A few Sundays ago, I went into high priest group, sat down, and a song started playing in my head. It took a few minutes before I could place it.
It didn’t take long to figure out that the “not belonging thing” was me. All the other men in the room were wearing their Mormon general authority best: white shirt, dark suit, conservative tie and black socks with Oxford shoes.
I was wearing my Sunday best, too. It’s also my Tribune best, dinner-and-a-show best, and courtroom best: an open-collar shirt of suspicious hue, Dockers, green socks, brown shoes and a sheath knife.