I wondered how David’s “interview” had gone, wondering if he’d confessed his sins—sins he believed to be acts of love fueled by a healthy lust.
Our new ward family was so unlike ours—multi-generational—the laughter of children echoing in the hallowed halls, everyone smiling always.
For love, we’d bury ourselves in the waters of baptism, drowning ourselves in holy water, only to be resurrected by a lifeguard in white pants.
We would arise from our watery tombs changed people, not because we would suddenly believe, but because we would live as if we did.
Seeing all those smiling, happy faces, I began to fall in love with the Church. It certainly was the opium Mother needed.
I felt the Church pulling at my heartstrings even now, strumming a melody both beautiful & painful—beautiful because of Elder Roberts.
If Elder Roberts had told me he loved me, perhaps I wouldn’t have fallen from grace, landing in disgrace. But what had once been unspoken would never be spoken.
It would always be painful to be amongst them because I’d want so much to believe in it all, yet faith complete would always elude me.