A day after New Years 1978, I visited my maternal grandfather in a nursing home in Cranbury, New Jersey. Due to his advancing condition, I suspected it would be my last visit. After talking for about 20 minutes in an antiseptic lounge called "the Roosevelt Room" about Israel and Colorado, we moved down the hall to watch the Mummers' Parade on a color television, together with a roomful of nodding old men.

I wrote in my journal that after I had "been in places like that before, but they never seemed so impersonal and cold as this did today, with someone I cared about involved."

Although the following poem, written two days after this last visit to my grandfather, was said to concern those who did not have "the comfort" of the restored gospel, it seems reflective of a more private world:

External loveliness, where lies
the beauty of thy soul?
Where thy inner glory

What is this -- this pain,
this anguish, this torment;
This wretched existence
laid upon me by weakness?

Why am I thus? Who am I?
Who made me so?
Who is to blame?

On the morning of January 14, Rebecca Payne accompanied me to the Mission Home where at that time, all stateside missionaries began their service. I wrote: "She went in the front door with me and then left. Her last words were, 'Be good' She said good bye, then left me alone in the throng. After about a half an hour of weeping parents and girlfriends' sobbing, things finally quieted down and only the missionaries were left. We received our name tags, which give name, room-number, and seat number in the general assembly room, bunk number, and study room number. I am in Room 307. My companion this morning until I meet my regular companion for the next few days, has been Elder Thomas B. Sant, who is going to the Pennsylvania Pittsburgh Mission.

"I'm getting used to being called 'Elder Rue,' wrote in my journal. "I've introduced myself that way several times now and it doesn't even seem strange any more. "This evening, after dinner, the president of the mission, J. Martell Bird, home gave a talk on repentance. He said he had ben asked by the Brethren to give it. I found it to be, I think, one of the most motivating sermons I've ever been privileged to partake of. He exhorted the Elders and Sisters present to take the opportunity to confess any and all sins hitherto not repented for -- either as a result of procrastination, rationalization, or refusal to admit error. After the meeting, it must have been 70% or 80% of those present that signed up for a confessional interview with one of the presiding brethren here. I was one. Although I did not have the opportunity today, I was promised I would tomorrow. It felt good to know I would shortly be entirely clean and free of guilt."

On January 16, I was set apart as a missionary by President Bird with the words: "You are a missionary of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, an ambassador of the Lord with an apostolic calling. I send you forth to reap the harvest. Be a great missionary. Elder Rue, serve the Lord. Don't settle for second best. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen."

Later that day, I participated in two more endowment ceremonies in the Salt Lake temple, and attended an unusual question/answer session with the Temple president in the Solemn Assembly Room of the Sale Lake Temple: "As we entered the Garden Room in the first session, I noticed Sister Payne was in the company. She probably came to see me again before I left, but we were led out of the Celestial Room almost immediately after passing through the Veil to go to the Solemn Assembly Room. I wanted to go into the prayer circle with her, but James [a character in the ritual-drama] asked that only those eight elders passing through for their own endowments participate."

After flying to Denver, on the afternoon of January 19, it was pleasant to be met at the airport by two assistants to the mission president who knew each of the five of us by sight and name, having studied our photos.

We were taken to the headquarters of the Colorado Denver Mission, in a corner of a Littleton shopping mall parking lot. There, seated around a conference table, mission president Gerald B. Lambourne met with incoming elders and gave words of encouragement.

After a meeting and lunch, we all boarded buses to our respective stations; I, to the Colorado Springs 6th Ward. My companion and "trainer" was Elder Michael J. Wood, who met me at the bus depot.

One unusual -- and sometimes stressful -- aspect of LDS missionary life is living with a same-sex "companion", whom one is instructed to always be with. This is allegedly based on the New Testament charge to go "two by two" to preach the gospel.

My first day with Elder Wood was spent "tracting"--going door-to-door leaving religious literature and talking with whoever would let us in. That evening, a family by the name of Cornelius treated us to dinner at a high-priced restaurant.

Throughout the next two years, I found members of the Mormon church extremely kind in this regard, opening their homes to missionaries almost without limitation.

The next day, a Saturday, Elder Wood and I attended the funeral of a four-year-old girl who fell out of an automobile and was run over by her mother and killed instantly. In my journal, I described the ceremony as "inspirational", reflective of Mormon attitudes toward death and a belief the child had been taken into heave as an innocent.

Other facets of missionary existence more mundane. For instance, the following passage from my journal (January 24) described my disillusionment:

"This morning the sisters [female missionaries] came over. They spoke cattily with my companion about Elder Bell in Third Ward, who is apparently not doing too well as a missionary. * * *

"I feel as though I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown from all the studying I've ben doing. This had better be worth it -- I shouldn't say that.

"Maybe I'm too proud, I don't know. But every time someone makes a remark about how 'green' I am, or something akin to that, I feel degraded. "For the last four years I've planned on going on a mission, but it always seemed so distant. Now, here I am -- smack in the middle of it all, and I feel totally inadequate (I can't even spell). "I'm running out of money and have no idea when I'll be getting more. I'm so tightly wound up emotionally and physically from studying discussions that I can't even think straight.

"I'm glad I'm out here, but, Oh Lord, how long shall I cry, and thou wilt not hear! even cry unto thee out of the violence of my soul and thou shalt not save! 'Oh God, where art thou? And where is the pavilion that covereth thy hiding place?' (D&C 121:1). Where, oh Father, is the fulfillment of the promise thou made unto this thy son? When wilt thou show unto him the peaceable things of thy Kingdom that he may be filled with them and his soul no longer wracked with this fear?"

A voice from my heart spoke these words to my mind:

"Cease thy self-centered longings and self-inflicted pain, and work unto God. Prepare for thy heartstrings to be rent as were Abraham's. Is it any wonder thou art alone? How can my spirit strive with thee in thy present state? Prepare ye the way of the Lord, and I shall be with thee. Repent and be sanctified that thy joy may be full in the knowledge of my power. Open the doors of thy heart and I shall be within thee; I shall be beside the; I shall be before thee and behind thee, and all shall know I am with thee. Then shall you behold and possess the peaceable things of my kingdom, which are knowledge of and unity with me and thine own self. Be true. Be just. Be prayerful and holy. Study. Work. Rely on my arm and I will not allow thee to falter. Know of my love for thee."

