Taking Root

If I told you what I was
Would you turn your back on me?
And if I seem dangerous
Would you be scared?
I get the feeling just because
Everything I touch isn't dark enough
That this problem lies in me

I'm only a man with a candle to guide me
I'm taking a stand to escape what's inside me
A monster, a monster
I've turned into a monster
A monster, a monster
And it keeps getting stronger
["Monster" - Imagine Dragons]

Some will find this overly dramatic, but people were never supposed to know most of this next part of my story. In fact, until relatively recently, I’d never told anyone who wasn’t already involved. Even more than 23 years removed now, my heart still races a bit at the thought of sharing this publicly. In part because it's just not easy to reveal your own hypocrisy. But perhaps more, it's the fact that stigma and shame are deeply entrenched in Mormon culture for certain behaviors, repentance notwithstanding. And although I no longer number myself among the believers (so none of the culture stuff should matter now, I guess?), some neural pathways aren’t so easily re-routed.  

The fact is, though, that the depth of my faith and conversion to Mormonism cannot properly be understood without knowing this part of my story. And while I feel no obligation to be public with it, I want to risk a bit of vulnerability here to put things in proper context. 

The Missionary Training Center (MTC)

I entered the Provo, Utah MTC on June 18, 1997. The MTC is adjacent to BYU’s campus in Provo (and probably is considered part of BYU for all I know). There are several worldwide now, but the Provo MTC is likely still the largest — by far. At the time I was there, I believe there were several thousand of us.

At least back then, new missionaries spent anywhere from 3-12 weeks at the MTC, taking lessons on how to share and build the faith. Also depending on the mission call, learning a new language. During that time, the only contact with home and the outside world was supposed to be letters and packages.

As I’ve noted before, I was ultimately headed to Northern California, assigned to speak Spanish. That meant I was to spend two full months at the MTC.  

Bunches of around 10-12 missionaries are grouped together in “districts” with one of them (always a male) designated the “district leader.” A couple of districts of missionaries are grouped together in a “zone,” again with a male missionary or two designated the zone leader(s). All the male missionaries in my district shared the same dorm room, which included 4 sets of bunk beds. The four female (sister) missionaries in our district were housed in separate quarters. But we otherwise spent all of our class time together.

My MTC District

Missionary life is heavily regimented — perhaps even more so at the MTC. There are set times for waking and getting ready, for meals and exercise, and 2-3 three classes each day that fill out the rest of the morning, afternoon, and evening. One day of the week is a “preparation day” (P-day) until 6pm, during which time we were expected to do laundry, write letters home, and take care of anything else we couldn’t get to during the week. For P-days at the MTC, we were also expected to visit the Provo Temple (only a few hundred yards away from the MTC) for an endowment session.

Unease

Most of my first day or two are a forgotten blur. Everything felt overwhelming. I tried very hard to fit in and to feel like I fit in, but it wasn’t working.

On what I believe was our second day, we learned that we’d meet our bishopric (leaders of our local congregation) that evening for yet one more worthiness interview — just to make sure there weren't any lingering issues we hadn't already disclosed and dealt with.

My stomach tightened when I heard that.

In that intense setting, I started to give way to pressing thoughts I'd tried hard to hide from myself for a long time — to shove so far down as to effectively eliminate them. But that hadn’t really worked the past 5-6 years, and it certainly wasn’t working since I’d arrived at the MTC.

It turns out, I had a few skeletons in my closest.

The Law of Chastity

Part of the church's moral code is the “law of chastity." That is, sexual intercourse is only permitted within (heterosexual) marriage. Anything outside of that is forbidden. During the time I grew up, I was taught that this prohibition extended to masturbation and viewing pornography — essentially any intentional stimulation of sexual desire outside of (heterosexual) marriage.

There are, of course, degrees of severity to the range of chastity violations, with adultery being the most egregious. But all are considered serious. Emblematic of this, in one part of the Book of Mormon, the prophet Alma (the Younger) counsels his wayward son that sexual sins like his (he went “after the harlot Isabel”) are the “most abominable above all sins” —  second only to murder or denying the Holy Ghost (Alma 39:5) [Yes, I'm serious. And as a prosecutor the last 14 years, it’s been wild to think about all of the possible non-murderous felonies that are ostensibly less serious than pre-marital sex]. In the Doctrine & Covenants, God warns that even if a man only “looketh upon a woman to lust after her,” he will “deny the faith.” And if he does not repent, “he shall be cast out” (D&C 42:23).

