements reflecting the turmoil churning inside her. “But we’ll never go home again, will we?” she asked, her voice soaked in sadness, heavy with disbelief and despair. “I can’t…. I can’t accept that.”
As Paul reached out to take her hand gently, I observed a son trying to provide comfort in an uncomfortable truth. “Mum, I know this is hard,” he said softly. “It’s hard for all of us.”
I watched this exchange, feeling a swell of empathy for Paul. As a father, it pained me to see any of my children in distress, regardless of the circumstances that led us here. Paul's struggles were as real as ours, and it was a poignant reminder of how deeply interconnected our fates were.
Paul continued with a sincerity that resonated with me, “But we’re together, and that’s what matters. We’ll build a new life here, a new home.” His words, full of hope and determination, were the kind of encouragement I clung to in difficult times.
However, Greta’s reaction was telling; her body language rigid, a stark visual to her mental state. Her sharp retort cut through the air, underscoring the pain that the thought of permanent separation from our past life brought her. “But we’re not all together, are we!?” she snapped, her words laced with the anguish of our current fragmented reality.
Her response stung, a poignant reminder of the bigger picture that overshadowed our present predicament. It was true; we were not all together. The physical separation from several members of our family members, our church, and the life we knew was like an open wound. Her words echoed in my mind, amplifying my own sense of loss and uncertainty.
In that moment, I realised the depth of the challenge before us. It wasn't just about adapting to a new environment or coming to terms with our unexpected journey. It was about reconciling with the loss of our former life and finding a way to rebuild our sense of home and community in this new, alien landscape.
Standing up, I felt a profound need to alleviate Greta's distress. Placing a firm, reassuring hand on her shoulder, I tried to offer her some solace. “He’s right, Greta,” I gently told her. “We have each other, and that’s more than many can say.” My words were genuine, a heartfelt attempt to console her, but they seemed to barely scratch the surface of the deep-seated foreboding that enveloped us.
Greta finally settled beside me on the bench, her body language exuding defeat, her breaths slow and heavy. “I just miss our home, our church, our community,” she confessed, her voice a soft lament that resonated with my own longing.
Paul's whisper broke through the thick air of nostalgia, “I miss them too.” His voice, tinged with a raw honesty, revealed a vulnerability we hadn't seen before. “But we have a chance to build something new here. Together,” he added, his words attempting to infuse hope into our desolate situation.
Yet, despite Paul’s intentions, his words only compounded the sense of isolation gnawing at me. The reality of our situation was stark – we were far from everything familiar, everything we held dear. The concept of building something new, while hopeful, also felt daunting. The familiarity of our old life, with its routines, its community, and its comforts, seemed like a distant memory, now replaced by the unknown challenges of Clivilius.
As I tightened my grip on Greta's shoulder, I felt the weight of our collective struggles resting heavily on me. I knew I had to be the pillar of strength for Greta, to keep her from seeing the depth of my own doubts about our situation. “Paul’s right,” I affirmed, my voice steady despite the internal battle to believe my own words. “We’ve always been a strong family. We can get through this, as long as we stick together.”
Feeling Greta lean into me was a poignant reminder of the solace we found in each other's presence. Her body language softened, and in that moment, her vulnerability was palpable. “I just need time, Noah. Time to adjust,” she whispered, her voice a tender echo of our shared need for resilience in the face of adversity.
Paul, sensing the need to offer his support, moved closer and wrapped an arm around Greta. His gesture was a testament to the bond we shared as a family, a bond that had always been our anchor through every storm. “Take all the time you need, Mum,” he reassured her gently. “We’re here for you, always.”
In the midst of this solemn quietude, a faint smile found its way to my lips. Despite the challenges we faced, there was comfort in knowing that our family's unity remained unbroken. Paul's words and actions were a gentle reminder of the love and support that bound us together. It was these very bonds that would help us navigate through the uncertainties of Clivilius.
As the minutes ticked by, I could see Greta's anxiety mounting again. She resumed her pacing, each step mirroring the unrest that churned within her. The rhythmic pattern of her footsteps against the dusty ground created a soundtrack to the turmoil that enveloped her – a physical manifestation of her inner struggle.
