All That Glitter

by Peter B. Gardner

Sure the road shows were fun, but now the memory I treasure most is the cleanup.

When I was growing up, every year or so my stake would put on a road show. For weeks before the event, leaders in the wards would concoct unlikely plots, create ridiculous songs and dances, and coerce reluctant youth into wearing outlandish costumes. Our road shows could hardly be termed theater, but they were a lot of fun.

Of all the stake road shows I took part in, one in particular stands out in my memory. The year I was 16, the stake presidency, of which my father was a member, decided the wards would not be allowed to use glitter in their costumes or makeup. Although the shimmering flecks looked wonderful on stage under the spotlight, they invariably found their way into the carpets and furniture. Because the road show was to be held on Saturday night, the stake presidency hoped this measure would help keep the building clean for the Sabbath.

But in the enthusiasm and good-natured competition of that year’s road show, the stake presidency’s counsel unfortunately went largely unheeded. When the performances concluded, I looked for my dad among the members slowly trickling from the building. They all seemed to have had a night of friendship and amusement. When I finally found my father in one of the rooms used for preparation, I could see that he was not amused. He was walking slowly around the room, surveying the damage.

“Most of the wards used glitter,” I said, stating the obvious.

“It’s like this in almost all the rooms,” he said and sighed, pointing to the glitter scattered across the carpet. “Weren’t we clear about not using glitter?”

“I think you were,” I said, hoping to ease some of the tension.

When we found the rest of the family and went home, it was already late. After seeing the younger kids to bed, my father took his coat and the car keys and went to the door.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Back to the stake center,” he said quietly, “to see what I can do to get it ready for Sunday. Do you want to come?”

I didn’t have any special desire to spend what remained of my Saturday evening cleaning, but then I thought about him doing all that work alone.

By the time we reached the stake center, my dad’s attitude had changed. As we cleaned, he seemed less and less discouraged and even somewhat enthusiastic about the challenge before us. He spent the time asking me about school and my friends.

Although the cleaning took several hours, we both felt a certain pleasure in our work and tried to be as thorough as possible. It wasn’t until after midnight that we felt the building was ready for church in the morning.

The next day, I felt special satisfaction as I looked through the clean rooms and remembered how they had appeared the night before. I considered telling my friends about my one-night stint at janitorial work, but that didn’t seem appropriate. Apparently, my father felt the same—to this day I can’t remember his mentioning that night to anyone.

Today when I think back to that road show, I’ve forgotten the humor, costumes, and music. What comes to my mind are images of my father vacuuming and sweeping and picking up glitter from the floor of the church—doing behind-the-scenes work in preparation for the Sabbath.

Illustrated by Scott Greer