We scrambled out of the tent. I was so excited to see what he had brought. He pointed his flashlight at the sacks of food as he placed them on the ground, then set the flashlight on a limb so it would shine between us. He seemed very pleased with himself. The great hunter-gatherer had returned. Barzee seemed very pleased as well. Her husband had provided. What more could she ask? Now it was time for the women to stand in gratefulness and awe.
Truth was, I would have kissed the ground he walked on if he would have given me something to eat. I mean, talk about the natural animal coming out! “Where’s the food?” is all I could think about.
The grocery sacks were from an expensive boutique food store on the east side of the city. How could he possibly have afforded it? “How did you get this?” I asked.
“I ministered and plundered for it.”
“What does that mean?”
Stupid of me to ask a question. With Mitchell there were plenty of simple questions, but no such thing as a simple answer. He started to explain, telling me how in the Old Testament the Lord would lead the children of Israel into battle and then tell them that they could take whatever they had conquered as a reward for the fight. If they wanted it, they could take it. But only the Lord could designate when and where they were allowed to take from others, it could never come from man. So when you’re fighting for a righteous cause, and when the Lord commands you to take something, that is plunder. It isn’t stealing. It is different, because you’re doing it for God. And the Lord had commanded him to plunder. And obeying was how we showed faith in Him. He was only doing God’s will when he stole from the grocery store.
Okay. I got it. Plundering was stealing. I really didn’t care. All I knew was, I was hungry. But I was also curious. “What do you do when you are ministering, then?”
He smiled. This was his territory and he was happy to explain. “When I’m on the street, in a store, wherever the Lord may take me, the true disciples of Christ recognize me as their true prophet. When they do, they give me money. That is how God provided for us.”
I thought back on the first time I had seen him, that long-ago November afternoon in downtown Salt Lake City. So he called it ministering when he was panhandling (which was where he got most of the money we needed to buy food). His elaborate explanation didn’t change how I felt. He was a panhandler then and was still a beggar now.
He then explained why it had taken him so long. The ministering hadn’t gone as well as he had hoped it would. Not so many folks, apparently, recognized him as the prophet he really was. The good news was that the plundering had gone a little better. But after all the ministering and plundering, he had to go down to Pioneer Park, where some of his people liked to hang out, so he could rest awhile. Which meant he had to drink a little, smoke a little, whatever it took to gather up his strength for the long hike back up the mountain.
Turns out he had spent most of the afternoon drinking, then had to sleep it off before he had the energy to make it back to camp.
“Guess what I saw down there,” Mitchell then announced with great pride.
I didn’t really care. All I wanted was the food.
“You should see it.” He moved so close that I could smell the tang of sweat and the alcohol on his breath. “I saw my sweet Shearjashub’s face plastered all over the city. It’s in every store, on every lamppost, posters of her absolutely everywhere. And blue ribbons. Thousands of blue ribbons. And the whole time I was walking around the city, seeing Shearjashub’s sweet face looking down on me, you want to know what I thought?” He moved even closer in the darkness. “I thought to myself, I got the real McCoy. I get the most beautiful girl in the city. And that kind of makes me proud.”
I stared at him, dumbfounded, trying to take in what he had said. Posters of me. All over the city. That meant that people were still looking. They hadn’t given up. And it wasn’t just my family. Other people were looking for me too?
“Beautiful posters everywhere,” Mitchell seemed to sing, so proud of what he’d done. So proud of what he’d captured. So proud of what he owned. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Holding it up to the light, I saw my smiling face. My name. A description and a hotline number.