Re: On the sidewalk, looking up
This would never have happened if he had been sent to Orlando instead of this podunk town.
The Elder knew it was an ugly, selfish thought. He was sweating through his short sleeved button-down, damp around the collar and under his arms with the crisp white cotton sticking to the small of his back. Even the pleats in his neat black trousers looked to be wilting as he leaned against the edge of the rooftop’s parapet, listening to the folks on stage recite their lines.
It was an ugly thought but the Elder was in an ugly, selfish mood. Nobody on the rooftop even wanted to listen to him, and he blamed the lack of a door to knock on. A knock on the door from a missionary at least meant polite nods, perhaps some awkward fidgeting while he shared the gospel in earnest. Sure, he might still get rejected in the end, or even the occasional door slammed in his face. But up here, on this rooftop? He couldn’t even get folks to listen long enough to get his name out before they turned their backs, eyes rolling and hands flapping dismissively at his proselytizing. Gosh, did it ever have him sore!
And what were they even doing up here, anyway? What was he doing up here? Why had Heavenly Father sent him to this town that danced in the street? Where couples nestled together on blanketed rooftops with no rings on their left hands? Of course, there could only be one answer.
Heavenly Father knew that he was a sinner, and this was his test. And he was failing. The Elder leaned out far enough that he could peek over the edge of the roof.
"Gee, that fire escape sure didn't look so high on the way up," he gulped, fingers wrapping around the cold metal of the railing as he tried to muster up his courage to swing a leg back over the edge.