Mormontown – Tanner Lee

President Farkus removed a tissue from beside the pulpit and wiped the sweat from his brow and neck face. Some of the soggy tissue stuck to his chin. Mom wiped her face as well. President Farkus told a story about a man who had to kill an evil king to save the village. God told the man, as he held a sword over the king’s fat neck, that it’s better for one man to die than a whole civilization to sin. The man killed the king and followed God’s command, demonstrating that when right and wrong aren’t clear, the best decision is to listen to God.

After the meeting, I met at the bishop’s office with the other boys my age. We took donation envelopes to all the members of the ward and collected checks for the amount donated during their fast. I took my packet of 20 envelopes and began walking down the street towards the first row of houses. Some of these families hadn’t been to church in years. I avoided cracks as I walked, and I hoped a woman of God would see me.

The first address had a winding stone path that led to a front door with a metal gate. There was yelling, then a slam. The door opened, and a short man without a shirt asked who I was. His breath smelled like cleaner. “Um, I’m from the church down the street.”

The man turned and shouted “Hey! They sent the church; can you believe it?”

“I’m here for donations.” The man closed the door halfway and stepped towards somebody.

“He’s from the church and he wants money, and all you do is sit. Why don’t you give him some of your money?”

He slammed the door and I stood for a minute, wondering if he was preparing a check. When nobody responded, I looked at the second family envelope. The Neilsons, who I knew from class. Inside, brother Neilson asked about sports and school and girls while his wife grabbed a couple of 20s from the bedroom. “No use in these checks anyway,” he said. He bid me on my way and I had thirteen more donations to collect.

My empty stomach sent empty-cloud thoughts to my head when what I needed were clean wits for dialogue. The sun was prickly and the sidewalk perpetually uphill, and I thought about my future calling as a Priest Quorum First Counselor, the 16-year-old right-hand man to the bishop. Mom would buy me a new suit; Dad would buy me whatever he first saw online. I hoped for shoes. The hill turned steeper, and the shoes I wore were old and heavy, and peeling like pigs from too many miles.

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