Blasphemy
by Brad Grenz

I was born and raised as a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Later Day Saints: Mormons, to the rest of the world. I was the second born child and the only son in my rather large family. My parents, still married, and all of my sisters remain active members of the church and rather devoted practitioners. I, on the other hand, am considered “inactive”.

“Inactive” is what the church calls members who remain on the rolls but who do not come to services or participate in activities. A great deal of effort is placed in the goal of reactivating such wayward souls. I have had home teachers and missionaries calling and knocking on my door unannounced unerringly for over a decade now.

I suppose if I really cared to I could put a stop to such attempts to bring me back, but honestly it doesn’t bother me that much and knowing the missionaries who live across the street from my apartment has proven convenient on more than one occasion.

In most cases someone will knock on my door unexpectedly one evening every month or so just to say hello, check in on me and see if I need anything. I am obliged to chat with them for a while and if I don’t know them this usually takes the form of a basic introduction and some small talk about what I’m doing with myself.

Rarely, an ever so bold young missionary might ask me why I left the church at age fifteen. I’ve never answered the question honestly. It’s clear from my interactions with various members that there are theories as to why I left. Perhaps I was mistreated, or abused. Maybe I was offended or insulted. Or was there perhaps some unresolved conflict with another member that has simply never been addressed and which caused my retreat from the congregation? Truth be told, every reason one might imagine by way of explanation for my leaving is far more scandalous or tragic that the honest answer.

But the real reason for my apostasy is one of my most closely guarded secrets. I’m not sure why but it’s something I’m never shared with anyone. After a few years my family stopped pressing for explanations. At that point I had managed to alienate many of my friends both inside and outside the church and had come to lack a confidant.

It’s almost embarrassing to admit. I don’t have anything against the church; I don’t have anything against the congregants. In fact, as far as organized religions go I believe Mormonism to be one of the very best. But it’s a church that demands a lot of its adherents. There’s no paid clergy and every member gets a calling. By the age of twelve I held the priesthood and served as a deacon in my ward. The older you get the more responsibility young men are given.

It’s strange to be writing this down for the first time. After so many years it is strange to be working out my own understanding on paper. At the time I don’t think I knew why I had turned my back, but I can see the reasons far more clearly eleven years hence. At the time I just balked at this growing responsibility. Being a member is not a passive thing, Mormonism demands a significant commitment. At the time I felt the church wanted more from me than I had to give, and even now I realize I still feel the same way.

At this point in my life a lot has changed. It’s hard to understand just how foolish even the smartest of us are as teenagers. I’ve spent many years reclaiming my life from some terrible decisions, rashly made in high school. Nothing too obscene or dangerous, of course, by all outward appearances I am still a good Mormon boy. I don’t smoke or drink coffee or alcohol. I’ve never done any drugs nor am I promiscuous.

At the age of twenty-five I’d only been in love once. It was a number of years earlier, and much to my regret, it was a relationship that would never go anywhere. Her name was Kendra and I had known her since preschool. Our mothers had been friends since before either of us was born. When she and I were both five, her parents moved into the neighborhood after living for a time back east. At that point our friendship was something of a forgone conclusion.

We were close throughout grade school, as close as a boy and a girl can be at that age, but we strayed somewhat from each other by the time we hit middle school.  It wasn’t until late in high school that we finally reconnected. After my sophomore year I left school early to get my GED and put public education behind me. This decision proved rather disastrous for my social life. Within a couple years I had drifted apart from even my best friends. Kendra was the sole exception.

I’m embarrassed to say that had she not lived so close this might not have been the case. We spent time together regularly over the next couple years as she finished high school and I bummed around in my parent’s basement. It wasn’t until the summer after she graduated that I felt certain enough of my feelings to make a romantic leap. We dated for three months and lost our virginity together on a camping trip to Central Oregon.

But that fall she left for university in Boston and I tearfully retired to my basement lair having said goodbye to my last friend. The separation was inevitable and utterly foreseen, and yet neither of us had prepared for the change. In her wisdom she broke things off completely, not wanting to engage in the charade of a long distance courtship.  It very nearly ruined me.

That October, on my 19th birthday, my mother tried to take me out to dinner to celebrate. Half way to the restaurant I started crying and couldn’t stop.

“Is it because of Kendra?” She asked as she looked for a place to turn around.

“It’s because of everything.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this, was it?”

No, it wasn’t.

