Month: October 2019

Being Kind to Missionaries

I ran into the missionaries today. Well, not so much as ran into them but we happened to be in the same aisle in the same grocery store at the same time. There were four of them—walking around, discussing what food to buy—and they walked right by with barely a glance. I noticed them, but who wouldn’t notice a group of young men in white shirts and ties walking around a grocery store in the middle of a Monday afternoon? Also, the black name tags were a dead giveaway. 

Once again, I felt the divide that comes with being an inactive member. I’m still part of that world, yet not entirely. Two of those missionaries could be serving in my ward and I would have no idea. If they were, we might’ve recognized each other. Instead, I politely ignored them as we passed one another.

Then, I had a small moment and did something impulsive. I gathered up the cash I had on hand (around $50) and walked over to them. 

“Missionaries,” I called out. “Hey, I know you’re on a budget, so here. Get yourself something nice.”

“Wow,” the one closest to me said, “thanks!”

“What’s your name?” another asked.

“What ward are you in?” a third one asked. It was that secret code: Am I a member or an investigator? Maybe I have family in the church and I’m yet to be baptized. Sorry, Elder, you’re barking up the wrong tree.

I gave them my name and my ward. See? I’m a member after all. They shook my hand, thanked me again, and we went our separate ways. The whole exchange left my heart pounding. I was all jittery, like I’d had too much coffee.

Why did I do that? Why did I make such an impulsive decision? I don’t usually give strangers money. As with everything within the church, I have mixed feelings about missionaries and missionary work. I don’t really support what they’re doing. If anything, I look at missionaries with a bit of sadness. They don’t know what they don’t know and I wonder how many of them would be shocked at the things I could tell them. 

Years ago, I would’ve attributed this impulse as a “prompting from the spirit.” Their position as missionaries would’ve garnered my respect and I would’ve given them extra smiles and encouragement. I might’ve even thrown in how proud I was of them and talk to them about my nephew who’s also on a mission. I’d make a bigger connection with them, standing in the middle of a grocery store. 

In many ways, I wish they’d known who I was: an apostate, someone who’s turned their back on the gospel.  My cart should’ve been overflowing with coffee and alcohol and I should’ve worn one of my many tank tops. I wanted to let them know I’m not one of them. I’m an apostate, yet I took the time to be kind and generous. 

I didn’t, though. I didn’t tell them, and I didn’t challenge them. I looked like a kindly church member giving them a gift. My ward’s name was enough to tip them off: Hey, I’m one of you.

I’m not one of them, but they don’t know that. 

I’m sure one of those missionaries will use this experience to build up their faith. I might show up in a letter home or in a testimony meeting. Years from now, when they reminisce on the two years they sacrificed for the church, they’ll remember the random member who was moved by the spirit to give them $50.

Maybe, with luck, they’ll remember my name and ward and contact my bishop. He’ll say, “Sister Marden? You sure? She’s not even active!” So, of course, this will mean that deep down I must know it’s true. Why else would I give them money?

So, basically, no matter how it’s framed, I strengthened those missionaries testimonies today. I’m either a kind church member or an apostate who really, deep down, knows it’s all true. 

I’m not either one of those things, so why did I do it? 

I did it because the first thought as they passed me by was “Those poor missionaries. It’s gotta suck.”

Missions aren’t easy. This area, in particular, is probably one of the hard ones. I can’t recall the last time we had an investigator or a convert baptism. The church is actually shrinking around here while the whole area is booming with people moving in. It’s something my parents lament about every so often: The city is growing, but the church is shrinking.

I’m sure those missionaries are working hard, they’re doing their best, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they feel as if they’re not getting anywhere. I’ve read enough stories on Reddit to understand the pressure and strain that come with a mission. It’s not their fault, yet how much of the burden and guilt are they carrying around with them? 

I did it because I wanted something to go right for them. I wanted to experience some human kindness, to lift them up and acknowledge the hardness these two years might bring. These young men are far from home and likely living on their own for the first time. I can only imagine how stressful, exhausting, and worrying this must be. I have those same worries for my nephew who is far from home, living on his own for the first time, and struggling to find investigators in an area teeming with people.

I just wanted to be kind. Even though I no longer believe, I do understand. Between the things I experienced and the stories I’ve heard, I understand. It was that understanding that led me to pull out the cash in my wallet and walk it over to them. 

I hope they used it to buy a board game or go out for lunch. Maybe they used it for ice cream or Halloween candy. Maybe they saved it for Christmas presents to send back home to a sibling or a parent. It doesn’t matter, I just hope they used it to bring joy to their day.

Because even apostates have warm hearts. 

Some Thoughts On Women Being Witnesses

Well, the church has done it again. They’ve made another, more progressive change. It’s a step in the right direction. Really, it is.

Mostly, I’m glad these changes are happening. It makes it better for the ones still in the church and those still struggling along. A step in the right direction is still a step towards progress.

