Page 21 of His Elder
"That's not your fault."
"I know that." But he didn't sound convinced. "It's just—she's all alone now. And I'm here, wearing this stupid name tag, pretending to have answers I don't have, pushing a gospel I'm not sure I believe in. What's the point? What am I even doing here?"
The question lodged in my chest like a knife.
What am I even doing here?
I'd asked myself that question a hundred times. A thousand. Every time someone slammed a door in my face. Every time I bore testimony of principles I was terrified I'd never live up to. Every time I looked at another elder and felt something the handbook said I shouldn't feel.
"I don't know," I admitted. "But you're not alone."
Vance's eyes met mine in the darkness. "Neither are you."
And just like that, the wall between us cracked.
Not shattered. Not yet. But cracked. Enough to let in light. Enough to let in air. Enough that when I finally stood to return to my bed, the space between us felt different.
Less like a battleground.
More like a truce.
PART TWO
THE NATURAL MAN
"For the natural man is an enemy to God, and has been from the fall of Adam, and will be, forever and ever, unless he yields to the enticings of the Holy Spirit, and putteth off the natural man and becometh a saint..."
—Mosiah 3:19
6
ELIAS
Zone Conference was held in a rented community hall near Plaça Espanya that smelled like industrial cleaner and institutional desperation. Three dozen missionaries packed into folding chairs arranged in neat rows, name tags gleaming under fluorescent lights. President Dalton stood at a makeshift podium flanked by Zone Leaders, his smile warm and fatherly in that way that always made my skin crawl.
Samuel sat beside me, spine straight, notebook already open to a fresh page. He'd been different since P-Day night. Not exactly warm, but less rigid. The granite wall between us had developed hairline fractures, thin enough to let something through. Not friendship, exactly. More like recognition.
Two people drowning in the same ocean, close enough now to see each other's heads above water.
"Before we begin," President Dalton said, clasping his hands together, "I want to thank each of you for your faithfulservice. The work you're doing here in Barcelona is changing lives. Changing eternities."
I resisted the urge to sketch the scene. The rows of identical dark suits and ties. The elders fighting yawns after another week of rejection and memorized scripts. The sisters in the front row, sitting ramrod straight like good girls, notebooks ready.
"We'll start with testimonies," Dalton continued. "Who would like to share how they've seen the Lord's hand in their work this week?"
Hands shot up immediately. The competitive ones, the true believers, the ones desperate for approval. Samuel's hand stayed in his lap, though I caught the slight twitch of his fingers. Muscle memory. The golden boy conditioned to perform.
I kept my hands folded, eyes forward.
Zone Leader Hutchins called on Sister Morrison, who stood and delivered a polished testimony about a woman who'd cried while reading the Book of Mormon. The usual beats: spiritual prompting, perfect timing, undeniable truth. She sat down to approving nods.
Elder Moss raised his hand.
"Elder Moss," Hutchins said, unable to hide his surprise.
Moss stood, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops like some wannabe cowboy. Brown snickered beside him.
"Yeah, so, uh." Moss grinned. "I just wanted to share this really powerful experience we had this week. We were teaching this investigator—Rosa, super solid, really feeling the Spirit—and we ended up spending, like,hoursin her apartment." He paused, the grin widening. "I mean, we werereallydeep inside, you know? Just going hard on the discussions."