For the next six years my life was a low speed train wreck. I was under educated, unambitious, morose and a disappointment to myself and my parents. I worked a series of mind-crushingly dull, dead end jobs never quite sure how I let things get so bad. I didn’t have any friends outside of my immediate family. With each passing day I could feel my life slipping away through my fingers.

I couldn’t allow that to happen; I just could not resign myself to a life of ruin before I had even started living. I made a decision in the summer of my 24th year to finally apply to a four year university. I had taken classes at the local community college on and off for years, as much to avoid getting serious about a career as anything else. But the credits I had accumulated and my GPA were sufficient to gain me entry to Willamette, a nearby private university, as a transfer student with sophomore standing.

There was a period of adjustment involved as I became a full time student in an academic community. I excelled at the school work, but I wasted the entire first semester when it came to making friends. I’d never made friends easily in the first place. I have a tendency to an outward shyness in new situations. It takes time for me to get comfortable enough with new people before I’m finally able to open up and really make friends. Not living on campus compounded the problem. Often I was only on school grounds as long as my classes lasted. This was not conducive to cultivating friendships. Realizing this over the winter break I decided to make a concerted effort to be more involved on campus in the spring.

Eventually this strategy paid dividends. I started chatting up some of the people who I had shared classes with in the fall. I also became more involved as a philosophy major, attending the undergraduate club meetings and getting to know the candidates being evaluated for new teaching positions in the department.

Soon I had a growing circle of friends and as I spent time with these new people I found my history as a Mormon clung to me quite strongly. Most of my new friends were drinkers. Some were smokers and more than a few smoked pot as well. I’d attend parties and hang out and while it didn’t bother me being around that kind of thing, my abstention was something of an oddity. People would offer me beer or a hit, and I’d politely refuse, explaining that I didn’t drink or smoke. When pressed for an explanation my religious upbringing was an obvious factor, but it was not the only reason.

My paternal grandfather was an alcoholic and had drunk himself to death before I left high school following the death of his second wife. With that history of addiction in my family I did not feel drinking or drugs were worth the risk. I was wary of gaining any chemical dependency. I did not want to come to a point in my life where I needed chemical inducement to have a good time or to feel good about myself.

Most people were perfectly respectful of my decision to live cleanly. After the first time or two they would remember and stop offering. My religious past remained a topic of interest. I spent a lot of evenings trying to explain the Mormon religion to my curious friends. Since most were fellow philosophy majors the reasons for my leaving were never questioned. It was assumed that I had simply achieved the level of education required to throw off the shackles of organized worship. I still took great delight, however, in debating the issue of God’s existence. My best friends were ardent atheists, but I had fun telling them such a position was not logically sound. Intellectually, I was myself agnostic and argued that agnosticism was the only supportable position. I also delighted in telling them, much to their chagrin, that I still believed God exists but that this belief was the result of my choice and was a matter of preference.

Most often these spirited discussions took place over a game of Scrabble in the coffee shop on campus. It was open past midnight and out games often lasted well into the night. At this time I actually found myself swearing with some regularity for the first time in my life. Watching my language was another one of those holdovers from my upbringing. I still don’t swear at all around my family as a matter of respect for them, but I didn’t actually have a problem myself with coarse language. Vulgarity had long been a part of my writing in stories, poems and online correspondence, but speaking such words aloud was very different. The words somehow felt wrong in my mouth. At first I swore almost unconsciously around my school friends just to keep up, but I’ve since made an effort to cut back, and I had never gone so far as to use some of the more disrespectful words about female anatomy.

By the summer I had forged a few very strong friendships and gained a genuine love for what I was doing. Since I had saved enough money I didn’t need to work over the summer. This gave me a chance, for the first time in many years, to relax and enjoy my life. For three and a half months I could read and write and drive to Portland regularly for concerts. I could travel with my family and hang out with my school friends who had stayed in town over the summer. I even started feeling good about myself.

Something was still missing, however. I hadn’t done any dating since Kendra left and for the first time in a long time I was actually in a position to be meeting women. Still, I felt awkward about the age difference. Most of the girls I was meeting were five years younger than me. It was not obvious to most people as I did a pretty good job of blending in and passing for 19 or 20, but I felt very old talking to these children.

I realized my classmates were barely older than my youngest sister, Ashley. In the years I had wasted she had grown up and was a college student herself only a year behind me, despite being seven years younger. She had graduated a year early from high school, the old fashion way, and started college the same year as me, in her case as a freshman. When she came home for the summer it occurred to me we were basically sharing the same peer group.

