A while ago I posted that my faith had become so transparent on me that even a virtual stranger could tell that I am a Latter-day Saint. It turns out that I am not the only one.
Every Sunday my husband, step-daughter and I get ready for church. My husband always wears his black suit, white shirt and tie, and is usually carrying his backpack filled with lesson manuals, scriptures, and other assorted readings.
From the window across the street, our neighbor watches.
He appears to be a kind man. Eleven months ago I tripped in the sidewalk in front of our house, and sprained both insteps, an ankle, both big toes, and a little toe, and hurt my knee, elbow and both wrists. Three cars drove past me lying in the street, and bystanders stood around and did nothing… except for our neighbor, who came running and helped Steve to get me into the car so he could take me to the hospital.
He watches as he sees a local man whom my husband graduated with come to visit. Some weeks he is at our house every day; other weeks we barely see him. My husband’s old friend has had a hard life, but then what can one expect when life starts out with beer in one’s baby bottle? In any event, he is always grateful for the friendship that we extend to him.
He watches as he sees Thanksgiving Dinner for friends and family and twelve missionaries from our church at our house and Tuesday night trips to our church for activities and dog walking.
And he watches us return from church on Sundays.
And then one day a while back he laughingly commented to my husband, “You know, you look like a Mormon all dressed up in your suit! Haha! Just kidding, man, just kidding.”
Apparently my husband wears his religion on his sleeve as well.
What we do matters. We knew that our neighbor was watching. But we can never tell who else is doing so. As Latter-Day Saints, we must hold ourselves to a higher standard. We must live our lives in such a way that others can tell that we are somehow different. We must live our lives so that others want what we have found.