Wandering in the Wilderness

Tales of the Chelm First Ward

The murmuring had started late, but the rebellion came early. 

Before the sun rose on the girls’ first morning in the wilderness, Mirele Schwartz could already feel the seconds slipping away from her. She had testimonies to build, fellowship to strengthen. The day was just about to peek over the horizon, ready to be seized. But the girls preferred their pillows. 

As Golda zipped the tent door shut in front of her, hiding Perla’s face from view, Mirele thought she understood Moses better. It must have been so hard to break everyone out of slavery, only to have them drag their feet to the promised land. The young women were not exactly seeking her life or trying to go back to Egypt. They hadn’t even mentioned the Nile’s luscious watermelons; all they wanted was a nap. But the principle was the same. People were constantly choosing ease over vision. Mirele had a plan. She had lessons to share. So of course no one cared. 

She tried not to feel resentful, but it’s hard to quarantine betrayal in a single corner of the heart. After all she had done to prepare, this bitter loneliness was her reward. If only she could have been less devoted, perhaps she would not feel such despair. That was the trouble with having pearls of wisdom: in the end, it made the ungrateful people around you seem like swine. 

But God, for reasons equally righteous and annoying, had resolved to give people agency. Even someone who was supposed to be acting as youth leader could zip the tent door shut in your face. Even someone who you wanted to make memories with (including, but not limited to, a child you gave birth to and nourished and raised) could lie in the tent with her eyes closed and let the morning pass her by. That was the plan of salvation. There was nothing to do sometimes but go up the mountain alone to cool off. And so it was that Mirele went off on the sunrise walk by herself. 

As the sky softened from black to deep purple, like a bruise just beginning to heal, Mirele considered how to make the most of the precious remaining hours in her week. What could she do to give Perla the perfect opportunity to feel the spirit? She didn’t need an angel to appear to her daughter or anything—just enough taste of the divine to get her to come to church once in a while, so that Mirele didn’t have to sit alone. That would do. A moment of wonder on a hike or activity. Maybe a small miracle, like praying and finding something lost or having a mosquito bite abruptly stop itching. Any little thing that God might bring to Perla’s remembrance during their end-of-camp testimony meeting.

 Soon enough, the sun lit up the treetops. Mirele stopped walking and took a deep breath. She told herself that even if the day had started poorly, there was still time enough for many good moments. Or at least a few. She felt for a moment like Abraham, negotiating with God over how many good moments it would take to justify all the troubles this camp was causing. Fifty? Twenty? Ten? That wasn’t bad. And if the number of good moments happened to be only three or two? Was that enough? 

At an absolute minimum, she told God, she was hoping that Golda would not have anyone worshiping anyone else’s calves by the time she got back. 

It was the wrong fear. No one was worshiping idols or body parts. But before Mirele could see the tents again, she could hear the yelling. It occurred to her that the idolatrous children of Israel were at least united. She should have known better than to leave Tzipa in charge of this group. 

“What do you mean, there’s no butter?” Bluma shrieked. “I only know how to make naleśniki with butter!” 

Tzipa was clearly trying to keep her own voice calm. “That’s because they’re made with butter. Which we thought we would have.” 

“Why didn’t we pack extra?” Bina demanded. “We knew there were animals in the woods. We could have packed enough for us and them.”    

“We didn’t know an animal was going to break into our food,” Tzipa reasoned. “Next time, of course, we can pack enough to go around.”

“But what should we do this time?” Bluma asked. “It’s not fair that the butter got lost right before it was Bina’s and my turn to cook.” 

Tzipa scratched her head. “Of course, if we had packed more, the animal might have eaten more. So it might be better to pack less, so that there wouldn’t be as much for the animal to eat.” 

Bina groaned. “The bread last night, now the missing butter . . . it all makes sense. You brought us here to starve.” 

Golda stepped out of the tent to join the fray. “I know how to feed everyone,” she said. “First, we get in the car. Then, we drive back toward Chelm. At some point, we find a place to stop and order food. It’s even better than a hike: through the windows, we’ll see ten times more nature than we ever would on foot.” 

“We don’t need to abandon camp just yet,” Tzipa said. “Why don’t we say a prayer to find the lost butter? It’s probably in an animal’s stomach, but at least you’d be able to see a real, live sable. Or maybe a fox.” 

