The Mormons are coming, the Mormons are coming!



Two nicely dressed, fresh-faced young men showed up on my stoop the other morning. I saw them coming, jumped out of my chair, adjusted my bra-less self and swung the door open. “You’re here about God right?” I asked. The dark haired one smiled and the freckled blonde shuffled his feet uncomfortably, unable to look at me. “We’re here on Mission, but you probably already know that.” I nodded. I could tell the dark haired one was in charge . . . and observant enough to know he probably wasn’t converting anyone in our house. “Well I’m not really into God” I offered, “But I’m spiritual.” I squinted as I said this and placed my hands firmly on my hips. My tone of voice was solid, matter of fact. Why is it whenever I run into obviously religious folks I feel the need to justify my religiosity or lack thereof? Dark haired boy paused to assess the situation—would he make his pitch, hand over some literature or just bolt? Freckle boy had already given up and was backing his way down the stairs. Then I felt a presence at my knee. B was making “shoosh, shoosh” noises while pushing a large broom out towards the door. We all stopped to watch—it was a nice moment. “Broom” he said, peering up at the dark haired guy. I thought I should explain: “See, B here is a witch. At night he likes to ride on his broom and practice his pagan rituals. Later we’re going to do some ritual animal sacrifice.” Dark haired guy smiled a real, toothy smile. I grinned back. Without words, we had mutually agreed that our conversation had come to an end. I could hear the floorboards creaking loudly as my husband approached from behind me, “Honey, what are you doing?” His tone was a bit accusatory. Without having heard any of this, Corey had decided I was messing with the poor boys. But he was too late. The dark haired one was waving goodbye and B’s “shoosh, shoosh” and “broom brooooom”s reverberating out to the sidewalk and down the street as my two young visitors soldiered on.