I felt utterly alone as I stared at the blue stained glass and the white chapel doors. I struggled to breathe through the stifling heat that seeped in from outside. The only sound was our own footsteps. When I placed a hand on the door to see if it was open, I felt a twist of fear tugging my stomach.
The door was locked. I released the handle, nothing changed, and the air was still hot enough to fry in. My colleague led the way as I retreated from the hall, back into the safety of the air-conditioned main building.
The small Christian church sat on the edge of St. Pete Beach. The cool lobby offered shelter from the hot Florida sun. The hall that led to the chapel was a different story entirely, gathering the heat and condensing it into a choking veil. Combining that fact with the twisting sensation in my stomach, I felt more comfortable looking at the church than stepping inside.
I have hardly ever been in a place of worship that was not part of my own Mormon faith. The religious world outside the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was one that I had studied but never experienced. It felt wrong for a good Mormon girl from Idaho to barge into a church where I did not understand the beliefs. It felt especially wrong to try and learn about a community I didn’t know from a church I’d never attended and likely would never visit again.
But there I was as Arek Sarkissian, a reporter on my team, spoke to the secretary, asking about story ideas and if the pastor would be back soon. He stepped forward, shook hands, offered his business card. I said nothing, stayed behind him, and watched the walls, looking at pictures of pastors and leaders I didn’t know. A clock on the wall ticked out the seconds, which lasted longer than they should have.
Most of my life was spent in Idaho Falls, Idaho, a town with a population of 50,000 people. We are predominantly LDS. I was a member of the Mormon majority, with LDS churches dotting the city every few blocks. From that world of comfort, I moved into another at Brigham Young University, a school run by the church. I took the security of being surrounded by thousands of Mormons for granted. Many weeks I would not attend church at all, finding some excuse to stay home or spend the entire day at work, either unmotivated or looking to do other things.
And from there, to Poynter. St. Petersburg was a country away from home.
My father and I flew into Atlanta on May 31, a Thursday. We bought a used car and began the drive to St. Petersburg early Saturday. By the time Sunday rolled around, Dad had flown home and I had to adjust to both unfamiliar weather and an unfamiliar social climate. I was no longer in the Mormon majority of home. I had gone from Idaho, a place where I made excuses to stay home from church, to Florida, where I wanted nothing more than to know where a church was.
Only days later, Arek and I found the little United Church of Christ chapel while we were looking for story ideas, and my apprehension grew as I climbed the steps. You could smell the ocean from where we stood; the humid air only magnified the scent. There was a winding, mazelike path printed on the cement before the door. I would not step inside it, walking a circle around it for fear of being condemned a Mormon.
Since my childhood, many of the non-Mormons I’d met defined themselves as opponents of my church. When we went to Salt Lake City for the 2002 Winter Olympics, they were everywhere, handing out pamphlets and books, carrying signs, telling me I was going to hell. Most of them were Evangelical Christians. I’ve always been afraid of meeting more people like that.
When we entered the church on the beach, Arek led the way to the hall that held the chapel, and I followed. I didn’t want to be left behind in such a strange place.
The smell was gone, but the heat remained, smothering without the sea breeze to cushion it. I stared at the stained glass panels. I waited for the Mormon detector to go off. I worried that someone would appear from within the chapel walls, recognize me instantly as a nonbeliever, and condemn me for defiling their church. But nothing happened, except that Arek turned around and headed back into the main building.
He spoke to the secretary, and I waited, watching the doors that led outside and wishing we would just leave. My discomfort grew with each passing minute. Finally Arek thanked the secretary and again led the way out. Even then, I said little. I walked the same circle around the labyrinth on the way out.
The next weeks I spent changing myself. I adapted to the Florida heat. I stopped wearing sunscreen. My religion became a topic of conversation a few times, and I became more comfortable with my faith by talking about it. I discovered that not every non-Mormon thinks my church is evil. I spoke to people I had never known and came to regard them as friends and advisers. I prepared to move out into a world that scared me, changing my skills as I had changed myself.
I visited the church once more, parking my car under the same tree. I strolled up the sidewalk, my pace slowing bit by bit, and I could not bring myself to go further than the steps. The church loomed over me, and, swallowing once, I turned and walked back to my car. For all that I had grown, I was still unable to step into that place. I did not look back as I drove away, afraid that someone would be judging me as I went.