From inside the tent, Chava shouted a reply. “It wasn’t a sable or a fox that ate the butter,” she said. “It was a bear!” 

Her words set off a chain reaction. Soon Bluma was hysterical over the possibility that a bear was going to eat them, Bina was saying they were too starved for a hungry bear to want, Golda was apologizing for having missed any signs of a bear in the area, and Tzipa was trying to reassure all three of them that it must have been a much smaller animal, even as Chava insisted—with a passion bordering on ferocity—that a bear had taken their food. 

“Enough!” said Mirele as she reached camp. She wished that she’d made some tablets to throw down and break dramatically. She supposed she could have torn the breakfast recipe in two, but instead, she settled for glaring at each girl with what she hoped was prophetic intensity. “We did not bring you here to starve. God will provide!”

For a moment, Bina, Bluma, Golda, Zusa, and Tzipa all looked at her in awe. But since Perla was still in the tent, that good moment went to waste. And after a second of silence, Golda snorted. “If you have more bread, please don’t throw it in the dirt this time.” 

But Mirele did not have bread. She had spoken out of some mixture of conviction and panic. Without having surveyed the damage to their food stores, she was walking in the dark. Truth be told—though she desperately hoped it wouldn’t come to that—Mirele didn’t have a plan. 

The thought terrified her. 

Bina was looking at her hopefully. Poor child. “There’s more bread?” she asked. 

Mirele shook her head.

“Then what breakfast, exactly, does God have in mind?” Bluma demanded. 

“Get out your scriptures,” Mirele said. “And let’s find the answer.” 

“Are there recipes in the scriptures?” Zusa asked. 

Chava emerged from the tent, holy books in hand. “There’s one in Ezekiel. But it’s not very good.” 

Golda shook her head. “God’s answer better not be fasting,” she said. 

Mirele considered her options. When you stripped away all her preparation, what was left? Not much. But she had faith. A prayer in her heart, mixed with a certain guilt for bringing the Lord’s name into this mess. And she had a group of hungry girls. Staring at her. Waiting for her to fall short. 

As Tzipa began to survey the damage, making an inventory of what had been robbed or raided, Mirele took decisive action. First, she asked Golda to cast lots between the Bible and the Triple Combination. The lot fell to the triple. Next, she asked Bluma, Bina, and Chava each to come up with a number from zero to nine. Once they did, she combined them into a single three-digit number and turned to the corresponding page.  “Let’s see what guidance is on this page for us,” she said. 

For the first time that morning, Perla peeked out of the tent to see what was going on. The hour was late. The supplies were scattered. But Mirele looked down at the page for the first words that caught her eye. 

They were “sad experience.” 

Mirele had faith that God had led her to that phrase, but there was no comfort in it. She should have known better than to promise anything, and now she was learning by sad experience to bite her tongue. 

Unless . . . well, as it happened, experience was exactly the sort of thing no sable, fox, or bear could take away. They may not have much food, but they still had experience. Perhaps God had provided for them in an unexpected way. Mirele hated the idea of cooking without a recipe, but there was more to life, she reluctantly acknowledged, than directions to follow. She straightened. “We have better than bread,” she said, turning toward Tzipa. “On this trip, we have a baker.” 

Tzipa triumphantly lifted a bunch of sad-looking squashed bananas from the bag. “God has provided,” she said. “The animal left these.”

Golda frowned. “I think I changed my mind about fasting,” she said.    

“Oh, they’re not to eat straight. Mashed bananas make an interesting butter substitute,” Tzipa explained. “Don’t worry,” she added. “I’ll cook.”    

Watching her, Mirele thought, was like their own little miracle of the talents. If you only had one talent, such as planning, it was good to have a friend who had five. Tzipa picked up this, mixed it with that. She seemed to get extra ideas as she worked. Mirele wouldn’t exactly have expected salvation on this trip to come from her counselor, but there was no denying the sudden disparity between what each of them was equipped to do. It was strange. Working hard for months on a plan was one thing, but only God could prepare a person with the experience of a lifetime. 

Out of the remnants of their ingredients, Tzipa was somehow able to produce fluffy little cakes, filled with a delicious sauce made from squashed berries. The food felt blessed before they even said the prayer, and the girls ate with genuine gratitude shining out of their faces. The rumbling in Bina’s stomach quieted. Perla licked sweet syrup off her fingers.

