The Temple and Squeaky Shoes

I went to the temple again for the first time in awhile. It's funny to think that, at one point, I went every week, craving the peace and tranquility, the feeling of home. Now attendance is painful. I don't really feel a part of anything there any more, and what I do feel causes me to cry, which I hate doing. But I went because I knew I needed to, and because I had promised my mother I would.

I walked through the doors feeling like I did not belong. As I went through the foyer, I felt all eyes on me. My shoes, the only black dress shoes I own, squeak loudly when I walk, a fact that wasn't nearly so noticeable when I was walking outside. I wondered if they saw me as the interloper I felt, with my squeaky shoes announcing my presence with every step. I never liked those shoes particularly, but for a moment they became the symbol of all that has gone wrong in my life, of all that has labeled me a failure, and I hated them. I kept walking anyways.

Because scheduling is pretty tight, and because I didn't know if I could endure an endowment session just then, I participated in initiatory. I did fairly well at first, but by the second name I could no longer help myself, and tears rolled down my cheeks. One kind ordinance worker also teared up. I'm sure she thought I was moved by the Spirit, but I wasn't. I was moved by self-pity. I hated myself for that, too, wishing and praying that my feelings were different than they were.

Midway through the third name, a new worker came in. She had never done this particular ordinance, and she stumbled over nearly every phrase. I smiled at her, and nodded reassuringly, glad to have something to think about besides my own inadequacies. Her trainer said, "She is just learning." I crumbled as the Spirit electrified that message in my heart. I realized that I am just learning, too. I'm new to my particular position in life, and I am just learning how to do it, making mistakes, feeling inadequate.

As I walked out of the temple in my squeaky shoes, I realized that they didn't matter. Perhaps others were looking at me, wondering why I wore such noisy shoes, wondering if I even belonged in the temple at all. Maybe I don't really belong there. In the Atonement of Christ, it doesn't matter. I am just learning.