Date: Mon, 9 Dec 2002 22:08:24 -0700
From: lrglmear <lrglmear@attbi.com>
Subject: The Reunion (no-sex)

------------------------------------------------------
NOTE: While this story is purely fictional, it draws
on my actual experience as a former LDS missionary.
(There's a story there, of course, but it's not the
story you're about to read.)

For conscience's sake, I should say that my decision
to submit this story to the Nifty Archive does not
necessarily mean that I approve of the content of
other stories in the archive. Nevertheless, I applaud
the archive's goal of collecting "the diverse hopes,
dreams, aspirations, fantasies, and experiences of the
Queer Community." Gay Mormon experience--and fantasy--
is one piece of that diversity.

------------------------------------------------------
THE REUNION is a sequel to an earlier story,
COMPANIONS, also in this directory.
------------------------------------------------------

THE REUNION


--  1  --

I had not planned to attend the mission reunion. I'd
attended the first one held after I returned from my
mission--a BYOB affair at a local park--and had left
feeling bored and disappointed. Hardly anyone I was
interested in seeing again showed up, and the twenty-
or-so people who were there didn't know what to say to
one another. There seemed to be an unspoken rule
against talking about our missions, which I would have
thought was the whole point of the gathering. When the
next mission reunion rolled around, six months later,
I didn't see any reason to go.

I went to the third mission reunion because Hermana
Finley called me at my apartment and used her best
Commitment Pattern techniques to cajole me into
attending. This would be the first mission reunion
since President and Sister Ingersoll had finished
their three-year stint in the mission presidency; so
Hermana Finley wanted to turn this mission reunion
into a homecoming. She was personally calling every
one of the Ingersolls' missionaries she could track
down--the Stateside ones, anyway. People would be
coming in from all over the country, she told me. She
tossed out a few names, only a couple of which I
recognized.

"Is Mike Ralston coming?" I asked.

Hermana Finley didn't know Elder Ralston; she'd
finished her mission around the same time he'd started
his. I heard her leafing through an address list.
"Let's see. Ralston. Yes. He's coming in from
California. One of your companions?"

"My first junior."

"So you won't want to miss seeing him." She paused,
letting the tension build a little before launching
the commitment. "What about it, Elder McKinney? Will
you be at the reunion?"

I couldn't help but be bemused by the textbook-perfect
"will you" question. I did not want to attend this
reunion, for various reasons. But Hermana Finley had
been a good friend to me during the first couple
months of my mission, when we'd worked in the same
district, and I wanted to support her. So I said yes.

After I hung up, I sat by the phone, wondering how I
felt about seeing Mike Ralston again.


--  2  --

After Elder Ralston and I had sex, for the first and
only time, he asked me to spend the night in his bed.
But neither of us could sleep--the bed was too small
and the night was too hot--so finally I returned to my
own bed. Elder Ralston dropped off shortly afterwards.
I lay awake for another two or three hours, stewing in
guilt. The sex had been...unbelievable. But as soon as
it was over, I felt sweaty and sticky and unclean. I'd
made a huge mistake. I'd known going in that this was
a huge mistake; but I'd allowed the moment to carry me
away, and now that it had set me down again, I stood
face-to-face with the enormity of what I'd done.

I started awake the next morning to find Elder Ralston
just slipping into bed behind me. His arm closed
around my chest, and he nuzzled the back of my neck. I
didn't move, but mentally, I went rigid. This felt so
good. I wanted so much to turn around. To embrace him
face-to-face. To run my hands over his arms and chest.
To... Please, Heavenly Father, give me the strength to
resist. Give me the desire to resist.

"Morning," he said. I kept my back to him but craned
my neck around. His hair was an unsightly mess and he
needed to shave. But he looked radiant.

"What time is it?" I asked. The morning seemed
brighter than it should be.

"Seven thirty. We overslept."

He snuggled closer. I shrugged him off. "We need to
get up. The maid'll be here soon."

"You're right." He gave me a final squeeze and rolled
away, but didn't get out of the bed. I waited a few
seconds, then looked back to see what he was doing. He
was propped up on one elbow, smiling at me. "This
feels so good," he said.

I groped for something to say in response. My mind was
a blank.

"Kiss me," he said.

I let him give me a domestic, Mom-and-Dad-getting-up-
in-the-morning peck.

"I love you."

There was a tense pause while he waited for me to
respond. Fortunately, he folded first. "All right, I
know, I'm getting up."

While Elder Ralston showered, I sat at my desk, my
bathrobe cinched tightly around me, and tried to do my
daily Book of Mormon reading. I couldn't concentrate.
I knew I had to end what was going on between Elder
Ralston and me before it went any further.

When I came out of the bathroom after my own shower,
Elder Ralston was talking with the maid in the
kitchen. I hustled to get at least my garments on
before he returned, so I wouldn't be naked in his
presence. Coming back into the bedroom, he smiled at
me, then sat at his desk to read from the Book of
Mormon. I finished dressing. I combed, shaved, made my
bed. Except for our having overslept, this was our
usual morning routine.

