My head bobs on my neck as I fight to stay awake. It’s the Fast and Testimony meeting in sacrament today, and if I have to hear one more kid say they’d like to bury their testimony, I’m going to scream. The term is bear, kiddies. You’d like to bear your testimony. Saying you’d like to bury your testimony makes it sound like it’s something you want to hide. Like a secret. Or a dead body.

I snicker to myself, imagining these kids out there, in their sandboxes with their plastic shovels, digging holes and shouting the words, I’d like to bury my testimony. I know this church is true, into the darkness, quickly packing the sand over it so that it’s unable to escape.

If only these kids knew what the leaders of the church would say if they did in fact try to bury their testimonies.

I bite back the bitter thought, straightening myself on the pew, and I focus my attention on the little blonde girl at the podium in an attempt to get into the right frame of mind for the sacrament meeting. I watch as her mom stands behind her, whispering the words for the little girl to say next into the microphone.

I have to fight to keep from rolling my eyes. What she should say is, she’d like to bear her mommy’s testimony. She looks like she’s about four years old. Nowhere near old enough to make up her own mind, for Pete’s sake.

Well then, I guess perking up and paying attention didn’t help purge my inappropriate attitude. I bow my head, running my hands over my newly trimmed hair. What the heck is my deal? It wasn’t too long ago when I was that kid up there, on the stand, grinning back at my mom as she coached me on what to say.

It’s just nerves; that’s all. I’m sure everyone gets like this before they leave for their mission. It is sort of scary if you think about it. I’m going to be leaving my family and friends for two years, only able to email once a week and call home on Christmas and Mother’s Day. It’s totally normal for me to be nervous, right?

I think back to my friend Parker’s farewell last month. He sure didn’t seem nervous as he smiled and shook hands with person after person, his mother and father by his side, their pride beaming from their friendly white smiles. Parker grinned at me when I approached, his grip on my hand firm as I placed mine in his. He had that missionary handshake down pat.

“This is going to be you soon, man. Before you know it, you’ll be the one up there at the podium, giving your farewell speech. It’s almost your turn to do the Lord’s work.”

His warmth and excitement was palpable, and I found myself smiling back at him, even through my trepidation.

If Parker could do this, so can I. I just need a little more time to adjust. This is what I was born to do.

Thoughts from that day give me a sense of peace as I remember them. Parker had already received his farewell blessing when I saw him, which had to have helped stifle any nervousness he might have been feeling. I’m sure, once I have those final meetings and get set apart, these feelings of discontent will disappear.

Just like they did after you met with the bishop last fall? Jafar is back in action.

And, before Jiminy can fire back, I lose myself in the memories of that awful day.

All day long, I’d been pacing in my room, turning over what I’d say. I’d expressed concern over the church’s latest proclamation during priesthood meeting on Sunday, and because of this, I’d been called in for a meeting with the bishop that evening. I knew I should’ve kept my mouth shut. Any sort of questioning of the leadership of the church never resulted in anything good.

My hands were red and raw from rubbing them over and over. Yet, still, I couldn’t stop as I strode back and forth for what must’ve been the ten thousandth time.

My father’s voice sounded from the hallway, his knock soft on my closed door. I didn’t even have a chance to invite him in before his face appeared in the crack between it and the wall.

“You okay, J?” he asked, his voice deep, his worry evident.

My dad and I had always been close. For as long as I could remember, there was nothing I couldn’t go to him with. There wasn’t anything I’d ever been afraid to tell him.

Until today.

I sat down on the edge of my bed, tucking my hands under my legs, as if preparing to launch myself off at a moment’s notice. My dad stepped inside, settling himself next to me, his large hand resting on my shoulder, the weight of his touch reassuring.

“What’s up, son? Your mother says you’ve been up here, wearing a track in the carpet all afternoon. I barely set down my jacket before she was asking me to come check on you.”

