Worth and Wickedness

Chapter 2

Chapter 2I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded, for I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them to accomplish the thing which he commanded them.

—The Book of Mormon, 1 Nephi 3:7

Jamie

Mom fiddles with the brand-new suit jacket I’m trying on over an old marching band T-shirt. My little brother Jacob is entangled in a rack of ties nearby, pretending to fight jungle snakes.

I check the mirror. It’s an odd experience: I’ve never gotten a new suit, just for me. Only hand-me-downs from my brother Jeremy. This jacket will one day end up in a labeled plastic tub set aside for Jared, Johnathan, maybe even Jacob.

My mother puts her hands on either side of my face and touches her nose to mine. Her long, black and gray-tinged hair frames my face like a curtain. “Ay, mijo. Everyone you teach will take one look at your sweet face and commit right away to baptism!”

“I don’t think it works that way.” Especially not where I’m going. In Salt Lake City, everyone’s either already a member, or heard it all before. I’ve already resigned myself to the possibility that I’ll come home with zero baptisms. I mean, come on. Me? Suddenly a valiant servant of the Lord? So much so that people rearrange their entire lives, committing every Sunday, abandoning even the occasional sip of alcohol, all while donating ten percent of their income?

Well, I shouldn’t say that. Of course it won’t be all me, persuading people to change their ways and come unto Christ. It would be the Holy Spirit. I would only be an instrument in the Lord’s hands, trusting His guidance in all I do. He will prepare people before they even meet me to recognize the blessings of the Gospel, not just the trials.

And anyway, zero baptisms do not necessarily mean failure. People can come unto Christ by degrees. They learn line upon line, precept upon precept. There’s a push and pull in life, and sometimes people leave the fold of God completely. Maybe the temptation to sin becomes too great, or they get offended, and they abandon the Church. Missionaries work to bring those souls back into the fold of God, too.

If I can aid in the rescue of God’s lost lambs, even just one, I know it will be worth any personal sacrifice.

“This is suited to you perfectly.” She smooths out my sleeves. “Oooh, look at these strong arms!”

An image of Freddie’s possessive grip on the pew blips through my mind, his arms straining at his shirt sleeves. I shake it away.

Jacob jumps to his feet and flexes his muscles like a professional wrestler, his long mop of curls bouncing. In the same deep voice he uses to discuss monster trucks and dinosaurs, he shouts, “I got strong arms, too, Mamá!”

“Shhhh, bebé.”

I pick him up, flipping him upside down. “Just wait till you’re the one scooping ice cream all day for work. That’s how you get the big muscles.” I set his kicking legs back on the ground, pulling a hip muscle in the process.

I turn my back to the mirror to get a view of my shoulders, comparing them to other guys I know. Mom exaggerates, big time.

I remember that Freddie touched me here.

That’s weird. Why am I remembering that? I suppose, because the missionary clothing is only a small part of what makes an effective missionary. It takes that ability to put people at ease, to instantly have rapport with people you hardly know. I could learn a lot from Freddie.

“Let’s go look at some pants,” my mother suggests.

I remember my eyes dipping lower, too low, mapping out his—

I blink, hard, and I’m feeling a little warm in the suit coat. I take it off and hand it to Jacob. He giggles and wraps it around himself, wearing it backward as we walk the aisles.

I remind myself it’s okay to notice beautiful things: the pattern of a tie, the shine of a shoe, the cadence of a laugh. Even the outline of a person’s figure. Beautiful things are gifts from God.

Heavenly Father wanted me to notice Freddie. He wanted me to be drawn to him. The Spirit has confirmed to me that I’m meant to do something good in Freddie’s life. And I think, maybe, he could do some good in mine.

Mom hands me some pants in my size and makes me go try them on.

The Lord gives me greater strength over my impure thoughts each day. I am an imperfect vessel, like any of his other children.

The Savior warns that to lust after a person with your eyes is the same as committing the act itself. My youth leaders have warned, more than once, that in the eyes of the Lord, carnal relations before marriage are a sin second only to murder.

My specific thoughts are not too different from any other hormonal teenager. I’m not alone in my struggle to overcome temptation.

But even in my house full of people, sometimes, I do feel alone.

Every six months or so, around General Conference, I like to imagine that the prophet will have a game-changing revelation. The way they did in the seventies, when they announced that the priesthood was open to all worthy men, regardless of race.