Seated at my own desk, I opened up my missionary
gospel study booklet, the way I normally would, and
stared at the pages while my stomach juices churned.
Give me the courage to do what I need to do, Heavenly
Father, I prayed silently. Help me know what to say.

Elder Ralston closed his Book of Mormon. "Shall we
squeeze in a little comp study before we head out?" he
asked.

How can he carry on as if everything's normal? I
wondered. "Actually," I said in a low voice, "we need
to talk."

Elder Ralston looked suddenly weary, as if letting
down a mask he'd been struggling to keep up. "I had a
feeling you were eventually going to say that," he
said. He got up, closed the bedroom door softly, then
returned to his chair. He sat with his legs spread and
his hands folded on the seat between them. He waited
for me to speak, with the air of preparing himself to
receive bad news.

I couldn't bear to look at him as I spoke. "I'm sorry.
I made a huge mistake."

I knew I needed to say something more; I knew he was
waiting for me to say something more. I opened my
mouth, then closed it again. I waited a few moments,
tried again, hoping that words would come to me. I did
this a couple more times before shaking my head
helplessly. I wanted this scene to be over. I wanted
this scene to not be happening in the first place. I
felt inept and cornered and angry--whether at Elder
Ralston or myself, I wasn't sure.

"You told me you were certain," Elder Ralston said. It
was both a defense and an accusation. He was referring
to the night before, when I'd climbed into his bed:
he'd asked me if I was sure about this, and I'd said
yes.

"I thought I was." This was a lie, but the truth would
make an already horrible situation even worse.

I glanced up at Elder Ralston. I got the feeling he
wanted to cry but was keeping himself under control.
"So you feel that what we did was wrong," he said.

I nodded.

"What do you feel you need to do about it?"

I knew what he meant: Would I be confessing to the
mission president?

"I'm not going to tell President Ingersoll. I mean,
that would get you in trouble, too, which wouldn't be
fair..." I trailed off. My pretense of selflessness
wasn't fooling either of us. "Look. Why can't we just
say--you and I, I mean--that we made a mistake, we
crossed a line, but we'll make sure it doesn't happen
again, and we'll just go on the way we were before."

"I can't do that, Elder McKinney." It smarted a little
to hear him call me by my title. Last night, mid-
passion, he had pulled back suddenly to ask, "What's
your name? Your first name, I mean." "Spencer," I told
him. "I'm Mike," he replied.

That had been last night. Now he said, "I can't do
that, Elder McKinney. I told you--I can't go on just
being your companion. Especially not now."

An extremely uncomfortable silence.

"I'll call President and get him to transfer me,"
Elder Ralston said finally. "It's the only way out of
this."

"I'm sorry," I offered again.

"Look, just..." For the first time, I sensed his
anger. He clenched his jaw, got himself under control.
"Would you mind leaving me alone for a bit?"

I left the bedroom, closing the door behind me. I felt
physically ill. The maid was in the kitchen, washing
the dishes we'd left from the afternoon and evening
before. I told her Elder Ralston and I were both not
feeling well, and that it would be best if she went
home for the day. She lectured me for a while about
not eating on the streets, threatened to make us soup
and herbal remedies; but I finally managed to get rid
of her. I went back to the bedroom. Pushing the door
ajar, I saw Elder Ralston kneeling beside his bed, as
if in prayer. He made no sound, but his shoulders
shook a little as he cried.

*	*	*

Elder Ralston spun an elaborate story for President
Ingersoll. He said that during our weekly community
service hours, preparing bandages at a local hospital,
he had fallen instantly--and utterly--for one of the
nurses. She noticed and arranged for him to accompany
her to the supplies closet. They made out wildly; she
gave him her address, which turned out to be in our
proselyting area; he couldn't get her out of his mind;
he had barely been able to restrain himself from
sneaking out at night to see her.

President Ingersoll ordered an immediate intercambio
with the zone leaders, so that Elder Ralston could
wait in their proselyting area, away from temptation,
while President arranged an emergency transfer.
Twenty-four hours later, Elder Ralston was on his way
to the other side of the mission. I was out
proselyting when the assistants to the president took
Elder Ralston back to our apartment to pack, but I saw
him briefly when I returned for lunch. With seven
people crowded into the apartment--me, Elder Ralston,
the ZLs, the APs, and Elder Evans, my new companion,
shipped in from Cerro Alto--it was easy for Elder
Ralston and I to avoid speaking to one another without
anyone noticing.

I didn't get off scot-free. Right after Elder
Ralston's "confession," President Ingersoll had him
put me on the phone, so he could bawl me out for
leaving my companion alone with a member of the
opposite sex. And when Elder Evans was brought in to
take Elder Ralston's place in the emergency transfer,
I discovered that Elder Evans, not I, was designated
the senior companion. I had been demoted.

I didn't complain. I knew that I deserved much worse.

