Part VII of the Sunstone Classics series.

Dorothy Black was a member of the staff of Dialogue: A Journal of Mormon Thought during the 1980s. This is excerpted from a Sunstone article published in 1984, starting on page 30 of issue 43. 

You don’t grow up a Mormon without feeling guilt. Like right now, I feel guilty even writing that. What if the bishop knew I thought that? “Dorothy,” he would say, “being Mormon should not be a source of guilt.” I would have to say, “Yes, I know,” and then I would feel guilty that I had ever felt guilty.

It’s at church where you learn about everything you’re supposed to do and everything you’re not supposed to do. Last week, the bishop came into Relief Society for his annual morality talk. He always starts out lecturing us about making out. “Until you are married,” he says, “kissing should be like how a father kisses his daughter.” At that point there is no longer anyone in the room who can feel good about herself.

The bishop speaks in generalities because I guess he doesn’t quite know how to talk specifically about sex to a room full of young women. He usually ends his talk by saying something about ice cream. “It is very difficult to resist eating ice cream if you are hungry and in the kitchen with a spoon in one hand and the ice cream in the other.” Then he suggests that if you don’t want trouble, you shouldn’t invite a boy into the kitchen. I usually sit there feeling like I have enough problems handling myself and that if the boy stumbles into the kitchen, he should be responsible for his own ice cream. Last week I was going to raise my hand to ask for some clarification, but then I realized that if I raised my hand everybody would wonder why I needed some clarification. As a returned missionary, I shouldn’t really be having problems.

I don’t know what the other missionaries prayed about on their missions, but I spent a lot of my time praying that the people we had made appointments with to teach wouldn’t be home. By the time I had adjusted to giving spiritual advice in my not-very-clear Spanish, I was given Sister Hernandez for a companion and suddenly had to adjust my prayers: On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays I prayed that she would be transferred. On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays I prayed that I would be transferred. And on Sundays I prayed for forgiveness for the previous week’s worth of prayers.

I should have done better with Hermana Hernandez. Before we ever met, the mission president had talked with me about her. I think he tried to warn me. “Hermana Black,” he said. “It is in the hard times that we grow the most.” I sat across from him wearing my dark blue skirt and white blouse and waited for him to go on. “Hermana Hernandez has had some difficultly working closely with a companion,” he continued, “and I know that I can count on you to help her have a successful mission.” That was it. I began to feel guilty for his thinking I was the kind of missionary that he could count on. I tried to explain. “President Vargas,” I said, “I have a hard time getting up at six-thirty. It’s usually quarter to seven before I even get out of bed.” He just nodded, and I knew I wasn’t getting through to him. I became very honest. “Sometimes during the siesta, I don’t study. I take a nap.” He looked like he was waiting for me to say something else. I became desperate: “President Vargas, I have a Barbra Streisand tape in my suitcase.” “Do you listen to it?” he finally responded. “Well no, not yet. But I think about it all the time.” Nothing affected him. He just stood up and took me by the hand. “Remember, Hermana Black, patience.” And with that he walked me to the door. “I’l1 do my best,” I said.

I ended up throwing my Book of Mormon at Hermana Hernandez. I’m not sure why it happened. I think the pressure of being in charge finally got to me. That, and the fact that Hermana Hernandez hadn’t spoken to me for two days except to tell me that unless she spoke to me, would I please not speak to her. It happened during companion inventory. That’s the time when you sit down with your companion and plan the coming week and air any problems or offer any suggestions you might have for each other. After that you tell your companion how much you love and appreciate her. We never got to the appreciation part. Hermana Hernandez broke her silence to accuse me of talking about her to Elder Clarke at a district meeting that we had had two days earlier. She was right, but I thought it was a stupid reason to stop talking to your companion. She was pretty upset about it and kept making it into a big deal until I got upset. I opened my journal to show her that what I had told Elder Clarke was nothing compared to what I had written, and then she called me a few Argentine words that you can only pick up off the street.

It took me about eighteen months to adjust to coming home from the mission field. I feel bad about it. I think I made a poor adjustment. I have a feeling it’s because I’m not married. Single, Mormon, and twenty-five is not a good place to be. Nobody has come out and said it, but I know it borders on being sinful. My mother feels responsible. It’s not her fault, though; I need to work on my marketability.

On my last date, Roger picked me up at seven and we were supposed to go to a movie. We got out to the car and he said, “Let’s skip the movie. I think it’s time we talked. So, what do you think about kids?” Roger was the direct type. I should have been prepared for his question. Mormons generally have large families, but the truth of the matter is I’ve never held a baby that didn’t spit up on me. My mother says they’re like horses and they know if you’re afraid of them. I looked at Roger. “Babies are a kind of tradition at my home,” I said. “There have been babies in my family as far back as we can go. My own sister has five of them.” Roger nodded his head, “That’s great.”

He was quiet for a moment and then asked, “See this shirt, do you like it?” It was a plain shirt and there was a string hanging out of the armpit. “It’s very nice,” I said. “Thanks, my mom made it.” I should have known. “She makes your clothes?” I asked. “Yep,” Roger answered, “there are seven of us and she keeps us all looking nice.” I hated to sew. In eighth grade, I cut through my darts and when it came time to hem my jumpsuit the body was too long, and I ended up hemming the crotch. I looked at Roger and felt awful. The blessing of marriage was possibly within reach, and it was my duty to reach out and take it. “I used to tie quilts all the time,” I said. Actually, once a month for a year I had gone to the church with the other girls and sat around the quilting frames. Everybody tied right-handed and I was left-handed, making the little strings on the quilt lean in the wrong direction. This bothered some of the girls, so they put me in charge of keeping the quilting needles threaded.

Roger looked pleased that I could tie quilts, and I thought I was doing all right until the next question. “What is your major?” he asked. “English,” I said. Roger looked concerned; he probably expected me to major in child development and family relations. This conversation was starting to bother me. “I want to be able to read to my babies,” I explained. “Are you planning on graduating?” “I think so,” I said, “and then I’ve thought of getting a master’s degree.” “Why?” he asked. It was too much. “So I can work and contribute something to society while my husband is home with our two children.” “Two?” Roger managed in a quivering voice. “The two I’m not going to have until a couple of years after I’m married,” I explained. Roger gasped, “You mean birth control?” “I was thinking of adoption,” I said. “I hear having a baby feels like taking your bottom lip and stretching it over your head.”

Roger was nice enough to walk me to the porch. Closing the door behind me, it occurred to me that I may have blown my chance for eternity. I don’t deserve to have the opportunity to marry.

No, you don’t grow up Mormon without feeling guilty. I think it’s the most contagious part of the whole Restoration. You can get it from Beehive goal booklets, Family Home Evening (or not having Family Home Evening), Sunday School, paper stars glued to your forehead, two-and-a-half minute talks, and in certain places in Utah you can even get it from the water. But unlike a lot of stuff you catch that way, guilt is a lot harder to cure. At a fireside the other night, the speaker said that “guilt can be a healthy thing if it motivates you to change.” Maybe, but if I got rid of all my faults, I’d probably end up feeling guilty—for not feeling guilty.