Watching her, I felt a deep sense of helplessness. I wanted to ease her mind, to provide her with the comfort and security she so desperately sought. Her relentless movements were like a visual representation of the uncertainty that had gripped us all since our arrival in this strange new world.
As I sat there, the silence between Paul and me was finally broken by his hesitant voice. “Dad?” he asked, his tone revealing an unease that mirrored my own.
I turned to him, ready to listen. “Yes, Paul,” I replied, ensuring my voice was steady, even though I could feel the seriousness of the conversation that was about to unfold.
Paul hesitated for a moment, then the words came tumbling out in a rush. “I can’t help it,” he said, his words gaining momentum like a flood breaking through a dam. “I just have to know. What made you think that you were coming to the New Jerusalem here? Is Luke really that manipulative?”
His question took me by surprise. I found myself struggling to suppress a smile, not out of amusement, but from the realisation of how I had been swept up in the fervour of our church's announcement about Salt Lake City. Reflecting on our journey here, it dawned on me that Luke hadn’t needed to exert much effort to spur me into action. My own eagerness and anticipation for what I believed was a divine calling had blinded me to the possibility of misinterpretation or manipulation.
As I turned to face Paul, a cocktail of emotions swirled within me, each one vying for dominance. There was a heaviness in my chest, a mix of trepidation and an almost desperate need to unburden myself of the secret that had been weighing on me. My gaze met Paul's, and in his eyes, I saw a reflection of my own turmoil, tinged with a child's trusting curiosity. “Paul, there’s something I’ve wanted to tell you about what happened back home, well, before all of this,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking louder might shatter the fragile moment.
Before I could gather my thoughts further, Greta cut in, her voice sharp like a blade slicing through the tense air. Her frustration was as evident as the lines of worry etched on her face. “But we couldn’t find you and you never answered your phone.” Her words were laced with accusation. I could sense the undercurrent of concern beneath her frustration, but it didn't lessen the impact.
Paul's response, somber and laden with unspoken understanding, served as a stark reminder of the ordeals he must have endured. “Well, now you know why,” he said, his voice a low echo of the pain and confusion he must have felt. The gravity of his words hung in the air, a tangible presence that seemed to press down on us all.
Meanwhile, Greta’s continued huffing, punctuating the silence, underscored her ongoing distress. It was a sound that spoke volumes, revealing her struggle to grapple with the situation, her emotions a tumultuous sea in the quiet sands of Clivilius.
Leaning in, Paul's face was a canvas of concern and encouragement, urging me to shed light on the shadows of our shared past. “What is it, Dad?” he probed gently, his eyes searching mine for answers. His question, simple yet loaded with significance, nudged me towards the precipice of revelation. I felt a surge of paternal protectiveness, mixed with the fear of how my words might alter the fabric of our relationship. Yet, there was also a sliver of hope, a faint glimmer that by sharing my truth, I might bridge the chasm that had unwittingly formed between us.
I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle on my shoulders. My gaze drifted towards the distant horizon, a line where the earth seemed to meet the sky in a tranquil embrace. It was a view that often brought me peace, but now, it served as a reminder of the vast, uncharted territory of my own thoughts and feelings. I wondered, amidst the chaos that had enveloped our lives, whether any of what I was about to reveal really mattered now.
“Last Sunday,” I began, my voice tinged with a hint of nostalgia, a familiar excitement resurgent as the words left my lips. I could almost smell the incense and feel the solemnity of that day. “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.” My eyes glimmered with the memory of the reverence and awe that had filled the air during that meeting, the gravity of being among the chosen few.
Paul remained silent, his expression a still canvas, yet his eyes, attentive and deep, were listening intently. I could see him processing each word, trying to fit this piece of the puzzle into the chaotic jigsaw of recent events.
“They told us that the Lord was gathering His elect,” I pressed on, my voice a blend of reverence and earnestness. Each word I spoke was imbued with the fervour and conviction that had gripped me that day, a feeling that was both exhilarating and overwhelming. “We were preparing to relocate to Salt Lake City soon, to join other Saints and start building the New Jerusalem.” The vision of a new beginning, a utopian dream, flickered in my mind's eye, so vivid it was almost tangible.
