In a noisy press box above a baseball field, Mary finds me. Maybe it’s the view of the mountains, where I love to run on trails that snake near the route she followed into the Salt Lake Valley, then a pregnant widow with five children.

More likely, it’s the dreaded trip into the bowels of the stadium, where a reporter’s task is a painful reminder of my feminine vulnerability. Here, the courage of my great-grandmother’s grandmother becomes mine.

Someone yells about an error, but I’m watching Mary drive an overloaded covered wagon dragged by a horse and a cow. She sacrificed so much, including her parents, for this church. I sacrificed this church to find something wilder. Still, in her imagined arms, I am home.