I sit at Temple Square — the end of a trail 1,300 miles long, littered with hope, sacrifice, determination, heartbreak, miracles and promises.
A trail that ended in an unremarkable plot of dirt, sagebrush and scrub oak, transformed by a prophet's vision.
Everywhere there is grey stone, cut and shaped by rough hands.
Hands that pulled carts, hands that chopped wood, hands that wiped away tears and buried children. Hands that hung down many times, without the will to go on.
Somehow, from someplace I am not acquainted with, they reached down deep and found it again.
And on they went.
Their stories are woven into every spire, every turret, every archway and window. The ones that raised this monument in the desert are telling us their stories.
Their presence fills this place.
At sunset, when the canyon breezes whisper through this garden, if you listen through the thin veil, you will hear them and know their pain, their joy, their defeats and triumphs.
If you look deep into the reflecting pool, you will see them.4 comments on this story
They are here.
They are not forgotten.
They walk with us on this sacred ground.
Eric Sisler is a blogger and technology enthusiast. He blogs at sislersblogabouteverything.blogspot.com for information on open source projects, cloud computing and other nifty topics.