In practice, nearly all chastity violations require confession to one’s priesthood leader. Depending on the degree of offense and one’s position within the church, repentance may further require appearing before a disciplinary counsel (made up of a bishopric or stake high council) to confess further. There, depending on the gravity of the offense(s), one’s level of accountability, the recency and pattern of offense(s), and the depth of remorse, punishment may involve disfellowship (the suspension of membership privileges for a time) or excommunication (the loss of membership entirely).

For me, probably from the age of 13, I had occasionally found my way to pornography and developed a habit of masturbating. I found it all but impossible to stop until just after my 19th birthday (a few months before I entered the MTC). There were also more serious chastity violations in my late teens, too, but I’ll spare those details here.

In all those years, I never owned or confessed to any of these things in my worthiness interviews (or to anyone else). I was too afraid of what that would look like — of the disappointment (and discipline) that would follow from my parents. I also cared a bit too much about my image and reputation within the church (and other circles). The fact is that most days, the fear of a scarlet letter terrified me far more than the constant feelings of guilt and threat of eternal damnation. 

So for all those years, I lied repeatedly to myself, waging daily war with my conscience, arguing my actions weren’t that bad and certainly didn’t require confession — especially if I could figure out how to stop (which I always resolved to do the next day). Sometimes those arguments felt more compelling than others, but never compelling enough. By the time I was at Utica College, I remember being afraid to be alone with my thoughts; it was simply too exhausting. All the more because I was otherwise openly working toward piety.

Sadly, as I look back now, the dominant memory of my teenage years is that feeling of constant inner turmoil.

Of course, I wasn’t just lying to myself. I had also lied to priesthood leaders in every worthiness interview during those years — every time I faced priesthood advancement, took on a new calling, or needed a recommend to go to the temple. And, of course, when I interviewed for my missionary application.

In those moments when I couldn’t even pretend to win the argument with my conscience, I’d still pretty much resolved to take my mistakes with me to the grave. Maybe something could be worked out on the other side? Or maybe, if I was a good enough missionary, things would balance out — James had noted, after all, that converting "the sinner from the error of his way" would “hide a multitude of sins” (James 5:20).

The environment in MTC was so intense, though, that it ratcheted up the guilt and internal struggle several fold, which I would hardly have thought possible beforehand. I certainly didn’t want to go home, but pretending like I fit in was such torture that I couldn’t easily rationalize it away.

So when the message came down that there would be yet one more worthiness interview, my internal messaging shifted abruptly: I wasn’t worthy, and I would be useless to God (not to mention heaping further damnation upon myself) until that changed.

I finally resolved to confess.

First Confession

As I remember it, the bishopric counselor I interviewed with had a full head of hair and wore a tan suit. We exchanged pleasantries, and he may have even asked me who among our group would make a good district or zone leader. I don’t remember whose names I gave him. I don’t remember how the conversation turned, or if things started or ended there. I do seem to remember my heart beating out of my chest as I began to discuss my unresolved past.

I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I tried to frame things in such a way that it likely minimized my behavior. I remember the shocked and sad look on the man’s face as I dropped things on him. I also remember asking if he thought I’d be able to stay, and he responded by gently refocusing on the need to make sure things were properly taken care of.

In other words, I didn’t seem to be looking at this repentance thing in quite the right way — I hadn’t learned anything from the “Godly Sorrow” seminary video, traumatizing as it had been!  

We ended the interview with nothing resolved and my knowing there would be more to follow (with a higher level of priesthood leadership). That night, my exchange with the man in the tan suit played over and over again in a tortured loop. I felt the concern in his voice — concern that I was more worried with how things would play out than fixing the problem. Sleep felt nearly impossible.

Second Confession

I think it was the afternoon of the next day (Friday) that I was summoned, alone, to the office of one of the stake presidents there at the MTC. I didn’t know the man, and I’ve long since forgotten his name (I’ll call him President 1). I can’t remember what he looked like, except that he was older and thinner. I do remember almost perfectly well where his office was in the main building — over the years, in my mind, I’ve walked the halls to his office hundreds of times.

I don’t remember President 1 making much effort at pleasantries, but he may have. I don’t remember how the conversation began, but there was no warmth. What I can’t help remembering is the chill in that small office room, and his grave demeanor as he asked me to recount my misdeeds in cold detail: What, exactly, had I done? For how long? With whom? Exactly how many times? Estimate for me — how many times a week? A month? Tell me where body parts were and what exactly was happening.

At each of my sheepish answers, President 1 scribbled something down on his notepad. That signaled to me what parts were necessary and important. I do remember that when I told him I’d stopped masturbating a little over two months before (a word I could hardly bring myself to say without shuddering, preferring to adopt their term "self abuse"), I felt his only hint of warmth or approval: “So you licked it, eh?”