I quickly got use to this over the summer as she started hosting a weekly game night every Sunday at my parents’ house. My family had long had a tradition of getting all the kids together for dinner every Sunday, even after most of us had moved out. Since I was always there when her friends started showing up I usually decided to hang around and play a few rounds.

Now my sister, like the rest of my family, is still an active member of the church. This was also true of most of her friends. The people she invited over were universally drawn from the local Singles Ward. For the uninitiated, in the Mormon church once the young men and women turn 18 they are invited to leave their home wards, which are normally organized by neighborhood, and join this special congregation made up of single men and women from the entire city. More than a few people refer to the Singles Ward as a meat market, and that’s not far from the truth. In the Single’s Ward young men and women are expect to gain some independence from their families, experience spiritual growth, but most importantly, they are expected to meet members of the opposite sex who are unattached and of similar marriageable age. Were I still practicing, the Single’s Ward would have been the service I was expected to attend. But I couldn’t bring myself to go, even in a transparent effort to meet women.

Many of the young single adults who were coming over every Sunday were people I knew, but had not seen since they were very young. Quite a few were literally the younger brothers and sisters of friends my own age I had known my whole life. Most of my contemporaries had long since gotten married. There were also a few who I didn’t know, who had moved to the area recently for school or work, or who had been in one of the wards I had little contact with growing up.

The group also proved to have a strange mix of ages. There were some who were strictly Ashley’s age, church friends she’s had forever, but due to the number of return missionaries who had spent two years away, many of the guys were only a couple of years younger than me. Some of the girls had also served missions, like Ashley’s friend Sandy.

Sandy was 23 and had spent 18 months proselytizing in Arizona. Her family was from a ward across town, and while I knew the family by name and reputation, I had never met her before these game nights began. She came often, though, and I was getting to know her better every week.

I have to admit I was drawn to her in a way I hadn’t experienced before. She was beautiful, with shoulder length, tawny hair she kept pulled back and out of her pretty face. Her green eyes narrowed captivatingly when she laughed, which I encouraged to the best of my ability and her shoulders, like her cheeks, were lightly freckled.

Whenever we played team games I made sure Sandy and I were together. We were a force to be reckoned with in Pictionary, destroying all comers. In July, after two months of hanging out every Sunday I finally asked her out. We had just murdered the competition in a game of team Trivial Pursuit and the other teams, in their disgust, had left the clean up to us.

“So, what do you think we should do on our first date?” I asked her out of the blue as I neatly stacked a pile of question cards.

“Well, the Salem Art Fair is coming up next week. I was thinking we could check that out.” She answered without missing a beat.

“That’s exactly what I was thinking. Are you working Saturday?”

“Nope, I have the whole weekend.”

“Well, if I knew where you lived I’d pick you up around one,” I said with an ironic shrug.

“I got a ride here with Katie tonight, but I don’t think she’d mind if you drove me home. Wouldn’t want you to get lost when it counts next weekend.” Sandy smiled as she folded the game board and replaced the lid on the game box.

Her place was only a few minutes from my parent’s home. I was vaguely aware that she shared the rental house with four other girls from the Singles’ Ward. Since it had been such a short drive we ended up sitting together in the driveway for a while talking. I had cut the engine, but my iPod on shuffle was playing softly through the stereo in the background. She asked how I was going to spend the week.

“Oh, you know: planning, preparations, dry runs,” I teased her. “A date isn’t something you want to go into blind. I’ll probably work up an entire conversational script and start rehearsing by Thursday. Friday I’ll go down to the park for recon and to stash some supplies around the fair in case I need to resort to a contingency scenario.”

“I’m not sure that’s wise,” She warned, “You don’t want the date to come off as overproduced. Everyone knows improv is what’s in vogue these days.”

“Really? In that case I’d better just sleep past noon all week, read and play videogames like usual then.”

“Do what you’ve gotta do,” she nodded, and then to my surprise she leaned over and kissed me. I was stunned, but not too taken aback to raise left my left hand to her cheek, brushing a wayward lock of her hair behind her ear as I kissed back.

I could feel my entire face grinning stupidly as she pulled away, said goodbye and opened the passenger door. I watched her walk to the house and fumble in her purse for her keys. I started the car again once she had the door open and gave me one last wave.

Neither of us could wait until Saturday. We got lunch on Tuesday and had dinner Friday night before heading out to the Salem Art Fair Saturday afternoon. The parking situation around the park during the fair was always a challenge, so I parked in one of the university parking and we walked hand in hand a few blocks to get there.

