The Church Wants You - Part 1
Chris hadn’t cleaned the apartment in weeks.
The place smelled faintly of stale beer and dust, curtains half shut against the gray afternoon light. Empty bottles crowded the coffee table beside old magazines and tangled cables from electronics he barely remembered buying. He’d been unemployed for almost eight months now, drifting through long afternoons in the same faded black T-shirt, sleeping odd hours, ignoring calls from his sister.
So when the knock came at the door, he almost didn’t answer.
Two young men stood outside in white shirts and ties, neat as polished furniture. One blond, one dark-haired. Both smiling with that strange calm people only had when they believed deeply in something.
“Hi,” the blond one said warmly. “We’re missionaries from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
Chris nearly shut the door immediately.
“Look, guys, not interested.”
The dark-haired missionary noticed Chris rubbing his temples. “Rough day?”
Chris gave a tired laugh. “Rough year.”
The missionary nodded sympathetically. Then he lifted a small metallic case from under his arm.
“We’ve actually been showing people something lately,” he said. “A relaxation device. Helps quiet anxiety. Helps people feel… clear.”
Chris squinted. “What, like therapy?”
Normally he would’ve laughed them off. But there was something oddly gentle about them. Calm. Ordered. Like they existed in a completely different world than his messy apartment and empty cans.
And honestly… Chris was tired.
The blond missionary sat across from him while the other opened the device on the cluttered coffee table. It looked homemade — dials, wires, small blinking lights.
“It just helps your mind relax,” the blond one assured him.
Chris snorted. “If this fries my brain, I’m haunting both of you.”
Then they fitted a band around his head.
The lights pulsed softly.
Low humming filled the room.
“At first,” the dark-haired missionary said quietly, “you may feel heavy. That’s normal.”
Chris rolled his eyes… but after a minute, his shoulders loosened. The constant static in his head dulled. His breathing slowed.
The missionaries’ voices became strangely smooth.
“Feels better to let go.”
“Feels better to be clean.”
“Feels better to have purpose.”
Chris stared forward blankly, lips slightly parted.
“Feels good to improve yourself.”
Something warm spread through his chest. Comforting. Safe.
A little saliva slipped absentmindedly from the corner of his mouth as he sank deeper into the chair.
For several seconds, Chris just sat there breathing slowly.
The room looked… different somehow.
The blond missionary smiled. “You okay?”
Chris nodded automatically. “Yeah… I think so.”
But his voice sounded distant even to himself.
They stayed another hour reading passages from the Book of Mormon while Chris listened quietly, hands folded between his knees. Not arguing. Not sarcastic. Just… listening.
Before leaving, they placed a copy of the book carefully on his table.
“We’ll stop by again sometime,” one of them said.
And after the door closed, silence filled the apartment.
At first everything seemed normal.
A strange itch beneath his skin.
Not painful. Just persistent.
He looked around the apartment and suddenly became aware of the mess in a way he never had before. The bottles. The stains. The piles of laundry.
Without fully understanding why, he walked to the closet.
Inside hung rows of dark T-shirts and wrinkled hoodies.
And then his eyes landed on a single white button-up shirt shoved into the corner.
Something about it made his chest feel warm.
Chris stared at it for a long moment.
Then slowly reached out and touched the sleeve.
That night he cleaned for nearly four hours.
Trash bags filled one after another. Bottles clinked loudly as he carried them out. He vacuumed. Wiped counters. Gathered dirty laundry.
The entire time, the Book of Mormon sat on the coffee table waiting for him.
Eventually he showered, put on the white shirt, and sat down.
The fabric felt strange against his skin at first.
Outside, the neighborhood darkened into evening while Chris sat silently reading page after page. The apartment was quiet except for the turning of paper.
When exhaustion finally overtook him, he carried the book to bed and kept reading under the dim bedside lamp until his eyes closed.
The next morning, sunlight leaked through the blinds.
Chris shuffled to the front door in socks and found a clear plastic package sitting neatly on the porch.
Inside was a perfectly folded white shirt. Black slacks. A dark tie.
Chris carried the package inside slowly.
He placed it on the table beside the book.
Then he sat down again and opened to the marked page he’d left off on.
But he wasn’t really reading anymore.
His eyes kept drifting back to the folded uniform.
Wondering how the fabric would feel on him.
Wondering how complete he might feel wearing it.
And somewhere deep in the quiet corners of his mind, beneath thoughts that no longer entirely felt like his own, the soft hum of the machine seemed to linger.
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