Candidly, I am not sure that I’ve ever felt smaller, worth less, or more full of shame than I did for those 30-45 minutes in that room talking to President 1. Those minutes diminished me as a human being, and it felt like that was both necessary and the point.

After I’d recounted all the details I could think of, President 1 instructed that we (I) had to call my stake president back home, President Jones.  I’d known President Jones for years, and he worked with Dad at the time (he was actually Dad’s boss). Earlier that week, I’d been to his home as he set me apart to become a missionary.

President Jones was so disappointed to hear from me. With President 1 listening in, I remember President Jones asking my why — why didn’t I bring all this up with him, so he could’ve “taken care of it?” I wasn’t sure what that meant, but the implication in his tone was that I’d face stiffer punishment at the MTC than I would have with him. I told President Jones candidly that my plan up to the day before had been that I'd never tell anyone.

I think it was President Jones who that told me that, if I had to be sent home, he would have to tell my parents. I stopped him: if I was being sent home, I would be the one to break the news to them.

Given how diminished I felt in those moments, and how terrified I was of my parents knowing the truth about me, that took no small amount of courage.  And it allowed me to leave the interview feeling the tiniest measure of dignity.

I don’t remember how I parted with President 1, but I was sent back to class to await my fate. I expected things to move quickly. Perhaps that evening, but certainly in the next day or two. I replayed that awful interview in my mind many, many times in the hours afterward. And in the middle of that first night, when sleep again felt impossible, I realized that I had still somehow minimized my behavior and culpability. If it was possible to feel worse, I did.

I had no confidence they would let me stay. And every moment I spent waiting to learn my fate was a horrible mixture of guilt, shame, and dread. Time also moved at a snail’s pace. It was Hell.

Though I expected the call at any moment, I heard nothing on Saturday. Also nothing on Sunday (though my bishop met with me to see how I was doing). Monday also came and went, and I seriously questioned whether I'd been forgotten.

Third Confession

It wasn’t until Tuesday I was called back in.  Instead of learning my fate, though, I met with another stake president (President 2). He said he needed to interview me again, seemingly starting from scratch. I don’t remember getting any explanation for the delay or the additional interview, but it seemed like I’d somehow been lost in the shuffle.

By this time, I didn’t entirely mind the additional interview. I’d had almost four days since the last one, and I’d replayed it constantly. There were things I needed to amend or clarify. So I braced myself and readied for more of those invasive questions. I felt more confident this time in what I needed say, and also somehow less concerned about the outcome (since I’d spent the last four days already feeling like a dead man walking). 

But this interview wasn’t the same. Not at all, really. President 2 radiated warmth and love as he spoke. He asked me about things generally, but didn’t seem to want or need specific details. He didn’t ask me to describe how many times, for how long, how I was positioned, etc. I don’t think he was even taking notes.

He also asked about other things, and some remedial steps I'd undertaken came to mind. I had more confidence with President 2, and I shared them, unsolicited.

The entire interview felt less stilted, less hostile. Partly because I was more practiced now and somehow felt I had less to lose. But also because President 2 seemed so much more personable and caring.  I remember telling President 2 that if I had to go home, I couldn’t wait to come back and feel like I was worthy to be there.

I did worry, though, because the next day (Wednesday) was P-day, and my district was supposed to attend the temple together early. The temple — a place you’re only allowed to enter if you meet certain worthiness criteria, including keeping the law of chastity. How was I supposed to beg off the temple? And what was I to tell my companion (since I was supposed to be with him at all times)?

President 2 thought for a moment, then kindly told me to go anyway. He said he felt the temple was exactly the place I needed to be at that time.

I was almost dumbfounded by the kindness and implications of the gesture, and I thought about it the rest of the afternoon and evening.

An Unexpected Mercy

That next afternoon, I was summoned back to President 2's office. He told me that he'd talked to a general authority (he didn’t say who). The general authority had been on the fence about whether to send me home or let me stay, but President 2 had advocated for me. He highlighted for the general authority some mitigating circumstances, as well as the remedial conduct I had mentioned (neither of which President 1 had asked about). President 2 said that I was "on the high road to repentance," and that I ought to be able to stay.  The general authority apparently assented.

They were letting me stay on my mission. God was letting me stay on my mission.

Bewilderment. Relief. Gratitude. I sat there dumbfounded, trying to understand what President 2 had just said and all of the implications. How could this be real? Why? Why was President 2 being so kind to me? Why was God being so kind? To me? 

I have known several instances of undeserved grace in my life. None, though, in more desperate circumstances — never more impossibly hoped for — than this. Even in fiction, Victor Hugo could hardly have written it better.