Temporarily, at least, I reassured myself sufficiently of the divine nature of my calling to enable me continue.

Elder Dale Sumsion telephoned, late on the night of January 25, to report his companion, Elder Richard Wilson was ill and required a priesthood blessing. I anointed him and Elder Wood sealed the blessing. After a few minutes, Elder Wilson [pseudonym] began to whisper something. Elder Sumsion put his ear beside his companion's mouth and heard him repeating over and over the name "Satan, Satan".

The three of us laid hands on his head and Elder Wood commanded Satan "to depart, in the name of Jesus Christ and by the power of the Melchizedek priesthood" Shortly, Elder Wilson looked at Elder Wood and laughed aloud, "How dare you!" Elder Wood raised his right arm to the square and repeated his words, but Elder Wilson continued to laugh.

My companion directed Elder Sumsion to assist. The two of us laid hands on his head again and Elder Sumsion acted as mouth while Elder Wood watched. Immediately Elder Wilson relaxed, but shortly the devil returned and he began to say horrible things about the church and the servants of the Lord.

I was behind him and Elder Sumsion was beside him as he lay on the bed. Elder Wilson looked at us and cringed several times, pleading, "Go away. You hurt my eyes." He then vomited three times and babbled something about "Legions" and devils going into pigs. Through all this, Elder Wood was trying to contact the zone leaders.

Finally, around midnight, they answered the phone. Elder Wood shouted, "Elder Jorgensen, there's something very wrong in 4th Ward! Come over right away! There's an evil spirit in Elder Wilson and he's very sick."

After Elder Wood hung up the phone, Elder Wilson screamed, "If you can't cast me out, what makes you think the zone leaders can?" While this was going on, I asked Elder Sumsion to get me some Lysol, and I cleaned up the vomit from the carpet.

By the time the zone leaders arrived, Elder Wilson was quieter. Elder Bulstrode attempted to cast the spirit in much the same manner as Elder Wood, but with even less success. Elder Wilson laughed aloud again and cackled something about a certain young lady. Elder Bulstrode paled and said, "How could you have known about that?"

Elder Wilson resumed his physical contortions, thrashing about on the bed and engaging in two-way conversations the spirit he perceived. His stomach, I could see, was visibly distended, with a hard lump the size of an orange. Within a half hour or so he calmed down.

I said, "Elder Wilson?"

No answer.

Will you pray with us?"

He nodded.

"Will you lead us in prayer?" Again he nodded. The five of us knelt and waited for him to follow. After a few seconds, were all on our knees. Elder Wilson began to fall forward to the floor. Elder Bulstrode supported him by the arm. He began: "Dear Heavenly Father, I thank you for my friends who are here tonight to help me. Please take away this evil spirit that is in me..." He continued for a few minutes and we all said 'Amen.'

Following the prayer, Elder Wilson seemed restored to his normal self, and fell asleep. We stayed all night with Elder Sumsion, and arrived back at our apartment around 5:30 a.m. and slept til noon.

Over ensuing weeks, Elder Sumsion related behavioral symptoms including at least one physical assault, continuing to speak in the first person as though he were the devil, and "sleep-walking" around the apartment grounds in his Temple garments.

I do not know whether this was an unusual period of stress for Elder Wilson or not (it may well have been). But I have no question the emotional tension generated by Mormonism creates unhealthy neuroses in some of its members, sometimes leading to physiological manifestations.

The bind caused by the literal injunction to "be ye therefore perfect even as your Father in heaven is perfect," and yet live with the guilt of being human, some find unbearable.

Certainly, the injury and subsequent surgery effected my morale. My reliance on priesthood leaders for counseling only deepened my depression and inappropriate feelings of guilt.

One Sunday morning (March 5), I awoke in the midst of a dream: "...I dreamt my brother John was aiming a gun at me. He pulled the trigger, but missed me. He hit my sister Ella, with whom I was talking, in the side of her head. I told her that her ear was bleeding. She put her hand on it and looked at the blood, saying, 'Oh, it must be my ear infection again.' Apparently it didn't cause her any pain. Within a few minutes she was dead. I saw John's face. His eyes were the eyes of Satan, having done the work of Cain, and he rejoiced in his deed. I then found myself talking with my father. I asked him 'Do you love John?' He replied, 'Of course. He's my son.' I was crying as I asked, 'Why did he kill his only sister?' My father did not know. I then awoke in tears.

"After I fell back to sleep, I had another dream. I dreamt I was responsible for a large group of people--they were all my age. There was a man chasing the group which I was leading. He was driving some sort of a fork-lift or something, chasing us down a road. I commanded my friends (the group) to get into a certain building and hide themselves in a small room upstairs. I saw to it they were all safely in the room and then waited at the front door for the man chasing us. He arrived and entered the door. I sensed he had great power, but mine was greater. He began to yell at me, making all manner of false accusations toward me and my group. As he was talking, he was walking closer and closer to me. Finally, we were face-to-face, inches apart. Then I began to walk toward him and he began to go back in the other direction. Finally, I ordered him, by virtue of the power and authority I hold, to depart and to bother us no more. He obeyed. The group came out of the small room upstairs and I informed them all was well and they had no cause to fear."

Steeped in the Book of Mormon and Old Testament, of course I looked for divine meaning in these dreams, but could find little. My self-esteem was low. I felt powerless, and wanted to feel otherwise.

On March 8 I received what I felt was a divine revelation telling me it was time to return to New Jersey, and I called a cab. On a Greyhound bus I wrote a somewhat disjointed letter to the mission president urging that neither he nor Elder Rowley feel guilty for my departure.

