The ward executive secretary called to schedule a visit from our new bishopric tonight. The first counselor dropped by Saturday to extend a calling to me: “How would you like to be the Webelos leader?” “I would just hate it,” I answered with more truth than tact. The visit ended with George agreeing to do emergency preparedness training and my offering to help a young immigrant in the ward learn English. I declined the invitation to attend Sunday meetings because, “I’ve heard all the lessons and talks—multiple times.” I thought that should put an end to re-activation efforts.
I know George and I are dead weight on the ward records—dragging down the attendance stats. With centralized financing, slipping a few bucks into an envelope to cover the food we eat at socials doesn’t help the ward budget much. In all honesty, we should have our names removed from the roster. But George maintains a glimmer of hope for an eternal family life, so we remain a burden to our ward.
There is no inoffensive way to tell anyone you don’t share their religious convictions. I don’t want to offend these good men who are taking time from their families to visit us, but I can’t help wishing they could like us for who we are instead of loving us for who they want us to become.