Three weeks before the opening night,
the entire Commission is assembled at 47 East South Temple. A final review of
plans is going forward, and I present to our chairman the first press sheets of
our souvenir program. To meet the critical deadlines, we have already printed
one side even before final approval. Seated beside President McKay are members
of the executive committee, including Gus P. Backman, general director, and
John Fitzpatrick, vice-chairman and esteemed head of the Salt Lake Tribune. Everyone
leafs through the proofs, and then President McKay arises. He speaks directly
to me in solemn tones. "This all seems in good order; but I note one
serious omission." My heart sinks, because I know what he is about to say.
For weeks I have been trying to persuade John Fitzpatrick to allow us to use
his photograph in the program; but, characteristic of his determination for
anonymity in print, he has refused. President McKay continues, "I fail to
see proper recognition of our vice-chairman. Brother John." (He always
referred to John Fitzpatrick as "Brother John," although we were well
aware that John was a Catholic whose predecessors on his newspaper had at times
shared much in the history of Church persecutions.) "I am sure that if you
persist you can obtain from his fine paper a photograph and proper information.
He continues without hesitation, looking me right in the eye, "Even if you
have to reprint 40,000 copies, I request that you give official and proper
recognition to our distinguished vice-chairman. And John, I trust that you will
find it possible to instruct your paper to find that picture." I consider
the consequences of this decision. Time is running out. Here is a member of the
First Presidency insisting that we honor a Catholic whose contributions might
be duly recognized merely by verbal statement; but, no, our chairman wants a
printed record of the fact that here, in our time, on this occasion, and for
this purpose, we are one as a community and old resentments of any kind are
hereby buried and forgotten. Then I think, lesser men would be content to let
our Catholic friend go unsung — but not President McKay. He teaches us that
expediency is no excuse for not doing what is right.
One week before the opening night, we
meet again. Glancing my way, he inquires, "Tell us, how good is this
'Promised Valley' production?" I answer, "Those who have worked
diligently to produce it believe it will be well received. It introduces
several new features such as a full symphony orchestra and ballet troupe, and I
think you will like the story." At that moment I detect one member of the
executive committee dropping his jaw and uttering an audible groan. He speaks
up and says, "I am fearful, Mr. Chairman, that we shall have difficulty. I
still believe we should have brought in some top Hollywood entertainers and
staged a show that people like, but — a symphony! — a ballet! ooh!" The
emotions are tense; but our chairman speaks: "We shall see."
Ten days later we all meet again. In
the mean time our premier of "Promised Valley" has brought accolades
and praise, and attendance has been greater than our expectations. Then
President McKay turns to me and comments, "I want to thank you for
understating your appraisal of 'Promised Valley.' We all went with trepidation,
hoping for the best, but fearing the worst. The result has surpassed our
fondest expectations, and you and all your associates deserve our highest
commendation." I think to myself, "Bless your heart — not so much for
these words of praise, but for your kind restraint during the intense period of
anticipation when you withheld judgment, thereby letting us prove ourselves
unharried by doubt." Higher we climb toward appreciation of the spiritual
insight of this great leader.
Two more weeks pass. Fourteen
performances have been given, and two have been rained out. The production is
scheduled to close on Saturday night, but people are continuing to stream into
the city from afar to witness what has now been heralded as an epochal event.
Our fondest dreams of box office receipts have been fulfilled in the amount of
$175,000. The company will disband Saturday night unless we are to hold one
more performance on Sunday night. This is the decision: Shall we do it? The
matter is discussed at length. President McKay asks for a day to consider it
further. Later he telephones and instructs me, "If you can hold that final
performance after 8:30 at night, I approve your doing so on Sunday." No
sooner is the word published than I receive a phone call from another high
Church official who says, "Brother Wheelwright, I see you are going to
break the Sabbath and run that show." I respond by thanking my caller, and
then observing, "You flatter me to think that I possess the authority to
make this decision alone. The fact is, it was made by our chairman, David O.
McKay. His office is not far from yours. I suggest that you discuss the
decision with him." Then I call our beloved leader to report the
conversation. Here is a sensitive problem, and I wonder how he will respond.
After a moment's pause he says, simply, "I have given this matter full
consideration, and I am willing to face my Maker on this decision." (Lorin
F. Wheelwright, "Adventures
of the Spirit: From Personal Experiences with President David O. McKay,"
center section, The Instructor 98, no. 1 [January 1963]: [2,4]; this
story would be repeated in David L. McKay, My Father, David O. McKay,
ed. Lavina Fielding Anderson [Salt Lake City: Deseret Book, 1989], 214-15)