*	*	*

I was strict about pushing thoughts of Elder Ralston
out of my mind. I occupied myself memorizing hymns or
scriptures in Spanish. The first month was the
hardest. My companionship with Elder Evans was rocky:
our personalities clashed, on top of which he was
pissed about being yanked out of Cerro Alto, where
he'd been on the verge of baptizing a family, into an
area where nothing seemed to be happening. The tension
in my relationship with Elder Evans only reminded me
of how good the companionship with Elder Ralston had
been. Members and investigators in our area wanted to
know what had become of Elder Ralston. Over and over,
people told me: He was such a fine missionary...you
two worked so well together...it was obvious what good
friends you were... And I would sit there, trapped,
silently reciting a scripture or hymn in my head to
crowd out the memories: Elder Ralston squeezing the
back of my neck, propping his foot up on my chair as
we studied, napping during the afternoon siesta,
rolling over to face me the night I climbed into his
bed, stripping off his garment top, stretching out
naked on top of me...

Pushing away the memories of sex was the easy part,
actually. I had plenty of experience pushing sex
thoughts out of my mind. The hardest part was missing
the companionship. I missed the teamwork, the easy
give and take, the delight of being with someone who
was delighted to be with me. It was hardest during the
month I was with Elder Evans. Then I was transferred
into a new area, where I shared a house with three
other missionaries, all friendly and welcoming. My
feelings of missing Elder Ralston became less acute.
The need to memorize scriptures or sing hymns
diminished.

*	*	*

When I had about six months left in my mission, I was
transferred into the Los Portillos zone. Elder Ralston
worked in the zone just adjacent, so we saw each other
once a month at zone meeting--from a distance. I was
careful to steer clear of him at the first zone
meeting, so we wouldn't have to speak. He seemed to be
doing the same.

The following month, during the loud socializing that
followed every zone meeting, I stood in a crowded
corridor, up against the wall, out of the way, waiting
while my companion, Elder Wahlquist, chatted with
friends. Suddenly, Elder Ralston was standing next to
me--close enough that we could talk over the noise,
but still a safe arm's length away.

"Hey," he said. His manner was friendly but subdued.
He didn't offer to shake hands.

"Hi." My heartbeat had suddenly gotten a little
faster.

"How are you?"

"Good. You?"

"The work's going OK. I think we may be able to commit
a couple families to baptism this month. How's your
area?"

I shrugged, tongue-tied in his presence. "The same."

"Good."

For the first time since we'd begun this exchange, I
looked him squarely in the face. I had to look away
almost immediately.

"You look tired."

I hadn't realized until he said it just how weary I
felt. I thought how good it would feel to have his
arms around me again.

"I guess I am," I said.

He must have sensed the longing in my voice: I could
feel him pulling back. With an air of changing the
subject, he indicated the elder standing next to him--
a native, not an gringo. The kid looked much younger
than nineteen, and dwarfed as he was by Elder Ralston,
he reminded me somehow of a doll. He had been standing
patiently while Elder Ralston conversed in a language
he couldn't understand. We gringos weren't supposed to
speak English in the presence of natives, but we often
forgot.

"Este es mi 'greenie'," Elder Ralston told me. "Elder
Jimenez."

When Elder Ralston said, "This is my greenie," I felt
a familiar emotion swell up inside me: envy. Envy that
Elder Ralston had sufficiently won back President
Ingersoll's trust to be made a trainer, while I had
only recently been made senior companion again. But
then something else happened. As he spoke, Elder
Ralston brought his hand down onto the back of his
companion's neck for an affectionate squeeze. A big,
boyish smile broke out across Elder Jimenez's
face...and an emotion I had never felt before surged
up inside me. It was like envy, but it was different.

Instinctively, I knew what it was: I was jealous.
Intensely jealous. Jealous of Elder Jimenez.

I wondered if they were sleeping together.

I shook Elder Jimenez's hand. "Gusto en conocerle," I
told him. Pleased to meet you.

I'd barely feigned enthusiasm, but the doll was all
smiles and nods. "Igual, elder."

"We should probably get going," Elder Ralston said to
me. Was he in a hurry to wrap up the conversation
because he could tell I was upset? "It was good to see
you again."

"Right. You too."

They left. I leaned my head back against the wall and
squeezed my eyes shut. When Elder Wahlquist came to
find me, he asked if I was feeling okay. I told him it
must have been something I ate.

Standing hunchbacked in a crowded minibus on the way
home, I admitted to myself for the first time the true
nature of my situation. Mine was not a case of
"struggling with homosexual tendencies." My case was
far more serious than that. As deeply as I wanted
anything in life, I wanted to be with a man. A man who
would squeeze the back of my neck and put his legs
across my lap. A man who would tell me that he was
head-over-heels in love with me and who would have his
arm wrapped around me when I woke up in the morning. I
wanted that as deeply as other elders wanted a wife
and kids.