A light frown formed on Paul’s weary face, etching lines of confusion and concern. “But Dad,” he said, his voice tinged with a mix of incredulity and a desperate need to understand. His brows knitting together in a physical manifestation of his inner turmoil. “Walking through a Portal? How did you reconcile that with your beliefs?”
I chuckled, a short, soft sound that floated in the air between us. Paul had instantly hit the nail on the head, pinpointing the very essence of my dilemma with his keen insight. As I self-reflected on my impulsiveness, a sense of irony tickled the edges of my mind. “I guess I saw it as a sign, an opportunity provided by the Lord.” My words came out slowly, each one heavy with the weight of introspection. I paused, my gaze drifting off into a distant point as I considered the implications of my actions that I had taken without much forethought. There was a certain raw honesty in admitting this to myself, let alone to my son.
“Maybe I stretched my belief a bit too far, but it felt right at the moment,” I finished, my voice trailing off slightly. The words hung in the air, a testament to the complex interplay of faith and doubt. I was unable to bring myself to accept that the Lord had completely abandoned us yet, and deep down, I clung to the belief that this was somehow all connected. It was a lifeline, a slender thread of hope in a world turned upside down.
“It’s hard to make sense of it all, isn’t it?” Paul’s voice broke through my thoughts, the reflection in his voice clear and penetrating. His words echoed my own inner turmoil, resonating with the confusion and struggle to find meaning in the chaos.
My eyes met Paul’s, and in that moment, they suddenly swelled with the energy of my unwavering faith that had guided me my whole life. It was a faith that had been my compass, my anchor in stormy seas. “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.” As I spoke, my voice grew stronger, imbued with a conviction that transcended the uncertainties of our present circumstances. It was a belief in a grander design, a larger purpose that we were yet to understand.
Paul smiled softly, a tender, understanding expression that seemed to acknowledge the depth of my faith. He placed a hand on my shoulder, a gesture of comfort and solidarity. “I admire your faith, Dad. You just walked through a Portal and yet you still believe. That’s really something.” His words, simple yet profound, were a balm to my soul. In his eyes, I saw not just the love of a son, but the respect of a young man who had witnessed his father grapple with the unthinkable, yet hold fast to his beliefs. It was a moment of connection, a bridge across generations, fortified by faith and love.
I reciprocated Paul's emotion with a warm smile of my own, the corners of my mouth lifting in a gentle expression of shared understanding. As I placed a hand atop his, I felt the warmth of our connection, a tangible link between father and son. “Faith is a powerful ally, son. When our actions reflect our convictions, we can do miracles,” I told him, feeling a firm resolve swelling within me. The words flowed from a place deep within, a reservoir of belief and strength that had long been my guide.
“Even building a New Jerusalem in the desert,” I added, my voice carrying a hint of wistfulness. As I said this, I gestured towards the dusty expanse that surrounded us, the barren landscape stretching out like a blank canvas, awaiting transformation by hands guided by faith and purpose.
In the ensuing quiet that enveloped our contemplative state, the world around us seemed to pause, as if giving space for our thoughts to breathe. “Actually, it’s called Bixbus,” Paul said softly, yet matter-of-factly, breaking the silence. His voice was gentle, imbued with a sense of realism that grounded our lofty musings.
The next moment of silence was brief yet poignant. As our eyes met, we chuckled lightly, the sound a shared moment of dry humour amidst the uncertainty that engulfed us. It was a brief respite, a fleeting connection in the midst of our tumultuous journey.
Meanwhile, Greta, seemingly inconspicuous of our conversation, continued her pacing. Her movements were restless, a physical manifestation of her worries which remained unabated. Each step she took seemed to echo her inner turmoil, a relentless rhythm of concern and anxiety.
The brief levity with Paul quickly faded, replaced by a tight knot forming in the pit of my stomach as I turned my attention to Greta. Observing her, I contemplated how to ease her inner conflict, a task that seemed as daunting as reshaping the barren desert into a promised land. Her worries, if left unchecked, threatened to consume not just her but all of us. It was a challenge that I knew we needed to address, for our unity and strength depended on it.
