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| Mormon Chapel, 1001 Ruth Street, Prescott, Arizona |
Today in church, our good bishop called a 14-year old young man to the stand and presented him to the congregation for advancement in the priesthood. That simple act opened up a cache of memories of my own youth, of the chapel that was once so familiar, and associated names and faces. To this day the chapel still stands, a sentinel to my youth and upbringing in a very different time and place. As I listened to heart-felt testimonies during today’s meeting, images and voices whispered from the shadows of my past, including:
• Being introduced to our newly constructed chapel at the age of four (circa 1960) and watching from inside the building as construction workers graded the parking lot before paving.
• My mother’s horror during a rather dry sacrament meeting when she turned to find her five-year old son whittling on a pew, and a tearful forced march to the bishop’s office after the meeting to confess my sin and ask for forgiveness.
• A twilight evening after sacrament meeting when I "cracked my head open" on the patio after a head-on collision with another kid, which resultied in lots of blood and a river of tears, but insignificant damage.
• A unique children’s nursery with a large window adjacent to the choir seats, which allowed mothers to enjoy church meetings while tending to their toddlers, but provided quite a distraction to congregants trying to enjoy the meeting. (The nursery was demolished in a subsequent building remodel.)
• Getting baptized at the age of eight by my older brother in a beautiful font with a large mural of John the Baptist baptizing Jesus behind it.
• Of shooting baskets in the cultural hall on Wednesday nights with a volleyball, the one my mother got me for Christmas because she couldn’t afford a basketball.
• Standing in front of the congregation passing the sacrament, and biting the inside of my cheeks until they nearly bled to keep from laughing at some silly occurrence that us deacons found hilarious.
• A ring of grey smoke slowly rising in front of the chapel while a sacrament speaker rambled and the congregation looked on curiously. This was the result of one of six deacons on the front row inadvertently lighting a match he was fiddling with. (Names omitted to protect the guilty, but you know who you are Don Davis.)
• Having my scout master (Brother Blair) scream in my face and threaten to stuff my puny 12-year old body through a small window in the scout room after one of my youthful indiscretions set him off.
• Brother Ervin Davis throwing a lesson manual across the room when pushed to the limit by a room full of ill-speaking inattentive deacons.
• Smoke filling the edifice on a Sunday morning between meetings, after a young man tossed an old hat onto a high light fixture in the foyer and it began to smolder. (For the guilty party, revisit the burning match incident above)
• Brother Clark, very old and stubborn, determined to fast regardless of his doctor’s orders, resulting in him repeatedly passing out in the middle of Fast and Testimony meetings and having to be stretched out on a pew until he regained consciousness.
• Disc-jockeying Saturday night youth dances with my older brother’s state-of-the-art stereo system, and repeatedly inching the volume higher while Brother Turley insisted it be turned down.
• Sitting in the chapel with my teenage buddies during a Sunday meeting, improvising words to a popular hymn. “And should we die, before our journeys through, what the hell, all is well.”
• Playing dodge ball on mutual nights in the “cultural hall” and vying for position on the stage-side of the gym where the curtains dampened impact and prevented balls from bouncing back to the opposing team.
• The furious shouts of Brother Burris from his doorway across the street and the squeal of burning rubber while I spun doughnuts in the church parking lot in my ’57 T-bird in the late hours of the night.
• Early morning seminary at the church before walking up Ruth Street to start each day of high school.
• And finally, of a farewell talk in sacrament meeting before leaving on a full-time mission, in which the main speaker (me) was timed in a not-so-lengthy address of two minutes, thirty five seconds.
