The First Door

There I stood, on the threshold of my first door, my first door approach, and possibly my first heart attack. Elder Jones gave an encouraging — if unhelpful — nod and clapped me on the back.

I knocked.

After a few moments, a man in his sixties cracked open the door, a cigarette clenched in his teeth.

"Hello," I said. I punctuated every syllable with violent shaking and stammering. "W-we're ... M-Mormon ... missionaries. Have ... you ever ... m-met with ... m-missionaries before?"

The man didn't answer, perhaps because he was trying to figure out how to deal with the young man apparently having a seizure on his doorstep. Satisfied with my part in this approach, I glanced at Elder Jones. He gave me a look like the one skydiving instructors must give before they pry people's rigid fingers away from handles and shove the people out of planes. Unsuccessful at my attempt to pass the rest of the approach to my trainer, I continued.

"We're ... sharing a message ... a-about the B-Book of Mormon ... and how it can help your life," I continued. "I kn-know ... that this message is t-rue and I know th-that it can help you. C-can we come in?"

The man with the cigarette smiled. Maybe it was genuine interest. Maybe it was pity. Maybe it was just a desire to administer rudimentary medical attention, but he nodded and opened the door wider.

"Come in," he said.