On the sweetness of Mormon life

Your missionary who has been in the ward for nearly a year bears his testimony. He was converted, he says, on a houseboat on Lake Powell. He found out that the Lord knew his name. From that much followed.

His companion has been a missionary for two weeks. He is very young. He gets out a cello. Another missionary lifts a violin. Three other missionaries group around the microphone. “What Child is this?” the cello asks, and “this is Christ the King,” the violin answers, and “this is Christ the King” the voices repeat. They are all very young. Their performance isn’t professional. But for a random assortment of 19-year olds, their performance is formidable. “Formidable” is the word in your mind, for their performance, for them, and for a church that produces kids like these.

You suddenly see the point of Christ’s birth being sung by a multitude of the heavenly army. You suddenly appreciate the frightful ruthlessness of a God who would subject even Himself, mercilessly, to his unstoppable design.