However, in a depot restroom in Burlington, Colorado, I experienced another revelation, instructing me to return. The mission president picked me up in his car at the Denver bus station and took me to his home in nearby Littleton, where his wife served cheese omelets. At the president's request, I said a prayer over breakfast. Later, he administered a priesthood blessing to me, which in the Mormon church consists of laying hands on a person's head and saying whatever the Spirit moves. In my case, President Lambourne attempted to reassure me of God's love, and of my divine calling to serve a successful mission, promising I would not regret it so long as I continued on a righteous path, keeping the Lord's commandments.

In a discussion which followed, the mission president admitted he was wrong in placing me with Elder Rowley -- an unusual admission from an LDS priesthood leader at any level. "He said he was with both learn individual enough. He said he thought [it] had been inspired; but (as I also had been with regard to leaving) he was mistaken. He said we could both learn that Satan could also give good feelings to an and "you shall feel that it is right" is not enough. He said he thought perhaps we had both been deceived. Before ending the interview with Lambourne, I tearfully read aloud to him from the book of Jeremiah 20:7-10;14-18) a passage with which I particularly identified, with emphasis on the verse:

Then I said, I will not make mention of him, nor speak any more in his name. But his word was as a burning fire shut up in my bones, and I was weary with forbearing and I could not stay.

For I heard the defaming of many, fear on every side. Report, say they, and we will report it. All my familiars watched for my halting, saying, Peradventure he will be enticed, and we shall prevail against him and we shall take our revenge on him...

Cursed be the day wherein I was born: let not the day wherein my mother bare me be blessed.

Cursed be the man who brought tidings to my father, saying, A man child is born unto thee; making him very glad.

And let that man be as the cities which the Lord overthrew, and repented not: and let him hear the cry in the morning, and the shouting at noontide;

Because he slew me not from the womb; or that my mother might have been my grave, and her womb to be always great with me.

Wherefore came I forth out of the womb to see labour and sorrow, that my days should be consumed with shame?

President Lambourne listened patiently, offered some words of counsel and a priesthood blessing, and told me he was assigning me to work in Lakewood, in the Denver metro area, to work with an Elder James Goodin, a native of Diamond Bar, California. He was a good-natured redhead with a lot of freckles, who enjoyed surfing the Pacific in his pre-mission life.

We spent our days bicycling around neighborhoods of metropolitan Denver, going door-to-door in an effort to spread the Mormon gospel as "restored" through Joseph Smith. Of course the most effective method was when church members would introduce us to acquaintances whom they had already prepared to receive our message.

Much of our time, however, was spent in less efficient activities like "tracting" or visiting people who had signed guest registers at LDS visitors' centers around the world. (It was a common practice at that time, and probably still is, to cut their sign-in books into strips and mail those indicating the signers were non-members of the church to the appropriate missions.)

Problem, no doubt, arose from secret concerns I was beginning to harbor about the infallibility of priesthood leaders. As my senior companion, church doctrine held that Elder Goodin (as well as district, zone, and mission leaders, all the way up to the church-wide level in Salt Lake City) was entitled to receive heavenly instructions which I was duty-bound to obey.

President Lambourne's admission to me of possibly having been "deceived by Satan" in making the decision to place me with Elder Rowley was perhaps the beginning of my doubts of the infallibility of Priesthood authority.

At the end of March (the 22nd), I suffered another fall from grace. More accurately, over the front wheel of my bicycle when I hit a small ditch and went over the face first into the dirt. I was incapacitated for several days, with my lips swollen to nearly twice their normal size.

"I received small cuts over each eye-brow, on my nose, and a deep gouge on the inside of my lower lip, caused by teeth. I knocked both lenses out of my glasses, but they were unbroken. I was unconscious for a few seconds, and, at first, was unable to get up. Elder Goodin, trying to force his authority (as usual), had taken off in the other direction without saying anything, and wasn't there when I fell."

After receiving three stitches in my lip, at a local hospital, we returned to our small apartment.

In the mail, I received a box of cookies packed in popcorn, from someone in New Jersey; and a letter from my mother indicating my brother was keeping her busy:

"Haven't written for a while. Life has been eventful. John decided to run away--once again. He hitch-hiked to Innisfree, bummed $10 from Frank on the pretense of going to California and hitch-hiked home. I think that's what he had in mind the whole time, but he wanted to be sure he got everyone stirred up and concerned about him. I came very close to wringing his neck."

However, concerns about John seemed foreign to me, as I had my own to worry about. Once again, I had arrived at a belief that I was incapable of completing a two-year mission.

As my injuries began to heal, I packed my belongings and ten peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches in a bread bag, and boarded an eastbound bus. Elder Goodin apparently suspected I was planning on leaving. While I was in the shower one morning, he took $100 out of my pocket, went out to get change, and repaid himself $35 I owed him. After I purchased my bus ticket, this left $1.01 in cash, a check drawn on a New Jersey bank, and my bag of sandwiches to travel across the country with.

Before leaving Lakewood, I asked Elder Goodin to kneel with me in prayer, asking God to be with each of us as we did his will. I instructed my companion to~the mission president and tell him I would call from the bus terminal.

"President Lambourne asked me if my reason for going home was problems I'd had with companions -- feeling unloved or not wanted. I admitted, 'I think that's part of it.' He asked further, 'Do you think that's all of it?' I answered that I didn't know. Since I don't know what the other reasons are, I suppose it could be true," I wrote in my journal on the bus.

The morning I left (March 27th), another letter arrived from my mother, this time informing me my maternal grandfather, Samuel Woldin, had died the day prior to my bike accident. "I thought about calling you but decided there [was] little point in hastening the word to you since there was little you could do," she wrote.

On the bus, headed into Wyoming, I wrote of some early recollections of my grandfather: "...cigar smoke, baseball games on TV, and talk of golf. I remember playing with his ashtray. Whenever we visited him, it was full of cigar butts. I used to empty it. It was the type that had a spindle sticking out of the center. When pushed down, the metal ring would spin and ashes would fly off into the bottom part of the tray. "Grandpa was a good, honest man. The only negative thing I ever knew him to have done was to pinch the rear end of a nurse in the home he was staying at a few months ago..."

