1850 Census Entry
Name: James Brewster
Occupation Listed: Mormon Prophet
Location: Socorro, New Mexico Territory
They didn’t last long past the census—scattered
like so many axles and ashes across the West.
Brewsterites became a footnote in the Mormon story:
a primrose unable to open, an oasis dried before dawn.
Once, he spooled fresh dynamite into the Illinois caverns
of camp ministry and blasted light thru unrighteous dark!
Today, wagons were being retrofitted into coffins.
James began to doubt the vision he had at 10 years old.
By Socorro, there was no one left to listen. No Zion.
No food. Those who managed to survive, abandoned him.
Maybe the visions never stopped—while he fought
in the war, and aged through Reconstruction.
Maybe he held them tighter as tuberculosis festered.
He spotted missionaries in 1905, hailing
from the Brigham sect on a cold Chicago morning.
Old feelings returned: there were stories to share—
good ones, before the leadership crisis. He limped quick—
but the pair glided deep into the city, full of visions
of their own. Preaching. Walking faster after glancing
his way. He couldn’t keep the pace, not anymore.
The Joseph Smith in his skull differed from the one
they knew—half a century too late to convince them.
For every Moses, and every Martyr, for every
well-heeled Brigham, there’s men who return
to digging ditches, using handwritten scripture
to patch their threadbare shirts, in a world
that forgot every meaningful sense of their name.
This piece was published in 2024 as part of the 13th Annual Mormon Lit Blitz by the Mormon Lit Lab. Sign up for our newsletter for future updates.
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