Mormons go to church for hours on Sunday. In fact, they’d go in the morning and then they’d go back again at night. I couldn’t figure out why anyone would want that much church. I did my best to survive it. Usually I’d take my pad of paper and pencils and draw a lot; that’s where I decided to be a cartoonist and made up my first comic strip. But as often as not, I tried to get out of going, sometimes feigning illness. Looking back, I’m sure my mom knew what I was doing but she rarely called me on it.

A few years earlier I told her that I didn’t want to go to church anymore at all. She said nothing but the look on her face was punishment enough. I’m sure it made her feel like she had failed me, or Jesus, or both of us. I spent that whole Sunday feeling guilty about disappointing my mother and in the end decided it would be less painful just to go.

My dad was pretty vocal about his belief that no one should ever be made to go to church, which was a little self-serving since he was pretty much hit-and-miss himself. After his illness he didn’t go to services for about six months. When he finally did return, it was usually just a half hour or so before the hard pew became too uncomfortable for him, and we stood up as a family and left.

Joel didn’t mind church. In fact, I suspect he liked it. The first week at our new church he came home with a star on his forehead for being a good boy in Sunday school. Of course I made fun of him and he never wore a star home again even though I’m sure he got more. Joel was always good.

That Sunday I decided Grace was a good enough reason to stay home. I told my mom that I didn’t feel like going to church but promised I’d go next week. I waited for her face to register disappointment but for some reason it didn’t. She just said, “Okay,” and “C’mon, Joel.”

After my mother left I got out of bed and got dressed. I went to my parents’ door and peeked in; my father was still asleep. I put on my shoes and coat, spooned the oatmeal my mother had left on the stove into a bowl, and went out back, closing the back door quietly behind me.

Grace was sitting in the corner of the clubhouse eating a cookie. The meat and cheese were gone from the platter, which amazed me since there were at least five sandwiches worth. Although she had changed her blouse, she was still in the sleeping bag and it was pulled up to her waist. She smiled when she saw me.

“Hi.”

“I brought you some breakfast.”