To reach B.H. Roberts’s grave in the Centerville City Cemetery you have to pass through those areas of southern Davis County where Utah still feels very much like the small town it was when Roberts settled here as a youth. Grass runs up to the asphalt of the road, the homes are as frequently generations-old brick cubes as they are modern miniature mansions, and every few lots even those give way to the rows of a garden or orchard, tended still by hand. There are few buildings higher than two floors, and the mountains loom only a stone’s throw behind. At night the deer edge warily into the flower beds.
The graveyard likewise draws you back to the near borders of frontier Mormonism. There are rows upon rows of McKays and Bensons and Pratts, and other families formed through plural marriage whose children still bring their dead here, and rarely must come far. Roberts’s grave is at the top of the cemetery, on a gentle rise, next to that of his first wife Sarah Louisa Smith and near his second, Celia Dibble. There is a budded cross graven on his tombstone. 
The cross and the presence of Sarah and Celia at the tomb of one of Mormonism’s more venerated intellectual leaders speak to the necessary capaciousness a historical perspective brings to Mormonism. The ghosts of Sarah and Celia ensure plural marriage remains undead. Roberts’s own commitment to the cross, marked upon his stone, reminds us of a Mormonism far less evangelical but more Protestant than you might recognize today: a Mormonism which, like Roberts himself, defended simultaneously Mormonism’s need to engage rigorously with philosophy and scholarship and the divinity of plural marriage. Neither seem much in vogue today. But that Mormonism still lives here at his tomb.
To the Greeks, to be perfect was to be timeless, to be the same, to never change. But one of the mysteries of Christianity is that it exists in the tumult of history Jesus entered into, and one of the mysteries of Mormonism is that restoration is process rather than event. Both are a thing in time; a river, moving, coiling, collecting itself and darting forward in switchbacks and eddies, sometimes even reversing upon itself, and not a pool, complete and calm, with only the occasional wind ruffling the waters.
Below Roberts on the hillside of the cemetery lies a child, a girl, Zeesha Tawnee Kolohe Baldree, who died of leukemia at eight years old in February 2006. She was born in Hawai’i, and bore a diverse congregation of names: one native to that island, one derived from the Persian, and two from the British Isles. Like Roberts she was buried a Latter-day Saint. Like his third wife, she wanted a job in medicine.  She lived in Oregon when she died, though her family had old, old Mormon roots in Centerville. Her name and her birthplace, her hopes and her gravesite bear as much witness to Mormonism’s capaciousness as do Roberts’s life and death. 
Between Roberts and Baldree lies a wide expanse of Mormonism, in time, in identity, in space, but the word Mormon encompasses both and all of those who walked, and walk, between them. Reconciliation across divide is what atonement means and what the Trinity is. The Doctrine and Covenants states that the church is both true and living, and one modifier is dependent upon the other.
 Roberts was generally in favor of the cross; he advocated for the construction of one on Salt Lake City’s Ensign Peak during World War I. Michael Reed, Banishing the Cross: The Emergence of a Mormon Taboo (Independence, MO: John Whitmer Books, 2012), 87.
 Roberts’s third wife, the divorcee Dr. Margaret Curtis Shipp, did not outlive him and is buried in Salt Lake City.
 Baldree’s obituary is here.