We called President Jones once more. I cannot remember anything about the call except that there was no need to tell my parents. He then charged me to be "one of the greatest missionaries to ever walk the face of the earth." The admonition felt odd in the moment, since I’d been taught a missionary’s power was in his righteousness and worthiness, and I had been inches from being sent home unworthy.

I loved the thought, though. 

My memory of the meeting gets fuzzy from there. I was still given an “assignment” — to read Spencer W. Kimball’s The Miracle of Forgiveness and write an essay (I didn’t think enough about what reading that book conspicuously — not otherwise on the MTC approved reading list — might convey to others, but no one ever asked or even hinted at noticing).

“Never Speak of This Again”

I don’t remember exactly how I parted with President 2, or if I had to meet him again to give him the essay. I remember vividly, though, his parting direction to me that because I had now repented, I should move forward and "never speak of this again!" 

That counsel also caught me a little off guard, but maybe that was how it was supposed to work? In any event, the direction suited me just fine. I was so ashamed of the entire ordeal, and now no one else ever had to know. Maybe they weren’t even supposed to know.

Aside from a brief conversation with President Jones the night I returned home from my mission (nearly two years later), I did not speak of this again for roughly 15 years. When I did, it was to a therapist.

Early in my marriage, I even destroyed the first few weeks of journal entries from my time at the MTC — after Michelle started to take interest in my entries from another time period. I wish I had not done that, but I felt justified then in the hiding (not for awhile now, but for a long time I also hid behind Boyd K. Packer’s errant observation: “Some things are true that are not very useful.”)

It was only a few years ago that I clued in Michelle at all to this part of my history, and only in the last month or two that I’ve given her the whole story. That had required some carefully worded evasions over the years, and one outright lie a long time ago. I am not proud of that fact, and I do not recommend a similar course of action.

Counsel or no counsel, I should have known better.

Aftermath

I don’t think I can overstate how much that whole experience changed me. 

Up to that point, I'd spent the last five or six years in a constant internal battle, refusing to acknowledge the obvious hypocrisy. The price was simply too high. And then it wasn't. And then I'd paid the price. And eventually (it took a few weeks), I wasn't perpetually weighed down or afraid to be alone with my thoughts. I‘d never known what that felt like, and I came to crave peace of conscience, to prize it above all else. I still do.

Ever since, I have also tended heavily toward self-reflection and introspection, sometimes leading me toward unhealthy self-criticism (which, even still, hasn’t left me without my blind spots).

***

After my mission, when I talked about my conversion, I often told people that the seeds of my faith finally took root at the MTC — that it was there I learned that the gospel of Jesus Christ was the “pearl of great price” worth giving all I have to possess (Matthew 13:45-46). I meant it, and this ordeal was always what I was referring to (though no one ever seemed to need the specifics).

Before this incident, I’d always professed total faith, while holding something (significant) back. During and after, though, I became willing to commit everything to the cause. And in the 22 years that followed, I really, really tried.  

And though I could never talk about it, the fact that I eventually stopped feeling guilt seemed like surefire evidence that God was real, that the church’s outlined plan for repentance was necessary and worked.

Now, I'm not so sure. It seems at least as likely to me that one's upbringing, culture, and espoused belief system play a heavy role in determining when (and for what) we feel guilt, and when (and how) we're allowed to feel freed from it.

***

All these years later, I’m no closer to understanding the mix-up that required confession to both President 1 and President 2, and those four agonizing days in-between. For a long time, I saw God’s handiwork in it: in the way those four days worked on me and produced a more resolved, contrite, and articulate confession; in the way that President 1 (perhaps justifiably) seemed ready to pack my bags and send me home, while President 2 looked for any reason to help me stay; in the way I witnessed (and felt) firsthand the full spectrum in ministering styles — without suffering any lasting consequences from President 1’s approach; in the way I have thought about that contrast any time I’ve met with someone who was in a similarly vulnerable position.

There is still a part of me that wants to imagine God’s hand in those events. I hope so. Either way, though, President 2’s undeserved (and unexpected) kindness still moves me to tears. And if there is a God, my heart tells me he/they are something close to President 2.

I do wish I could remember his name.

***

All that said, God or no God, my view of those youthful chastity violations has shifted dramatically in the last year. I no longer see them as inherently wrong or problematic (some even if coming at them from a believing, informed Mormon perspective).

I don’t think now that I needed to spend my teenage years filled with shame, anxiety, and regret — and not just because I could’ve/should’ve confessed sooner, or avoided doing the things. But that entire experience shaped who I am, and I rather like the person it produced.

