By Alex Peterson

Alex Peterson was born of goodly parents. He lives in Ephraim, Utah with his wife and offspring, with whom he likes to hang.

 

 

 

The whispering came again—this time a hint stronger than before. The feeling was distinct, like what they taught me in Sunday school. I don’t think it was just the sweet pork burrito talking.

I was driving back home on Highway 89. The air was warm with spring and hay fever, but I had the windows down anyway to celebrate the end of a long, dark winter. The car hit a dip at the county line and the Sanpete County asphalt abruptly became rough and cracked. My hair blew around in the wind and I squinted at the sun, but I left my sunglasses folded on the dashboard. The dreaded dark of February was still too close and I didn’t want to filter any sunlight from my chemically challenged brain.

The voice came again.

I considered rebuking it out loud in the name of Jesus, with my right arm to the square, using a phrase Bishop Larsen employed to cleanse apartments of evil spirits. But I didn’t. The voice didn’t have a scary feeling; it was peaceful and calm.

“But this isn’t the way it should work,” I thought.

“Try it. What have you got to lose?” the voice whispered.

“What have I got to lose?” (I actually said this aloud.) “My life in jail, for starters. This isn’t Colorado—it’s Utah. Red state—not blue. Fry sauce, not cannabis.”

“So, let’s combine both states—Utarado? Coloratah? Let’s do fry sauce and thc, with some fat fries for the munchies. You can’t tell me it’s any worse than your list of crazy anti-depressants. Or sedatives. Or sugar. Or those huge Diet Pepsis.”

“But it’s obviously against the Word of Wisdom.”

“So is too much beef.”

“Following the admonition of the Church has kept me safe. I respect my leaders and I just can’t see the brethren ever approving it.”

“So what else is new? The jury is out on mocha ice cream, you know. And inter-racial marriage is still a four-letter word in some households—but Lamanite/White and Delightsome weddings are getting more common now. Times are a-changing.”

“It’s not just the Church. Have you seen the Reefer Madness videos? It’s a gateway drug. Even some of my out-of-town friends who drink think marijuana is bad.”

“They say, as they pour another bottle of wine and fade into oblivion,” the voice answered. “You don’t even have to smoke it, dude. You can eat thc gummy bears or granola bars. You can even make it into green Jell-O salad with shredded carrots if it makes you feel better.”

“Just because Mike said it was a godsend doesn’t mean it will work miracles on me,” I replied.

“But what if it took the edge off, or gave you back some sanity? What if it actually is a gift from God to you? Via Colorado?”

“Get thee behind me, Satan,” I said loudly. The road was climbing up a mountain pass now, the smell of sage and earth blowing through the open windows. The trees got thicker and the air cooler as the miles passed.

I started to relax.

“I’m still here, dude.”

“What kind of spirit talks like this? The Holy Lebowski?”

“Or HG, or Poltergeisterino, if you’re not into the whole brevity thing. Whatever, man. You’re the one talking to yourself. Plus, I don’t use the f-word.”

The car eased over the pass and began descending toward the mountain valley. The “herbal” idea had come on gradually—an article here, a podcast there, a few friends from out of town who told me about relief from back pain, from epilepsy, from anxiety and depression. And then, last year, I fell into a pit so deep, dark, and hopeless that I nearly lost my will to trudge through life.

The pit drained even my desire to move. I couldn’t read or watch movies. Even if I wanted to talk to someone about the problem, my tongue was too exhausted to make words. It drained my ability to experience wonder and robbed my capacity f...