My daddy was a Mormon. When I was a little girl, we sometimes attended The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I don’t remember a lot about those services, except that we had two books; the Bible and The Book of Mormon. As an adult, I have to say that I don’t agree with their doctrine—or else I’d be a Mormon—but there is something that I absolutely loved about those people.
What do I love about Mormons?
The elders.
Mormon elders are different than other denominational elders in that they are young men ages 18 to 25. Elders are sent as missionaries into various parts of the world. If I remember correctly they do not have a say in where they go, and are almost always sent out in twos.
Although I don’t agree with their beliefs, I’d like to share my fond memories with the Mormon Church. I grew up in a small town. (Butler, Alabama) The elders would make house visits. I don’t remember why they came to our house. Maybe it was because our church time was divided between Mom’s Baptist church and their tabernacle? Anyway, I remember one Elder in particular. I wished I remembered his name. He had red hair and freckles. He was around 18. I was a little girl, a young tomboy, who hadn’t discovered “boys” yet, but there was something about this man that drew me.
He didn’t look pass me, but took the time to talk to me. Over the period of time he was in our area, he found out that I had a child-sized guitar and wanted to learn to play. He taught me a few basic cords, stretching my small fingers beyond their limits. Every visit to our home, while the other elder would talk with my parents, he’d bring his guitar and we would play and sing. I can’t remember ever strumming a guitar after he left, but that boy instilled a desire of worship in my soul that never diminished. Even when I was living in sin, I’d find myself worshiping the Lord with songs.
I wish I could find him, to say thank you.
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