Interview #2

In a place of authority, the man, my stake president, positioned upright like a sergeant in his large, leather seat across a sea of varnished mahogany wearing a starch-white shirt, a shirt that only could have been ironed with love and care by his wife in their probably peaceful and perfect home just hours before, sat directly across from me, unaware of the hot beads of sweat that were dripping down my back, staining my polyester dress, and making me uneasy in my own lumpy chair that I could not even reach the back of without picking my feet up off the floor, as I thought of the dishonest act that I had allowed to happen in front of my scrupulous soul only the night before—for months I had prepared for this monumental interview, this interview I had willingly scheduled and come to, and because of that I knew the questions by heart—I knew he would inquire about my honesty, so I asked myself why I had let it happen, why I let my friend cut the student-section line at our school’s first home football game and not said anything at all, not even sorry to the people behind us, then I cursed my inability to focus and concentrated on his kind eyes, eyes that held more honesty than my own, and his Christlike words, words that were filled with more love and gentleness than anything I had ever said to anyone, words that were higher than the words I had screamed at the referee and opposing players with a vehemently tribalistic disposition the night before, his words that demanded I uphold perfect honesty about my imperfect honesty, holy words that I’m told were given from God himself and passed down the Church’s hierarchical ladder to this man in the starched white shirt, across the waxy desk that pierced my naked soul with its obnoxious glare.