Art, Love, and Faith

I wasn't always a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. My conversion isn't some incredible story, at least not to me. Grew up somewhat religious. At least I thought more or less there was someone looking out for us, and sometimes I'd pray. A friend and I started talking religion in high school. We had another friend who was LDS, and he invited us to go to church with him one Sunday. I went a few times, not consistently, but something drew me to it. Got baptized a bit after graduation, but with trying to get college life organized, I didn't go consistently.

Looking back, I wonder if that's when it started, and I just didn't notice? When things calmed down some I realized it'd been almost six months since I'd gone to church, so I made sure I was awake and ready on time. From the moment I stepped in to the doors until I entered the chapel, I felt like someone was talking about me. I couldn't hear anything, but it was like I was in the high school cafeteria and I was hearing someone the next table over talk about me. A pit in my stomach, heat in my cheeks. I almost turned around, but something pushed me, and as soon as I walked through the doors to the chapel it stopped.

Sacrament Meeting was nice. I didn't realize how much I'd missed it. I introduced myself to some of the members, but as soon as I walked through the chapel doors it was back. I forced myself to sit in Sunday School, but I had to excuse myself before it was halfway done. The feeling lingered a bit as I drove to my apartment, but left by the time I walked in the door. I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, going over what the missionaries had told me as I took the discussions. That friends or family might disapprove, that it might get easier to just stop going.

Maybe I was being punished? I didn't mean to get distracted, I'd just never developed the habit of going to church on Sunday. I promised myself I'd do better. Roommate mealtime was quiet, but the only other Member seemed a bit on alert. I meant to ask, but I wanted to get to bed at a decent time.

The next Sunday was the same thing, only the feeling started as I pulled into the parking lot. Warm cheeks. Pit in my stomach. Both disappearing when I walk into the chapel. Fifth Sunday in this ward meant the men's and women's classes were combined in the chapel. I didn't realize I'd stayed all of class until the asked for a volunteer for the closing prayer. I was talking to the bishop about transferring my records to this ward, when we both walked out into the hall. He asked if I was OK, and I tried to brush it off, probably wasn't convincing and turned and left as soon as he looked in someone else's direction.

Driving home I was nearly in tears until I walked in the door. I said a rushed "hello" and ran to my room, lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling. I didn't have any experience to draw on, only missionary testimonies and member stories. This just sounded like Satan pressuring me to stop going but not being able to do anything in the Chapel. When I came out to grab dinner, I saw the note on the fridge from the other Member, that they'd be back late that night. I shot a quick text, ate and head to bed.

After an (academically) uneventful week, I was on my way to church again. The pit in my stomach was nearly painful by the time I got to church, and I walked a bit faster than was reverent to the chapel. The ward missionaries greeted me, and asked if I was OK. "Just want to get a good seat" I said, feeling the heat receed and the pit in my stomach unlench. I tried not to let my mind wander, but I was turning over this feeling trying to figure things out. I didn't hear the context, but I caught a member mentioning how the chapel was the holiest place in the church, b/c of the altar where the Sacrament was prepared. I latched on to that, b/c I wanted it to make sense. I wanted there to be a reason. If I couldn't shake this feeling, it was at least going to make sense why it stopped at the chapel doors. Sacrament Meeting closed with a reminder that the Ward Genealogist would be helping with indexing and the like on Tuesdays. I'd downloaded the software a bit after I'd first gotten baptized. I could help, even if I couldn't bring myself to go to church.

I started dedicating Tuesdays to genealogy. A few pages here and there. I started to only go to first hour. I'd find an excuse to not be talking to anyone as I walked out, and the few times someone caught me I was overwhelmed with the feeling I began to think of as "unbelonging". I knew I was where I was supposed to be, but I couldn't fight that feeling that hit me from the drive to church to the drive home, except for the respite in the chapel.