Remembering my grandfather, I thought about church teachings that only those who accept Mormon baptism could hope to enter the Celestial Kingdom. My grandfather, a Jew who married a Catholic, had told me more than once that he wasn't interested in Mormonism.

As I continued eastward across the great plains struggling with these thoughts and my feelings about leaving the mission field, my lack of cash made turning around impossible. There was no going back.

By the time I reached Davenport, Iowa, I was down to six sandwiches, three apples and a bag of potato chips.

My parents met me in Langhorne, Pennsylvania, at a crowded diner in the middle of the night. I embarrassed my mother by crying in the restaurant. Among other things I said, "I wish the church weren't true, then I could just leave it alone, but it is true. It is true."

At home, my family seemed surprisingly proud and supportive, giving every indication that they would approve of anything I wanted to do with regard to mission service. Ella handed me a note:

"Tom, We all wish you could have been a missionary. But, if you're not happy there and you're happy here, then fine. If you're happy you're home, we're happy you're home. If you're not happy you're home, we're still HAPPY you're home! I don't know about the rest of the family, but I'm proud to have you as a brother! And I bet I always will be!
"Love, Ella
P.S. I wrote this because I probably would have started to cry if I said it."

A few minutes later she handed me another:

"Dear Tom, I don't like to see you cry, so please don't! I may not have said it too often, but I'm glad you're my brother!!! I don't just want to be your sister. I want to be your friend. I don't want to see you upset, especially when you did good. It may not have turned out as you planned, but you did learn something. Right? So would you please smile? OK? "Love, Ella"

During the week I spent in New Jersey, I met with local church leaders, who urged me to pray about whether to return to Colorado. In addition, my stake president, former employer and personal friend, Frank H. Wirig, offered to donate my plane fare if I would return.

On April 3rd, once again, I flew out of the Mercer County Airport, and thence to Denver. President Lambourne placed me, this time, in a ward in Littleton, assigned to work as a member of his office staff as mission commissarian and printer.

My responsibilities included maintaining stocks of religious educational literature and filmstrips, disseminating supplies to missionaries throughout Colorado and part of Kansas, and devising and offset-printing administrative forms. In addition, together with companions, I continued to proselytize between 5:00 and 9:30 p.m., and on weekends.

An interesting aspect of being stationed in Littleton was that four participants of the Jerusalem travel study group were from there. Kim Hafen and Julie Marsh actually attended the same ward where I was placed, while Don and Karen Hansen lived nearby.

Perhaps the most difficult aspect for any Mormon elder is the psychic celibacy which is expected. At the ages of 19 to 21, these young men are not permitted to be alone with a member of the opposite sex, and are discouraged from even associating with "single women, divorcees, or widows of marriageable age" (quote from Missionary Handbook.)

Another difficult aspect is transitions between mission presidents, who serve for three-year terms. The psychological transference which occurs often places the president in the position of a surrogate father to 105+ missionaries. So, when he (there are no women priesthood leaders in the Mormon church) concludes his mission, it is sometimes difficult for the successor to be accepted.

This happened when President Lambourne was released from his own mission on July 1, 1978.

He was replaced by Jack R. Wheatley. President Wheatley, I don't think, was ever fully accepted by those who knew President Lambourne -- myself included. I credited my first mission president, to a great degree, with my decision to return to Colorado. Since that time -- despite having since left the Mormon church -- I have never regretted going back and finishing what I started, and it was President Lambourne who provided an environment that I felt free to return.

The LDS church made national headlines on June 9th, with a startling announcement. The news was received at the Colorado Denver Mission office when Elder Alvis Goolsby answered a call on the president's private line.

At precisely noon according my watch, President Lambourne's private phone rang. Elder Goolsby, the mission automobile coordinator (and subsequently my companion), answered and was informed by one Bob Stevenson of Salt Lake City, a friend of the mission president: "Elder, I've got a hot one for you! President Kimball has announced that after much prayer and deliberation in the upper room of the temple, the Lord has given the instruction to ordain negroes to the priesthood."

I then telephoned the Denver Post for confirmation of the story, where the city editor read me an account which just came over the wire, which ran the next day on page one.

For the rest of the day, the phone in the office was ringing off the hook with missionaries, local church leaders, and non-members calling to inquire if the rumor was correct. Reaction was mixed. Some were relieved and overjoyed that a seemingly racist and unjust policy of discrimination had finally been ended by the church. Others had difficulty accepting the "revelation", citing statements made by Brigham Young and others that the so-called descendants of Cain (dark-skinned Africans, according to Mormon theology) would never be allowed the priesthood until every male descendant of Adam's other sons ever destined to be born onto the earth had the opportunity first.

On August 17th, President Wheatley transferred me to a ward in downtown Denver, to work with Elder Daniel Guy Hill of LaMirada California, my sixth companion. We got along well and I learned a lot about living at close quarters with people.

One advantage to being placed in Denver 3rd Ward was that two generous church members had donated the use of their entire house for use as a missionary residence while they were overseas.

In Denver, my proselytizing career began in earnest. At my present point in life, having spent two years attempting to convince people to change their religious beliefs and organizational affiliation is not something of which I am particularly proud. It is, however, what being a "missionary" is all about.

I will make no effort here to recount all the conversions I witnessed or was a party to. Suffice it to simply say, if I could, I would recontact all those I taught or baptized, and apologize. It probably wouldn't make much real difference, except to salve my conscience.

Looking back, there is no question but that as a Mormon I had become a religious fanatic. My mother observed this in a letter:

...We're all pleased to hear how things have been going well for you of late in your missionary work and that you're gaining a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction from the work you're doing. I know how important that is to one's own sense of self-worth. Please remember, however, that we do not share your commitment to your church. I hope you are not offended by the suggestion that your religious convictions need to be shared with those who accept your calling as their own. Your religion will never be ours in spite of the fact we greatly appreciate the meaning it has for you. In other words, try not to make your letters sound like a religious fanatic. We appreciate hearing much more about the other related aspects of your life, other than your dedication to Mormonism. I would also hope that your focus would not become so narrow that those of us who are not Mormons can relate to your other human endeavors.

