The team at Mormon Artist have sponsored a Mormon creative writing contest. Unfortunately, my submission wasn't selected as one of 12 finalists to be published online this month, but that only means that the finalists are even better than they would have been if I had won.
I am getting very excited to read the winning pieces and vote on my favorite. They will be posted from February 15th-29th at
mormonartist.net, and voting for the Grand Prize will be open between March 1st and 15th.
Now, for your reading enjoyment (I hope), here is my submission. It is fiction.
Four Sisters
In dress, we are the same: skirts, blouses, thick black tights to block out the Swedish winter, Dansko shoes, wool coats, black nametags.
But, when Sister Swensen is asked if she is a nun she replies by asking, "Can a nun dance like this?" and sliding her feet across the floor.
When Sister Williams talks, she smiles—not sometimes, but all the time.
Sister Rice arrived only a few months ago from England. She still struggles conjugating her verbs. Her pronunciation sounds labored, and her understanding is limited.
I love them all because I can't not love them. I love how these three women wake up early every morning to go running before settling into several hours of sincere study. I love how they open their mail, how they read their mail, how they sing, how they pray, how they cry when they are happy and cry when they are sad. How they patiently help each other. I love how they love me.
We all dress the same—and when we teach, we use the same inflections, language and scriptures.
But, when Sister Swensen was an adventurer scout in Örnsköldsvik she survived a bear attack that claimed the life of her closest friend. When she was in college she helped another friend get through a heroine addiction.
When Sister Williams left her farm in Oklahoma to go on a mission, she also left behind three men who thought they were going to marry her. She responded to all of their letters, but carefully avoided making any promises. She never went to college, but wants to, and is afraid early marriage will stop her.
When Sister Rice was in high school, her father was in jail. She tried to kill herself and was saved by a miracle. She believes in honest‐to‐goodness literal miracles like she believes the sun will rise. She doesn't talk about herself very much.
I know them all like they are my biological sisters, like we grew up in the same house. I wake up early and study and watch. I teach and bear testimony and wonder what I did to earn the right to sit with them. I believe. I believe in Joseph Smith and Thomas S. Monson, in astrology and homeopathy, and maybe in reincarnation. I believe in miracles like I believe in evolution, and understand neither.
Every Wednesday we stand on the same corner near the train station. We set up a little A‐frame sign and hand out tracts, books, and cards.
When a middle‐aged man asks Sister Swensen if she is a Jehovah's Witness she answers in the affirmative, but before she can go on to explain that she doesn't only bear witness of Jehovah, but also of Joseph Smith, Sister Williams hits her in the arm, and clarifies that we are Mormons.
When Sister Rice gets into a difficult conversation I step in to help her. We work together, explaining that Mormons do believe in the Bible, and that we also use technology.
As the day progresses, I see an endless stream of faces pass us by with the same look, a look that says, "You Americans are all the same."
If only they knew that when Sister Swensen prays, I feel excitement. When Sister Rice prays, I feel peace. When Sister Willams prays, I feel the power of God. And when I pray, I feel the hope that every answer will come with time and love.
