On the sweetness of Mormon life.
My brother’s new wife curls up against him on the pew, toying with his hair. Two of my little girls sit on his lap. A third stands on the bench next to him to better rub his back. He stares rigidly at the speaker and blushes. His wife smirks.
A morose priest slouches morosely to the podium and morosely gives a 15-minute talk he wrote himself. He morosely bears his testimony and sinks back into his chair.
My girls tire of my brother. They squall up and down the bench, bearing their testimony in ribbons and ruffles of the natural man.