Monday afternoon, I was standing in line at a store, waiting my turn to check out. A pair of Mormon missionaries — the kids that go out on behalf of their church to proselytize — were standing in line behind me. You can tell who these kids are by their uniform: white shirt, black tie, and black plastic name badge pinned to their lapel. They did not have anything in their hands, so I was wondering why they were standing in line.
As these kids usually do, one of them tried to strike up a conversation with me. They do that to open the door to what inevitably would be a pitch for their church’s teachings. I’ve had that happen dozens of times and recognize the approach.
One of these kids looked at my left hand, saw the ring on my ring finger, and figured out that I was married. Knowing that we recently had a huge snowfall, he smiled and said,
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