‘I go like a lamb to the slaughter’ I said to my beautiful new wife as I left that dark wintery night for my meeting with the High Council. I remember thinking over the previous weeks that there was no way that I would be excommunicated. But the possibility that I could be still weighed on my heart. My heart and my head were not in sync over this situation of mine. Defiantly, I thought, I had dedicated decades of my life to the service of this church! I had done everything I was asked to do! I served a mission. I was married in the temple. I pursued my education. I served dedicatedly every Sunday, almost every Saturday, plus weekdays, in every capacity that I had been asked to serve! I had sat in more meetings with the Bishopric than I could count, and even more meetings without them. I was a hardnosed regular at attending meetings and I loved it. I loved the work. I was the first one there and the last one leaving. I had changed lives! I was needed! But that would all change.

I was born and raised a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and on Feb 19^th, 2013, I was excommunicated. I am no longer a member. I am a non-member.

The feelings I’ve felt while laying my hands on the head of a new convert and bestowing the Gift of the Holy Ghost are more profound than any emotions and sensations produced through mere mortal experience alone. About two years before I was excommunicated I was blessed with the opportunity to baptize a good friend of mine who I had introduced to the Church. I spoke at his baptism, and I was there when he got married in the church the following week. He was and is a giant in stature and faith. I haven’t been able to tell him face to face yet that the common brotherhood we used to share is no more.

The myriad of feelings produced upon losing the Gift of the Holy Ghost after you’ve been endowed with it for over twenty years, is without a doubt impossible to put into words. I’m certain that my limited literary ability will prevent even a tertiary attempt. However, I will say that it is a void, an utter abyss. It is darker and deeper than the mind can fathom, and so much so that it’s surprising that it isn’t in reality lethal. Truly it is perilous. After that meeting with the High Council that cold February night I left with a tangible sense of emptiness inside. Complete hopelessness, the feelings of damnation.

Over the last 12 months I have continued to attend church, not every week, but I can truthfully say that I have been there more Sundays than I have missed. I’ve told a couple people that I usually attend for my kids. It’s hard to admit but I also attend for myself. Harder than that is admitting that every minute that I sit through a Priesthood meeting, I am choking down the lump in my throat, and fighting back tears. Why? Because I’m angry, and I miss it. I miss feeling like I matter to God, because I really don’t know. But kick me out, or hold me down, or just tell me that I can’t do something and I will do it. I don’t know if that is a strength or not but at this point it’s all I’ve got, and heaven knows, I need it.