Finding Cumorah

In the summer of 1983, I had the opportunity to be in the cast of The Hill Cumorah Pageant. I was a wicked Nephite woman who followed the crowd in condemning Abinadi and my "missionary companion" was one of Kind Noah's concubines. (That was my wild fling!) Incidentally, a few of the college-age girls harbored secret crushes on the ,single male actors. They were fairly evenly divided between Team Abinadi and Team Captain Moroni. :)

I kept a journal faithfully back then and enjoyed touring many historic sites in the area. Being in the pageant was a spiritual experience as well since it depicts many of the Book of Mormon prophets who testified of Christ and His appearance to the Nephites.

I hated to leave New York when it was time to return home, but I wrote a poem about the Hill Cumorah. A few years and many drafts later, the poem was published in a contest issue of The New Era.

When the LDS Church celebrated Joseph Smith's 200th birthday in 2005, I pulled out the magazine and read the poem again. It had a couple of good lines but most of it was too obscure. Also, my perspective on Joseph Smith and what had occurred at the Hill Cumorah had changed. My oldest son was close to the same age as Joseph Smith when he first saw the ancient record of the Nephite people. In fact, my son had just received his mission call and was preparing to testify of The Book of Mormon and other truths of the restored gospel.

I changed the title and decided to rewrite the poem; the result is more cohesive as it focuses on the seasons of Joseph Smith's burgeoning faith. As a mother, I was struck by how vulnerable he must have felt in his youth as he learned of his life's mission. I used many natural images to evoke those emotions, especially the in first stanzas. While reworking the poem, I also gained a greater appreciation of Joseph's courage in spite of adversity and his lack of education or experience. I hope the last stanza in this poem expresses my gratitude for all that he accomplished.



Finding Cumorah
Manchester County, New York, 1823

Late September
washes a season's green
beyond field and village
and age seventeen.
only leaves
rinsed in afterglow
stir at Joseph's homespun
passing.

He once knelt
in April grove,
drenched with that glory
of Father and Son.
Then summer wove roots
through his harrowed soul
as those parched by mockery
claimed the heavens
closed.

Autumn wind
shimmers into the trees,
quickening vision
of his pending task:
these hands will
lift voices
silenced by stone,
fullness like morning
tide gathering
home.



Since this ended up being a completely different poem, I submitted it to the Ensign and then to the New Era where it was published in the September 2009 issue. A pdf of it is available online.