| he’s different, too, because he lives in each and every one of us Mormons. And every day we can talk to him whenever we want to, and he can talk to us, guiding us to do what is right, which is whatever he tells us to do. We’re so lucky. My first few weeks of having The Gift of the Holy Ghost were underwhelming. Maybe even disappointing, but I never told that to anybody at church. Whenever anyone asked me if I’d been communicating with my Still Small Voice, the Holy Ghost in me, I’d say yes, we’d been having all sorts of great conversations. And then they’d ask what the conversations had been like, what I’d been learning, and I’d say that I couldn’t tell them because the conversations were private. But that’s not the truth. The truth is that I happily would have told any and everyone what my conversations with the Holy Ghost had been like if I’d had them. But I hadn’t had any. And I didn’t know why. I’d prayed privately every morning, afternoon, and night, on my knees even, to hear the Holy Ghost. Even though Mormons aren’t accountable for our sins until we’re eight years old, so I knew I hadn’t had a ton of time to really screw things up, I wondered if somehow I had. Why haven’t I heard the Holy Ghost? I’d ask in my prayers. Is there something I’ve done wrong that has made me not deserve him? Is |
confirmed. The flight to Sydney is fourteen hours of puking-in-an-airplane-bathroom hell. I eat two full in-flight meals and puke them both up, plus the near-constant stream of snacks that the flight attendant offers—gummy bears, graham crackers, Doritos. Every last snack is down, up, and out for me. It’s chaos. There’s not one moment of the flight where I’m not eating or throwing up or—in the time between the eating and the throwing up—planning how to get up for the fourteenth time without getting a weird stare from the businessman in the toupee sitting next to me. By the last time I throw up, I feel like I’m about to pass out. My mouth feels sour from the vomit and sore from the act of vomiting. I shove my fingers down my throat, my eyes bulging as a by-product, and with the brown chunky fluid that pours out of my mouth and into the gray toilet bowl like an ugly waterfall, I spot a small, white, hard chunk. I run my tongue along my teeth and realize one of them is missing. The acidity from my stomach fluids has worn down my enamel to the point that I just lost a lower-left molar. I taste pennies and spit into the sink. A stream of blood. I reluctantly cup my hand under the airplane bathroom sink and wash my mouth out with the questionable water. I do this four or five times before catching my reflection in the mirror |