That was one good moment at least. Just a few more to go. Mirele looked at her schedule and multiplied by fractions to figure out how to bring the day back into line. She would not let Tzipa’s incredible efforts go to waste. She was determined: the grace of the morning would buy them a chance to work their way back into the plan that afternoon, and on to glory.

Unfortunately, man does not live by baking alone. 

The boil of the morning’s argument seldom dropped below a simmer. The girls complained freely about the previous day’s long, circular hike, about the nighttime tent assignments, and about the animal in the woods. When Mirele told them it didn’t matter what the animal was, they changed the subject and complained about her. She found it all a little upsetting. Where had these murmurs been yesterday when she needed them? 

She counted herself as fortunate, at least, that the girls were finally getting into character for the camp theme. Now all they had to do was make up for several missed years of activities. Between the sleeping in, the slow breakfast, and some bickering over the dishes, the sun was getting high by the time they walked away from camp. Luckily, it was punishingly hot. That saved some time, since the girls rapidly hit the goal of asking testily for water, which allowed Mirele to skip to the part where Moses miraculously opens a well from out of a rock. She led them straight to a boulder at the entrance to a small park.  

But because the girls didn’t realize that water was less than a meter away, their complaints got worse. 

“A rock?” said Golda. “We walked all this way just to see a rock?” 

At least when the youth leader led, the others followed. Bina asked if they’d ever heard of heat stroke. Chava shaded her eyes and looked for vultures circling. Bluma commented on what a miracle it would be if Chava could see any birds at all without sweat flooding her eyes.

Mirele took the complaints in stride. “Why can’t you have a little trust?” she said. “God keeps taking care of us.” 

“Yes,” said Golda, “but if we’d driven to a restaurant this morning, he wouldn’t have to.” 

Despite the great breakfast they’d had, the girls appeared to consider this. At their age, Mirele supposed, the novelty of going out left a bigger impression than the joys of great food. 

  Tzipa, however, did not appear as tolerant about the lack of appreciation for her improvised masterpiece. “If you’re so thirsty,” she snapped at the girls, “spare your throats.” She looked over the mix of shocked and mutinous faces. “It’s horribly inefficient for everyone to complain at once,” Tzipa said. “So I’m going to assign one of you as the General Murmurer. It will be that girl’s responsibility to complain on behalf of the group.” She looked around. “Out of respect for that person’s assignment, I don’t want to hear a word from the rest of you!”  

The girls considered this idea and seemed to entertain it, if only because none of them had ever before heard of such an attractive calling. 

“Choose me!” Chava said. “I’m feeling terrible today, so I’ll be the best at it.” 

“You?” said Bina. “You get distracted too easily. What if we want to complain when you’re running off to look at lizard poop?” She turned to Tzipa. “You should choose me. I’m much better at obsessing over problems.” 

Golda looked at Bina skeptically. “I’m the obvious choice. I do more complaining than any of you.” 

“But you’re the oldest, so you have to be responsible,” Bluma pointed out. “Since Chava and Bina can’t agree, it should be me. I’m the perfect compromise complainer.” 

Perla spoke up next, her voice just above a whisper. “I could do it,” she said. “Don’t forget me.” 

“What kind of murmurer would you be?” Chava asked. “You’re too quiet.” 

 “I’d be the best,” Perla said. She straightened her back. “Because you all wanted to be here. I’m the only one who didn’t.” 

Hearing her daughter say those words, Mirele wanted to take the murmuring assignment herself. She could complain about her daughter’s attitude. About the girls who could have been doing more to draw Perla out and help her feel like part of the group. About God for making life so hard, and about the Church for promising families that could be together for eternity while offering so little for ones that were divided over faith right now. 

But Tzipa turned to Zusa Cohen. “You,” she said. “I choose you. Because a calling should be an opportunity for growth.” 

And with that, Tzipa walked off behind the rock. 

Zusa looked nervously at the other girls. “Um . . . give us some water?” she said in Tzipa’s general direction. “So we can get on with our hike?” 

Bina rolled her eyes. But before Mirele could see how the others reacted, she remembered that the hose was in her backpack and hurried after Tzipa to the park’s water hook-up. They connected the hose and brought it around for everyone to drink from. “You see?” Mirele said. “Blessed are those who thirst, for they shall be comforted.” 

