by Anya Bateman
I glanced toward the kitchen and began speaking more quietly, paranoid that Grace might overhear and tell Mom. It was vitally important that James keep the fact that I was seeking answers about the Mormon faith just between us and that he not get excited himself. Yes, I was fascinated with what I’d read, but I was just curious and he needed to know that that was where it ended.
“Just look at this as a good exercise into what you might face on your mission. It’ll be good practice for you.”
“It sure looks that way,” James said, laughing nervously as he continued to survey the questions. “In fact, it looks like I’m going to need to do some research.”
“Only if you have the time.” I knew he would be extremely busy during the remaining few weeks of school. “There’s no rush. I can wait.”
“I’ll make the time.”
And that’s exactly what James did. In spite of the fact that we were in the middle of school elections again and that the following weeks were bursting with activities requiring his superhuman attention, James made the time to search out answers for me. He brought me additional pamphlets and books, including the science and religion publication he’d told me about the year before. I studied it, and everything else he brought me, carefully, and again had to admit I saw much greater merit in what I was reading than I would ever have dreamed.
-B-
The next few weeks passed by faster than yes, a speeding bullet, and within what seemed like seconds, the final elections were over. One day there he was, Alex’s and my best friend, up on the stage saying good- bye to the students of Fairport High. It had been a phenomenal year and I don’t think there was a single student who did not stand to applaud and cheer.
By the time James finally had a chance to speak, he couldn’t. Instead, he pointed at the other officers on the stand, and then at those who had supported him, including members of our old committee who’d helped him get elected in the first place: Cassie, Bud, Sadie, Sergei, to name a few, and of course, Alex . . . and then me. Yes, he nodded right at me.
Then, tears falling, he fanned his arm across the rest of the audience to include everybody there. “I couldn’t have done it alone,” he said, lifting his hand ceiling- ward. Everyone in the audience knew who he was including then. “We . . . we . . . did . . . it to . . . gether!” This time the students of Fairport High remained silent, some with their heads bowed, some with their heads lifted, most of them crying softly or sniffing.
It wasn’t until a few minutes later, as each of the old officers stood to announce his or her replacement and James introduced, to nobody’s surprise, Topaz Backus as Fairport’s new student body president, that it struck me full force. Our reign was over. I looked around for Alex and found him a few rows back with Butch, Bud, and Terrance. When our eyes met, he nodded at me in understanding, and ran his index finger across his bottom lid. I blinked back at him, returning his nod, my lips pulled together tightly, then looked back up at James.
How I was able to control my emotions, I’m not sure. But somehow I managed to keep it together during the remainder of the school day. But that afternoon, I sobbed my way home. As I passed the football field, the marquee, the old tree— all the familiar sights— I knew for a surety that I would never forget our senior year, thanks to a president who had done exactly what he’d said he would: lifted us to heights we didn’t know we could reach. It’d been a miraculous year, a truly super year. James had made an unbelievably good president and he really was an incredible person, a real live superman. Of all the people I’d ever met, he was one of the greatest— maybe even the greatest. I knew it the moment he stood on that stage and gave the credit to everyone else. As soon as I got home I hurried straight to my room and read until I’d completed the Book of Mormon.
-B-
Early the next morning, my friend surprised me at 8 o’clock sharp. Again I greeted him in my less than glamorous purple robe. “If you’ve got your chess tournament in a couple of days,” James said, “we’d better get busy.”
“You’re something, James Orville,” I responded, still drowsy from reading until late, but genuinely touched.
All that weekend, in between school functions and his church meetings and responsibilities, James and I played chess. Still, as I walked into the library at Cleveland State to start my first match at the advanced level, I was highly aware that I wasn’t nearly as focused and prepared as I needed to be. I lasted that round and several more and even a full round longer than the year before, but then I found myself thoroughly outplayed by Nataliya Vino gradova, an amazing strategist, who, like Sergei, had immigrated from Moscow a few years before. I suspected she’d read the chess bible backwards and forwards, and had possibly even contributed to it.
“I lost again,” I told James and Alex.
“You lost first place,” James clarified. “But what about all the times you won? You’re one of the top ten players in state!” James grinned. “That’s nothing to thumb your nose at!”
“Only first place is good enough,” I stated.
Alex rolled his eyes and shook his head at James as if to say, That’s Jana.
Once again, however, I wasn’t nearly as devastated as I’d anticipated. If someone had told me even two months earlier that I would take a loss in the state chess tournament on my last chance to take first place with so little grief, I would have told that someone he’d lost his marbles and was operating on peanut shells.
And if that same someone had told me I would be as intense as I’d been about pursuing information about any religion, but especially the Mormon religion, I would have wondered if that person had just arrived on earth from the planet Whackonia.
Much had changed.
I had changed.
