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Show Coffee Drinkers Preferred Page 16 of 307 again, I was not the average member of my excellent church. Oh, I looked it. I had returned from Mexico "with honor" after my two year mission spreading the gospel in and around Oaxaca. "Yo puedo hablar el espanol muy bien." And I even speak a little Zapotec Indian for good measure, but don't quiz me in it. I wear my garments. Part of what allows me to wear my garments is my personal belief, taught to me by my own church, that I can arrive at my own definitions for things in my own way. My church harps on being the one true church. Well, we members of my church that shall not be named account for less than point zero zero one percent of our fine globe's population. A tiny fraction. A fraction so infinitesimal that should Heavenly Father decide to fly us near Kolob in the blink of an eye, we would not really be missed and our presence or absence would make up little more than a footnote in the history books. That was probably the first of many realizations that began to shake the tree of my faith so hard that all the apples had ended up in the dirt. Yes, I'll confess it. Like most missionaries that have returned home, I went through an extraordinarily bitter period where I struggled with the "truth" of my church. I solved this by deciding that the definition of "truth" was whatever I needed it to be. When I arrived at his beige tin can, Steve was about to serve me coffee. My bishop would frown on me drinking coffee. |
