In! Milledgeville!

Apparently, my brother saw the missionaries riding bikes along a road in Milledgeville one day. He wasn’t aware there was a local LDS presence. The only other place he’d seen missionaries was in Macon, so naturally, he thought the Elders had ridden their bikes from there to tract in Milledgeville. Naturally.

For reference:

This is a bookmark my coworkers fashioned for me from a piece of legal-pad paper, their tender love, and the sweat of their respective brows. They also regularly referenced my “Mormon metro card.” (temple recommend)

Worth noting:
· Deena began sketching the Salt Lake Temple with pencil and blue pen. She completed the middle and left portions. Then, she wrote to the right: “And the Lord, on the seventh day, saw everything was good. Man, good, land, good, water good—Mormon good. And he was pleased.”
· I wanted William to have a part in finishing the temple, but Deena hadn’t left him any room, what with her paragraph-writing escapade to the right. So, he did the only reasonable thing and used a black pen to draw the portion of the temple that would usually appear on the righthand side on the left.
· William added the “Mormons only!” flag and the giant “AMEN.”
· I adore this bookmark.

Every Monday evening around 7:00 p.m., Mormons the whole world over begrudgingly look at the clock and ask if Grandma is finished washing the dishes yet. Sometimes she is still washing dishes, for what seems like maybe the eleventh hour, indeed, but sometimes she is finished washing the dishes and she is holed up in her room listening to the news.

News, which facts will inevitably be confused and which will come spilling out of Grandma’s mouth in an entirely inappropriate manner at the dinner table at which the nine-year-old is present, maybe a few days later. So when all the adults think she is clearing her throat to ask for the pepper, really what comes out of Grandma’s mouth is, “Did you hear that when they found her body it was entirely mutilated beyond recognition? And she was clutching a sack full of drowned puppies? And also Santa Claus, he died too. While mugging the Tooth Fairy. Teya? Did you hear me? Angels do not have wings. Teya, do you understand what ‘beyond recognition’ means?”

And if the latter is true, one of the adults will send one of the more sprightly children (since there are so many, you know) to knock on her door to exclaim, “Gate! Fam-lee niiiiight.”

Some of the Mormon information sites you may find, besides claiming we’re a cult (no, we really just do like Jell-O that much), will fill your mind with all kinds of mumbo-jumbo about how we “spend time together” and “sing” and “pray” and “sacrifice goats” at Family Home Evening. That’s how they get you, throwing in lies among some truths—in fact, all three of the first items actually do occur at a typical Mormon Family Home Evening. But on the last, they are completely, utterly mistaken—we save the sacrificial rites for Sunday. Gee.

Essentially, what I’m saying is that’s how a Family Home Evening bill becomes a law. Ask your senator; he knows. And he’ll write you a song about it.

To illustrate the events of the evening for those of you lacking the Mormonism, or even more disappointing, a crazy Grandma, this past Monday, I set up my brand new Macbook to take a picture of us every 10 seconds using Gawker. As you may notice, while there are many children running about, there are no goats anywhere to be seen. Here is a synoptic, visual representation, just for you:

(I know. It’s exciting. Breathe. The missionaries will “conveniently” knock on your door Thursday to discuss.)