Somewhat tongue-in-cheek, though not entirely, I responded, attempting to emulate the writing style of John the revelator:

An epistle of the Elder unto his aging mother in New Jersey: Greetings. Much hath transpired since last I wrote, albeit, at thy behest, I shall endeavor to not relate all, lest in some wise I offend by mention of the fulfillment of that holy unction I have received from on high, and some be overcome by that which they most fear. Wherefore, my writing must needs be short in order that I tread not upon forbidden ground and mention the purpose and Being for which I live.

Beloved, be assured that all is well. Nevertheless, the fanaticism, as thou hast termed it, of thy son hath not waned, but groweth he stronger daily in the testimony of Him who is mighty to save.

Behold, I am at a loss for things whereof to write, for all doth relate back to the One who hath created and doth control all things under the sun. May I write of Thanksgiving? Nay, I must remember Him to whom thanks is given. May I write of Christmas? Nay, the very mention of the word requires use of the title of that Anointed One whose birth is commemorated. Of my standing in relation to the mammon of unrighteousness? Again, alas, I must answer nay, for behold, doth not every note and every coin thereof acknowledge Him in whom 'we trust'? Of what, then is there left to write? The weather? Again I am denied, for thus saith the Prophet: 'All things denote there is a God; yea even the earth, and all things that are upon the face of it.' What am I to do? I close.

Certainly, I was sincere though. When I was a missionary, like most other things I have done, I was a passionate missionary, putting my whole soul into it. My mother took the letter in a good spirit, I believe, for it was the only one I ever wrote her which she included in a scrapbook. A short time later she replied:

I enjoyed your letter in response to my concern about religious fanaticism. The point is well taken. I'm saving the letter for your grandchildren. I just will mention that overzealousness to a cause can lead people to the craziness of such things as the recent mass suicide/murder. No parallel is intended of course to your endeavors. It just makes me nervous to hear people who are narrowly focused in thought because of any cause.

Pueblo On December 13th, I was again transferred -- giving me one day's notice before I had to be in Pueblo, about 60 miles south of Denver. It was my first time out of the Denver metro area since Colorado Springs.

That day in my journal I recorded:

"I'm aboard a Pueblo-bound Trailways bus, just leaving Denver. I feel like I'm leaving home. I checked my bike and the footlocker I bought yesterday, and I had to carry on a very large, heavy suitcase; a flightbag full of books (journals), a gym-bag full of copies of the Book of Mormon, a briefcase, and a projector. Flipping day, what a mess! To top everything off, I lost my ticket and didn't find out 'til I got to the door of the bus."

My transfer to Pueblo also marked my first station as a senior companion, which I took quite seriously. My new companion was Elder David Shaw, who took great delight in irreverently mocking church leaders (of whom I was now one), the missionary discussions, and anything others seemed to take too seriously.

Money shortages followed me throughout my mission. On December 18th I wrote:

"This morning President Wheatley called me around 11:00. He said Bishop Edwin Spurgiesz had called him from New Jersey. A short time ago I sent the bishop a note asking if he would please send my monthly check a little early as I was anticipating a Transfer. Apparently he misunderstood my request and called President to tell him I was asking for another check. He said the ward couldn't afford it, but he would send my January and February checks. I'm not sure what I said, but evidently I wasn't very clear. I only wanted him to send the regular amount a little early. President said Bishop Spurgiesz seemed like a very good man. I will not, in the future, spend my -- or the Lord's -- money unwisely. I wrote President Wheatley in my weekly letter that I would ask Bishop Spurgiesz to please reduce my monthly allotment from $185 to $175 per month, to force me to be more frugal."

In an informal agreement worked out while I was in high school, my parents said they would support me through four years of college, or through two years of college and a mission. I chose the latter.

When it came down to it, however, once I was ready to leave, they said they would only be able to contribute $115 per month. To enable me to go ahead with my plans, an anonymous donor in the ward agreed to contribute the difference, Bishop Spurgiesz told me. I never did learn who that person was.

On a questionnaire completed by Bishop Spurgiesz prior to the commencement of my mission, responding to a query about finances, he wrote: "Father committed himself originally, but it appears he does not want to undertake full obligation. Ward will contribute approximately $500 per year."

Other items on the questionnaire were completed by the bishop as shown below. He probably did not intend for me to see the document, as some of the questions are answered with a level of candor which borders on being unfair, particularly to my parents.

Kind of home life: Tom was the only member for a while, but his younger sister and brother joined and both are inactive. His mother and father are teachers in public school. Both do not want anything to do with the church. They do not want home teachers. There can be an improvement in harmony and love for each other.

Attitude and Church experience of family: Mother and father are not supportive. Willing to let children join, but will have nothing else to do with Church. Will not furnish transportation or have home teachers.

Ability to get along with others: Holds steadfast to principles of gospel; non-members sometimes don't understand reasons. In general, he gets along well with others.

Leadership ability: Has not been really tested in this al4e~. He was the editor, publisher, and reporter for the Stake seminary paper (monthly), did an excellent job.

Attitude toward missionary call: Willing to serve, has testimony, spends considerable time reading, assignments readily taken and fulfilled.

Responsibility and self-sufficiency: He is responsible, can be given assignments, fulfills assignments, has a lot of ideas.

Major faults: Likes to travel, may need encouragement on neatness, and keeping shoes polished.

Other comments: Tom is not an outgoing person, he could be characterized as the scholarly type, not too interested in sports. Prefers to read or travel. Used to hitch-hike to church until Bishopric found out and assigned someone to drive him to church.

Christmas 1978 was the first year I spent this traditional family holiday away from home. My parents sent a large parcel of gifts from them and my siblings, which arrived while I was still in Denver.