I lay in bed all that afternoon and evening, feigning
illness, wallowing in self-pity and jealousy and
despair. By nightfall, the drama had already gotten
old. The next day I had to get up and go back to work.
I had no idea what to do with my epiphany of the day
before, but I did know that I couldn't afford to worry
about it right now. I didn't have the time. I didn't
have the energy. During my wallowing, I'd thought
about making a full confession to President Ingersoll,
but I couldn't bear the thought of everything that
would surely follow. I didn't have the nerve to face
it. Anyway, in the light of a new day, it was easy to
tell myself that I was just being melodramatic. After
my mission, I'd figure out what, if anything, I needed
to do. Maybe when I started dating again, everything
would work out.

I was transferred before the next zone conference. I
became a district leader; later, almost at the end of
my mission, a trainer. I didn't see Elder Ralston
again.

*	*	*

I finished my mission, came back to Utah, returned to
BYU. I moved out of my parents' house into an
apartment close to campus. I experienced minor sexual
tension around my male roommates. I felt no
inclination to date. I had no idea what awaited me in
the future, but I knew it didn't involve marriage
anytime soon. I threw myself wholly into my studies. I
professed to be too busy with school to have a social
life.

I decided to major in history. Perhaps because I
couldn't envision my future, I surrounded myself with
the past. At least where my studies were concerned, I
could map out the road ahead of me: complete these
courses by this semester, graduate by this date, move
on to a masters degree, then a doctorate, then on to a
college teaching career.

One day in class, one of my professors mentioned a new
book on same-sex unions as an example of an ideology-
driven historian seeing in his sources what he wanted
to see. I jotted down the name of the offending
historian: John Boswell. The BYU library didn't have
his book on same-sex unions, but it did have an
earlier Boswell book: Christianity, Social Tolerance,
and Homosexuality. Too embarrassed to check the book
out, I read it a little at a time there in the
library. It was the first document I'd ever read
written by someone unapologetically gay. Reading
Boswell's book, I began to realize something that was
confirmed in the weeks following, as I hunted down
other books in the library on homosexuality: modern
scholarship tended to side with the view that
homosexuality was normal. I hadn't realized that. I
thought only radical gay activists took that idea
seriously.

I'd always been a good student; now my history classes
were teaching me to be a critical thinker as well. And
though my teachers at BYU certainly didn't intend
this, my new critical thinking skills led me to see
the Church and its teachings in a more skeptical
light. I began to regard a lot of what was said in
sacrament meeting, or at Sunday school, or during my
BYU religion courses, or in Church publications, as
simplistic or naive. More and more, I felt like a
misfit at church. I felt guilty for feeling this way;
a voice in my head warned that I was being led astray
by intellectualism. I hungered to feel the Spirit the
way I had during my mission. I read the scriptures for
a half hour most mornings, though I didn't find
scripture reading as uplifting or rejuvenating now as
I had during my mission. I attended the temple once,
sometimes twice, a week. I could still feel the Spirit
in the temple; I rarely felt it anymore at church.

That's what was going on in my life when Hermana
Finley committed me to attend the mission reunion.


-- 3 --

The mission reunion was being held in the home of
Hermana Finley's parents, a large three-story house in
the Indian Hills area, north of the Provo Temple. It
was a brisk 45-minute walk from my apartment; I didn't
own a car. I didn't start out until seven, which was
when the reunion was scheduled to begin. I figured
that if I arrived late, it would be easier to slip out
early.

The house was packed with people. A lot of the
returned missionaries had fiancees or spouses with
them, and there were even a few babies. This was one
of the reasons I hadn't wanted to attend the reunion.
Hermana Finley gave me a big hug when I came in; I
would have liked to have talked, but she was busy
being hostess. I left my tub of store-bought macaroni
salad in the kitchen (my contribution to the potluck),
then went into the living room, where the Ingersolls
were holding court. I talked with them briefly and
superficially. They were both friendly, especially
Sister Ingersoll, but I'd felt guilty around them ever
since having sex with Elder Ralston, so I kept the
conversation as short as I thought I could without
seeming rude. They inquired about my studies and plans
for after graduation. They didn't mention dating or
marriage, which I thought was gracious of them.

I worked my way from room to room, squeezing past
other bodies, to see who was here. Elder Ralston was
in a family room in the basement. Seated on a sofa, he
saw me as soon as I came down the stairs. His face lit
up and he raised a hand in greeting. I nodded back. He
didn't look as much like a model as I'd remembered,
but seeing him was still enough to get my adrenaline
pumping. He wore a checked button-up shirt and blue
jeans. His hair was longer than he'd worn it as a
missionary, but he still had a wholesome, comfortable,
clean-cut look.

He appeared to be at the reunion alone. In imagining
different ways this meeting might play itself out, I'd
considered the possibility that he might introduce me
to his wife or fiancee.

He excused himself from the people he'd been talking
with, got up from the sofa, came across the room
towards me. To avoid the problem of deciding what kind
of greeting would be appropriate--handshake? hug?
nothing?--I tucked my hands into my back pockets. I
was surprised, actually, that he seemed as pleased as
he did to see me. I'd come prepared for a repetition
of our last encounter at zone conference: restrained
courtesy, friendly but hanging back, a couple minutes
of obligatory "So what have you been up to?" after
which we'd be careful not to cross paths again for the
rest of the evening.