I do find it problematic and upsetting when culture and doctrine create an atmosphere of guilt and shame around normal, healthy sexual development. In my admittedly limited experience, study, and discussion with others, that atmosphere too often creates far more problems than it prevents.  And as I look at my kids and the years in front of them, I'm so much less concerned with them exploring their sexuality and certain behaviors as I am with ensuring they're properly informed and educated about those behaviors, and also that they're comfortable and confident (not ashamed) in who they are, and crystal clear about consent.

Also, I want to keep them far away from the President 1's of the world. 

MTC Aftermath

Once I was told I could stay, I sought out faith (and faithfulness) with an almost reckless abandon — the kind of reckless abandon that’s intent on following all the rules, all the time. Learning all the things. And doing all the things, if not also a few more for good measure.

I had been paired with a companion who was similarly inclined, and we were both inspired by an MTC teacher who opened our minds to the possibility of baptizing thousands — if we were worthy and ready. So we forced ourselves to speak Spanish full time and fit in “extra” companion scripture study. As a further sacrifice to God  (to show him how serious I was about the work), I only opened mail on P-days, and I even gave up sugary treats.

At the MTC, it was relatively easy to feel on top of everything, and to confuse that feeling with being a successful missionary (even though I hadn’t actually had to talk to any strangers yet). Sort of the way one might feel they’re a pretty good driver because they aced the written driving test. On that point, while I was there, I remember once genuinely wondering if I wouldn’t have charity and humility figured out in a matter of weeks.

Once I left the MTC bubble, though, it only took one afternoon of knocking doors in Marysville, California to bring me back down to reality.  

Leaving the MTC for California -- with Elder Jared Myers

The In-Between Year

I gotta rush away, she said
I've been to Boston before
And anyway, this change I've been feelin'
Doesn't make the rain fall

No big differences these days
Just the same old walkaways
Someday, I'm gonna stay
But not today
["Walkaways" — Counting Crows]

For some, the transition from high school to college is rough. It certainly felt that way for me. While most of my peers moved on to new places (including my then girlfriend), I stuck around that first year and commuted to school. I did play basketball, but I was still so shy and introverted that I spent most of the year feeling pretty lonely. Also, there were two years of missionary service looming the following summer, so I spent most of my freshmen year already looking past it. That made it difficult to ever really find my footing or feel comfortable.

From here, it’s hard now not to feel somewhat dismissive of my difficulties then — in the way you might be tempted to put quotes around the word “difficulties” as an effort to sheepishly acknowledge that my hardships still reflected an awfully sheltered and privileged circumstance.

But even so, those hardships were very real to me then. And I feel inclined to be as gentle with the boy who went through them as I’d hope to be with my own teenagers. Furthermore, that year of forlorn teenage difficulty proved important on my path to genuine faith and belief.

Utica College

I spent most of my adolescence hoping and planning to attend Brigham Young University, just as my parents did. But as basketball became more of a thing in high school, I drew interest from several colleges (sadly, none of them BYU or similar caliber) — enough interest that I started toying with the possibility of going elsewhere.

Of all the phone calls and meetings I took, one coach's pitch eventually caught my attention: Coach Ed Jones, from nearby Utica College.

Utica College is relatively small private college nestled in Utica, NY. Its enrollment was only a few thousand then (and apparently still is), but the school was linked to Syracuse University, such that a degree from the school was a degree from Syracuse.

Coach Jones knew I was a devout Mormon and that that meant I planned to serve a mission when I turned 19 (he was the only coach to pick up on and address that fact). His pitch included the understanding that I would likely only be in school for a year before leaving for two. He also openly acknowledged that I might not even come back afterward.

He wanted me anyway, and I eventually bought in.

Out of the gates, I declared as a political science major, destined for law school. Along those lines, I took a few political science classes, though most of my classes involved general ed stuff. I made it to classes on time and sat attentively (enough) through the lectures. I even knew the names of several classmates, though I don’t remember ever spending time with any of them outside of class.

I moved through both semesters well enough academically, though frankly, I felt a bit aimless. Four years later when I applied to law schools, I included an addendum to my applications asking schools to effectively overlook my freshmen year grades, pleading that they didn’t properly reflect the drive and determination I’d found after my mission.

Branch Mission Leader

Back home, I'd been "called" to be my congregation's branch mission leader. That meant I was responsible for overseeing the missionary efforts in the branch, and for working closely with the pair of full-time missionaries assigned to our area. The calling felt like an oddity, given how young I was (this was years before it became en vogue to give younger people in the church significant responsibilities). But it gave me ready access to the habits, methods, and personalities of the handful of missionaries assigned to the branch during that year. Some were newly minted from the Missionary Training Center, anxious to be useful and full of fire and enthusiasm; others presented a bit more world weary with slightly different agendas. Some prized obedience to the mission rules as the key to success and happiness; others not as much.

