Page 13 of His Elder

Elder Price opened his planner, made a note. "We should prepare for Saturday. Review the lessons, anticipate her questions about—"

"About how the church treats queer people?"

His pen stopped moving. "About gospel doctrine, yes."

"You know she's going to ask. Directly. And she's not going to accept vague answers about God's mercy."

"Then we'll teach her the truth. That God loves all His children, but He's also given us commandments. That the law of chastity applies to everyone. That marriage is between a man and a woman, but that doesn't mean—"

"Doesn't mean what? Doesn't mean gay people are broken? Because that's what the doctrine says."

"It says they have a different path. A harder path, maybe, but—"

"A path where they can't fall in love. Can't build a life with someone. Can't have the eternal family you just told Maria was the whole point of existence."

Elder Price's face had gone pale. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Attacking the gospel. Attacking me. If you don't believe, if you think it's all wrong, why are you even—"

"I'm not attacking you. I'm asking you to think about what you're actually saying when you tell people like Maria that God loves them but their family isn't valid. That their brother or sister or whoever is loved but excluded."

"It's doctrine."

"It's cruel."

"It'sdoctrine, Elder Vance. You don't have to like it, but you committed to teach it when you accepted your call."

"I committed to serve. Not to lie."

"Teaching the gospel isn't lying!"

"Teaching people that God's love is conditional is."

Elder Price snapped his planner shut. "We're going home. Now."

"It's only five-thirty. We have two more hours—"

"Now."

He strode toward the park exit without checking if I followed.

I looked back at the fountain, at the bench where Maria and I had sat. At my sketchbook, still open to the half-finished drawing.

Then I closed it, stood, and followed Elder Price into the lengthening shadows.

4

SAMUEL

The district meeting room smelled of furniture polish and anxiety. Four grey folding chairs arranged in a semicircle faced Elder Kempton's pristine desk—the same setup in every mission apartment I'd seen, as if the uniformity itself could ward off apostasy. I'd arrived early, of course, my planner already open to the weekly goals worksheet, pen poised. Vance had dragged himself in exactly on time, coffee-deprived and sullen, dropping into the chair beside me with enough force to make the metal legs screech against the tile.

Elders Moss and Brown slouched across from us, whispering and snickering like schoolboys in sacrament meeting.

"Dude, seriously," Brown hissed, leaning in close to Moss. He was from somewhere in California, sun-bleached hair falling past his collar in direct violation of the grooming standards. "You can’t go around asking people if they want tomojar el churro."

"Why not?" Moss whispered back, looking genuinely confused as he scratched at his patchy beard. "It means 'wet the churro.' Dip it in the chocolate. That’s how you eat them."