One which pleased me most was a life history written by my mother. After reading it on Christmas eve, I wrote in my journal it was "the greatest present she's ever given me since my birth!"

On the morning of the 25th, I was awakened by a telephone call from the six year-old daughter of a church member who was particularly friendly with and supportive of missionaries in the ward. The little girl giggled and called me a frog. I, in turn, called her a penguin. She told me I was silly. After 20 or 30 minutes of such discussion, I turned the call over to Elder Shaw who, awakened from slumber, assumed his parents were calling from California, and bolted to the phone.

Later in the day, I telephoned my own parents and family members in California.

Despite the separation, my holiday was not lonely. The Pueblo missionary zone had a private dinner party with the sisters. The only female missionaries in our zone were warm and supportive, and provided an opportunity for platonic socializing which compensated somewhat for deprivations associated with missionary life.

Sunday, new year's eve, was spent with Jeanetta Hubbs, mother of the six year-old daughter mentioned previously. Engaged in a special fast ordered by the mission president "for more and better" converts, that night I wrote on a slip of paper in my calendar: "To do well what one does best is constructive; to do best what one loves most is fulfillment."

The months I spent in Pueblo were the most fulfilling period of my mission. Among missionaries, success is measured in numbers of baptisms. However, in retrospect my "success" in Pueblo (both as a missionary and as a human) came as a result of feeling genuinely committed to the values and work I was engaged in, and in putting my whole soul into it. Psychologist Carl Rogers termed this phenomenon "congruence".

The first day of 1979 was marked by baptism of a young man named David Fenimore, who very shortly left the church. Afterward, it seemed he only converted to get close to a particular young lady in the ward, but at the time his interest seemed real.

I wrote:

"Elder Shaw baptized, and I confirmed him a member of the Church and conferred on him the Holy Ghost. What I said in the blessing which was from the Lord. Sisters Kathy Rufer and Daisy Simonis told me afterward they were "very impressed" with things said in Dave's confirmation, and they felt the presence and witness of the Spirit to an unusual degree. True to Mormon belief, I replied that it had not been me talking but God speaking through me. They answered they knew, but said that I was 'worthy' of inspiration. All present seemed touched by the spirit in the room. I am grateful that I was able to be such a vessel, but also humbled within myself because I know I am not worthy of the wonderful blessings the Lord gives me. Sister Armstrong told me I was a 'good man' I thought of Matthew 19:17, but didn't mention it. The sisters and other missionaries are so kind in their expressions of love. I pray the Lord will return to them their gifts an hundredfold.

"Mary Jo Sandoval bore her testimony in the period reserved for that purpose. Brother Larson arose to close the meeting, but before he did so asked if there was anyone else who wanted to speak. She stood up and said she felt if she didn't say anything, she would burst. After the meeting I told them that the "The font is still full. We can baptize you right now if you'd like." They laughed and said no, but looked at each other and committed between themselves to do it next Sunday."

While in Pueblo, once again looking at it in retrospect, I strove so hard for the idea of idea of "perfection" that I sometimes lost sight of others' experience.

An example of this occurred with a local member who had apparently developed a romantic relationship with my predecessor in the area, for which I had little tolerance. From what this sister told me, she was in regular contact with the elder in his new area, and they were planning to be married after his release. I informed President Wheatley about their communications, as violations of mission rules, and spoke privately with the elder, letting him know that I had informed the leadership of what I understood his relationship to be. (Missionaries ratting each other out like this is not unusual, and was done to me early in my mission with regard to my plans to leave the mission.)

Looking back, I wish I had let the entire matter slide past my attention as not my business, and shown a little more compassion. But I was incapable of being anyone other than who I was.

Intolerance is an occupational hazard of the terminally devout.

It is not unusual for missionaries to encounter those not of their faith, equally committed to their own beliefs. The usual responses are to either debate known as "Bible bashing," or to "testify". I preferred the latter. Following is an extract from my journal (March 6, 1979), describing a few experiences contacting people about Mormonism:

"This morning we had a teaching appointment with a young woman named Debbie Lindsay, who lives across the street from us. The discussion went quite well, but when I asked her what some of the things were for which she was grateful, she couldn't think of any. I then asked what were some of the things for which she would like to ask the Lord. She said she would like revenge. It seems that relatively recently her husband left her, disappearing suddenly and unexpectedly, taking their children with him. I believe she's honestly searching for the Truth, and by the grace of God, she will receive it. After we left her, we tracted the rest of the 2200 block of Elizabeth Street (our own neighborhood), but didn't meet with any recognizable success. One door had a decal on the window announcing the people who lived there belonged to the "Church of God of Prophecy."

The lady who answered seemed polite enough, until I told her who we were. She became bitter. She informed us she could 'prove by the Bible' that the Church is false. I testified to her that such an argument and contention is of the devil, as are all those who engage therein; that the Church is indeed of God; and no matter how she tried, she could not 'disprove' the Truth from the word of God. I also told her, 'All who deny that Truth will suffer the consequences, of which I'm sure you are aware.' We bid her, 'Have a good day,' and left." There were others we visited whose prospects for conversion were dim, given their circumstances. For example, one night at dinnertime I received a call from a man who identified himself as a patient at the local state hospital. He said he had recently been reclassified to "medium security", from "maximum," where he was originally placed, about 10 years prior, after strangling his pregnant girlfriend, followed by several escape attempts. My new companion, Elder Lloyd Burr, and I visited him several times in his locked bay, counseled him, and shared his frustration over his seeming inability to quit smoking. There seemed little more we could do for him in light of his circumstances than to try and convey a bit of hope.

On March 9th, Elder Burr and I were called upon to anoint with oil and bless a man who had gone blind as a result of an eye infection.

I wrote: "Elder Burr anointed and I sealed. I was impressed to promise him his sight would return. I know the Lord will honor that. I'd never seen the man before, but was given inspiration concerning him. His name was Guy Frederick Roberts."

I have not heard from Mr. Roberts since, and have no idea whether the his vision was restored. If so, the apparent miracle should be attributed to his faith, and the positive direction of energy; which even today I recognize as effective an cure for all manner of maladies. I would be interested to know what became of him.