I loved my mother. And I knew she loved me, too. But I’d always felt like I was a sort of…disappointment to her. She’d never come right out and said it. But I’d never felt like I quite measured up to Taylor. He was the son she’d always wanted. And me? I’d always been second best.

So, it wasn’t surprising that, even though she’d been worried about me downstairs, she’d waited for my father to get home and have him come check on me. If it were Taylor, she’d have been up here at the sound of the first troubled step.

But I couldn’t be too upset with her at having the foresight to send Dad. As close as Taylor and Mom were, he’d never had the relationship with our father that I had. Taylor was a mama’s boy through and through. And I was totally a daddy’s…well, not girl, obviously.

Why wasn’t there a term for a guy who’s close to his father? Because men weren’t supposed to be emotional with each other? What kind of crap was that?

Dad dropped his hand from my shoulder, nudging me with his elbow as he leaned toward me. “Come on now. Tell me what’s up, bud.”

I shrugged. “Nothing. Just nervous about my meeting with the bishop.”

My dad wasn’t in priesthood meeting last Sunday, as he he’d been covering for Brother Stevens in the library while he was sick, so he’d missed my line of questioning. And, while I was sure he’d catch wind of it soon, thus far, he seemed to be in the dark about my blunder, and I’d been able to steer clear of the questions I’d posed. I didn’t want to disappoint him.

So, instead, I smiled, every bit of the stress I felt coming to light on my face, and hoped this would work in my favor. “I’m not sure what sort of questions he’s going to ask me, you know?”

After the first counselor called and set up my meeting with the bishop, I’d told my parents he’d asked me to come to discuss the upcoming filing of my mission papers. It wasn’t uncommon. In fact, it was standard for the bishop to interview a young man before his papers were submitted. Missionaries were held to the highest standard. And the presidency needed to ensure we’d been adhering to it before things progressed too far.

In each ward of the church, there was a bishop and two counselors, all of whom served under a stake president. The stake presidents in turn served under the apostles, first presidency, and the prophet. While there were many bishops, counselors, and stake presidents, there were only twelve apostles, three of whom were in the first presidency, which also included the one true prophet of God. If a bishop had reason to believe something might be…off with one of his members, then it went up the chain of command until it got resolved. If the first presidency couldn’t resolve it, it generally ended with the member being excommunicated.

On hearing my trepidation at what he thought was anxiety about filing, my father gave me a soft smile, his mouth a slight curve across his face, his teeth hidden behind his closed lips. “Nothing to be scared about, J. He’s not going to ask anything you don’t already know the answer to. You just go in there and show him what a strong testimony you have. Show him the light your mother and I have raised you with. And know that the Holy Ghost is always with you. If you ever stumble for an answer, just listen. Listen for that still, small voice. He’ll help guide you.”

I nodded, my eyes focused on an old stain on the carpet near the corner of my room. I’d spilled chocolate milk there years ago, and instead of telling my parents so that they could help me clean it up, I’d covered it with a stuffed teddy bear and let it sit for days. My mother finally came in to search for the smell that had permeated the entire top floor of the house. They were able to get rid of the smell, but it was too late for the carpet. The stain had been there ever since.

My dad clapped me on the back before standing. “Tell you what. Why don’t you take the next couple of hours to pray? Ask the Lord for help and guidance. Then, I’ll give you a ride to the church. And, after your meeting, we can go grab some dinner at B Dubs. Just you and me. I’ll go tell Mom not to worry about dinner tonight. We can bring leftovers back for her and Jenny.”

I smiled up at him, grateful for both the reprieve of his questioning as well as the offer of some guy time. It’d been a while since my father and I had hung out. Maybe, after we dropped dinner off, I could talk him into shooting some hoops in the backyard. It’d been way too long since we’d done that, and if I was going to be leaving in a few months, I needed to soak up as much time with him as I could.

“Thanks, Dad. I’ll be down in a bit.”

