“I am a son of God.”
The face in the mirror is tear-streaked and glaring back
at me. I can read the hatred in those
familiar brown eyes.
I did this countless times when I was living in
California. It was easy to believe
then. I would be standing there in the
short-sleeved, white, button-up shirt and tie.
As I would reach up with the comb to part my hair, I would remind
myself, “Elder Anderson, you are a son of God.”
Almost a year later, I’m standing here, glaring into my
bearded face, in a wife-beater and a pair of gym shorts. How the mighty have fallen.
“You’re pathetic,” it’s like the mirror pulled the words
from my mind to my lips and then right out into the open air around me.
I shiver. So does
the man in the mirror. I can see the
hurt written all over my face. I caused
that damage. I am the one responsible
for the tears running down my face. I am the one responsible for the hatred
that is glaring right into my core.
“You’re all alone,” I say.
That isn’t the truth.
At this point, standing in the bathroom talking to my reflection, I am
aware of the fact that I have joined ranks with Gollum, the Green Goblin,
Electro, and about a hundred other villains that spend half of their movie
screen-time monologueing to themselves.
The shaking is coming on again. I’ve never cried like this before. I didn’t on my mission when one of the people
I thought was a friend told me that I had been deceived by the devil. I didn’t when my mom refused to listen to me
tell her about the guy I had started liking, I didn’t even cry like this when I
realized that I’m gay. It’s the deepest
kind of crying, the howling, shaking, trembling, sobbing kind of crying. It’s the type of crying reserved for only the
most painful moments a human can experience.
It’s the crying that comes when there is nothing else that can be done
and no one else to comfort you. It is the
kind of crying that is the body’s last defense before giving up.
I can almost feel the eyes of God piercing through the
ceiling and crushing me. I can imagine
His disappointment in me. I was once a
leader among missionaries. I was
responsible for many people finding God. I was responsible for training and
teaching three other missionaries how to do their job. There was a time when I
was going places.
“Pathetic,” I whisper, and pull my eyes away from my
reflection.
My right hand reaches up instinctively and latches itself
to the bare skin of my left arm. There
is comfort in the touch. I gasp for
breath and close my eyes. I focus on the
touch. I know it is my own touch. I know that I am alone.
My hand finds its way to my collarbone. There’s the lump from the four-wheeling
accident. The bone had grown back
together in such a way that I would always have a lump of bone as a reminder of
the pain. My fingers trace the bump.
There is no pain, just the reassurance of contact.
I open my eyes.
There is defiance in my eyes in the mirror.
“I am a son of God.”
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