The following day I received a call from my father that his mother lay dying. I phoned my grandmother in California and taped the conversation, transcribing it into my journal because I knew it would be our last.

We had difficulty communicating, but I asked if she would like missionaries to come give her a blessing. "If you'd like them to," she replied weakly.

Some time later I received word a pair of elders had visited her hospital bed and administered to her as I did the day before to the blind man, except in my grandmother's case, the blessing was for her to cross the river in relative comfort.

Grandma wanted to return to Michigan to end her days, but death came suddenly to her on March 14, 1979. She died of leukemia.

Memories of Grandma have not faded with time. She was sad and lonely most of her life. My father described her after her death, as the most selfish woman he ever knew. This may be true, but her experiences growing up fatherless, in abject poverty on the plains of Texas and New Mexico, molded who she became. In essence she was no different than I, and parts of her live on in the characters of her children and grandchildren.

The next day I called my father, and heard Grandma's remains had been cremated and were being flown to Michigan. He related the experience of sitting with his mother and youngest brother, waiting for the inevitable:

"We did not intend to stay there around the clock as we've done with other people. I don't believe in that. I don't think it's necessary for me when I go. It's the same kind of thing, you know. We really expected to be back in the morning, and spend as much time with her as we could. A lot of the time we couldn't be with her because doctors were messing with her."

Serving a mission means continuing to work, no matter what. It is not unusual for family members to die, and not attend the funeral. Such was the case with me. My father told me later Grandma's ashes had been scattered on his father's grave. In April, I received a letter from my cousin Karen telling me simply.that the service had gone "smoothly".

The year 1979 seemed to fly by, compared to the first year of my mission. From Pueblo, I was transferred in June to Dacono -- north, near Boulder. I served there with Elder C. Richard Rock, who taught me to drive a car. My first driver's license was issued in Longmont, Colorado.

A month and a half later, I was again transferred to Salida, where we lived in a semi-converted chicken coop in a church member's back yard.

Another transfer came in August, leading me to Broomfield, with Elder Ronald Haws, where I was appointed a district leader. And then in September, still another transfer took me to Lafayette, with Elder Duane Michaelis.

Around this time, as.I recall, I began to have my first inklings of doubt concerning the Mormon religion. However, I was still at a point that I durst not commit these doubts to writing. A statement by Joseph Smith warned: "...whatsoever you record on earth shall be recorded in heaven, and whatsoever you do not record on earth shall not be recorded in heaven; for out of the books your dead shall be judged..." (D&C 128:8.)

In my mind, I applied these words to my journal; provided I did not record my misgivings about the church or its doctrines, I convinced myself that I would not be held accountable for harboring "apostate" thoughts at judgement day.

I wrote letters attempting to re-contact early Innisfree friends, including Debbie Bronstein, Elisa Hess, without response. If either had replied, I'm not sure what correspondence would have ensued. I was beginning to feel I had lost or missed out on something by joining the Mormon church at the age of 14. But I had made a commitment to myself to finish the two-year mission term.

I was also beginning, for the first time, to a look at my life as one continuous developmental process -- a major step, I think, in the course of growing up:

"I've been doing a lot of thinking about how a person's attitudes and feelings toward his parents change over the course of time. When I was a small child I looked up to my mother and father with complete trust and awe. It wasn't until I was eleven that it began to dawn on me that they were human..." (Journal, October 7, 1979.)

My next assignment, in Arvada, with Elder Moroni Johnson [surname a pseudonym], lasted less than two weeks. It was also a first-hand introduction to the experience of domestic violence at the hands of a room-mate.

Elder Johnson boasted of having ridden with a street gang in southern California prior to his mission. I didn't particularly like him. He impressed me as a thug, but I was willing to work with any missionary, believing that we were all engaged in the same divine work, that anyone could change and repent of past errors and thereby overcome any personal differences. It seems I was in the process of learning otherwise, at least in regard to this instance.

The first problem between us occurred on October 12, 1979, the day I arrived in Arvada. I had developed a fairly regular correspondence with a young woman in Utah, which Elder Johnson took it as his right to read. Offering an unsolicited opinion, Elder Johnson informed me he would never correspond with anyone who once "had somebody else's dick in her," referring to admissions which he had read in her letters (reading, I might add, without my consent) that she had been involved with men in the past and regretted it. At this point in my life I was honestly shocked at such language, whether coming from a fellow minister of the gospel, or from anyone, and I objected to it with words of my own. But violence was not in my repertoire.

My companion, on the other hand, seemed determined that an explosion should occur. When it finally came, I chose not to reciprocate the violence or defend myself, believing this would relieve me of any moral guilt in the altercation. This may have been stupid, in retrospect. But I was trapped in the situation by a commitment to the church not to leave my companion, and to complete my mission. I wanted to do what was right in the eyes of God as I understood him.

On October 30th, I recorded:

"We had an appointment scheduled for shortly after 9:30 p.m., to which Elder Johnson wanted to ride bicycles. I told him I couldn't due to an asthmatic condition, because it was clear on the other side of Arvada. I suggested we walk.

"He got very upset and started storming around the apartment. Eventually, he stopped and told me, 'All right. We don't have to go out if you don't want to serve the Lord.'

"I didn't say anything for about 30 seconds, then replied, 'At least I'm not serving Satan.'

"He responded by punching me as hard as he could in my left shoulder, knocking the lunch-plate of chow mein out of my hands. The plate hit him and he batted it with his arm, splattering chow mein over three walls and the floor.

"After that, I said nothing. Nor did I make any effort to defend myself from his blows. He continued punching me in the face until I blacked out and fell to the floor.

"When I regained consciousness (I don't remember falling), he was kicking my head and punching my face. He knocked my glasses off, cutting the right side of my nose and possibly breaking it -- I'm not sure. He screamed at me, 'Get up and fight.'

"'I'm not going to hit you, Elder,' I said from the floor.