I regularly accompanied the missionaries to teaching appointments in the area, watching carefully to see how they shared their faith and interacted with people — people all across the belief spectrum. Some were better suited to the task than others, but they all became my friends. And just having their regular company generated some excitement that I’d soon get my turn.

Ginning up excitement was probably part of the thinking behind the calling all along —that and the branch probably didn’t have many other options.

Online Message Boards

It’s hard to fathom now, but I don’t think we had internet access at home that year. In fact, it was only that Christmas between semesters that we even got a computer (Dad’s surprise big gift for the family). So I had to go to school — 30 minutes away — to get online. I ended up spending a lot of time in the computer labs that year.

At some point early in the first semester, I stumbled across some online message boards on the Sci-Fi channel website (I was fan). Before long, I devoted chunks of free time between classes to what then seemed like a novelty: trading messages online with relative strangers. Topics of interest included religion, evolution (I was a strict creationist back then — as a believer, I felt like I had to be), and the existence of God. I often spent my commute time, and plenty of other free thoughts, dissecting the latest arguments and preparing a response. Then I’d wait anxiously to see if my counterpoints had won any ground with my adversaries (they never seemed to).

That whole effort may have had something to do with the mandate to share the gospel. But mostly, given the right forum, I just liked arguing and defending my worldview.

It’s surprising to me now (though it shouldn’t be) to recognize that I didn’t undertake any of those efforts to actually learn anything — only to persuade and defend. The more others poked or attacked, especially with my Mormon faith, the more entrenched I emerged.

Homework on Sundays

By mid-November, I had a paper coming due in my political science class — a paper based on a book we were supposed to have read (I hadn’t). Up against a deadline a few days out, and having seriously procrastinated, I complained to the missionaries one Sunday after church that it looked like I had no choice: to have any hope of completing the assignment on time, I would have to break my rule (really my parents’ rule, passed down to me) of not doing homework on Sundays.

I expected a bit of “ox is in the mire” compassion and validation. Instead, the energetic younger missionary deftly told me about his own strict “No Sunday Homework” stance during his freshmen year (at BYU). He noted that sometimes it meant getting up extra early on Mondays, but he'd always found a way to make it work.

I felt doubtful, since the deadline loomed as ominous as ever, but also inspired by my friend’s faith. So I determined to do the same. I don't remember what I did instead that Sunday afternoon, but I was up and working all the earlier Monday morning. Three days later, I’d managed to read the book and write the paper (which I did fine on). In the aftermath, it felt like I had proven God on how he blessed those — even the procrastinators — who tried to keep his day holy.

I never again seriously contemplated homework on Sundays, though procrastination would dog me for all of college.

Starting The Season

Basketball began in mid-October, but I have surprisingly few memories of that first month of conditioning and practices (aside from forgetting one early morning conditioning and getting a dreaded call from Coach Jones that morning, wondering where I was).

I assimilated basketball into my schedule well enough, but I don’t remember feeling anything close to the same passion or drive for excellence I’d felt in high school. That’s a bit disappointing to me now, but I think it was a product of not having any idea what to expect from Division III college basketball: I had no idea what to strive for, who (or what) to compare myself to, or even who I'd be playing against. I wanted to do well, of course, but what did that even mean? 

Also, there was that pesky fact that I would only be around for the year.

As games began in mid-November, we learned quickly how steep a learning curve our young team faced. We lost many more games than we won, especially early on. And I hadn't anticipated that crowds for our games would often be smaller than they were in high school (in fact, during winter break, one game had only a few dozen spectators, including my parents and several siblings).

Despite our team not doing so well, I got some recognition. In fact, only a few weeks into the season, the local paper ran a feature about my impending departure for a mission. The timing was odd, since we were only a few weeks into the season, but I still enjoyed the attention. 

A Low Point

Meanwhile, the stretch of months from late December to early March felt personally like one of the lowest points of my life. My girlfriend from high school (who’d left for Boston that fall) had decided to move on, and I did not handle the loss well. And while I grew closer to a friend from the branch, I didn’t have any close friends on the basketball team (or at school, period). All the practice and travel only seemed to isolate me further.

I felt terribly lonely. 

All that came to a head at the beginning of February when our team played a Saturday afternoon away game at Ithaca College. Ithaca had two upper class big men, and Coach Jones said they'd be a significant test for me. The game was never close, though, and I felt unexpectedly outmatched. As I remember it, it was the first time since I was a sophomore in high school (then playing against a future NBA lottery pick) that it felt like my strength and size gave me no advantage. So right when I could’ve used something to remind me I was wanted and special, I felt more of the opposite. 

