Somehow, you don’t think it should be as casual as it is. You walk through the doors of the Church Office Building and next to the giant mural of Christ teaching his disciples is an unassuming door. Only a small sign noting that no packages are allowed beyond hints at the tension of decades.
I scan the names of those who have already signed in and find a notable author as I flash my own ID. I spend the morning assessing the patrons, trying to discern him from the rest. How he talks to the staff or how he turns his manuscript with white gloved hands. I have my own treasures to find, though, and slowly loose myself in the poorly illuminated microfilm images.
You wouldn’t find La Vern McLellan Lloyd anywhere in the published histories of our people. Obscured by time and place. She did, however, dictate an account of important life events to her daughter. She was one of the refugees from Mexico in 1912. With sickness and death following her family, they moved north to find work in the mines and then finally further to a job teaching school. They moved in the winter and had nothing. They went hungry and cold.
I read her story. The part where she could not walk. The prophetic dream. How she was healed in the temple of our God. The details of her healer. And I wept. I had to turn from the text because I couldn’t control myself.
Just then, the missionary that minds the document room approached me from behind and asked if an item that I had left on the table belonged to me. I turned to acknowledge that it did and she noticed my face.
“It looks like you’ve found something good.”
“Yes,” and I turned away again until I could face the text.