I like to think, maybe, in the future, other things could open up.

My mom is in the thick of raising six rowdy kids, but she’s the most patient, most spiritual person I know. And yet, she can’t have what I was given as a twelve-year-old whiner.

The priesthood.

She’s never complained about it. But when I’m feeling sick and my dad’s out of town, I wish my mom could give me a blessing. She’d be good at it. Maybe better than Dad—I mean, if that’s an okay thing to imagine. She has this way with words that Dad just doesn’t. I don’t need to hear the comforting words of my old Sunday school teacher or whatever dude we could get to come over at the last minute. I want my mom.

I can’t make sense of it, but it’s based on modern-day revelation. There’s got to be a reason for the prophets and apostles to warn us about the consequences of muddling gender roles every six months at General Conference, even if I struggle to understand it.

So, I follow the prophets, and I doubt my doubts.

I remember the first time I heard that advice, to doubt your doubts. It was one of the first talks I remember, one of the first times I really felt the Spirit. The whole family was together listening to the broadcast. I was laying on the couch in my pajamas, my legs stretched out on my big brother Jeremy’s lap, Mom playing in my hair with Jacob in her belly. The twins were peaceful, at last, building castles on the floor. Jenny was sleeping in Dad’s lap, Johanna focused on her crochet. And I felt this warmth wrap around me and squeeze, like a tucked-in blanket. That’s the feeling that I’d been taught was the Holy Spirit. And in that moment, an apostle of the Lord told me never to doubt my faith.

The Gospel brought me my family, and it brought me the Spirit.

Why worry so much over something so good?

I’ve conquered my doubts. I know that I’m young, and I only get a tiny window into the workings of the Lord. My questions have answers, even if I don’t know them yet. One day, we will all see with an eternal perspective.

And until that day, I can put my trust in Him. I can keep the concerns of the world out of my scripture study.

And so it should be nothing to put this dang number in my phone. The slip of paper crinkles against my leg as I undress in the fitting room.

I take it out of my pocket and stare at it, there in my boxers. I unfold it, smoothing out the edges. I should feel eager to do my part for a child of God that He’s called me to help. And yes, there’s eagerness, but that’s battling it out with these unshakable nerves.

I remember the tug of the Spirit on Sunday, and here I feel it again, prickling my skin. On my mission, I can’t go doubting the Spirit like this. I have to be the Lord’s valiant servant. I pull out my phone and start drafting a message before I chicken out. Like Nephi says in the Book of Mormon: I will go and do the things the Lord has commanded, for—

“How’s it looking, mijo?” Mom asks from the other side of the door.

Oh.

Pants first.

I put them on and show my mother, who squeals with so much glee, I consider asking passersby if they know who she belongs to.

“Eeek! I’m sorry, mijo, but you cannot wear those pants on your mission, or all the girls you teach will get the wrong idea.”

“Mom.”

“Jamie, let your mother gush over you for only three months longer. After that, you can take two years to win the hearts of the holdovers in Utah, come home, and find a beautiful girl to gush over you and those pants for time and all eternity.”

I issue a muffled groan from behind my hands, which hide my face.

“Flirt to convert, mijo.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Only a little.”

I hear Jacob’s voice on the other end of the line of fitting rooms. He’s talking to a tan, blonde woman trying on a short spaghetti-strapped dress covered in sequins.

“My brother is going to save the world!”

She smiles indulgently. “Is he really?”

“He’s going to Utah to fight, like the army of Helaman!”

“Is-is he now?” She looks at me questioningly.

Mom rescues us. “Jamie will be serving a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.”

“Oh! The Mormons. Like those guys on bikes!”

“Yes, exactly!” Mom chirps. “Can you imagine this backside on a bike?”

“Mom.”

She waves me off.

The stranger giggles, tucking a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. “What is it that you guys believe?”

Mom looks at me expectantly, with just a hint of I told you so.

I give her the two-sentence version of the Restoration of the Gospel through the prophet Joseph Smith. I feel moved to explain how we have living prophets who guide us in the current day. Mom hands her one of the pass-along cards with the Church website from her purse. Our new friend smiles warmly and thanks us. I breathe a sigh of relief as she returns to her fitting room.

Mom rubs at my elbow and tells me, “Don’t doubt yourself.”

When I get back into the old pants I know and love, I send Freddie a text before I lose my nerve.