We were watching the paint dry on three sections of drywall propped up on the front porch, citronella candles adding a moody glow to the coming dusk, when we were visited by our first door-to-door evangelists.
I saw the two young guys in suits and ties heading up our drive and felt dread. Not so much of them, but Joe’s reaction; I tend to be polite to telemarketers and salesmen, where the guy I married will regularly scream over my shoulder into the handset “Just hang up! This (expletive) is wasting your minutes!”
After some awkward small talk (they thought our paint samples were shelves) the guys announced that they were from the Church of Latter Day Saints. To my relief, Joe kept his antisocial tendencies in check. He nicely told them he considered his religious beliefs personal and didn’t want to debate them.
The latter day saints were nice enough about it—they didn’t try to push us or waste our time. But they did offer to help out around the house—mow the lawn, wash dishes, paint (they said this last one with emphasis). We said no thanks and they were on their way.
Later, reconsidering it, I told Joe we should have taken them up on their offer. I bet they’d break faster than we’d convert—one day of insulation work would have them questioning their faith, guaranteed.
Postscript: Joe’s dad was inside during this entire exchange, and we were telling him about it afterward. When we got to the part where the two guys asked if we had religion, he said Joe, who was sitting cross-legged on the porch waving around the citronella candles to keep the mosquitos away, should have told them, “Yes, and I’m practicing it right now. Would you mind not interrupting me?”