Yet, I always come away with a feeling of sadness when these changes happen. I’m happy for the change, but angry it took this long. These changes and this progress would’ve made such a difference to me years ago, but now it’s much too late.

A few years ago, I attended my friend’s daughter’s baptism. This one stands out more than the others because my friend is married to a non-member and is also one of the most faithful, believing members I know. This means that she was the one raising their child in the church. Scripture study, Sunday attendance, prayers, memorizing Articles of Faith—it was all through her sole effort. 

Her husband was supportive, but through his demeanor it was clear he was ”hands off” when it came to church. This was her religion, not his. The baptism was a nice ceremony and he was there to politely observe. She, on the other hand, was excited for this wonderful, fulfilling, important, and spiritual experience her daughter was sure to remember all her life. My friend was, and still is, the spiritual leader in her home.

When her daughter came out of the water, I turned, looked at my friend, and felt a sudden wave of sadness for her. Here was a woman who was completely and actively involved in her daughter’s spiritual journey, yet she couldn’t participate in the most basic religious ceremony. Surely this wasn’t right. Why couldn’t she participate in some way?

She did give a talk about baptism and the Holy Ghost. Her husband also stood up and said a few, nice words. My friend was on the same level as her non-member husband. She was there to watch and and say nice thing, nothing more.

I felt that same divide during my own daughter’s baptism. 

I had stopped attending a few months prior. I was “inactive” but no one had noticed yet. Even though I could’ve slid through my daughter’s baptism with only smiles and nods, I was desperate to be a part of it. 

I didn’t believe and I hadn’t believed in years. I was actually just coming off a very long and angry phase of my faith transition. I was more exhausted than anything else, but I was holding myself together for the sake of my child. I wanted to be a presence at her baptism because I wanted her to know and feel my love. She wouldn’t understand the turmoil I was feeling had nothing to do with her. I would not have her feel bad or guilt over a path I had set her on before she could talk.

I demanded to give the talk on the Holy Ghost because it was the only option I could take. I may not believe the church is true, but I’m still an active participant in shaping her spiritual journey. The words I said in that talk were the exact words I wanted her to hear. I went a bit rogue and focused on things like inner voice and authenticity, but not so much that anyone (coughbishopcough) would have to correct me when I was done. Most people, especially other women, expressed appreciation for my words. It rang a bell within them and I hope that same bell rang within my daughter. 

Now I wonder, had I the opportunity to stand as witness to my daughter’s baptism, would I have taken it? In a way there was something nice about standing off to the side, with a towel in my arms, as I waited for her to come back up the stairs. I was able to shed a few tears in private from my little corner of the dressing room. I wouldn’t have been able to do that had I been standing and watching next to the font. 

Still, I would’ve been a part of this special ceremony—even if it wasn’t exactly special to me. My role in leading and guiding my daughter’s spirituality is equal to my husband’s. Being out of the church and a woman doesn’t suddenly make me less relevant. I would’ve loved to support her in an official capacity.

So yes, I am very happy the church has changed it’s policy—especially because mothers are just as actively involved in their children’s spiritual lives as priesthood holding fathers. Spirituality doesn’t come from special powers that only men hold, it comes from lessons taught day to day. Giving women an official role eases some of the hurt caused by the inequality. It doesn’t solve the issue, but it helps.

I do have some issues, though. For one thing I’m a bit miffed that I, as a grown ass adult woman, am put on the same level as a child. A twelve year old boy with the priesthood is still above me. There is also something distinctly uncomfortable about calling on an eight year old to stand as a witness to anything. Children are malleable and eager to please. When interviewed, the interviewer is especially careful with the type and the way questions are asked. Judges, even, need to clarify that a child knows the difference between a lie and a truth before they can bare witness. What purpose or need is there for a child to stand in such an official capacity at church? And what does this say about how the church views women as well?

Then, there are the statements by Dallin H. Oaks that came after Russell M. Nelson’s announcement. This one sums it up best: 

“Finally, the long-standing doctrinal statements reaffirmed in the Family Proclamation 23 years ago will not change. They may be clarified as directed by inspiration.”

So, even though the church has granted women a somewhat more “equal” role, gender is binary and gender roles are still alive and well within Christ’s church. Men preside while women nurture and home-make. The patriarchy is still in charge and the status quo hasn’t changed. 

The church, in my opinion, still has a long way to go. 

Why I Can’t Leave It Alone

“They can leave the church, but they can’t leave it alone.”

I hate hearing that. If you don’t know, the above saying is something former Mormons hear quite a bit. It’s so witty, right?

…

Anyway… 

The “they can’t leave it alone” thing is a common criticism. I do see it from a believing member’s perspective. After all, we’ve left the church, so why keep talking about it? Why keep reading books, listening to podcasts, and posting on reddit? If we hate it so much, why rehash it over and over again? Just go already and leave the faithful, believing members in peace! Gosh and seriously!

How I wish it were that simple. 

