Find My Way

Sunday mornings were the bane of my existence.

                After an exhausting week in the fields from sun up to sun down, the only thing I ever wanted to do was lay in my bed watching the room slowly light up. I managed to do so about one week every few months, but only by playing sick. Other than that, it was up at sunrise to pray, eat, and dress for church. The next few hours were spent in the company of our entire village, our pompous pastor, Father Doyle, and his condescending wife.

                “We read in the bible that God hates sin. Now, which of us has not sinned, my brothers and sisters? Are we not all guilty of displeasing our Lord and God?”

                Three hours (or two on a good day) of such talk was enough to make me feel awful, not only about myself, but also about God. If he was there, why would he want me to feel this way? If I were to believe in a God, it would be a loving God. One who listens to our troubles and watches over us like a parent. The closest I come to feeling like such a God might exist is when I’m out in the field after the sun sets, when I can look into infinite stars and feel both insignificant and claustrophobic at the same time.

                I managed to keep my mouth shut most of the time… up until the Sunday before I left. I didn’t know then that I was about to leave, of course, but now I know it was inevitable.

                “Every man is a sinner!” Father Doyle was saying that week. “We are drenched red in the blood of our own guilt, and without baptism, we cannot be saved! God commands us in his fury to repent!”

                “God does not command in fury, Father, but in love.” I spoke, more fury than love in my voice. I wouldn’t normally lose my temper over such sermons, but shortly before the meeting started, Father Doyle was condemning my older sister for failing to baptize her stillborn child. A God who does not save children is not a God I want to believe in.

                “Excuse me, sir, but I was quoting scripture. Are you saying you don’t believe in the Holy Bible?”

                “Yes, Father. I believe in every last part of the Bible. Especially John 3:16. Would you like me to read it to you?” My mother tried in vain to hold me back as I marched up to the podium, hardly knowing what I was doing. With a tremor, I flipped open to the scripture I had read so often and pondered as I gazed at the stars.

                “For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. I believe in God, Father, and in his Son. According to the Bible, that’s all I need.”

                And with that, I marched from the church; half to prove my point and half due to fear of the look that came over Father Doyle’s face. I left home that very night, telling my family I was to leave for Dublin and then to America in search of work, but really… I want to find truth. I need to know if there is a true religion; if there is a true God. At the very least, I want to feel like I belong.

                That’s how I came to be on this ship bound for New York. Most of my fellow passengers are bound for a city called Kirtland. They talk about a prophet, a new book of scripture, and a new sense of hope for the future. Something deep inside tells me I just might belong with them in Kirtland.