We ate lunch first at one of the food courts. The booths were operated, for the most part, by local church groups. I ate a kosher hotdog from the synagogue and Sandy had a pulled pork sandwich from the Baptist barbeque. After our meal, we bought some fresh squeezed strawberry lemonade from the Lutheran booth and started walking around the fair.

They call it an art fair, but I’d say the real art is far outnumbered by what I’d call crafts. There are potters and quilters and weavers all displaying their creations. I bought Sandy a knit Cthulhu hat at one booth. She wore it the whole afternoon, despite the heat.

Taking me by the hand, Sandy led me over to one of the temporary fine art galleries set up to display paintings and sculpture from local artists. We slowly browsed past a series of coastal landscapes and around the corner to a canvas that caught my eye. I stopped to take it in more fully, Sandy’s arm in mine.

“I like this one,” I told her at once. From a distance the painting looked to be an extreme close up of a human eye, the iris filling most of the field, but up close another image could be made out in the variations of the eye’s green pigmentation. It was a landscape, a dense forest as though seen through a veined window designed to mimic the human eye. Even the black pupil contained subtle discolorations and highlights in shapes suggesting a contiguous patch of thick foliage was hidden behind the darkened center. When I finally looked away to ask Sandy what she thought she just beamed.

“Isn’t it brilliant?” I asked.

She shrugged silently. The tentacles on her cap bobbled as she nodded towards the title card. It read:

“See it Through”
Sandy Peterson

“You painted this?”

“I did.”

“I didn’t know you painted.”

“In my spare time,” she grinned.

I leaned over to kiss her on the cheek, but she turned her head and met me with her lips. “You’re really quite amazing, you know.”

“I know,” she said.

I don’t remember the rest of the date that clearly. If I wasn’t already head over heels before that moment, seeing her art tipped me over the edge. I rode a wave of bliss through the rest of the afternoon and evening as we wandered through the park, browsed the booths filled with chotchkies, listened to the live music and found quiet places to make out.

To the delight of both our families, we were all but inseparable over the next seven months. We saw each other nearly every day even as I had to go back to school. She’d visit me on campus as her work schedule allowed, and when it didn’t we’d spend evenings together, even if I had to spend a lot of the time reading.

Whenever we were together with either of our families, for dinner on Sundays or other family activities, they could barely contain their excitement. Although no one ever said so to my face I knew without a doubt everyone was certain it was only a matter of time before we would be engaged, and I would come back to the church. Our parents and siblings still did their best to stifle their exuberance, if only not to scare me off. I did my best to ignore the undercurrent and enjoy what I had.

Very quickly I found I was in love with Sandy, but it was different from what I had felt towards Kendra. Back then our relationship had been built on so much history, on years of assumed intimacy and blooming fondness. What I felt for Sandy was deeper, somehow, more profound.

She had the sexiest mind I had yet encountered. I laid awake a nights aching to know what she thought about one thing or another, making mental notes to ask her opinion about some silly idea I’d had. She was smart, and funny and so damn creative.

She was beautiful as well. So beautiful I’d been driven to poetry, despite myself. I had tried time and time again to do her some measure of justice on the page, failing just as often. If nothing else, I was driven to be a better writer for that reason alone.

That said, what I found most attractive about Sandy was what I expected of her in the future. I had come quickly to the conclusion that she would make an amazing mother, and this was the sexiest thing of all. Despite all our allusions to culture and refinement, my most powerful feelings were bound to breeding.

In the face of this building desire, I managed to keep our affair a chaste one. Sandy, like so many other young Mormons, was saving herself for marriage and I had the utmost respect for that goal. Truth be told, I was quite used to not having sex but I was less able to control myself as I slept.

Sandy had been a regular fixture in my dreams almost as soon as I met her. Even after we started dating these dreams usually remained very innocent. Often I’d be lost somewhere and Sandy would find me and guide me home or give me directions. Other times she’d ask me to build something for her and watch me work, giving her pithy commentary. Over Christmas break I had my first sexual dream about her.

During the four week vacation I had been working on weaning myself off a medication I’d long taken for neck and shoulder pain. It was non-narcotic, and inexpensive, but I wanted to prove I could live without it. I stepped down my dosage as best I could the first week before my last bottle of pills ran out. What followed was a classic case of chemical withdrawal. I was not prepared for the intensity of the symptoms.