I got up to got to the bathroom, but he followed me in. Knocking me to the floor again, he continued to punch my face and try to get me to hit him, but I didn't.

Eventually, he left the bathroom and I locked the door. He yelled through the door I was going to stay in there until the zone leaders arrived (about 2½ hours). I began beating the ceiling with my shoe, yelling for the landlady to call the police, but to no avail.

A few minutes later the phone rang. It was Elder Thomas Muirhead from the mission office. The landlady had called and asked that someone come up. I could hear Elder Johnson talking to Elder Muirhead in a quiet, reasonable tone of voice, although I couldn't make out what was being said.

To be sure Elder Muirhead knew what was going on I opened the door and threw a clock against a far wall, shouting, 'Call the police!'

"Elder Johnson lunged at me but I shut the door before he could get in. For the next half hour or so, he hurled insults at me through the door. He eventually went upstairs, taking the phone cord with him to prevent me from calling the police. It's my understanding, from what Elder Johnson has told me, that he is a Mexican national and his legal right to be in this country is shaky at best, particularly in light of his violence.

"Around 8:15 p.m., Elders Ron Stevenson and Kevin Silvester arrived. Elder Stevenson and I spoke for a few moments, before the phone rang. We couldn't answer it because Elder Johnson had appropriated the cord to cut me off from the outside world.

"Elder Silvester ran upstairs and got it from him. When he came back it was ringing again.

"It was President Wheatley. Elder Silvester briefly explained what he knew of the situation and President said for me to pack up my things and spend the night in Littleton, and Elder Johnson with the zone leaders."

I had an interview the following day with the mission president, in which I showed him the above journal entry and discussed what had happened. I felt betrayed by President Wheatley's protective attitude toward Elder Johnson. He talked about forgiveness and invited me to pray with him. President Wheatley persuaded me not to file criminal charges. Elder Johnson was assigned another companion. I never heard what became of him or whether his aggressive tendencies toward others continued to be a problem. In light of what he disclosed to me about his past, and his assaultive behavior toward me, I would not doubt it.

But I knew I didn't have long to go before completing my mission. An honorable release was extremely important to me. I had two months to go.

My subsequent transfer, the following day, to Idaho Springs, was to be my last. Assigned to work with Elder Bryon Willis, I still had a cut on my nose and a black eye, which strangely, no one asked about.

With Elder Willis, I spent the next six weeks doing typical missionary work, such as I was used to. However, at this point, following the assault by my former companion, as close as it came to the end of my mission, I didn't feel as motivated as I once did.

One family we contacted while I was there, and the following June returned and baptized, was David and Gaille Smulow, of Idaho Springs. Gaille, who was the more active of the two, in the discussion and study process, told me she was particularly taken with my discussion of "the metaphysics of Mormonism", which related to some of the more esoteric existential writings of the early Mormon apostle Orson Pratt and others.

She gave me a copy of a Bible, translated by George M. Lamsa from ancient Aramaic manuscripts, which I still have. Her inscription on the flyleaf read:

The light of God surround you
The love of God enfold you
The power of God protect you
The presence of God watch over you-
God is!
To Tom, with love and our blessing,
Dave and Gaille

Looking back, Gaille and Dave seemed a little too perceptive for rigid Mormon thinking. After my departure, I wonder whether they found many in the branch there willing to accept the philosophies we discussed, although they both professed to embrace the fundamentals of Mormonism necessary for baptism.

So I finished my mission.

The experience was over. President Lambourne had been right in his prediction which he termed a "prophecy," that if I would faithfully serve, yet two years hence I would sit in the same chair where I then sat, sobbing much as I then was, telling his successor how grateful I was to have had that opportunity.

On December 13, 1979, following a dinner the night before with President and Sister Jack and Lois Wheatley, and several missionaries who started their terms when I did, I flew to New Jersey, where I delivered a "homecoming" talk in sacrament meeting, and met with Bishop Spurgiesz and President Wirig, who finally issued my release.

This brings up a phenomenon that was beginning to take place within the LDS church about this time, which the church patriarchy immediately took steps to stifle.

Sonia Johnson, a Virginia housewife and active member of the church, was excommunicated during December 1979 as a result of her political support of the proposed Equal Rights Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, which the church opposed.

In the course of going door-to-door, it became common to encounter questions resulting from the national news coverage Johnson's case was receiving. The usual response on the part of missionaries was to either state that the church strongly supported the role of women, or to resort to the old standby and simply "testify" that the Holy Ghost had born witness to the speaker of the truth of such-and-such.

Johnson's autobiography, From Housewife To Heretic describes itself as "a fascinating account of a woman's gradual, even unwilling, progression from self-denial to activism...a story of loss and rebirth, despair and fulfillment."

In it [p. 356], she relates responses she received from church members to her public expressions:

"Most of the Mormon anti letters portrayed what I call the "Jim Jones syndrome," the idea that Mormons should follow their leaders--since they are prophets of God--no matter what. As one Mormon woman wrote:

"'If you believed he were a prophet in the very same way that Moses, Elijah, Abraham, etc. were prophets, then you could not go against his mandate; even if it were to never buy a Toyota car, wear red shoes on Tuesday, or use Gold Medal flour!'

"Or drink purple Kool Aid?"

Sonia influenced me by causing me evaluate my beliefs on a deeper level than I had before, but I failed to be jolted out of my senses right there and then. As she acknowledges in her book, the emotional experience of the Mormon devout is so powerful, explaining why LDS women have never revolted, or left en masse: "their churches and beliefs meant too much them" [p. 328.] Thus it was with me.

The foregoing is a brief if somewhat disjointed summary of some intense years of my life. It is based on diary entries, which I maintained religiously (pun intended) throughout the two-year period. With varying degrees of consistency I have continued to maintain this journal since completing my mission and, leaving the LDS church a few years later, even up to the present day. It has been an interesting journey. If any of the folks named in this file (or in the following list of my companions during the two years service), or others with whom I came in contact in Colorado during these years, would care to e-mail me I would love to hear from you.