He gave my shoulder a final squeeze before turning and walking from my room. And, like he advised, the second the door clicked shut behind him, I dropped to my knees.

I must’ve started that prayer a dozen times, never getting more than a few words into it before doubt and resignation filled my chest.

My dear Heavenly Father, please help me understand…

My dear Heavenly Father, please guide me…

My dear Heavenly Father, I’m not sure what to do…

And, each time, I trailed off, the words unable to form in my mind and on my tongue. Because, while I never doubted God or His love for me, I constantly doubted myself.

Was I worthy enough to be asking for His help with all the thoughts I’d been having? Would God even hear my pleas for help, considering how much I’d been questioning His will?

After what felt like an eternity, I gave up, climbed to my feet, and got ready for my meeting. Mom had pressed my dress slacks for me that morning, and they were hanging from a felt-covered hanger on my closet door. I carefully pulled them on, making sure not to crease the stiff fabric. Next, I moved to my closet and pulled out one of my many white dress shirts, tucking the tails into my waistband carefully in attempt to avoid the material gathering around my middle. Then, with an expert hand, coming from years and years of practice, I looped my tie—drab and black, to match my mood—around my neck before shrugging into my suit jacket.

I swung the closet door open further, taking in my appearance in the vanity mirror on the back. I tried to imagine what the bishop would think when he saw me.

Would he see the clean-cut, soon-to-be missionary? Or would he see the darkness hiding just beneath the surface, making me question everything I’d always held as truth?

An overwhelming sense of sadness flooded through me as I stared at my reflection. I hardly recognized the person I saw looking back at me. He looked familiar. I could almost see the vague resemblance to the confident boy he used to be.

But he also looked…lost.

Confused.

Betrayed.

As the beginnings of tears stung my eyes, I slammed the door closed, no longer able to stand the sight of the stranger in the mirror.

Squaring my shoulders, I headed downstairs to meet my dad.

The ride to the church passed all-too quickly, and my dad remained silent for most of the drive. It was if he sensed the internal battle I was facing and didn’t want to get in the middle of it. Knowing him, that was exactly it. He’d always been incredibly perceptive when it came to me, always giving me the space I needed when I needed it and always pushing me harder when I needed pushing.

I appreciated the silence. Because battle was probably too gentle of a term when it came to the chaos waging war inside my skull.

Part of me wanted to walk into the bishop’s office and immediately apologize for everything I’d said on Sunday. I wanted to plead temporary insanity. Tell him I was weak and let the devil momentarily invade my convictions and beliefs.

But the other part of me—the larger part—still wanted answers. That part wanted to know exactly how a religious organization, a church with Jesus’s name right there in their title, could be okay with something like this. How could we sit back and allow this to happen? It’s one thing to punish an adult for their perceived sins. But to do this to a child? A child who’s guilty of nothing but loving his parents with all his heart?

What kind of God would allow something so cruel?

I was still waffling back and forth when my dad pulled into the parking lot.

After sliding into a stall, he turned to me, his hand resting on the key in the ignition without turning it off. “Do you want me to come in with you? I know I won’t be allowed in his office with you, but I can wait out in the foyer. Moral support,” he said with a wink.

A slight smile spread across my lips as I looked at him. My dad always knew just what to say to cheer me up. He knew I was nervous, and even though he had no idea what was going on, he was willing to offer his support. Like any good father would.

Would he be so understanding if he knew the thoughts and feelings I was struggling with daily?

Maybe. But maybe not. And that wasn’t a risk I was willing to take. Not then. And probably not ever.

I shook my head as I opened the door. “No, thanks, Dad. I’ve got this. I’ll try to keep it brief. We don’t want B Dubs to run out of wings.”

“Take your time. Those wings aren’t going anywhere. Though Jenny might eat us out of house and home if we take too long,” he joked.

I chuckled as I slid out of the car, my hands starting to tremble as I approached the front door of the church. When I reached it, I took a moment to gather my wits, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly before reaching out to grab the handle.

