Delusions, Part 4

I was called to serve an LDS mission in Trujillo, Peru.  Naturally I was excited, and terrified.  Before I entered the Missionary Training Center, I made the decision that for my own sanity, I had to, somehow, forget about all of my dad's extraordinary beliefs and "revelations".  I was about to be immersed in the mainstream doctrine of the LDS church, and I could not go forward without complete trust and faith that what I was doing was the right thing to do.  

I began wincing every time Dad would open his mouth.  I hated going to church with him because I could just hear his inner dialogue and see the wheels turning in his mind about the people in our congregation and their incorrect teachings.  There were occasions that I would just get up and walk out of the meeting when he would begin to speak, my skin prickling.

Every missionary has a farewell church service, and local church leaders, family, and the missionary give talks during the farewell.  Special musical numbers are presented, and the entire ward feels a sense of pride and gratitude toward the missionary who is about to leave for two years.

For me, my farewell was full of  a relentless, nagging angst.  When it was my father's turn to stand and give his talk, I broke out in a cold sweat.  The members of our ward had undoubtedly come to the conclusion a very long time ago that my dad was odd.  I'm sure they just shrugged his comments and opinions off as part of his eccentric, yet harmless, nature.  Then at the end of his talk he did something very strange, something that is not done within Mormon services.  

"As a chosen servant of the Lord," he bellowed as he held his arms up the the ceiling in an arc, "I hereby call down the powers of heaven to sustain my son, and to protect him from the many hidden evils that lurk over the face of the Earth, and as he is to me what the Only Begotten Son is to the Father, I shall keep him safe with my power of the priesthood."

The congregation became especially hushed as they sensed that this was all a bit off.  And I felt the coldest  sweat and the biggest pit in my stomach that I had ever felt in my life.

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When I was a junior in high school, my father began stalking women.  

There were two particular ladies that I knew of that he visited daily.  One was the daughter of a friend he had made through his calling as Stake Mission President.  Cathy was around thirty years old, and she was a librarian--a stereotypical, dowdy, unmarried librarian.  He learned her work schedule and went to the library every time she worked.  He would sit in the parking lot before and after his visits staring at the library doors, muttering things to himself, often writing things in his journal.

Once, he invited *Cathy over for dinner.  Somehow, she accepted, and I watched my father watching her throughout the meal,  amidst the chaos of our family meal.  He looked at her with earnest, pleading eyes, but my mother hardly noticed because she and I were battling my four unruly little brothers as we typically did.  Later, he pointedly asked me what I thought of Cathy, and if I thought she was a good wife for him.  I didn't quite know what to say.

He also stalked a young woman who lived about three blocks away from us named *Pamela.  Pamela was his main focus.  Every night he would drive past her house, sometimes parking out front.  He would sit and wait to see if her bedroom light was on, although I'm not certain how he knew it was her bedroom window.  The Lord had revealed to him that if Pamela's light was on, it meant that she was thinking about him.  If the light was off, it meant her mother (who was Wicked) was domineering her and keeping her away from her true calling of being with her husband.

It is entirely likely that there were more women out there that he followed, as his list of wives was quite extensive.  As far as I know, he never really did anything to threaten any of them other than hanging around.  I don't know if any of them even really realized what was going on, or if they did, I don't know if they took the eccentric little man that was my father seriously.

And yet, through all of this, my mother, my sister, and I still believed.