I’ve been hesitant to write about the topic of religion for a number of reasons, although it’s important to me. Maybe I haven’t found the right tone yet. Or maybe I’m still working through a number of questions myself and don’t want to draw conclusions here on my blog only to change my mind later.

I was raised a Mormon in Ogden, Utah. My mother grew up in a strict Mormon home. My father did not. But once they married, they were loyal members of this dominant religion in Utah.

The only time I did not attend church for three hours each Sunday morning was when I was sick. I may have faked an illness when church overlapped with a Steelers game, but most weeks I was there in a light blue suit and clip on tie passing the bread and water as young priesthood holder.

I assumed everyone was a Mormon until I was well into my teens. Utah is one of the few places that could happen. It was a big deal to my friends and family when I asked a Catholic girl to a school dance. I don’t believe we ever talked about religion, and it’s probably for the better.

It wasn’t until I served as a missionary in Germany that I become acquainted with other religions. There certainly wasn’t a shortage of people ready to tell me how foolish I was to belong to such a strange and strict religion. I learned one way to diffuse their attacks was to ask them about their own beliefs. The more I listened, the more they opened up to me. Over time, I learned about the Catholics, Protestants, Jehovah Witnesses, Seventh Day Adventists and many others. Most were Christian, but some were not. I remember one man called himself a naturalist. He believed God was “in the trees and the leaves”. They didn’t teach us how to respond to such a person at the Mission Training Center in Provo, Utah.

The reason I refer back to my upbringing is because I now realize my eyes and mind were closed until I went to Germany. Until that time, I only discussed religious topics that confirmed what I already believed. None of my friends challenged me because they all possessed the same beliefs I did.

And I wonder if that’s what best for my kids.

Isn’t it a bit arrogant to assume that what’s best for me is also what’s best for my children?

We live in Seattle where my kids are exposed to a diverse group of children at school. Hopefully lead to more discussions among their friends, and they will see that many good people have beliefs that differ from their own. In Utah, I was able to select friends who attended the same church I did. If my children were to do that, they’d have one or two friends total.

I can’t help but see myself in my son each week at church. He attends church because we expect him to attend with our family. He’s respectful and reverent. He even occasionally sings. But much of the time, he props his chin up, crosses his legs and stares off into space. I can certainly relate because I did that every week as a kid.

I hope my children find the same peace and joy I’ve found by belonging to my faith. Most parents would feel the same way. I want them to experience my religion without having it shoved down their throats. I’m trying to share my experiences with them, but give them the leeway to find their own way. I believe parents who are militant about their beliefs find that level of control only works up to a certain age. Eventually, the child will rebel and take off in the opposite direction. I don’t want that.

My views on religion continue to be a work in progress. When I returned from my mission where I had to wear a suit and tie seven days a week, I needed a break from it all. Living something so intensely for two years extracted a toll on my system. I’m constantly searching for balance. I was religious for two years but was I spiritual? I’m still asking myself that question after twenty years.

And like Lincoln, I occasionally stare off into space during church meetings. That’s when I do some of my most productive thinking.

Trying to make sense of this mixed up world.

When I was 20 years old, I was serving as a missionary for my church and living in Siegen, Germany. Siegen is not a tourist Mecca like Munich or Heidelberg. But it has its share of castles and is home to a university.

One gets to know a city when traveling by foot or by bicycle, and my companion and I spent 10-12 hours a day traveling through town looking for people to teach. Honestly, we were ecstatic if anyone wanted to speak with us. About anything.  

One morning I woke up to the sound of thunder. It wasn’t long before the rain came pouring down. We had an appointment on the other side of town. I sat at the kitchen table and watched the wind blow the rain into our window wondering if I should ask my parents to send me a few boxes of Cap’N Crunch cereal.

I grabbed my raincoat and hat as we raced out the door leaving my gloves and map back at our apartment. The rain didn’t let up. I peddled as fast as I could, but it didn’t matter. Within minutes I was soaked. I didn’t have a fender over my back tire so cold water flipped up against my back and dripped down my back. My hands were numb. I was miserable.

Given the start to my day, I shouldn’t have been surprised when our appointment never showed up.

As I walked back to my bike I felt like cursing. Had I not been wearing a tag with “Elder Nordquist” alongside the name of my church on the outside of my jacket, I probably would have let loose with a few choice words. Instead, I began walking my bike. I was too upset to ride and still shivering. I didn’t know where I was going, but I was done riding in the rain.

I’m not sure how far we made it before realizing we were lost. The rain decided to move on and the clouds were moving out as we made our way up a hill to see if we could gather our bearings. Not a word was said as the two of us pushed our bikes up the hill to the sounds of shoes squeaking with each step. My shoulders hurt from my water-logged jacket. My light brown leather messenger bag was now dark brown from the rain.

Both of us were winded as we neared the top of the hill. Finally, I placed my bike down on the side of the road and sat on the curb. My skin was wet, but my body was warm from the hike. I looked out over the city searching for a landmark to help guide us home.

And that’s when something clicked. I don’t know why. But at that moment I stopped caring about my predicament and took in my surroundings. I’d just walked up a street made of cobblestone. I could look down on a several castles surrounded by lush gardens dating back hundreds of years. I was living in a foreign country serving others and learning to be an adult. I’d learned enough German to get around town and order my favorite pastry: the pudding pretzel.

I’m often reminded of this experience when I become frustrated at home or at work. Sometimes it helps to slow down and get off the bike.

We never did recognize a landmark from the hill that morning. Sensing we were lost, a kind, German man pulled his motor scooter up next to us and drew a map on the inside cover of a wet Book of Mormon.

As we reached the bottom of the hill the rain returned. Although every patch of clothing I wore was soaked, I just smiled.