For the next three weeks I was achy, prone to headaches and had difficulty sleeping. When I could fall asleep I often woke in a cold sweat several times during the night and I even experienced a few terrifying bouts of sleep paralysis. As another side effect my dreams became far more vivid and I was able to remember them far better than usual.

In the week before Christmas I dreamt of exploring Sandy’s body: of her freckles running up her arms and across her swelling breasts and of my fingers inside her. Slowly and deliberately I brought her to climax. As soon as her waves of pleasure broke I started awake, drenched with sweat in rapturous delirium even as my own orgasm tapered off.

The nocturnal experience clung to me the entire day. When I saw Sandy that evening I felt my entire body flush in response to her presence. I kissed her at once and when she asked, “What was that for?” I didn’t answer.

That evening she told me about her brother’s impending wedding. He was a year younger than Sandy and had been back from his mission to Costa Rica for nine months. He had met his fiancée his first semester at BYU before receiving his mission call. They hadn’t dated before, but when he got back to school they saw a lot of each other and fell in love. Their wedding was planned for February 14th at the Portland Temple.

When the day came around I was not able to go to the actual ceremony. That took place within the temple itself, and no one is admitted entry without a temple recommend signed by the Stake President, a position which encompassed a number of Wards. In this case the Stake President was responsible for all the Mormons in the Salem/Keizer region. His name was Brain Wettlaufer, and although I’d known him my whole life, a temple recommend is very serious business connected to an individual’s worthiness and faith.

Consequently I had to meet Sandy at the reception. It was being held at a large Marriott Hotel right across the street from the temple. I got their early to take photographs around the temple grounds before linking up with the wedding party in the hotel’s large banquet hall.

Sandy was gorgeous in her bridesmaid dress, but I could tell as the reception got underway she was already very tired. I managed to get her some dinner early so we could eat together before she was torn away to attend to her family duties. I spent much of the evening at a table with my parents and sisters. Lots of people who I had known in my previous life came by to say hello and visit with my family. I had to deflect a large number of questions about when I’d be back at church, or when I’d propose to Sandy.

When it came time for the first dance Sandy came to find me. We went to stand at the edge of the dance floor as the music started and her brother and his bride began to waltz. After a few minutes Sandy and I took our place dancing alongside them. She sighed and laid her head against my chest as we swayed back and forth to the song. Her eyes were closed as I kissed the top of her head and whispered, “Someone needs a nap…”

Nodding, she nuzzled against my neck as I forgot where we were. At that moment I wanted nothing more than to make Sandy my wife. She was so perfect. We could be so happy. Our children would be so beautiful. Sandy was everything I had ever wanted in a woman but didn’t know to look for. I wanted to whisper my proposal in her ear at that moment, but then the music stopped.

Sandy led me by the arm over to the head table where her brother and sister-in-law were once again sitting. They were braced on either side by both sets of parents. All four were positively beaming. We chatted idly for a few minutes while everyone waited for the cake to be ready to cut. Receptions have a tendency to accelerate towards the end as the bride and groom begin to fatigue. They weren’t the only ones. I could tell Sandy was fading fast.

I was invited to sit with the wedding party as the cake was served. I didn’t say much as I picked at my slice. The urge to burst out with my intentions burned within me, but I managed to restrain myself. I listened passively as everyone discussed how beautiful the sealing ceremony at the temple had been and how strongly everyone had felt the spirit as the union was consecrated. My stomach lurched.

In a terrible moment of realization it came to me like a crushing weight. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t marry Sandy. In a choked voice I excused myself from the table when my hands started to shake. I spent ten minutes in the bathroom trying to regain my composure.

Once I had calmed down I returned to banquet hall to find they had just finished throwing the bouquet and garter. A family friend, Brother Pierson, saw me walk in and asked if I had been hiding to avoid participation. I laughed politely at his joke and made an excuse about needing to use the restroom. He clapped me on the back and said, “Well, it’s not like you’re legally required to catch something before you propose.”

I found Sandy sitting at my parents’ table resting her head on folded arms. Much to my relief she was not clutching her sister-in-law’s bouquet.

“C’mon Sandy, lets get you home before you pass out.”

She giggled and offered me her hand as she stood up. I said goodnight to my parents and went to tell Sandy’s family we were leaving. We both got hugs from everyone before they let us slip away for the night.

Sandy fell asleep as soon as we hit the interstate. I left the stereo off to let her rest. I spent most of the drive wondering what to do. I loved her so much and I didn’t want to hurt her, but I knew things had gone further than they should have.