The girls gulped down some water, but Perla looked confused rather than awed by the object lesson. This, apparently, did not meet her standard for a good moment. Mirele pushed aside her disappointment over that, and over Perla’s comment about not wanting to be here, for the next activity. A battle might be just what Perla needed to feel the power of deliverance. 

Mirele passed out a small water gun to each of the girls. As the children of Israel had crossed the desert, she explained, the Amalekites attacked them. Now the girls would be the Israelites, while Mirele and Tzipa played as the Amalekites. Since the Amalekites were stronger, the leaders would use the hose. Whichever team was wetter after fifty-two minutes would lose the battle.  

Bina looked pointedly at Zusa. She seemed to tremble a little at the thought of raising an objection, but did her best. “That doesn’t seem fair?” she said. Chava nodded her encouragement and Zusa pressed on. “Because . . . there are six of us and just two of you?” 

Chava groaned. 

With God, Mirele said, nothing was impossible. In this particular water fight, for example, there would be one more little rule. Whenever Golda held up her hands, Mirele and Tzipa would turn the hose off. But if Golda’s hands got tired and fell down, the leaders would turn the hose on again. If Golda was strong enough, her troops could walk across the battlefield on dry ground.  

Mirele was particularly proud of her idea for this activity. It was scriptural. It involved teamwork. It would teach the girls about the importance of supporting their leaders. And the timing was already built into the rules, so it wouldn’t get them any further behind. 

The girls took up positions in the park and the battle got started. At the beginning, Golda held her hands up high while the girls crept up and shot their leaders. It wasn’t long until her arms grew tired, but the girls didn’t even give Tzipa time to turn on the hose. Mirele watched with pride and hope as Perla rushed to Golda’s side, along with Bina, to help hold up their leader’s arms. For the next several minutes, the girls emptied out their squirt guns onto Mirele’s and Tzipa’s clothes and arms. In the heat of the day, being beaten this way was rather pleasant.    

But then disaster struck. The sun was high and hot, standing almost still as it beat down on their heads, when Bluma and Chava exchanged a look—and started to shoot each other. 

“What are you doing?” Golda asked. 

“They looked so much more comfortable than us,” Bluma said. “And I didn’t want to waste all of my water.” 

Rather than calling them onward to battle, Golda appeared to consider this. “Is getting shot helping?” 

“A little,” said Chava. “Do you want us to come over and shoot you, too?” 

“Yes!” said Bina. 

“Please!” said Perla. 

And so, without the leaders firing a shot, the tide of the battle began to turn. 

“That’s a little better,” Bina said. “But only a little.”  

“I want to be wetter,” said Perla. “I wish I were soaked.” 

And then she and Bina looked at each other. And they pulled Golda’s hands down. 

Well . . . rules were rules. What use were the laws of justice if the leaders didn’t follow through? Tzipa turned the hose on. Mirele aimed it. And the daughters of Israel rushed toward them, exulting in their defeat. After a while, Tzipa tilted the hose’s stream upward, so that drops rained down more softly, and the girls danced in the makeshift rain. Golda kept her hands firmly in her pockets. Chava leaned back her head to catch and swallow big drops. Bluma and Bina stepped forward and splashed as much water as they could on the others. 

“It’s too much fun,” Zusa complained dutifully. “We can’t take much more of this!” 

Perla’s laughter carried out across the park. For Mirele at least, it was a good moment. 

 As the sun beat hotter and the minutes ticked down, Mirele felt her torso turn from damp to drenched. She and Tzipa were sweating enough that she thought the battle might still end up as a tie. She wasn’t sure there was any lesson in that. But so what? There wasn’t always a clear lesson in the scriptures, either, and somehow God’s people had muddled through anyway. 

When forty-nine minutes had passed, the ground was so wet that the girls discovered they could get a running start and slide across it on their backs. They were filthy: grass-stained, mud-soaked, and gloriously happy about it. Mirele hated to think that in three minutes, it would end. 

So she took off her watch and set it down on the rock. She and Tzipa wedged the hose in position to keep spraying and ran off to join the girls, sliding through the afternoon as if they had forever together and no need to watch the time. 

James Goldberg is a poet, playwright, essayist, novelist, documentary filmmaker, scholar, and translator who specializes in Mormon literature.

Artwork by David Habben.

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Tales of the Chelm First Ward: Introduction