And the Sun Goeth Down: The Story of a Mormon Missionary

By Aaron L. Stewart

In 1938 a young man from a small town in Northeastern Utah was called to be a missionary for the Mormon Church. More than willing to share the Gospel with those desiring to learn the truth, Don Jones accepted the call to go and preach the words of Jesus Christ to the people of Wyoming. As often happens in life, tragedy is never far away, and there comes a time for others, for brothers, to finish the work that cannot be completed here on earth. That task would fall to Nathan Jones, Dons older brother.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543433708

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Copyright © 2017 by Aaron L. Stewart.

ISBN:                Softcover                      978-1-5434-3369-2

                          eBook                            978-1-5434-3370-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Scripture taken from the King James Version of the Bible, the Book of Mormon, and the Doctrine and Covenants (D&C).

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 12/06/2017

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Contents

Chapter I         Denver

Chapter II        Wyoming

Chapter III      Jailhouse

Chapter IV      The Hike

Chapter V        Rabbits

Chapter VI      Christmassy

Chapter VII     Telling Ghosts

Chapter VIII   Nebraska

Chapter IX       Niobrara

Chapter X        At the End

To Grandpa Jones for never taking the easy way and for enduring to the end . . .

1915-2001

Chapter I

Denver

Behold, I am a disciple of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. I have been called of him to declare his word among his people, that they might have everlasting life.

—3 Nephi 5:13

I boarded the train at eight o’clock that cool spring night and walked down the aisle between the two rows of seats. I sat down next to the window and made a point of not looking out onto the platform. I had just said goodbye to my wife and our young son at the platform where I was sure they still stood, waiting for my final departure. I kept looking down at my watch, hoping that somehow looking at it would make it tick faster. I wanted to be gone, to be on my way. I had been called to the Western States Mission by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints to finish the mission my younger brother had begun the summer before in Baggs, Wyoming. After serving only six months, he died of appendicitis in December 1938. He was a good boy, and it was especially hard on our mother, him being the only one of her eleven children to choose to serve a mission for the church. He was only twenty-one years old. It came as a terrible shock to our small isolated community of Tabiona, Utah—a tight-knit Mormon town with most of the inhabitants being related in one way or another.

The train pulled slowly out of the station at Salt Lake City, picking up speed as it traveled south. I was grateful to have the opportunity to finish for my brother what he himself had been unable to complete in life. I was in a position of priesthood authority and would be teaching people things I knew were true, things I believed would make their lives better. There was no doubt in my mind of the importance of what I was about to embark upon. My brother had bought a journal he had written in faithfully every day until the day he died. The day I took his journal and wrote that first sentence just under his final entry was the day his mission became mine.

It was an overnighter, and there were only a few passengers on board. I was sitting on the right side of the train. There was one passenger sitting on the seat across from me who, for whatever reason, caught my attention. He was thin, with dark hair and blue eyes. He was wearing a dark pin-striped suit that made him look even thinner than he was. He was sipping from a small metal flask every few minutes. Suddenly he turned to me and reached over across the empty seat next to him, offering me the flask across the aisle.

Oh, no thanks, I said, waving it away.

It’s a long trip, pal. These overnighters are long, he said. A drink helps it go a little better.

I’m sure it would, and a few months ago, I’d have probably taken it. But I’ve had to make some changes since then, but I do appreciate the offer.

Well, cheers anyway, pal, he said, shifting back into the chair and leaning up against the window, taking another drink. He had a New York–sounding accent and spoke like he was older than he actually was. I thought he was about my age.

I leaned against the window again and pushed the seat back. The sun had already begun to set to the west of Utah Lake, and it was getting dark. Under normal circumstances, it would have been a very beautiful sunset, but as I sat there staring out the window, thinking thoughts that were deeper than they should have been, it seemed an ominous sign. It was as if the sun were setting only for me, telling me that everything I had known and been, up to that moment in time, was coming to an end; and an hour later, we were heading up Spanish Fork Canyon toward Price, Utah. It was dark, but the moon was out and the stars were shining bright in the clear sky. I did not feel like trying to sleep then. The man next to me who had offered me the drink had been asleep but had woken up as the train pulled its way up the steep grade.

Pretty bumpy ride up this canyon, pal, he said to me.

That it is, I answered.

He put his hand out across the aisle, and we shook hands. He had an unexpectedly firm handshake.

I’m Frank, he said.

I’m Elder Jones, I said out of habit, quickly correcting myself by saying my first name. Nathan Jones, that is.

Elder? What’s that mean? You some kind of priest or something?

No, not a priest. I’m a Mormon missionary. I’m going to Denver to start a mission, I told him.

I think I heard of Mormons before. Don’t Mormons have a bunch of wives and dress funny?

Not anymore, but that was the case forty or fifty years ago, but we’ve never dressed any different than anyone else, I said.

So what do you do on the mission? Do you preach? he asked.

Yes, we teach the Gospel of Jesus Christ. It is a proselytizing mission.

I’m from New Jersey, and in Hoboken, I don’t think there are Mormons. It seemed like all of us were Catholics there. Never heard of doing missions though. How long do these missions last? Do you do it the rest of your life, the celibacy thing and all?

No, a year or two, then go home, get on with life, but it depends on how long the church wants me there. In my case, it’s a little different though. I’m married and have a kid back home. My wife wasn’t very happy about me accepting the mission call though. It was a surprise to me too—something I never expected, I explained.

I told him why I was going and about my brother. He asked questions, but mostly he listened. I told him about some of the history of the church and why the Mormons ended up coming to Utah and about the persecution early members of the church went through in being pushed west from the East. He was my first contact in the mission field, and that is how I remember him.

So how about you, Frank? Where you headed?

Back to Hoboken, he answered. I’ve been in California, recording a record. I’m a singer, and we just finished cutting some demos. There’s this fella, Harry James. He’s a bandleader and plays trumpet. I’m gonna meet with him when I get back. He’s lookin’ for a new singer in his band, and I’m hoping to get the gig.

I wasn’t thinking I’d talk to a singer from New Jersey on a train to a mission in Denver, I said. What kind of music do you sing?

Big band jazz, mostly. That’s what I’ve been singin’ the last four, maybe five years. It’s good stuff. I think it’ll really catch on in a big way, he explained.

But the thing is, he added, he wants me to change my name. You know, get a stage name.

Are you going to do that? I asked.

No. I think my name is just fine. Wants me to change it to Frankie Satin or something. It’s not gonna happen. Sinatra’s good enough. I’m not ashamed of that name, Italian as it may be. I won’t pretend it’s something else. I want to join up with Tommy Dorsey. He wouldn’t have me change my name, he replied confidently.

"Sinatra sounds just fine to me. I wouldn’t change