It’s difficult to type because I have this ridiculous brace on my left hand to immobilize my sprained thumb. The brace is impossible to hide, as it’s big and black and goes halfway to my elbow. My wife said to me that I need to think of a good story to explain my sprained thumb, but that’s the worst part: there is no story. I noticed one day that it was hurting, and it just got steadily worse.
In contrast, I have several rather large and noticeable scars on my upper body from surgery when I was a newborn baby. That’s actually not a bad story, but as a teenager I used to enjoy making up even better stories: I was in a knife fight, or I was shot in Vietnam. And the odd thing is that some people believed it.
With some people, building up the story made it impossible to tell the real one. The brother of a girl I was dating was wide-eyed and fascinated as I told of the firefight outside of Hanoi. When I finally confessed to it being surgery to repair a birth defect, he refused to believe it was something that mundane.
I guess that explains why it’s so difficult for some people to accept a mundane, earthly explanation for the otherwise miraculous. Daniel Peterson recently told me that it was more logical to believe that Joseph Smith dictated the Book of Mormon from words that appeared on a stone in a hat than it was to believe that Joseph or someone else wrote the book over six years (the time from the first suggestion of a book until its completion). I think that’s the same phenomenon as that of my girlfriend’s gullible brother. It’s as if the more far-fetched a story, the easier it is to believe.
As for my thumb, my best guess is that I somehow slept on the hand and injured it. My wife said I should say I got attacked by ninjas or that she got a little overzealous with the handcuffs. I don’t think people would believe either.