Photo by Jacob Barlow
A few Sundays ago, I sat quietly in a red sandstone tabernacle built in 1909. The pews curve in the balcony and behind the pulpit sits a huge pipe organ. The woodwork is intricate and warm. It wasn’t my first time in that building – but it was the first time I’d been there since learning something new.
My great-great-grandfather, Ephraim Nash, lived just seven miles from where I sat. He moved to Alpine, Utah, in 1852 as a sixteen-year-old and – according to the Genealogical and Biographical Record of Utah – he “participated in a large measure in almost every difficulty that beset the path of early settler, but with the determination, energy and unyielding perseverance that characterized the people who came out to subdue and cultivate this land.”
He fought his way inch by inch until he became one of the solid financial men of Alpine.
Born in England in 1836, Ephraim Nash lived in Alpine almost continuously after immigrating. In his early years, he lived in a two-room adobe house, which he later replaced with a handsome brick residence. He farmed and raised livestock – cattle, horses, and sheep. He served multiple terms as mayor and spent years on the City Council and school board, advocating for education and public improvement.
He was described as liberal and broad-minded, generous and genial, someone who believed deeply in letting every person worship according to the dictates of their own conscience. He seems to have been well-loved by his community, a man who stood tall wherever he was known.
In March of 1909, one year before Ephraim died, the people of Alpine began work on a meeting place that would come to be known as the Alpine Tabernacle. In Ephraim’s faith tradition, a Tabernacle differs from a standard meetinghouse in scale and from a Temple in purpose. This one, designed at least in part by Swedish architect Niels Liljenberg, is now on the National Register of Historic Places. It’s built with yellow brick and red Utah sandstone, seats 2,000 people, houses a large pipe organ, and – unusually – has no tower or steeple.
It has retained much of its original decoration.
It’s likely that Ephraim’s daughter, my great-grandmother, spent time there. It’s likely that many spirited conversations, quiet prayers, and unspoken thoughts have filled that hall over the last century.
And for all the stone and stained glass and city records – what struck me most that day wasn’t the craftsmanship or the legacy.
It was how unremarkable it all felt.
The pews creaked. The carpet probably needs replacing. Someone’s little child was playing with a plastic dinosaur on the floor. I could almost hear a hundred years of sighs and fidgeting and whispering and scooting over to make room.
We talk about history like it’s a monument.
But sometimes it’s just people trying their best to show up.
Barton Goldsmith, Ph D, says “When you employ the attitude of being your best self, and your focus is toward the highest good, your sense of who you really are will get stronger, and you will get more out of life. … This feeling is unmistakable and can come from taking action to help those in need or from making the world a tiny bit better in any way you can.”
I bet Ephraim did a lot of that – trying his best to show up and making the world a tiny bit better – amidst the long winters, and the endless council meetings, and the broken fence posts, and the worries he kept to himself.
And thinking that helps me realize he might only be expecting me to do the same.
I can’t wait to hear about the ways you’re trying your best to show up and make the world a tiny bit better. And if you need a quiet place to say any of your unspoken thoughts out loud, I’m your gal.
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