Author: Marden

Photo by Samuel Martins on Unsplash

The Heavy Weight of Silence

It’s that time of year again. No, I’m not talking about Easter or the start of spring. I’m talking about General Conference. The first weekend in April has passed and with it a whole slew of emotions. 

I naively thought Conference weekend would pass by with little trouble. I routinely remind myself that “the church will do what the church always does.” They will say the same things and make the same announcements. If they’re policy changes, they will be minor steps towards progressivism. Temples, of course, will be announced and added to the backlog of those still needing to be built. As I said, the church will do what the church always does.

And…well…they did. Including a talk about about doubts and those who leave the church. 

So, I will do what I always do: write about it. 

President Nelson gave a talk calling out “lazy learners” and cautioning those with doubts to not talk with other doubters. Those words struck me hard. It embodied every talk and lessons I sat through that characterized former Mormons as lazy, ignorant, easily offended, and sinful. It’s frustrating because I know my story of doubt was far from laziness, ignorance, defensiveness, and immoral behavior. I think about my story and how it doesn’t match up to their narrative about who I am and what I’ve done. In this particular instance, I think about how I talked to others about my doubts—which mostly involved silence.

My faith crisis began when I read an essay on the church’s website. I was excited because I wanted to know about these issues. They had been bouncing around my head for years, but I feared finding “anti-Mormon literature” that would lead me astray. Here were the answers I sought! Better yet, they came directly from the church and that means the would contain the entire, faithful truth.

What I read shook me. Things I had previously dismissed as “anti-Mormon lies” were, in fact, true. I didn’t understand how this could be. I wasn’t a “lazy learner” of any sort. I attended every Sunday; not just attended—I participated. I rose my hand in Sunday School. I taught in Relief Society, Young Women’s, and Primary. I actively listened to the talks in Conference and tried my best to apply them to my life. I knew what my church taught and believed and I was careful in what I read and who I listened to. I walked this Mormon path with an assured confidence because I believed what I was taught.

The church had plenty of opportunities to teach me the truth—even the uncomfortable parts. If the things I was taught in Primary, Young Women’s and seminary was the soft version, then surely the religion classes I took at BYU should have introduced me to the nuances of church history. If there was more to the story, then why not teach me? Why put in an essay, in a hard to reach place on their website? Finding that information wasn’t easy or convenient. 

Sometimes, I wonder what the church leaders think I did next. Do they think I immediately stopped attending? Do they think I didn’t try to reconcile my faith with what I learned? That I decided to upend my life over a few thousand words?

I got on my knees and prayed. I prayed because that’s what I’d been taught. If I ever had a question that needed answering, this was it. I knew if I asked with a sincere desire, that Heavenly Father would answer me. I was not a stranger to this act as I had prayed many, many times before and felt my prayers being answered. I didn’t have a reason to think this time would by any different.

My doubts and questions didn’t go away. I kept them inside and continued on as if nothing had changed. Sometimes answers take time and I told myself I could wait. “Just keep having faith,” I said. 

I waited for years. I waited for God to lead me to places I could find more information. I waited for my doubts to clear up or to go away completely. When they still gnawed at me, I pushed them down. I wanted to read all I could, but again, I didn’t know where I could go. I didn’t know if I could trust the church’s resources because the more I studied the church essays, the more I saw the deception in them. The information I wanted was tucked away into footnotes and sources—the same sources they criticized in the past. If I couldn’t trust them for the full truth, then where can I turn? So, I continued to silently pray.

The weight of waiting triggered a stress response in my body. I became sick. I went to the doctor, convinced that something was seriously wrong with me. She listened to my symptoms and told me “it’s stress.” I shook my head. Stress? What could I be stressed about? My life is normal and good. She wrote up a prescription and a number to a therapist. I asked for prescription refills and tore up the therapists information. My stress response turned into a chronic condition that I’m still managing.

I kept it all to myself and didn’t utter a word. A few people knew something was bothering me, but I always waved them away.

The first person I finally told wasn’t a member of any religion. She was my non-Mormon friend. Our kids were playing at the park when I let it slip that I wasn’t very happy at church anymore. I was struggling and it hurt. She asked questions, but I quickly shut it down. I knew she wouldn’t understand why I continued to participate in church and I couldn’t give her any other answer other than, “because I have faith.”

A while later, the bishop called me into this office after he saw me “white-knuckling” my way through sacrament meeting. He was kind with his inquiries and I did my best to explain. He offered his support. He knew of the essays, but hadn’t read them. I was stuck between two options: tell him everything I knew or kindly accept his assurances. 

I remained silent and thanked him for listening.