Instead, he was beaming, speaking with emphasis to
show that he really wanted to know: "How are you?"

"Good."

I got the feeling he wanted to do a handshake or hug,
but when I didn't remove my hands from my pockets, he
crossed his arms across his chest to get his hands out
of the way. "I was getting worried. I was afraid you
might not come, and I'd miss the chance to see you."

I didn't know how to respond to that. "Well, here I
am," I laughed nervously.

"Here you are," he echoed. We both seemed unsure how
to proceed. "So you're at the Y."

I nodded. "You're still in California?"

He named a city. I knew nothing about Californian
geography except that Los Angeles was farther south
than San Francisco. But I said, "That's a long way to
come."

"Two-day drive; I stayed over in Vegas and drank a lot
of Coke." He laughed. "Maybe I shouldn't say that so
loud here. But it's been great. This is my first time
in Utah--other than the MTC, I mean, but of course I
didn't really get to see anything then. I'm staying
with Cutler and his wife. Tomorrow they're gonna take
me to Temple Square. I was hoping to watch Conference
in the Tabernacle, but they tell me it's really hard
to get in. I guess you have to get there hours early
to stand in line."

"Yeah, it's pretty crazy." Mentally I added: About as
crazy as this conversation. Here we were, former
missionary companions and partners in homosexual
transgression, talking about how eager one of us was
to attend General Conference at Temple Square.

"Have you ever been to Conference?" he asked me.
"Inside the Tabernacle, I mean?"

"Once. With my deacons quorum. We went to priesthood
conference."

"What was it like?"

"The wooden benches were really uncomfortable." I
couldn't bring myself to say what I knew I was
supposed to say: Oh, it was so incredibly spiritual.
But I felt I needed to try. "It was neat, you know,
seeing the Prophet and the other General Authorities
in person."

He nodded a little but didn't say anything. What was
he thinking as he looked at me?

"Listen," I said, "I'm going to see who else is here.
It was good to see you again."

>From the look on his face, I could tell he hadn't
expected the conversation to end so soon. He caught my
elbow as I turned to go. "Spencer..." he said, then he
stopped. My heart pounded. He released my elbow. "Come
find me again before you leave. Okay?"

"Sure."

He wasn't convinced. "You won't forget to look for
me?"

"Yeah. I mean, no. I'll look for you."

As I climbed back up the stairs, I glanced down to see
him watching me.

I couldn't tell whether I felt hopeful or uneasy.

I returned to the kitchen to get some food, then found
a seat in an upstairs tv room. Most of the people
sitting around me I knew either by name or by sight. I
listened to them talk as I ate, not contributing to
the conversation but smiling at the right moments as
if I were a participant. After I'd finished eating, I
wandered the upstairs portion of the house. I ran into
Elder Niederman, who had been my companion just before
Elder Ralston. He introduced me to his wife; we talked
for a while. I'd felt close to Elder Niederman when we
were companions, but now I felt that we had little in
common. I saw Elder Evans, but he was talking with
someone else, and I didn't attempt to make contact.
Returning to the kitchen for something to drink, I
found Elder Wahlquist. He was still single--he'd only
been home a couple of months--and like me, he felt out
of place surrounded by couples. I let him talk for
several minutes about how weird it was adjusting to
post-mission life and what he planned to do now that
he was back. When I could tell he was running out of
steam, I brought the conversation to a polite close
before he could start to inquire about my life.

When I was ready to leave, I retrieved my coat from
one of the bedrooms and found Hermana Finley so I
could say good-bye. We talked for a few minutes.
Talking with Hermana Finley wasn't as awkward as
talking with Elder Niederman had been, but I still
felt a vague let-down or disconnect, especially after
she introduced me to her husband and toddler. Yet one
more reminder that I hadn't continued down the life-
path the Church had charted for me.

At last I went to find Elder Ralston. "I'm taking
off," I told him. "What did you want to see me for?"

He looked a little confused. "I...wanted to talk. We
didn't really get a chance to catch up earlier."

"Oh."

"Do you have to go right away?"

I wavered in the face of temptation. "I guess I could
stay a bit longer."

My tone had been obviously reluctant, so he offered a
compromise. "Actually, it's kind of noisy here. Maybe
we could go someplace else to talk."

"Sure. If you want."

I waited by the door while he said his good-byes. This
took a while; he'd made a lot of friends as a
missionary. Finally he was ready. "Where are you
parked?" he asked me.

"I walked."

"Oh, perfect. So we'll go in my car, and I'll drive
you home afterwards."

As we pulled away, he asked where I thought we should
go. "What did you have in mind?" I asked him.

"I haven't really seen anything here yet; I drove in
just a few hours ago. If we went to BYU, is there
someplace...quiet...where we could maybe walk around
and talk?"

