Chill biting wind blows against the cheek as you to step to keep up with the crowd.The doorways are congested with the throngs of people so I rush around to find another entrance, the front doors are locked, despite the cold I admire the woodwork, the beauty of the edifice, the carved stone and brass handles. I run toward the now vacant turret doorway and I pull open the heavy door and step inside the historical scent assails the senses, the quiet murmur of the congregation, I breathe it all in, soak it in as I ascend the stairway. Narrow and steep, I tread carefully on the worn carpet and marvel at the feel of the thin wood rail I grip to, which is somehow out of proportion to where it needs to be to comfortable grasp it. I stop at the window well and once more feel of the atmosphere of the pioneer spirit, I ponder that if I just turn the next bend I will come across the ghost of the pioneers. As I reach the top I look out over the balcony, how many dignitaries and prophets have walked these grounds, look now at the congregation and I look for a spot to sit, clear across the balcony an empty spot is apparent so I make my way there, holding onto my baby girls hand lest she escape, or fall. I run my hand over the woodwork, taking in the plain utilitarianism of the benches, yet they are beautiful. I take my seat, and hold my daughter next to me and little son, and I search for my older children, down in the choirs, they are there awaiting there turns to sing. I let my little ones crowd next to the railing as their brother and sister sing, I crowd there too and take pictures of my children as they sing. How joyous I feel, how proud. Such nostalgia as I remember sitting here, sitting over there, and walking through the edifice for Stake Conferences and performances past. Even ironically that I sat there one cold winters night behind a girl who tormented me at school while I was growing up... I wondered then what she thought, and if she turned would she recognize me? I imagined myself as a young mother sitting with my oldest son as a baby, how I tried to help entertain my little brother and sister as my dad sang in the choir.As my young son asked for water I carefully walked down the stairs to the restrooms, cramped an inadequate as the quarters were we all loved the atmosphere, the building...
And now it is gone, burned in the night
I've walked past and admired the quiet beauty, my cousins invited me to be part of a pageant on the lawn many years ago, though I declined I still remember... I was proud of the Tabernacle, my grandparents worshiped there, my ancestors helped to build it. My heart held a place for it... and now my heart is broken for the loss. I'm sure we will rebuild, our craftsmen and dedicated members will all want to help... it will just never be the same...