Chapter Twenty- Eight
•••
The day after our tenure at Fairport was officially over and we’d walked across the football field in our graduation gowns and received the special honors we’d earned— in my case, a top 5% academic cord among others— I actually agreed to allow James to make an appointment for me with some Mormon missionaries he said were officially called to answer doctrinal questions such as mine.
“I can’t keep up with you,” he said.
The missionaries— who surprised me by being girls— presented a series of lessons with information that, frankly, I’d already studied. The lessons did give me a good overview, however, and helped me see more clearly how everything fit together.
“So what about this historic Kirtland?” I finally asked James.
“You want to go?”
“Well, I would like to see if it’s as amazing as my brother seems to think it is.”
When James tried to disguise his laugh of excitement with a cough, I found myself hiding a smile.
The following Saturday, James and I— and Alex— were traveling to Kirtland. It was impossible to keep secrets from my brother for long and he had caught wind of our plans and insisted on coming along. I suspect that he’d known for some time I was taking the lessons from the missionaries and had been waiting for me to tell him.
Soon we were touring a small white temple which, because the main faction of the church had had to leave the area rather quickly, was owned by an offshoot of a Mormon group. The guide mentioned many evangelical occurrences which James explained were part of the restoration of all things. In another section of Kirtland, not far from the temple, we toured six buildings, including a mill, a schoolhouse, and a store which had been restored and rebuilt to look as authentic as the original buildings.
I listened carefully to the descriptions of what took place in these buildings, especially about what had transpired upstairs in the Newel K. Whitney store. When, as a sidelight, the guide showed how Mrs. Whitney had baked bread in her state- of- the- art hole next to the fireplace and had the challenge of making sure her full- length skirts didn’t catch fire, I thanked the stars that I’d been born in an era of Levis and microwaves.
Next we drove right into t
he center of Amish territory to what was called the John Johnson farm where Joseph and Emma Smith had apparently stayed for a period of time and where Joseph had done a great deal of “inspired” work. I had to admit that I definitely felt something when the guide, an older woman dressed in pioneer attire, showed us the bedroom where Joseph and his family had been staying when a mob attacked. The Smiths’ young twins had been ill with measles when the men burst in, and one of the twins had died a short time later.
Yes, I felt something. But then again who wouldn’t have? This man, Joseph Smith, had not led an easy life and neither had his wife or children. He’d sacrificed a great deal for the visions he believed he’d had. I found myself wondering about the twin who had survived and how she’d coped in life without her brother.
“What did you think?” James asked on the way home.
“I think I have quite a bit more reading to do,” I answered.
He and Alex glanced at each other and had I not been there would probably have given each other high fives.
-B-
The next few nights, I devoured the additional books I’d learned about on the tour: the Doctrine and Covenants and the Pearl of Great Price. But two days later, when the missionaries tried once again to commit me to baptism, I balked.
“I’m not ready,” I said. “I still don’t know enough.”
“I honestly think you know as much if not more than we do,” Sister Fitzgerald responded with a smile. “I’ve never met an investigator who knows as much as you’ve learned in such a short time.”
“Well, I don’t feel like I know enough.”
Sister Fitzgerald tapped her scriptures, her lips pursed. “I’m thinking there might be something specific you’re allowing to hold you back,” she finally said. She paused for several more seconds. “It could be something you’re not even consciously aware of yourself. But I think we need to find out what it might be because it’s hard to deal with an issue if it isn’t identified.”
I stared at her, hypnotized.
“Try to determine during these next couple of days what it might be that’s keeping you from making the progress you need to make— whether it’s a particular commandment or point of doctrine— then when it’s out in the open, maybe we can help you deal with it.”
I nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll think about it.”
I drove home in stunned silence, climbed the stairs to my room, and sat down at my desk. Then I laid my head on my hands because I didn’t need to think about it. I already knew what was wrong.
Even after all this time and study, it boiled down to the same basic problem—messages from heaven. The LDS Church’s entire premise was based on faith in such heavenly manifestations.
So why, I wondered, had I allowed it to go this far? I blinked, sat up, and buried my face in my hands as that answer came to me as well. It was actually quite pitiful, really. I was no different than anybody else. I was aching for some structure, some answers, something to cling to like that rod in Lehi’s dream. I hoped to taste the white fruit on the tree. I wanted what seemed to be making my family so happy. I wanted to complete the picture and be unified with the people I loved most: Alex and Mom, Aunt Ruthie and Phillip, and yes, even my good friend James. I wanted the very things I’d judged others for wanting. I huffed out a sob. But the desire to be a part of something and to join in with the people I loved, even the urgency to have some guidance, didn’t seem like adequate reasons to commit to a religion, even a good religion.
