Home » Christian » WHAT’S WRONG WITH MORMONS by B. Jay Gladwell

WHAT’S WRONG WITH MORMONS by B. Jay Gladwell

What’s Wrong With Mormons?
Nonfiction/Religion
Cold Tree Press
232 pages

About the Book:

What’s Wrong Wrong With Mormons?
was written as a result of the falsehoods and misinformation that continues to be perpetuated by those who are less than honest. The author, B. Jay Gladwell, invites the reader to come and reason together. Using a conversational style, he discusses the basic doctrines of the restored Gospel, based on the teachings found in the Holy Bible and latter-day scriptures.
EXCERPT:

A couple of weeks later, I was having one of those evenings where life seemed totally pointless. It was a Sunday. I was alone in my room. The lights were out. The door was locked. I sat sprawled in a chrome director’s chair, with a black vinyl seat and back, sobbing like a lost little child. I felt terribly alone and horribly afraid. To practically every question of an eternal nature that I had ever asked, the reply was always, “It’s a mystery. We’re not supposed to know those things. Don’t worry about it.” But I did worry about it!

One question that weighed on me continually I had asked my mother some fifteen years or so previous to that night. Even today, I can see everything as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. We were in the kitchen. Mom was at the stove fixing dinner. Next to the stove, to the right of it, was a stool. It was one of those old-fashioned step stools, a red-and-white one, with a couple of steps that folded down from under the seat. There I sat, as was often the case, watching Mom cook while we talked about whatever was on my mind. On this particular occasion, I asked her, “What’ll happen to us when we die?”

Her reply came instantly, “We’ll go to heaven.”

“That’s not what I mean,” I said. “What’ll happen to you and me? Will you still be my mom?”

With the confidence that only an adult has and without breaking her stride as she hurried about the little kitchen, she answered, “Oh no, I won’t be your mother, and you won’t be my son. There’s even a chance we won’t recognize each other.”

Wow! How’s a nine-year-old supposed to respond to that? I was crushed. All I could muster was a stunned, “Oh.” With that, I slid down off the stool, shuffled upstairs to my bedroom, and collapsed on my bed crying. She’s my mom! How could she forget me? I’m her boy! How could she not recognize me?

These and like questions were the ones that plagued me that dark night in Raleigh, North Carolina, where I was locked in my darkened room, a box cutter in my right hand, my left arm outstretched, waiting for the blade. It was as if that troubled little boy from the kitchen had returned. After all these years, I hadn’t found the answers to our questions. That night, I poured out my heart to God, begging for some answers. I pleaded that He would, somehow, lift me out of that dark hole of despair. I told Him that I simply couldn’t go any further. I was tired of living and afraid of dying. Not only that, I lacked the courage to do anything about it.

Laurie’s bedroom was across the hall from mine. Even with our doors closed, I could hear the phone ringing. Laurie’s bedroom door opened. I saw her shadow at the foot of my door. She was standing there, listening to me cry. There came a tentative knock on my door, and an even more tentative, “Linda’s on the phone. She wants to talk to you.”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone,” I barked back.

Laurie disappeared, but not back into her room. A few moments later, her mother, Mary Jane, banged boldly on the door. “Linda’s on the phone!”

I pleaded, “Tell her I can’t talk now.”

Now you have to understand, as nice as Mary Jane was, she was never known to pull any punches and she certainly wasn’t bashful. With a most authoritative tone she bellowed, “Get your [rear end] out here and answer the [darn] telephone!”

“Fine, tell her I’ll be right there.” I caught my breath, wiped my eyes, and dragged myself into Laurie’s room.

“Hello?”

“Hi, there! How are you doing?” was Linda’s bubbly salutation.

“I’m okay.” I lied.

“Can you come over? There are a couple of friends here that’d like to meet you.”

“Tonight?” I couldn’t believe this was happening.

“Yeah, they’re here now. You can be here in ten minutes!”

“Okay,” I sighed, “I’ll be over as quick as I can.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing come out of my mouth. As much as I didn’t want to be around people, especially on that night, somehow it seemed right to spend some time with Linda and her family. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, tucked in my shirt, and forced myself to climb in the car and drive over to Linda’s to meet these two friends of hers.

Pick up your copy of B. Jay Gladwell’s new book, WHAT’S WRONG WITH MORMONS? by clicking here!
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