I was angry. Angry that George W. Bush stole Al Gore’s election. Angry that the Supreme Court, divided on ideological lines, had stopped the Florida recount. Angry that the ideal of “family values” was being used to justify laws that I believed ultimately hurt American families. And I was angry at how Bush’s “compassionate conservatism” had devolved into a mean-spirited politics, one that Tony Blair would later characterize as “they tell you they’re not going to help you, but they’re really sorry about it.”

But my political anger was not just based on what I read in newspapers or heard on npr. I had worked for the U.S. Congress for about eight years as non-designated staff for the Senate Energy Committee and the Congressional Research Service. I had to assist both sides of the political aisle, and during the process had several run-ins with politicians and their staff. But what made me most angry was seeing congressmen and senators actually work together in good-natured ways in real life, but then use divisive political rhetoric to ignite their base, sowing disunion and discord where we needed unity and cooperation to accomplish anything worthwhile.

I had been all-too happy to set that life behind, return to Utah, and begin teaching at UVU. But the anger didn’t dissipate and 2000’s election left me seething.

Then came 9/11. Like other Americans, I spent most of the day glued to the television, watching in disbelief as the Twin Towers burst into flames and eventually collapsed and crumbled. I watched police and firefighters run into the conflagration to save people from the disaster, only to die themselves. It was a day of tragic loss and heart-rending heroism.

While I was driving to the store that evening, Five for Fighting’s “Superman” came on the radio. As John Ondrasik began singing “I can’t stand to fly,” I started to cry. Ondrasik’s Superman is all-too human—lonely, misunderstood, and, most ironically, afraid of flying. Nevertheless, he shows up and does his job, conjuring heroism out of his fragile, feeble self. “I’m only a man in a funny red sheet/Looking for special things inside of me.” I realized that I needed to be a better person. And the first thing I should tackle was my political rage.

Soon after I made this decision, I found out that former Representative Howard Nielson was moving into our ward. My resolve immediately evaporated.

The last time I had seen Rep. Nielson was when I was a BYU undergrad, serving an internship in the office of Rep. Wayne Owens. During the time I was in DC, Nielson and Owens were in the middle of long-simmering feud. When Nielson spoke to our BYU Washington Seminar group, he surprised me by violating one of the unspoken rules of congressional collegiality—not to speak badly about members of your own delegation. He began to disparage a bill Wayne had sponsored to reintroduce wolves into Yellowstone. As he did so, the other BYU students began looking at me and soon indicated to Nielson that I was interning in Wayne’s office. He looked at me and asked what I thought of my boss’s proposal.

To be fair, Rep. Nielson was not attacking me, and in retrospect, I shouldn’t have made anything of it. But at the time, I felt it was rude to put me on the spot in front of my almost-completely-Republican peers. The power dynamic was off: a U.S. Congressman debating a BYU undergraduate.

So when I heard that Nielson was moving into my ward, I began to browse the newspaper’s real estate section. But that first Sunday, I saw Brother Nielson wheel his wife into the chapel in her wheelchair; she was dying of cancer. And through the entire meeting, he sat holding her hand and looking at her tenderly. My anger melted.

After a few weeks, we began to talk. We became friends. Since then, more members of Howard’s family have moved into our ward—his daughter and son and granddaughter. When I ran for the state legislature as a Democrat, Brother Nielson came to my announcement event. His son gave money to my campaign. His granddaughter helped me canvas the district. His son eventually became our home teacher and is now our bishop. They are all a delightful, kind family whom I have come to love. But most of all, I love Howard.

I’m still engaged politically, and I still find that I disagree with members of the Nielson family on some issues. Home teaching visits were sometimes a bit raucous, but always friendly and respectful.

Unfortunately, the recent election brought back a lot of my old anger, along with heaping dose of fear for the vulnerable individuals and families who will be affected by this new administration’s policies. And the first weeks after the inauguration made it worse. My blood boiled when talk of border walls and Muslim bans became more than campaign rhetoric.

After my blood pressure dropped to a simmer, my thoughts turned to my reconciliation with Howard Nielson. I cannot imagine a similar reconciliation happening with Donald Trump. After all, he probably won’t become a Mormon any time soon, nor would he ever deign to move into a ward as middle-class as mine. There is almost no chance that my wife and Ivanka will ever be in the Young Women’s presidency together, or that I will ever see Donald any place but in the news. I’ll never get to know him the way I got to know Howard Nielson.

But I do know there are people in my ward who voted for Trump (interestingly, none have admitted it). Perhaps my unconscious is trying to remind me that I have often been surprised by the goodness of the people around me, even the ones I heartily disagree with politically.

When I look over the pews at my ward each Sunday I see the kindness and love of my ward family. If we got into politics during Sunday school, they’d probably incense me. But in person, in the church hallways, at service functions, I see a bit more of them: their failures and successes, their strengths and weaknesses, their good times and bad. And they see the same things about me. Perhaps they start to believe that the donkey in their midst is not an ass, while I start to realize that the elephants in the room are always willing to lend a helping trunk. And despite our differences, I know some of them even voted for me.

Although I know most members of my ward have very different political positions than I do, I know they love me. Perhaps that doesn’t balance out the new man in the Oval Office, but I’ll take any glimmers of hope I can find.