The way he said "quiet," I took it he meant "private."
Someplace we could talk about what had passed between
us on our mission without being overheard. This was
going to get raw. The most secluded place I could
think of was the wooded area at the lower end of
campus, so I told Elder Ralston to head south.

The streets in this part of Indian Hills were a maze.
The road we were on curved down into a hollow, and as
we came up the other side, suddenly the Provo Temple
loomed directly in front of us, its spire glowing
orange in the night. Elder Ralston was impressed; the
plan to go to BYU was immediately postponed.

We parked alongside the sidewalk that ran around the
temple. It was close to nine o'clock. I couldn't
remember when the temple closed, but the gate was
still open. Elder Ralston wanted to take the little
walk that led to the back side of the temple, the side
facing east, toward the mountains. Then he wanted to
climb up to the top of the hill that cradled the
temple from behind like an amphitheater. I was worried
that we'd get locked inside the temple grounds, but I
followed him.

Elder Ralston sat down on the hilltop; I sat close
enough that we could talk, but far enough away that
we couldn't touch. The ground was cold, though the
October night was only slightly chilly.

"It must be great to be so close to a temple," Elder
Ralston said. "Do you go a lot?"

"Once a week."

"That's great. My singles ward has temple night every
month or so. I go when I can."

Given our history, I thought, it was bizarre for us to
be sitting here talking about temple attendance. At
the same time, I was struck by how natural it felt to
be with Elder Ralston--despite our history, despite
the fact that we hadn't seen each other in nearly two
years.

We did the catching up he said he'd wanted to do. He
told me he was taking classes at a community college,
with hopes of eventually getting into a business
program. He thought he might like to start his own
construction company. He still built houses; he was
good at it; his knowing Spanish was a plus, since a
lot of the other employees were Mexicans. He asked
about my plans. I told him I was majoring in history,
that I was beginning to make decisions about where to
apply for grad school. "Maybe you could come out to
grad school in California," he said. "I'm sure you'll
have no problem getting in wherever you apply to."

I didn't say anything. The suggestion of my moving to
California seemed to open up a dangerous pathway for
the conversation.

Elder Ralston was apparently determined to take us
down that path. "Are you dating anyone?"

"Don't have time, really. Too busy with school" My
stock answer. I hurried to deflect the conversation
away from myself. "What about you?"

"I go out with people from my ward. You know, group
dating. Nothing serious, though."

More silence. I wanted to say, "Well, we should
probably get going." But I didn't have the nerve to
say it.

"Listen, Spencer." With our missions over, we should
be on a first-name basis now, though out of habit, I
still thought of him as Elder Ralston, not Mike. He
didn't look at me as he spoke. "I keep waiting for the
right moment to bring this up. But that moment doesn't
seem to be coming. I mean, we both seem kind of
uncomfortable, which I guess I should have expected.
So let me just be direct and up front--" He
interrupted himself, laughing a little. "That's what I
always used to say, right?" He glanced over; I got the
impression he was hoping for a smile or chuckle from
me. When I didn't offer it, he looked back at the
ground. He sat hugging his knees to his chest. I was
cross-legged, my hands buried in the pockets of my
jacket.

He plunged on. "I was really mad at you after...what
happened. I felt like I'd been totally open with you,
but you hadn't been with me, and that had screwed
things up. And I was really hurt by that. But since
I've been back from my mission, I think about you a
lot. I've still never felt as attracted to anyone as I
was to you. For a while I thought maybe it was just
the mission. You know how you get back and you start
to realize that you were a little crazy as a
missionary--doing things that made perfect sense at
the time but were actually kind of extreme or
unrealistic when you look back on them. Everything's
so intense when you're a missionary. And for a while,
after I got back, I thought, maybe that's what had
happened between us. Things had been so intense just
because, you know, we were missionaries. And now that
I was off my mission, I was going to go back
to...dating women and finding someone to marry and
have kids with and all that. But that didn't happen. I
still felt--I still feel--like what we had was
incredible, at least as long as it lasted. And
obviously I don't know where you're coming from. But
from my end of it...I'd really like to give things
between us a second chance."

I felt a strong urge to swallow, but I was afraid he'd
notice if I did. It was important to me right now that
I look unfazed. Collected. In control.

"I want to take things slow," Elder Ralston continued.
"I know that a lot of what went wrong before is that
things moved way too quickly. But...if you're willing
...I'd like to date you. Court you, I guess is what
they call it. And if things go well--you know, if we
both feel after a while like we can make this work--
then I want to ask you to be my husband."

As soon as he said "husband," I knew there was no way
we could continue this conversation on the grounds of
the temple. I stood up. "We can't talk about this
here."

"Why not?"

"Just...Let's go somewhere else."

"Okay." His voice was docile, placating.

We got back in the car. "Where do you want to go?" he
asked.

The question made me want to lash out. There was
nowhere we could go to have the kind of conversation
he wanted to have. Anywhere we went, we'd either be
seen or overheard. Even south campus wouldn't be safe;
what the hell had I been thinking when I'd suggested
it?

