Tabernacle

When I saw the fire-eaten Provo tabernacle last month, I first thought of this:

A bombed out church we saw in Hannover the summer before last, its windows blown out, roof absent, its stone walls starkly testifying of suffering and sacrifice against the night sky.

And I had the smallest inkling of what it might feel like to have a piece of my history all but demolished--the unbridgeable difference, of course, being the cause: careless bad luck here, malicious design there.

The futility of this, Provo's one real treasure, burning was what made it hard to watch in some ways though. Investigation into a strange smell, giving a triggered smoke alarm the attention it deserved, an installed sprinkler system--each could have saved the building pioneer hands crafted and thousands have gathered in to sing, celebrate, and pray.

I'll never forget the last time I was in the tabernacle, watching my little girl mouth the words that the angel said. Now she loves to hear the story of those who built it.

It was strange to see such ferocious flames on such a cold day, stained glass melting and rolling into itself just feet away from a tree bent over with icicles refusing to melt.

I know it's just a building, but it will be missed.