I started to tinker with my own family tree. My mom knew more than my dad, but his mom had some sort of record, she just needed time to find it. I waited on that and filled in what I could find when it came up. I found out my mom had been interested in the Church, but talked about "vibes being off" when she went. I tried to get her to talk about it more, but she chalked it up to it being the 80s, and a hectic time for her. "Sometimes things just aren't a good fit".

At this point I loved and dreaded Sundays. I almost asked to go to my roommate's family ward a few different days, but always chickened out. Our apartment was always in and out, someone coming in late or leaving early, not a lot of time together. I thought it'd be weird to ask, like I'd be a hanger-on, not welcomed but tolerated.

I stopped eating breakfast before church on Sundays. The few times I'd needed to use the bathroom before church, the weird florescent lights and the old greenish mirrors made me see flickers at the corner of my vision. That and the pit that was now a fist in my stomach, it was just easier not to have to make any stops. A few Sundays before summer break, someone mentioned Ward Pioneer Day celebrations. I tried to learn more from the safety of the chapel, but just caught "Governor Boggs, may he rest in piss" from one of the "edgier" Members.

I looked him up when I got home. The things you don't know when you're not raised in something, right? I learned/refreshed my memory on the westward move by the Pioneer Saints, and added a few books to my post-college TBR.

Working on geneology stuff, my mom sent a text "did you know we're related to Daniel Boon?" with some scans from someone's family Bible. I recognized the name of the most recent ancestor we'd found, near the bottom. A many greats grandmother had married him. I traced the line up. I kinda loved the antique, out of fashion names. Panthea -

I felt shock, like a current running through my body. Panthea Grant Boone - Boggs.

No way. No way was I related to The Governor Boggs. I knew my ancestors had done some bad-to-downright-terrible things. Most people's ancestors had at one point or another. I wasn't them, they're not my responsibility. But the guy who ran early Saints out of their homes? No wonder I felt like I didn't belong. What right did I have to walk those halls?

I tried to shake that thought, but it lingered with me the rest of the week. I was able to shut most of it out for some early finals, but I was right back to stewing when I finished up. The pit was a near constant presence unless I was home. I stared at the little pass along card Jesus I had taped on my headboard shelf. Home, as much as I could consider a college apartment that, was my heaven on earth. I felt sick going to church, knowing what I knew. I felt like someone there had to know who I was, had to know I walked where others should. I walked through the doors and had to detour to the bathroom, immediately sick. I couldn't throw up, I didn't have any food in me. I barely noticed the flickers, the hum of the lights was incessant, low and rumbling. I shuffled over to the sink and splashed my face with water. When I blearlily looked into the mirror instead of flickers, I thought I could make out faces or forms. I didn't dare look close. I could remember starkly the missionary lessons about the world being split by veils. The Pre-existance, this world, and the hear after, spirit paradise and spirit prison. They were not some great distance away from us or each other. It was all here.

I was horrified as I realized the feeling I'd had for months wasn't just negativity stewing too long. Someone didn't want me in this building. Possibly any building. But was it Satan, or the victims of my many greats grandfather? How would I ever find out?

I stumbled out of the bathroom, and at first I thought the hall was crowded, until I realized no one was bumping into me, and the clothing styles were centuries out of date.

I almost ran trying to get away from them. I was barely aware of my feet leading me to the chapel, surrounded by the spirits of men, women, and children wronged. I wasn't sure if I could actually feel their rage, or if I was imagining it.

I almost ran into the greeter, apologized probably too loud, and then entered one of the two sanctuaries I had. I sat in the back, off to the side, and tried to make myself unnoticeable. I couldn't see the spirits I knew to be waiting in the hall, and I was so lost in my own racing thoughts I hadn't even realized Sacrament Meeting had started until I was offered the bread tray. I waved it away, not sure what the spirits would think, what they would do now that I'd seen them. I faintly remembered stories of missionaries and members dealing with evil spirits, but I'd always understood that to mean Satan and his followers. Not departed, martyred Members of the church. I didn't listen to a single talk, I just thought with dread over the moment I'd have to walk back out those doors.