Elder Ralston--Mike, whatever--was waiting. The best I
could think of was Rock Canyon. I told Mike to turn
the car around and head higher up into the foothills.
We parked at the mouth of the canyon. Another car was
parked nearby, but its occupant or occupants were
nowhere in sight.

I got out of the car. Even though outside we ran some
risk of being overheard, I was afraid that if we just
parked we could end up...doing something stupid. Mike
followed me as I climbed to the top of a little rise,
where there was a large stone we could lean up
against. We stood there for a while, looking out at
the view: the temple, the MTC, BYU, the rest of Provo
beyond.

"What are you thinking, Spencer?"

I shook my head. "I don't know."

"Is it that you don't know what you're thinking, or
that you feel like you shouldn't be thinking what
you're thinking?"

The question hit home, which made me snap. "Look. I
know you believe that whatever you feel is right is
right." That was unfair, and I knew it; I plowed on
before he'd have a chance to protest. "But have you
actually thought through what you're saying? I mean,
you've told me tonight how much you're looking forward
to going to General Conference tomorrow. You've told
me how much you like to go to the temple. If you...
court me--and by the way, I could be your lover, but I
could never be your husband; I don't know what the
fetch you're thinking there--but that's not really the
point. The point is: you can't have it both ways. You
can't be a member of the Church, and go to the temple,
or to General Conference, or whatever, while you're
living in a homosexual relationship. Unless you're
planning to go into your bishop's office and tell him
bald-faced lies."

I was trembling--not from cold, but from the intensity
of my emotions. Mike kicked around in the dirt with
one foot, letting me calm down, maybe letting himself
calm down, too. Then he said, "So is that a no?"

It took me a couple seconds to understand the
question. Even after I understood it, I couldn't
answer. I knew what I ought to answer if I were going
to be a good Church member. But I couldn't bring
myself to say it. I was afraid to walk through the
door Mike had opened, but I wasn't willing to close it
either.

He didn't let me off the hook this time; he held out,
waiting for me to answer his question. Finally I said,
"You're asking me to make a choice I'm not ready to
make yet."

"What do you think you need to do in order to be ready
to make that choice?"

He was the missionary, Resolving the Investigator's
Concerns. I resented that; I felt like he was
minimizing the dilemma, insulting my intelligence.
"It isn't that simple. There's a lot of things I have
to figure out. I have to decide whether I believe the
Church is right about...homosexuality. Which means I
have to decide whether I believe the Church is right
about anything. And then on top of that, I'd have to
figure out what to do about the fact that I'm going to
BYU, and my family, and society, and just...the whole
...everything."

Mike seemed to be waiting for me to say something
else. When I didn't, he said, "I don't mean to sound
selfish, but you haven't...I mean, I'm still wondering
if...in everything you just said...where do I fit into
all of that? Or do I?"

I could tell it was a vulnerable moment for him. I
felt I ought to reciprocate by lowering my own
defenses, if only a little. "There's a part of me that
would very much like..." I was going to say "the same
thing you want," but that seemed too euphemistic, too
stand-offish. I decided to use the words he had used,
even though I felt terribly embarrassed doing so.
"There's a part of me that would very much like to be
courted by you."

He nodded--gratefully, I thought, though he didn't
seem as pleased or relieved by my confession as I'd
expected. He said, "But you're not sure if it's right
for you to want that. So we're still where we were
back, what, three years ago."

"I'm not like you," I protested. "I can't just pick
and choose which parts of the Church I'm going to
accept. If the Church is wrong about something as big
as...this, then I can't trust that they're right about
anything. I can't trust that they're really receiving
revelation. I can't keep believing that the Church is
true. But on the other hand..." I came up short, at a
loss to explain succinctly all the doubts and
struggles I'd experienced over the past several
months. "It's not just this issue. There are all kinds
of things that I've thought the Church might be wrong
about. But at the same time, I feel the Spirit when
I'm in the temple, or when I've read the scriptures,
or while I was on my mission. And I can't just deny
all that. But then again..." I shook my head,
frustrated. "I don't know what I believe anymore,
okay?"

"Have you prayed about it?"

A part of me wanted to scoff; another part of me was
guilt-stricken. Even as a missionary, I hadn't been as
diligent or conscientious in my prayers as I felt I
should have, and I'd fallen out of the habit of saying
my morning and nightly prayers almost as soon as I'd
returned home. Why hadn't I been praying about this?
It would have been the first thing I'd have
recommended to someone back when I was a missionary.

"No. I haven't been praying about it."

"Do you think it would help?"

"Probably. Yeah. I don't know why I haven't."

He started to say something, then stopped. "What?" I
asked.

"Nothing."

"No. What?"

"Well, I was just thinking about the Book of Mormon,
when it says that the evil spirit teacheth a man not
to pray. I thought maybe that's why you hadn't thought
to pray about this. Maybe Satan's been trying to keep
you confused. But I didn't want to say that, because I
was afraid you might think I was trying to bias you."

