OCR Text |
Show in my f a t h e r ' s house/ 338 During the week, I was called to the bishop's office for an interview. I stood outside/iis office, dry-mouthed and sweaty-palmed, certain that he would ask questions about my family. I didn't know what I would say- I didn't want to get them into trouble. "Sister, I want to call you to be a teacher in our Junior Sunday School," he beamed, expecting me to be flattered. I was young to be chosen for such work. "I can't do i t , " I said. The bishop's eyebrows shot up and his face reddened. "But you must do it. You've been called to it. Your Sunday school teacher tells me you have an excellent knowledge of the Gospel. Your MIA teacher claims you handle her children beautifully when you babysit," I swallowed. "I'll try." Next Sunday morning, I was prepared with the lesson. I even went to the ward-house and picked up my supplies. Suddenly I felt like throwing up. I shoved my books into the arms of another teacher in the halls outside the classrooms. "I'm sick," I told her. "I can't teach my class." I ran home and didn't go back to that LDS ward again. One winter Sunday, while my family was gone to meeting the boy named Brian and his friend, Preston, came to visit me. We called a neighbor-girl, Joan, to join us. We sat in the livingroom and talked, listening to an album by a newly-discovered group from England called 'The Beatles.' "I think they're funny-looking," Joan said. "They have long hair and big noses." |