CREATIVE NONFICTION 55curtain into the Celestial Room, which contained
a glorious three-tiered chandelier and stately chairs
and couches fresh out of a high-end furniture
magazine. Copies of the scriptures, tissue boxes,
and impressive flower arrangements stood on ornate
end tables. We were encouraged to reflect on the
ceremony, to commune with God in private prayer,
and to whisper if we needed to speak to others. I
felt relieved we could sit by the male members of
our families again.
Slightly disappointed by the ceremony but still
wanting to share the sublimity I had felt, I set off
on my mission. As a Spanish-speaking missionary
in Toronto, I often talked to passengers on subways
and buses: a captive audience. It was my first step
into the wider world, and how wide it was! On
just one bus ride I’d talk to immigrants from China,
Peru, Ghana, Ukraine, Mexico, and Afghanistan.
Our mission president asked us to visit Spanish-
speaking church members who had fallen away and
invite them back to the fold, and in our missionary
lessons with them in their homes, I often used an
analogy: if a train is heading to the place you want
to go, and a fellow passenger steps on your toe, are
you going to get off in a huff and deny yourself
your destination? If the Mormon Church is the
train, heading toward eternal happiness, why would
you ever disembark?
I had many faith-affirming experiences, but
some moments were terribly destabilizing, the
kind of feeling you get when your subway car
breaks down in the tunnel and the lights flicker on
and off. Late one afternoon, my mission com-
panion and I were out knocking doors through
a neighborhood of run-down townhouses. I had
fasted all day in the summer heat to be worthy
enough to find someone who would listen to
us, and I was weak from hunger and thirst. We
noticed a man in a black turban walking by; we
gave him a card for our free English class but did
not try to engage him in conversation. We had just
started talking to some teenagers in a driveway
when a woman came barreling out of the house,
screaming that she was a proper Christian and
ordering us off her property.
We apologized and immediately crossed to the
other side of the street. Shaken, in tears, I was try-
ing to compose myself when the man in the turban
came back and said, in excellent English, that he
had seen what happened. He kindly invited us to
dinner with his family. His smiling wife greeted us
at the door and introduced us to their young son.
The small apartment boasted little fancy furniture
but was clean. The family had emigrated from
the Middle East, and together, at a low table, we
ate basmati rice, vegetables, and fruit. They were
not interested in our religion, but their kindness
demonstrated a principle that religion teaches
better than science: to show goodness and mercy
where none is required. The son shyly showed us
his detailed Basmalah calligraphy, which formed
an image of a child praying. As we thanked them
for their generosity at the door, the boy gave me
the drawing.
The incident troubled me: of course I knew
there was goodness elsewhere in the world,
outside Utah, outside Mormonism, but here was
a family who didn’t need what I was offering, a
family—and the thought felt blasphemous—who
didn’t need saving. Throughout all the years that
followed—returning from my mission, kneeling at
the altar with my husband, Andrew, in the Jordan
River Temple, graduating in English instead of
Physics, editing science books and articles, giving
birth to my son (all the while cursing Eve’s curse),
moving from country to country for Andrew’s
work—I kept the boy’s picture.in thinking of all the people I have met,
I find it difficult to lock down any philosophical
axiom concerning science and religion. I can do so
only from my very particular—some may consider
it singular—point of view and set of circumstances.
The more stories we hear, however, the more I
believe we will begin to see guiding constellations
in the metaphysical sky.
I have recently been fascinated by Isaac Newton
and his particular circumstances. Abandoned by
his mother at the behest of his new stepfather,
Newton spent hours alone on his grandmother’s
farm creating makeshift sundials. In his solitude,
as James Gleick said, Newton made knowledge
“a thing of substance: quantitative and exact.”
Newton’s epitaph, written by Alexander Pope, is
most fitting:Nature and Nature’s Laws lay hid in Night:
God said, “Let Newton be!” and All was Light.