l live in a cookie-cutter…in a small town…in the South. I’ve been here longer than anybody else on my floor. I don’t bother anyone, and everyone pretty much stays out of my way.
It happened a few times in Nashville: Some Jehovah’s Witnesses came to my door to preach their version of religion. They would always give me copies of The Watchtower or Awake! A neighborhood lady said that it’s bad luck to have those magazines inside your home.
Before I was born, my family lived in Salt Lake City. Mom sometimes remarks that Mormons are just about the nicest, most polite people she’s ever met.
A few years ago, two young caucasian women came by to preach the teachings of the Church of Latter-day Saints. They seemed nice. About thirty seconds into the conversation, I told them I was Catholic–just to throw them off the scent. They were like, “Oh, you’re Catholic, that’s the most amazing thing we’ve ever heard!” I hate that whenever I reveal my denomination, the first question that gets asked is, “What church do you go to?” It doesn’t matter if I go to church. Out of politeness, I said, “I used to go to Holy Cross in Lynchburg.” She excitedly asked, “Oh, are we in Lynchburg?” We weren’t in Lynchburg. She asked if I would like her to read from the book of Mormon, and I said I’d prefer not. She held out a pamphlet. I said, “On no, it’s bad luck to have that in your home.” They turned and left with big smiles.
It was after dark on a chilly day this past Winter. I was napping on the couch when a knock came on my door. There was a strange noise. I put on my cap and opened the door. There were a dozen or so people singing a Christmas tune–mostly women. They were all white. Not knowing what to do, I shut the door. They kept singing. I reopened the door with what must have been an uncomfortable expression. It’s good that I wasn’t still smoking pot–who knows what my reaction would have been. They sounded beautiful. It was the first time I’d been caroled–I wondered if I was supposed to give them money. The guy in charge was standing closest to the me. They were from the local Baptist Church. After a couple of songs, he gave the hard sell–how nonbelievers scream in agony in the fires of Hell for all of eternity, and such.
This morning, a slow but steady knocking came upon my door. It was two older black women. They told me their names and asked mine. I thought that they were neighbors. They were really Jehovah’s Witnesses! One of them asked, “Is living without pain or sadness possible?” I said, “No.” They gave me a card and went away.
Life would be boring without pain and sadness.
The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints
dust exchange 