On the sweetness of Mormon life.

? Your Stake President is retired FBI. Brethren, he says with fervor, priesthood is power, like a .45 caliber in your hand. 

? Your daughter smiles at you when you show up for evening duty at her young women’s camp in the pines.  Your Stake President is there too.  When the sun sets,  he drives away on a four-wheeler–his wife holding on to him–further up the mountain to the cabin where they live.

? You drive 200 hundred miles to Albuquerque in an un-airconditioned truck. You see your niece sealed to your sister.  You see the tears on your sister’s cheek.  Your brother-in-law is grinning.

? You rush away from the sealing to meet three men from your old ward.  They will help you lift into the truck a concrete bench belonging to your wife, the bench being left at your old place.

When the thing is done, they chew the fat, leaning against the white pipe fence.

? You arrive home in the dark with the bench.  Your wife opens the door and smiles.


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