Moon Above the Meadow: The Ugliness and the Beauty in Our History

(Reflections about the complexities of my family history upon visiting the site of the Mountain Meadows Massacre in April of 2022.)

This is where it happened. The moon is full, casting shadows across this cold and lonely place. I have been anticipating this stop in southern Utah as part of a long, solitary road trip. I came here to see if being in this place could shed any light on what happened here. The sun will be up soon.

In September of 1856, 120 souls departed this earth in fear and violence right here, and 17 children were orphaned. The wagon train had been under siege for 5 days with their wagons circled against their attackers. It was a waxing moon during those long nights, each one brighter than the last.

I look through a tube pointed at the spot where the wagon train camped. I try to imagine how the women felt. Did they resent the rough single men in their wagon party who had poked and prodded at the locals as they traveled through the territory, taunting the people by claiming they had played a part in the death of their beloved prophet Joseph more than a decade before? Tensions were high enough without their reckless swaggering. Most locals refused to trade with them so they could replenish their provisions because the Utah leaders had instructed them against it. The Mormons were storing up their grain in preparation for a defensive war against the United States, yet another conflict in a long series of battles for their survival.

The travelers were out of food and water and ammunition, so it must have been a welcome sight when a white flag of truce approached. This lush meadow should have been a place of safety. It was the last stop to fatten the animals and rest the people before the long journey across the desert to the magical land of California.

The truce was nothing more than a deception. My most infamous ancestor was part of the deception, by most accounts. He’s the one who was executed for it, at any rate. It’s trite but true that hurt people, hurt people. John D. Lee was no exception, and neither were the others who participated in this horrific event.

I wonder at times how my life is a reflection of those who came before me. I am a seventh-generation descendant of John D. Lee. He is not my only ancestor who participated in giving or receiving awfulness. Other ancestors fought on both sides of the Civil War. My devout ancestors crossed the plains in wagons or pushing handcarts. Some participated in polygamy as an expression of faith, and it often involved jealousy and economic hardship. Fathers obediently left their families with little notice on extended missions or other church business, leaving their wives behind to care for their children alone. There is so much good in my history, but it is complicated. There is also a lot of pain.

The Book of Exodus says that the iniquities of the fathers will be visited upon the sons and daughters unto the third and fourth generation. Regardless of a person’s salvation status, I believe that trauma is passed down when the trauma is severe and unhealed. One person’s errors can sometimes take generations to repair. If that is the case, I hope the opposite is also true. I choose to believe that integrity, courage, and love pass down through the generations as well.

As a teller of history, it is my goal to represent all of it as fairly as I can. The faith-promoting, cleaned-up versions of the past are familiar because they have been told many times. New information, which may be less flattering, seems more interesting by comparison. There is a temptation to focus more on the scandalous and the ugly. I want to tell stories that aren’t as widely known. In some cases, much of what I can find involves records of the darker aspects of our past; for example, Anne Beale left no journals of her own. The very few records that document her life show her family connections and her business transactions, which happen to involve slavery. The practice of slavery was acceptable, if not always respected, in her time; however, the evidence suggests that she struggled with its morality. Oh, how I wish she had been able to record her actual thoughts!

I’m just putting it out there: As an amateur historian, I may end up erring on the side of ugliness at times. I invite readers to call me out on it. If you have knowledge that will balance the picture, please share it in the comments.