She was still asleep as I pulled into her driveway. I carried her to the door and rang the doorbell hoping one of her roommates would be home. Most of them had been at the reception. Luckily Julie was home at the time.

“Oh, hey,” she whispered as she opened the door and let me in. I smiled and nodded as I carried Sandy past and down the hall to her bedroom. I pulled the door closed behind us and set her down on the bed. The only light in the room came from a dim desk lamp in the far corner.

Sitting next to her I pulled her legs onto my lap and removed her shoes. She yawned and sat up, sliding her bare feet to the floor and turned her back to me. She reached a hand behind and gestured lazily to the zipper down the back of her dress. I obliged and pulled the tab down, exposing the bare skin beneath. When I stood to leave she caught my hand.

Standing to face me I was fixed by her dreaming eyes. She let the slinky lavender fabric of her dress slip from her shoulders, pooling in a ring around her feet. To my surprise she was not wearing her garments or even a bra or panties. Naked, her bare skin glowing in the dim light of her room, she reached for me, wrapping her arms around my neck.

My heart was pounding and my face had gone hot as her lips found mine. She was far more beautiful than I had dreamed. My arms wrapped instantly around her as I pulled her close. The kiss had a narcotic effect. I felt blinded, stunned and weak. When she pulled back to nibble her way across my neck I could hardly open my eyes I was so intoxicated.

I found, quite unconsciously, that my hands had begun to roam across her body. My left snaked up her back to stroke her hair while my right had found a breast, the nipple hardening under its caress. I kissed my way down her neck and shoulder before taking the second nipple in my mouth. She cooed above me.

When I found my fingers stroking her pubic hair I knew I had to stop. She was pulling at my tie and fumbling with my shirt buttons when I pulled back. “I have to go,” I panted.

“Stay. Please stay.” Her eyes shined.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Julie raised an eyebrow from her seat on the couch as I passed the living room on my way out the front door. I didn’t acknowledge the expression, but I could imagine what she was thinking as I finished removing my tie.

I did my best to avoid Sandy for the next two days. I sent her an email saying I’d be really busy at school and stopped answering my phone. For the first time I was truly worried about the gossip surrounding our relationship. I didn’t want Sandy’s roommates scandalizing her in the Singles Ward and among our families. I also wasn’t sure what I’d say to Sandy when I did see her again. I felt terrible.

On the third day she found me at school walking between classes. She wore a look of concern I’d not seen before as she pulled me to a secluded part of campus. We sat together on a stone bench in the middle of a Japanese style garden and watched the water flowing from a stone pagoda fountain.

“What’s wrong?” she finally asked.

I shook my head. “I let things get too far.”

“It was my fault. I shouldn’t have pushed you like that.”

“No. That’s not what I’m talking about. Sandy I love you but we can’t see each other anymore.”

“You want to break up? I don’t understand. I’m sorry if—“

I cut her off. “You didn’t do anything. You have nothing to be ashamed of. I’m the one… You know that night at the wedding when we danced? I wanted to marry you. I wanted us to be together. I wanted raise our children together.”

“That’s what I want too. I love you so much. We can get married. There’s nothing stopping us. Just ask and I’ll say yes.”

“I would but—I can’t offer the kind of marriage you deserve. I’m not the man you should be with.”

Tears were streaming down both our cheeks. “Don’t say that. We’re so perfect together.”

“But I’m not worthy of you. You should be able to have a temple wedding like your brother; like your parents; like all your friends. I can’t give you that. I can’t be that man of faith you need.”

“Don’t say that. It’s never too late. You could come back to church, if only for me. You’re still a good man; a righteous man. Everyone knows it. It would be easy.”

When I shook my head heavy tears broke free from my chin and fell, splashing against the multicolored pebbles at my feet. “No I can’t. I lost my faith a long time ago. Not that I don’t believe in God, but I can’t worship like that anymore. If I did go back, become active, finally receive the Melkezedek Priesthood and get a temple recommend I would be doing it for one reason: you. I just can’t bring myself to blaspheme like that. Not for myself; not even for you.”

I looked over and found her staring at me with wounded eyes. Her nose was red and she was struggling to contain her sobs. “I’m sorry,” I said finally.

She stood, speechless and walked away. I didn’t try to follow.

I missed two classes as I spent the next three hours crying in the Japanese garden. When one of my friends came looking for me he found me kneeling in the moss facing a Shinto alter carved from stone.

I was praying for forgiveness.