-B-
I broke the news to James and Alex and the missionaries that Wednesday. “I’ll be completely truthful with you,” I said quietly. “I admire the Mormon Church and its people and even its principles and doctrines and that’s something I didn’t think I’d ever hear myself say. Of all the Christian churches, the Mormon faith presents the most powerful argument. But”—James looked up as Alex looked down—“For me, there’s just too broad a gap between what the academic community teaches and what religions teach. I’ve talked about that with James. But I’m still just not seeing how the two viewpoints could ever come together. I’ve read what you’ve given me, but there are just too many unanswered questions. I’d like to believe in God, I really would, but I don’t know that such a belief would be justified.”
The silence was thick as my brother and James and the
missionaries tried to absorb what I’d just said. I deemed it a good thing Mom wasn’t there; I’d sworn Alex, James, and Mary Jane to secrecy in this instance. My mother, I knew, would be blubbering like a baby at this moment and it was difficult enough disappointing my brother, James, and these missionaries I’d come to respect.
“Why do you always make everything so complicated? It doesn’t need to be complicated!” I wasn’t surprised to hear Alex blurt this out. I knew what he’d say next as well. “As soon as I read the Book of Mormon— zowie— I knew it was true.” He placed his hand against the left side of his chest.
“Zowie? Wowsers! Now you’re sounding like Cassie,” I reacted. “Well, I’m sorry, but that didn’t happen to me, Alex. I guess I’m not a zowie kind of person.”
“Testimonies develop in different ways,” explained Sister Fitzgerald calmly. “Not everybody has a zowie or wowsers experience. For most people, a testimony comes far more gradually.”
“Line upon line,” added orange- headed Sister Spires, a former waitress from Arkansas.
Sister Fitzgerald continued, “You’re right about the fact that not all questions have been answered. Even though there have been a great many things revealed, there are still many things that haven’t been fully explained to us. I’ve come to the conclusion that we can’t know everything because at this point our minds aren’t advanced enough. It’d be like teaching calculus to a two-year-old.”
I’d heard that from James once before too.
Sister Spires picked up the thread. “Now this may sound like a backwards approach, but by finding out if the Book of Mormon really was translated by inspiration and that Joseph Smith really was a prophet, you can find out that there is a God— even without knowing the answer to every question.”
It sounded simple in a way, but in another way— simplistic. “And how would you suggest I do that?”
“Just continue studying and praying.”
“That’s all?” I was disappointed.
“That’s it. Well, that and coming to church.” Sister Fitzgerald looked more like she was fifteen instead of twenty- one or twenty- two, and it still fascinated me that a soft voice could have such command. “Do you remember the promise that Moroni makes at the end of the Book of Mormon?” she asked me then.
Sister Spires whipped me her open copy of the Book of Mormon. “Right here,” she said.
I took the book. “Yes, I remember that.”
“Would you mind reading the promise in the last part of the verse again?” asked Sister Fitzgerald.
I didn’t particularly feel I needed to read it again, but decided that it wouldn’t hurt me to cooperate this one last time. “Okay.” I took a deep breath and read: “‘And if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost. And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things.’”
“So what does that tell us we’ll learn if we pray with faith and real intent?” Sister Fitzgerald asked softly.
“The truth of all things,” I said.
“And by whose power?”
“The power of the Holy Ghost.”
“That’s right. You can learn the truth of all things if you pray with real intent, with faith in Christ.”
“But that’s the catch-22 about all this: How can I pray with faith in Christ if I don’t really have faith in Christ? How do you ask God if you don’t know if He’s there? That’s like talking on the phone when you don’t know if anyone’s on the other end.”
“Yes, but when you’re not sure if someone’s on the other end of
the line, don’t you keep talking until you make sure?” asked Sister Fitzgerald.
I sighed and bobbled my head from side to side because it was a good point.
“Your brother’s right,” Sister Spires chimed in. “It doesn’t need to be complicated. If you pray with real intent, the Spirit will manifest the truth, just like the scripture says. You’ll feel it.”
“It happened to me,” said James quietly. “I received that witness.”
I turned to him slowly. “You really did?”
“I did. And the Spirit still helps me in my everyday decisions. If there weren’t a god, why would we feel so much better when we do things that are good than when we do things that aren’t? Why would human beings have a conscience?”
Again a good point. The missionaries agreed and added their testimonies as well. Alex repeated his strong confirmation of the truthfulness of the Mormon Church.
“Okay,” I said. What else could I do? “I’ll try once more.” When Alex made a “yes” fist, I smiled at him sadly. I managed to lift one corner of my mouth at James, who was nodding slowly. Just don’t expect too much, my friends, I thought.
-B-
In spite of my misgivings, that night I began reading the Book of Mormon for the second time. This time I read much more slowly than I had before and this time I read very carefully. When I came to Lehi’s dream again, I thought for a few seconds that I actually felt something— a strange swelling sensation. But once again I tabbed it as an emotional reaction. Whether the account of Lehi’s dream, and the whole book for that matter, was fiction or nonfiction, it touched me deeply that Lehi wanted to share the sweet, delicious fruit on the tree with his family members— even Laman and Lemuel who weren’t particularly lovable, obedient sons.
