One night over dinner I told someone I love that I never would have expected us to become such good friends.
“We are just so different,” I said.
“What do you mean?” he asked, confused. It was June, the beginning of the summer. By this point we had spent an entire year doing everything together.
Our waiter came to the table, refilled our glasses. I paused.
I thought he would know exactly what I meant. That our principles didn’t always line up. That despite his interest in the gospel, and his love for God, there were still things I did that he would never want to do. That I did things he probably thought were odd, even if he did think them good. But in that moment I realized how profoundly wrong I was. I—the girl whose father is not a member, whose family is inactive, who has never believed that being Mormon is a prerequisite for being a great person—was brought to my knees, there at the Macaroni Grill.
“I just…I guess I’m not really close to any other athletes.”
He shot me a funny look and stole a bite of my food.
What I said was true, but it was wrong. Even as I said it, I knew it was wrong. That wasn’t it at all. I thought we were different. I had spent so long thinking of him as a person who would never be interested in the gospel, in the life it teaches us to lead. But as I looked at him—at him right there across from me—at who he was and all that he was trying to become, I realized that we were not different at all.