Continuing the short writings of Edith Russell, associate editor of the Millennial Star in 1944.

-oOo-

From the Millennial Star, June 1943 –

I Just Knelt

By Edith Russell, Leeds Branch

Our kitchen is a friendly sort of place. No one minds in the least the tap which drips, or the asthmatical gas-ring, or even the rubber mat which can be relied upon to hold an incredible amount of water. It his been the scene of countless domestic triumphs and tragedies, ordinary and commonplace, quite undistinguished, but poignant. Then, one morning – well, here’s the story:

I am a Guide Captain. I have thirty little Guides in my care, and somehow or other I managed to contract from one of them a bad attack of impetigo – a ghastly sight. Every morning, in that kitchen, I closed the door on disinfected humanity and with hot water, dressings and many tears proceeded to dress my face.

On this particular morning I stood at the window conscious of little else beside the hideous spectacle I presented and the terrible pain searing my right cheek. I looked exactly as if two scalding hands had taken my face in a terrible caress and held it until the flesh was raw and lacerated. Miserably I poured water into a tiny bowl and prepared the little ceremony of sterilisation.

I am not very brave. Pain frightens me. And I prayed: “Father, help me . . . please . . .”

That was when I felt something I can only describe as a tug in the region of my right cheek. It pulled my head round sharpy, and then it was gone! As if hands had literally pulled out the devil from my cheek!

In a maze of relief and wonder, I knelt on that rubber mat which holds an inconvenient amount of water, and thanked God. I knelt at that kitchen sink as reverently as I have ever knelt at more conventional altars, and prayed in the strangest fashion. I could not frame a word. I couldn’t even think coherently. I just knelt – and felt – and mutely rejoiced.

It is a funny little citadel, our kitchen. Many people stand on the small rubber mat to wash dishes, dry dishes, and to watch my mother as she works. They are all surprised when they learn they stand on hallowed ground.

-oOo-

From the Millennial Star of August 1943 –

Audacity!

By Sister Edith Russell, “Millennial Star” Reporter for the Leeds District

“Look at St. Paul’s,” the guide said. “Looks sort of symbolic, doesn’t it?”

Its dome was black against a sombre sky. At its base, a dusty stew of work-stained humanity hurried homewards, intent on buses, deploring queues, hungry and a little cross after the day’s exacting toll of mind and body. Buses roared, exhausts coughed, brakes screamed. I looked at St. Paul’s and heard the quiet voice, “Come unto Me, all ye that are weary.”

Inside, the atmosphere was heavy with stillness, the air oppressive with melancholy. Windows were dark, the great dome almost invisible. Only the altar gleamed softly like a fire in a dark room.

My guide was enjoying himself. He seemed to exude a desire to overwhelm me with descriptions and explanations — like a guide book. He wanted to impress me, to see me awed.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” he persisted. “I’ve seen fellows come in here, big and brawny, swaggering and blustering, and I’ve seen them break down in here. Wept like kids they did, and weren’t ashamed of it.”

“I’m sure they had no cause to be,” I put in quietly.

The guide plunged on. The pillars, the altar, the tablets, kings and queens, history and tradition, legend and fact. Endlessly, volubly he talked. I was thinking deeply. I was probably guilty of wearing a “rapt ” expression. My guide was pleased. He was expansive. He beamed. “It impresses you, doesn’t it? I know it does.”

He was almost childish in his desire to impress. I’m sure he must have been new to the work. He had not yet become bored and mechanical. Somehow I felt sorry that he should suffer disappointment at my hands. It would be like destroying a child’s belief in fairies.

“It does impress me, indeed,” I admitted readily. ” I am human enough to enjoy the sensation of standing where queens have stood. I can appreciate an atmosphere such as this. I don’t wonder for a minute that men have cried, but . . .”

And in that word of qualification my guide learnt a new interpretation of futility.

A conversation on Mormonism in the quiet of St. Paul’s! How terribly real seemed the Apostasy told against that ancient solemn background. How fiercely true ” the form of Godliness which denied the power thereof.” A great Church wherein no elder walked, no apostle lived, no patriarch blessed. A great and beautiful Christian structure which baptised only infants needing no baptism and did not save its dead.

The guide was a little hurt. I had spoilt his display. He jingled the money in his pockets and stopped abruptly when I spoke of tithing.

“Your church surely thinks of everything,” was his comment. ” What did you say the prophet fellow’s name was?”

“Joseph Smith,” I replied.

The guide scratched his head, perhaps to stimulate a few ideas, perhaps a subconscious admission of perplexity.

“And he had the pluck to say that all this …” he waved his hand, “wasn’t the real thing! Phew! I’d like to have met him. A fellow like that has nerve.”

“Or divine knowledge of the truth …” I suggested.

“The truth. Yes. Joseph Smith — ordinary sort of name. Fancy telling St. Paul’s! There is a word what is it? I know — audacity! To have the audacity to tell St. Paul’s where to get off! There’s something superb about it. I rather like it!”

When we emerged into the city’s dusk he was puzzled, interested, a little alarmed. Then, quite suddenly, he gave a great laugh.

“Well I don’t know!” he said. “If that doesn’t beat it! We set off with me telling the tale and impressing you, and here we finish up and you’re doing the talking and impressing me. Audacity! Say. you Mormons are all alike. But it’s sort of good to hear. Where do you meet?”

I gave him a card and shook his hand. We parted a minute later. I looked again at St. Paul’s and smiled. “Audacity” he had called it!