I don’t speak for everyone, but I can speak for myself. I can explain why I “can’t leave it alone.” After all, I haven’t believed in years and yet, here I am, writing a blog post about it.

Simply put, I can’t leave Mormonism alone because so much of my daily life brushes up against Mormonism. 

It’s not just the fact that my husband and children still attend church. Church, for us, isn’t just a two hour, weekly activity. It’s still very much a way of life—whether it’s a prayer, a lesson, a talk, an activity, or a friendship. 

Half my social circle are Mormons. The parties we attend, the activities my children take part in, the people I see when taking my kids to school, the double date with another couple—they’re all with Mormons who I care about. I know these people, I understand them. I can easily slip into their conversation because I know the culture, the vernacular, and the tone. I might “huff” at something, but I also know why they think the way they do.

There’s also my extended family. My parents are still very much Mormon, as well as some of my siblings. When I talk to them, our conversations always touch on the church—the callings they have, the lessons they teach, their friends and ward activities, temple attendance, and even family members currently serving missions. It’s a major part of their lives, so of course it’s something they talk about. Why wouldn’t they?

But even if you were to pluck me (plus my husband and children) out of our house, town, and country and relocate us to a place, like say…France (why not? I kinda, sorta like wine now), Mormonism would still be on my thoughts. 

That’s because, whether I like it or not, Mormonism is still a part of me. 

For a long time, Mormonism was closely intertwined with my identity. You couldn’t find the girl without Mormonism. It took up a large part of who I was and it formed me into who I am today. 

I can’t leave Mormonism alone because Mormonism won’t leave me alone. Who I am now constantly brushes up against who I was. In my mind, I’m constantly comparing what was with what is now. 

My daily cup of coffee still says, “I can’t believe this! Are we really doing this?” 

I still take a deep breath when putting on tank tops or wearing shorts. I remind myself that I’m beautiful and that if I meet someone from church, I’ll just smile and say “hi” because I’m not doing anything wrong. I do this every. single. time.

During times of great stress I still offer up payers. They’re different, now, because I don’t picture myself talking to a masculine “God.” Still, it’s a prayer to the Divine  and it brings me comfort, the same comfort I felt when I was a believing Mormon.

There’s also the way I carefully consider situations whenever I deal with other Mormons.

Like this morning, during the craziness of getting kids ready for school, I didn’t manage to drink my already warmed coffee, so I threw it in a travel mug and headed out the door.

While waiting in the kindergarten playground, I saw another mother from church. Her child is in the same class as mine and I’ve had a few, brief conversations with her over the last few years. We don’t really know each other. She hadn’t seen me yet and I didn’t know what to do. Should I go and say hi? I mean, I could smell my coffee, so she’d definitely smell it as well. Would striking up a conversation with this Mormon mom just bringing unwanted uncomfortableness? I could just hang back and act like I didn’t see her. We’d be two ships passing in the night, except I’d be a submarine diving deeper into the water, waiting for her to pass by. 

I almost did, then decided to go for it, coffee breath and all.

Or how about the weekend my kids and I would be spending with my parents? Yeah, they know I’m out, but it’s still a bit fresh for them. As I started forming a packing list, I noticed all my t-shirts were dirty. The only clean clothes left were tank tops. Do I say, “Screw it!” and let my parents deal with my uncovered shoulders? It’s my body, after all. 

I considered that option for a moment, then wrote down “Do Laundry” on my “to-do” list. 

Mormonism is even there when I got out with my non-Mormon friends for brunch. A whole list of “grown up” drinks is handed to me, which I stare at blankly. I absolutely want a drink, but the barrage of choices is almost paralyzing. I don’t know what I like, I don’t know what’s going to affect me. I was robbed of experimenting with alcohol in my early twenties. Now, as a woman in her thirties, what should be a two minute decision is a ten minute anxiety attack where my brain screams “I DON’T KNOW! PICK SOMETHING ALREADY!”

And that’s how I found out I’m not a fan of mimosas. 

In a lot of ways, I wish I could leave Mormonism alone. I wish it didn’t effect my life so much, that simple things like saying hello, what to wear, and what to drink didn’t take up so much of my decision making time. 

It does, though, and that’s not something that will easily resolve itself over a night, a week, a month, or even a year. My life right now is a constant balance between respecting the people who I hold dear and honoring myself. 

I also want to know what my Mormon family and friends are experiencing. When I call my parents after general conference, will there be a cold, sad silence because a general authority said those who leave the church are deceived by Satan? Will my children be upset when they return from a youth activity because their inactive mother is spiritually holding their family back?

Mormonism touches my life in so many different ways. I can’t leave it behind, because to do so would mean leaving so much of myself and my life behind.

My identity was formed by Mormonism, and even as I rebuild who I am, it still touches me. For better or for worse, there will always be a part of me that is Mormon. I can either hate it or embrace it. I can ignore it or explore it. 

Right now, I’ll settle for acknowledging the many ways it’s still there and tell the small, Mormon girl of yesteryear that I still love her.