We were so far behind that the coach pulled me mid-way through the 2nd half. As I sat there on the bench, I felt defeated, alone, and overwhelmed. I happened, then, to look across the court into the crowd and saw a couple, likely in their 30’s. The man sat on the bench just below hers, his head nestled comfortably in her lap as they watched the game. They looked serene, and the image brought into relief my feelings of loss and loneliness.

I started to cry uncontrollably there on the bench, burying my face in a towel to hide the tears. I can only imagine how awkward that made things for my teammates, who maybe thought I was just taking the loss really hard.

After that point, I felt even more inclined to look past the basketball season and toward my mission — where I felt certain I’d find the happiness I lacked in the moment. Not coincidentally, it was also about that time that I was nearing the end of the paperwork and interviews necessary to submit my mission application.

The Book of Mormon

That low point feels a bit of unflattering now, but it was so difficult at the time. And that difficulty all but forced me to seek further solace in my faith. At about that same time, I began to read some of C.S. Lewis’ more prominent works and felt almost worshipful of his logical defense of Christianity. I also took renewed interest in the Book of Mormon, seeking that elusive witness promised by Moroni in the final chapter — that the truth of the book would be made manifest to me by the power of the Holy Ghost.

The Book of Mormon is scripture unique to Mormonism (and its several offshoots). In the 1820s, Joseph Smith claimed an angel led him to a set of gold plates, buried in a hillside near his family farm in Upstate New York. The plates purportedly contained an ancient record (spanning over a thousand years) of former inhabitants of the Americas — inhabitants who, for long stretches, had also been Christians and had actually been visited by Christ after his resurrection. But they eventually fell away through wickedness and are now (supposedly) among the chief ancestors of native Americans.

Joseph claimed that God gave him power to translate the plates, and the result of his translation efforts was The Book of Mormon.

My renewed interest in The Book of Mormon kept me reading for longer and longer stretches on some of those lonely evenings — far more reading than needed just to check the daily box. At one point, I remember emailing a friend to tell her I would try to read the entire book of Alma (the longest book in the Book of Mormon, totaling 63 chapters) in a week. Not quite a Parley P. Pratt "reading all night" level feat, but it was a lot for me.

I believe it was that same week, on a Saturday afternoon, that I was walking into our kitchen, wondering when or how I would get that promised, confirming witness from the Holy Ghost that the book was "true." The thought then came that the wondering was unnecessary: I already knew. In fact, I'd always known it was true.

That matter-of-fact kind of answer wasn’t quite the witness I was looking for, but it was enough to hold on to at the time.

In the roughly 23 years that followed, I've easily read the Book of Mormon over 50 times, including a few dozen times while a missionary (when I actively kept track). The introduction to the Book of Mormon notes Joseph Smith once described it as the “keystone” of Mormonism, and that a person would draw closer to God reading that book than any other. I felt that. Often. In fact, using the more typical parlance, I knew the book was “true” — that it was what it says it is and came about the way Joseph Smith said it did — seemingly as well as I knew anything.

For most of the last quarter century of my life, I have spent some part of the day (usually the early mornings) with The Book of Mormon. I have taken my weaknesses, my frustrations, my difficulties, my heartaches to God, and then felt like I heard him through those pages — again and again and again. I have spent more time and thought with that book than any other text (probably by orders of magnitude).

With Nephi, I’ve diligently tried to “liken” the stories in The Book of Mormon to my own life; I have wept with him as he wrestled with his brothers’ hostility and his own weaknesses; I've repeatedly found courage in Abinadi’s steadfast testimony of Christ facing certain death, solace in King Limhi’s humiliated lament for his people and turning to God, and hope in Moroni’s later reflections on faith, weakness, humility, and grace; I have spent my own difficult years waiting with the army of Helaman in the wilderness — starved, weak, anxious for reinforcements against a threatening enemy that outnumbered and wanted to destroy them — their only reassurance coming from God that they should trust him (and that somehow being enough).

I believed that these people and their stories were real. I knew they were real, because of how they made me feel.

It is no exaggeration for me to say that I came to love the Book of Mormon, and to rely on it. It was the evidence for me of Joseph Smith’s divine calling and prophethood, and it held things together for me (as a keystone is supposed to) whenever I confronted information or circumstances that threatened my faith-filled worldview. More times than I can count I revisited Nephi’s specific promise that if I hearkened and held to its teachings (along with the rest of the “word of God”), I would “never perish; neither could the temptations and the fiery darts of the adversary overpower [me] unto blindness, to lead [me] away to destruction.” (1 Nephi 15:24).

