SALT LAKE CITY — When I was young, growing up in what I would learn later was the Mormon corridor, I invited a friend to my house to play. This was not something I usually did because I was not one of the kids cool enough to have friends over.

Glenn walked into the house and the first thing he wanted to do was compare our dinosaur collections which, for me, took less than a minute. I was not interested in dinosaurs, but I was interested in having a friend, and the latter meant having the former in my book.

I had only three dinosaurs — one of them borrowed for the occasion. One was built from a model and looked part zombie. His head snapped off to the left which should have been cool but wasn’t. The other was a tiger, really, but I filed it down in places until it looked saber-toothy.

After a few minutes of dinosauring, Glenn walked around the house “just to look,” he said. Once he had gone through most of the house and silently approved, he asked where all my Mormon stuff was.

I didn’t understand the question and asked him to clarify. He said his dad was Catholic and his mother was protestant, and they had church stuff in their house — a crucifix, a painting of sainted Mary, and a family Bible. Glenn knew from people at school we were Mormon, so he asked, “Where is your stuff?”

All I could think to show him was my second-place trophy for my Pinewood Derby car. It was something all boys made during Cub Scouts, which was sponsored by our church. He liked the car my dad carved for me (I had nothing to do with its creation) but that didn’t really answer his question.

I looked around my house. All I could find was a framed picture of my Aunt Jamar and her new husband at the Idaho Falls Temple entrance on the day of their marriage. Glenn nodded — he knew what the Mormon temple was.

I had a CTR ring somewhere in a drawer — an emblem with initials for Choose The Right would have been perfect, but I forgot about it.

As a family, we went to church every Sunday morning, noon and evening (no combined three-hour block then), as well as some weekdays. We held family home evening and wore modest clothing, but as far as Glenn was concerned, there was something missing.

I am not suggesting the answer to our life’s problems is to put our religion on display, to focus on things as beliefs, or build worldly mansions of righteous, as my Grandma Hurren would say. A lovely framed expression hung over the fireplace means exactly nothing if it is displayed for appearances only, something I try to teach my children.

Such stuff, however, can be an outward expression of one's inner belief or commitment — as can a cross, an act of kindness, a star of David, kind words, a Book of Mormon, and so on.

Related:

Mormons in the real world: wondering about the future of my daughter

The fact is that we have been in the real world all along regardless of what others call it. Today we are in it together. My day to day just happens to include singing hymns at church and hers doesn't.

What does being an active Mormon cause me to do that I may not choose to do if I were, say, Mennonite, Methodist, or Muslim? What would I believe in my heart, and what would be the outward manifestation of those beliefs? What would I teach my children?

If Glenn were to visit today, I hope he would see my “Mormon stuff,” — partly because I like to paint and frame and collect, and partly because I believe having it around helps me to remember daily what I believe in, what I am committed to.

Today my kids invite their friends over. One of my son’s friends is a Muslim and, even though she is in my house, I ask her the same thing (knowing she won’t be carrying around religious objects). What I am really asking is, what does she believe?

Where is her stuff?

I recently learned she was practicing a month of fasting called Ramadan — something I had heard about but only slightly. We adjusted our eating/snacking schedule on the days she was visiting.

Every once in a while I ask her to teach me something concerning her beliefs. I often see similarities between her religion and my own, as do my children.

Religious stuff is all around.

My good friend from college recently tattooed on her foot “Hunger Sucks.” She is carrying around her religious stuff — the stuff of her beliefs. What she believes in is making sure people don’t go hungry.

What would Glenn think if he saw my life today? Would he know what I professed to believe in by how I act, by what I consider my treasure, by my Mormon stuff?

Several weeks ago, as my son changed bedrooms, I saw a new plaque on his bedroom wall — a churchy thing with a scripture and a semi-lofty saying on it.

I smiled, proud he was accruing some "stuff" — something that reminded him of what he wanted to believe in.

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Main Image: My friend wears her cause on her sleeve — and on her foot. (Photo: DCheneyStudio)

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*Davison Cheney writes "The Prodigal Dad" series every week on ksl.com. See his other musings at Davison at davisoncheneymegadad.blogspot.com.**

Cheney writes, often humorously, at davisoncheneymegadad.blogspot.com.

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