Locked.

A moment of elation soared through me as it occurred to me my meeting must’ve been rescheduled. The bishop must’ve had something else come up, and he forgot to have someone call me. Maybe I could put this off for another day or two. Possibly even a week. Maybe, if I acted normal the following Sunday, the whole thing would just be forgotten, and things could go back to normal.

Well, as normal as they could be, considering…

But, just as I was about to turn and head back to the car, a figure appeared on the other side of the glass. I heard the click of the lock as it turned to open for me.

“Sorry, Jaden. I thought I’d unlocked that. Guess I forgot. Come in, come in,” Bishop Gardner said, swinging the door wide to allow me passage.

I trailed behind him as he led me around the corner to his office. I watched from the doorway as he took his time settling himself at his desk, his hands straightening his jacket as he took his seat. The air of authority was clear, even through his relaxed position. Once he was comfortable, he gestured for me to close the door and have a seat.

His dark eyes appraised as they roved over me, taking in every inch of my appearance. Remembering the moments before I left my room, I wonder which version of me he is seeing—Missionary Jaden or Disgraceful Jaden. Judging from the look on his face after his eyes finished their perusal, I was leaning toward the latter. He didn’t look pleased with me.

“You’re probably wondering why I’ve called you in here this evening, Jaden,” he said, leaning back in his chair and resting his chin in his hand.

No, not really. I knew this was inevitable the second the words spilled past my lips. The leaders of the church didn’t take well to insubordination.

I didn’t tell him that though. Instead, I forced my eyes to meet his and dipped my chin in the slightest of nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Brother Glenn brought some rather troubling concerns to my attention the other day. He said you’d been asking questions during priesthood meeting. And, while we always welcome questions in order to help build your relationship with Christ, he said these were a little deeper than the typical things we get asked.”

My fingers dug into the padded arms of the chair I was sitting in, my eyes darting wildly over his wrinkled face. Bishop Gardner was probably in his sixties, but he’d always seemed so much older to me. Even before he was appointed bishop, he’d radiated wisdom and leadership, like he’d seen and experienced it all and come out better for it. But, now, looking at him across the desk as he attempted to find the right words to say, all I could see was weariness.

He looked exhausted, the lines and shadows under his eyes seeming to reach depths that had never seen the light of day. His hair was past gray, the thinning strands almost a translucent shade of white. If I walked past him on the street, if I had no idea who he was, I would assume he was a much older man. A tired man. A man consumed with trying to live up to others’ expectations. A man drained from the constant oppressions put upon him by the one thing he has completely dedicated his life to. A man exhausted from simply…living.

Is that what a lifetime of following orders would do to a man? Is that what happened when you didn’t experience life, only followed along and did exactly as you were told, never voicing a single question or concern?

He didn’t look happy. He didn’t look fulfilled. Heck, he didn’t even look wise to me anymore. He just looked…

Beat.

His jaded eyes crinkled in the corners as he forced a smile to his lips. “Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you, Jaden? I know you’re getting ready to file your mission papers. I’d like you to be able to do that with a clear conscience.”

I twisted in my chair, my palms beginning to sweat, as I debated my next words.

When I didn’t answer right away, the bishop took it upon himself and dove right in. “Brother Glenn said you’d seemed to have a problem with the recent proclamation the leaders of the church handed down. Why don’t we start there? What exactly don’t you understand about what God has ordered?”

And therein was my issue. I had a hard time accepting that the God I’d come to know and love in my nineteen years would hand down such an unfair decree.

Sucking in a deep breath, I said exactly that. “That’s just it, Bishop. Why would God want something so terrible? Isn’t the main mission of the church to bring the gospel of Jesus Christ to as many people as we can? How can we accomplish that if we’re turning members away because of who their parents are?”