So as my world turned upside down and things fell apart last year, the Book of Mormon was one of the last lines of defense for my faith. It eventually fell, too, though, and I now no longer have any confidence that The Book of Mormon is what it claims to be (I’ll say more on that in a future post).

For now, what’s relevant to me in looking back to those first moments of testimony (the moment of “I knew it all along”) is that I see now classic symptoms of the “illusory truth effect” — the tendency for humans to more readily accept ideas and purported facts with repeated exposure (regardless of whether they’re “true”).

Wrapping Up My Basketball Career

The basketball season ended in late February — just as it seemed we were starting to click as a team. In our last game, I apparently tied the then school record for points in a game (33) and set the record for field goal percentage.

It was the last time I ever played competitive basketball.

School Newspaper Article

Some accolades followed, including apparently being named a freshman All-American for Division III (though I learned this only because I happened to see my name on a wall in Coach Jones’ office — when I asked about it, he expressed surprise that I didn’t know. I never got further word or confirmation, and for the life of me I can’t find records on the internet that go back that far. Such is the relative anonymity of Division III athletics). That next fall, while I was on my mission, I was apparently named a Division III Pre-Season All-American, 2nd team (which I likewise never got further confirmation of).

I offer those tidbits mostly to give context for the internal conflict I’ve felt lately, as I’ve newly confronted the idea that I ended my basketball career for a cause I no longer believe in.

I have no illusions that I would have amounted to much more than a high level Division III player — possibly lower level Division I (I really wasn’t scaring anyone with my vertical leap or lateral quickness). Maybe I could’ve even stretched it into a few years over seas, like some of the other top Division III players I knew of.

I get that none of those possibilities are necessarily life changing, but they’re also not nothing.

Up until recently, leaving for a mission was an easy call. God expected it of me, and I wanted to fulfill that obligation. I wanted to follow my father’s footsteps. I also not so secretly held out hope that I’d walk on to BYU’s basketball team after I got back (I had reapplied to BYU that spring and decided to transfer, basketball or no basketball). But during my mission, I injured my knees further (one morning while visiting an early morning seminary class, where we replicated "stick pulling" — a feat of strength Joseph Smith was apparently fond of). After that injury, I could no longer play basketball on successive days without my knees swelling terribly.

I’ve tried playing out the counter factual of what would have happened — what could have happened — if I’d stayed and played out the rest of my college eligibility (at Utica or elsewhere). But given the home I grew up in, I almost can’t conceive of what that would have looked like. I also can’t figure how I possibly could have seen things for what they were back then (I trusted my parents and my upbringing so completely). It’s also certainly conceivable that I would have found some other way to injure my knees and prematurely end my career — but maybe not.

Confusing matters further, there’s also the fact that, even knowing what I know now, I don’t think I would trade my mission experiences for anything. Whatever I now believe about the cause itself, those two years taught me how to work, focus, sacrifice, and refine my efforts and motivations like few other things could. It also pushed me outside myself and toward the well-being others.

And probably most important, I made lifelong friends as a missionary, and so many of the people dearest to me in life are people I met during those years. I don’t want to try to imagine a life not knowing them and not spending the time with them that I did.

But those reassurances hardly assuage the difficult feelings. I loved playing basketball. I was pretty good at it, and I would love to have known how far I could've taken it. Instead, I gave it up for a cause I now feel I took on under false pretenses.

Mission Call and Departure

My mission call came by mail on March 7, 1997. I had been assigned to Roseville, California. While I’d hoped for something in South America (like Dad), I immediately embraced Northern California. Dad was the one to read the letter more closely and find that I’d be speaking Spanish. 

At the time, that was everything for me.

After that point, whatever tedium I felt about school multiplied exponentially, but the months still flew by. My journal entries for that time period reflect an almost frenzied excitement — as though I were preaching to myself how much I’d enjoy the challenges ahead.

As spring turned to summer, friends I’d only been able to email or call now returned home, and my social life picked up significantly. The sadness of those earlier months melted away, and I felt the closest to happy that I had all year.

A little over a week before I left, my parents and grandparents took me through the Washington, D.C. Temple. The experience was jarring, but I guess became normalized with repeated exposure.

The morning I left New York, it rained off and on. I remember the house feeling unusually quiet, but then my siblings were probably still in school. There were so many tears. At the airport, my parents and a few close friends saw me off. Dad hugged me and told me he was proud of me — I’d never heard him say it to me that way before (and I can’t remember him hugging me before that).

As I left for the tarmac, Dad knocked on the window to signal me and wave one last time. I could hardly bear to look back as I got on the plane. I cried for awhile after takeoff.

Two years later, the guy that returned could hardly identify with or recognize the version of me that got on the plane that afternoon.

Pre-Mission Photo