"Why y'all dressed up?" the African-American man asked me, waiting for his drink at the bar.
"We're missionaries," I said, unbuttoning the coat of my tuxedo and leaning on the bar.
"Y'all are missionaries?" he asked, his eyes wide as he sipped his martini.
"Yep." I couldn't help but grin. I looked around to see if anyone else was nearby. Nope. It was just the two of us.
A few long minutes ticked by without a word. The sound of laughter and clinking glasses in the background made the silence even more uncomfortable. I cleared my throat.
Then, after glancing around the reception hall full of black ties and long dresses, he turned back to me. "Why?" he asked, earnestly.
It was a simple question, and I knew what he was asking. Why all this — this hoopla — for a bunch of missionaries? Why the largesse? Why the fanfare?
The irony of the situation didn't escape anyone present. No one felt comfortable in those penguin suits, picking hors d'ouevres off a silver plate. This is the same question others have asked, the same one that, admittedly, haunted me. FULL POST 
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