Bishop Gardner’s eyes narrowed as he pondered my question. Leaning forward, he propped his elbows on his desk, his fingers coming to a point just under his pursed lips. Clearing his throat, he dropped his hands from his face and leveled his gaze on me. “We’re not turning anyone away, Jaden. We’re simply trying to help those who come from certain situations. They’re still welcome to attend church every week—”

“They just can’t be baptized and be actual members. Not until they’re eighteen and all but renounce their relationships with their gay parents,” I interrupted.

Bishop Gardner gave me an irritated look, his nostrils slightly flared as he waited for me to finish. He lifted an eyebrow when I didn’t continue, his annoyed expression seemingly asking if I was done with my rant.

When it was clear I wasn’t going to speak further, he broke the silence. “We aren’t asking anyone to renounce anything, Jaden. But we can’t openly accept that kind of behavior in our halls. It’s a sin. It’s a slap in the face to all that God holds dear. Until people realize that, the devil will continue to gain traction here on earth.”

“But it isn’t their sin. You’re telling me that, if I had been born to two men, I wouldn’t be able to join the church until I was eighteen when all my friends were being baptized at eight years old—just because of the lifestyle my parents lived?”

“First of all,” he said in a clipped voice, “you wouldn’t be born to two men. It is not biologically possible. God made man and woman compatible to procreate and populate the earth. Two men or two women cannot do that.

“And, secondly, imagine you had been born into a sinful household instead of the righteous one you were given. You’d come to church and learn one thing and then go home and witness another. It’s a toxic environment for a child. And it would only create tension and resentment between the child and the parents.

“By waiting until the child is a legal adult, he then has the means and ability to care for himself. He no longer requires the care and protection of his parents, thus lessening the strain on their relationship. This proclamation was made with the best interests of those children and their families in mind. It makes things easier for all parties involved.”

“But shouldn’t that be their choice? If they believe the church is true and they have a strong testimony, wouldn’t the Holy Ghost help them refrain from sin and live a righteous life regardless of who their parents are?” I retorted.

“A child isn’t capable of making such a decision, nor should they be required to. Again, it’s in the best interests of everyone.”

“Yet, when I was eight years old, I was old enough to make the decision that this church was true and to decide I wanted to be a member for life? If what you’re saying is accurate, should we be baptizing anyone before they’re of age? If an eight-year-old born to straight parents can make the decision to join the church, why is it different for the child of a gay couple?”

I could practically see the steam coming from Bishop Gardner’s collar as he tugged at it.

“Jaden, I assure you, President Monson knows what is best for the members of this church. He is the only man on Earth who can actually speak with the Lord. This is why he’s the one true prophet of God. We should not question the Prophet or God’s wishes.”

“But—” I started, but was quickly cut off.

“Enough! You need to pray, Jaden. You need to turn to God and ask him for confirmation that the Prophet speaks his will. Because he does, Jaden. I know that with every ounce of my being. Your testimony is wavering. Don’t let Satan win. Go home. Fast and pray. Ask God to show you the truth. Read your scriptures. The answers are there. The answers are always there. You just need to open yourself to them.”

He dismissed me with that, telling me to come back when I found my answers.

And, two weeks later, after the constant pressure from my family and friends, I made an appointment to see him again. I told him I’d found my way. I repented for my sins. I was tremendously sorry for ever questioning the church. And I was ready to file my mission papers.

Today, staring up at the little girl and her mother from my seat on the pew, I’m struck again by how much of a lie that was. I didn’t get any answers. After all my soul-searching, praying, and studying of the scriptures, I only had more questions.

Watching the girl robotically mimic her mother’s words, I can only wonder about her future. Chances are, she’ll grow up to be a carbon copy of her mother, her testimony of the church only strengthening year after year until she’s the one standing behind a towheaded little girl, whispering right into her ear.

But what if, one day, she questions it? What if, as she gets older, she finds herself attracted to women instead of men? What if she begins to wonder what life would be like outside the church? What will happen to her then?

And why, if this church is the one true church, do we have to spend so much time convincing our children and ourselves of that fact?