This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2017, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.

Last Sunday, I said goodbye to my Mormon ward.

I've been a member of the Pioneer Sixth Ward, in all its variations, for 14 years. It was supposed to be my last ward, but my wife and I decided to move just one more time.

We're staying in Herriman. Our new place — which doesn't have a backyard the size of Iowa — is only 10 blocks away. But in the compressed Mormonism of Utah, that's like another country.

I'll miss my old congregation, including the people in it who sometimes drove me nuts and to whom I returned the favor many times over.

An LDS ward is a lot like a family — mostly good people, but also know-it-all uncles, crazy aunts, evil cousins and more. Before joining Pioneer Sixth, we'd lived in our previous ward family for nearly 25 years. Would we be a good fit in Herriman?

I decided to find out. I labeled all our cardboard boxes with "wife's bondage stuff," "meth cooker," "Playboys, 1971-1990," "roadkill parts," etc.

Then I called the Pioneer Sixth Ward's elders quorum president and told him that we were moving in the next day. The truck was already loaded; we just needed help unloading it.

There was just one problem. The only day we could do it was the next day — the Sabbath. The truck had to be returned Sunday afternoon.

It was all a lie, of course. We could have kept the truck for a month. I just wanted to see what kind of a ward I was landing in. Just like some families, not all wards are functional. It's good to have some warning.

Sunday, June 1, 2003, was hot. Like in the high 90s. I backed the loaded truck into the driveway at 1 p.m., got out, and waited to see what happened.

I knew the ward was on the 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. worship schedule, which meant that priesthood meeting was just getting started.

I waited some more. Would anyone show up? If they didn't, I was in trouble. The truck would have to be unloaded by just me.

At 1:15 p.m. a bunch of vehicles pulled up. About two dozen guys got out, yanked off their neckties and went to work. The truck was unloaded in 20 minutes.

Note: The only discernible hesitation was from a guy who looked like a recently returned missionary carrying a heavy box labeled "Sex Toys" with just his fingertips.

After welcoming us into the ward, these makeshift movers got back in their cars and returned to church. Or maybe they went to 7-Eleven. I don't know. The point is that they showed up.

Months later, I learned that my call for help had been announced in priesthood meeting. They had an opening prayer and then drove straight over to the new guy's house to help.

I thought about that experience while I said goodbye to the ward members last Sunday during fast-and-testimony meeting. I think they were a little shocked. I hadn't told anyone we were moving.

I told them that not everything at church runs according to the rules, especially for people like me. I was moving to a different ward, but that didn't mean I wouldn't be right back if the new one turned out to be a poor fit.

Bearing what passes for my testimony, I reminded them that I already knew I wasn't going to the Celestial Kingdom. In fact, I was perfectly happy being a lesser or Terrestrial spirit.

"It means I can go to church wherever the hell I want, and it won't change a thing. Name of Jesus Christ, Amen."

Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley.