In the Book of Mormon, there is a story of a man named Enos who is hunting in the forest when he becomes overcome with the desire to be forgiven of his sins. He kneels there in the woods and supplicates before his Master, praying for forgiveness all night long. In the morning he hears the voice of the Lord, promising him forgiveness and other blessings.
I wasn't particularly troubled by my sins, though I had other difficulties that weighed on me like Enos' sins did on him. My stutter ebbed and rose according to various stimuli, but it was always there. It wasn't something I could bury in the back of my mind, either. It was always there when I testified or taught, a demon that reveled in mockery. I was convinced that I could never be the missionary I was meant to be if I were held back by this thorn in the flesh.
Missionaries are to remain with their assigned companion, but this was one of those instances where I decided to screw the rules. This was in the name of self-improvement, anyway. It was time for me to have an Enos moment.
The church house was literally twenty feet from our trailer, separated by only a fenced basketball court. After Elder Findlay was asleep, I pulled on my clothes, grabbed the church keys, left a note (in case Elder Findlay discovered my absence), and slipped out the side door of the trailer.
New Mexico hadn't yet embraced the full cold of winter, but I still hurried to get out of the chill. I opened the door of the church and entered.
Alone, I stepped into the chapel. Alone, that is, but for the Lord.
. . .
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