On the sweetness of Mormon life
Have you ever seen a missionary trio where the junior two were both fresh out of the MTC? I hadn’t either until today. All three spoke a little to introduce themselves. The junior two tried hard to find something good to say about our dry winds and mobile homes, or at least to get us to laugh at their discomfort. Their testimonies were sweet. The senior companion began by saying . . . something. He’s Tongan, and it was apparently Tongan for hello. It sounded like an aloha filled with firework and then blown up. He said he considered new missionaries to be in some spiritual sense the sons of their trainers, and that he was the proud father of twins. He was glad, he said, they hadn’t inherited his looks. England has eccentrics, Deseret has missionaries.
Next week’s Easter music fell apart just before church started (long story). After sacrament little knots of choir members and the musically inclined eddied around the chapel, discussing ways and means. Someone said the best thing would be to move Easter back a week, if only Bishop weren’t so against it. I blanched but bit my tongue. Mormons will be Mormons.
One of our Cub Scout leaders cajoled the priesthood to volunteer for the pellet gun and archery events at day camp. He emphasized guns. He emphasized arrows. He emphasized that the Catholics were out-volunteering us. Most of the priests raised their hands. He scribbled their names in a hurry and rushed out. He came back carrying a sausage-wrapped baby, walking her to sleep. His wife just got called to something in primary.