I didn't think he was trying to bias me. I did think
that his belief in demonic influence was absurdly
naive, though I'd held the same belief as a
missionary. At the same time, Mike's comment had a
certain appeal for me. He was talking in Mormon terms,
but to support an idea that was the complete opposite
of Church teaching: that if I prayed about it, I might
discover that it was okay for me to pursue a romantic
relationship with a man--a truth the devil wouldn't
want me to discover, because he would want me to be
unhappy. Mike was creating for himself a new kind of
Mormonism, one that let him be both Mormon and gay. I
didn't buy what he was saying; but I was attracted to
the possibility it represented.

"Look," Mike said. "Maybe you're right when you say
that I just pick and choose, or that I believe
whatever I want to believe. I know I'm not as
intellectual as you are, and I'm probably not seeing
the big picture or all the doctrinal stuff as well as
you do. But I know what I want, and I know what feels
right to me." He scuffed the dirt again with his toe.
"You asked if I was planning to lie to my bishop--"

"I shouldn't have said that."

"No it's a fair question. And the answer is, I don't
know what I would tell my bishop if you and I ended
up...you know...together. I might decide that it isn't
any of his business; so if he asks if I'm living the
law of chastity, and I feel like I am, even if I know
he wouldn't agree, then I might answer yes, even
though other people would see that as a lie. Or maybe
I would be direct and up front with him and deal with
whatever the consequences turn out to be. I don't
know. I'd have to do whatever felt right when the
situation came up. But I'm not really thinking about
that now. Right now, I'm just trying to figure if,
realistically, I should even go on hoping that you and
I could become...husbands, or lovers, or partners, or
whatever. After that, there's plenty of time to figure
out all the other stuff. You know, church, and family,
and all those other things you were talking about. I'm
not trying to make light of that stuff. I mean, frick,
I have no idea what I'd tell my parents, or the guys I
work with--it's not like construction workers are
super tolerant of gay people, you know? And I'd really
like to have kids, which is obviously a problem,
though you hear about gay guys who adopt. But again,
I'm not worrying about that right now. I guess what
I'm trying to say is--even though I know I shouldn't
tell you what to think, but here's what I think,
anyway, and it's that...if this is what we're supposed
to do, then God will help us work it out. So the
important thing right now is to figure out whether
this is what God wants us to do or not."

I was thinking about what he'd said about wanting to
have kids. I wasn't sure I wanted kids. But I also
realized that wasn't the point at the moment. Mike was
right: what mattered now was deciding for once and for
all whether or not I believed it would be wrong for
Mike and me to become...whatever we were going to call
it. There was no question that, like him, I wanted to
try. The question was: Was it wrong for me to want
that?

What if I decided that it wasn't? What if I did as
Mike suggested, and prayed about it, and emerged from
that experience feeling that in fact God wanted me
to...court Mike? What then? What kind of relationship
would that be--me at BYU, he in California? I guess I
could apply to grad school in California, like he'd
suggested; or maybe he could move to wherever I ended
up going to school. Until then...well, we wouldn't be
the first people in the world to have a long-distance
relationship. Courting from a distance might be better
anyway; it would let me decide whether or not I
thought this could work in the long-term without
physical attraction getting in the way.

But all these, too, were questions that could be
worked out later. First I had to figure out whether I
should even be letting myself entertain these
possibilities.

I had to admit that entertaining them made me feel...
buoyant. Hopeful. Like an array of possibilities--a
future--was finally opening up for me where up to now
I hadn't been able to see anything.

Should those feelings be telling me something?

What Mike and I had done as missionaries was wrong. Of
that I had not a sliver of doubt, whatever Mike's
views might be. Maybe, though, there was a right
way to do what we hadn't done right then. A right
time. A right place. A right foundation.

"What are you thinking?" Mike asked.

"I'm gonna pray about it." It was a commitment, not a
put-off.

"Would you like me to fast with you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I would."

"When?"

I fumbled. "What about tomorrow?" he suggested.

"That's kind of quick." He wasn't hoping for an answer
before he went back to California, was he?

"Whenever you want, then."

I thought about it. As a missionary, I had routinely
invited people to pray about the truthfulness about
the Book of Mormon before our next visit. Why not fast
tomorrow? The worst that would happen is that I'd end
the fast feeling I needed more time to mull this over.
"That's fine. Let's fast tomorrow. And then...we'll
see what happens."

It wasn't a terribly monumental decision. And yet I
had the feeling that a significant shift had occurred.
That in a way, I had just decided to do what the fast
was supposed to help me decide whether or not I should
do: to start seriously exploring the possibility of a
relationship with Mike Ralston.

Surely I ought to be frightened or anxious about the
huge step into the unknown I had agreed to take. But I
didn't. I felt at peace in a way I couldn't remember
having felt since my mission.

The conversation was done, but neither of us knew how
to end it. We stood for a while longer, looking out
at the lights from the MTC and BYU, standing near each
other but not touching. Finally, Mike said, "I should
probably take you home." We walked back to the car and
got inside and drove back down past the temple into
the valley.


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