A few months later, I met with a member of the stake presidency. Surely, this man would hold the answer. He must have bishops reporting about those who struggle. At the very least I hoped he’d read the essays. I needed and wanted someone to help me  understand.

I voiced my concerns and he talked. He talked and talked and talked. He assumed and insinuated things about me. When I pointed out that I needed a different sort of advice, he talked over me. In the end, he told me I should stay in the church because if I didn’t, my children would be worse off. “Think what will happen to them,” he said. 

By this time, I was no longer ashamed or fearful of my doubts. I didn’t believe God would punish me for having questions. Why would a loving God not want me to think critically? Why shouldn’t I be shocked by this new information? Why would God want me to stop researching, reading, and looking? If the founding of our church was once a young boy with questions, why couldn’t I be a grown woman doing the same?

I left the counselor’s office feeling deflated and angry. I needed answers, but all I was told was to stop having questions.

I’m not sure what more the church expected from me. I had a question, I asked with sincere faith, I kept my doubts to myself, and I sought out advice from the ones who I was told held the answers. The more I took their advice, the more I kept silent, the more I continued on as if this wasn’t happening, the worse my health became. The more I tired not to question, the bigger my concerns grew.

So, when I hear these talks, another question plays in my mind: Do they want me, or do they want my silence?

My money is on the silence. 

These talks are meant to keep people from voicing their concerns. They’re meant to provoke fear of those who leave. They’re meant to “other-ize” and divide. They’re meant to reinforce the prejudices and assumptions they’ve already made. By characterizing my and other’s journey out of the church as lazy, sinful, and bitter, they’ve removed the humanity and nuances from our story. 

I felt that sting when, after finally opening up to a close family member about my disbelief, she immediately dismissed me. Gone was our history and all the ways she knew me. In it’s place was the voice of the church. “You need to pray and ask with a sincere heart,” she told me. “If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God! You didn’t pray enough and now you’re blaming the church and belittling my faith.”

Pray harder. Work harder. Testify and go on missions, even when you don’t believe. But above all else, don’t say a word. The best Mormons are the silent ones. 

Until next time,
September Marden

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

I’m A Disappointment To My Parents

My parents would vehemently deny it, but I know I’m a disappointment. They love me, but I can feel a sadness that presses over them: I haven’t lived up to their expectation of a good, Mormon life; I haven’t become what they wanted. In fact, I’m the opposite.

I was always meant to carry the Mormon legacy—all of my siblings were. We hail from Parley P. Pratt and the Willie and Martin Handcart Companies. “Pioneer stock” runs through our veins and the sacrifice of our ancestors were told with pride and reverence. They were brave and obedient till the end; so, we must strive to be like them. Our people made and lived Mormon history; so, we’re not just Mormons, we’re generational Mormons. 

This means my decision to leave really hurts because I “broke the line” binding these generations together. When we talk about heaven or the afterlife, we sometimes talk about the metaphorical large family gathering where everyone sits down at a feast. Empty chairs wait for us and some will never be filled. My chair is one of the empty ones. There’s still time to repent and “return to the fold,” but I know that won’t happen. It’s not that I’m too far gone, it’s just that I know I can never believe the same way ever again. I won’t be with my Mormon family in the next life—my husband and kids included.

With so much at stake, how can I not be a disappointment? This isn’t just about securing a comfortable place in hereafter, it’s about being together forever. We can’t now, because of me. I’ve become someone my parents raised me never to become. I didn’t “keep to the faith,” “hold fast to the iron rod,” or “endure to the end.” Instead, I failed spectacularly and am lost, just as Laman and Lemuel were lost to Lehi and Sariah. From my parents perspective, they have every right to be disappointed.

The last time my parents said they were proud of me was when I told them my oldest child would be baptized. This happened before our conversations about my disbelief or my slow “inactivity,” but they knew I was struggling.

“I’m so proud of you, September,” Mom said. I knew she meant it as encouragement, but I felt weighed down. Was she proud becasue I was doing the “right” Mormon thing? How proud would she be if this conversation was about my child not being baptized? Would she still say she was proud of me?

I’d taken the time to sit, talk, and listen to my child about this matter, so it was a real possibility that she wouldn’t be baptized. If she was unsure or unwilling, I would’ve put a stop to it immediately. A choice is only a choice if she were fully allowed to decide. Brushing aside her fears or anxieties or pressuring her into baptism wasn’t letting her choose for herself. While I wasn’t surprised over my daughter’s desire or willingness, I did take some comfort in knowing she looked was looking forward to the ceremony and wasn’t at all worried. I also let her know she could always change her mind. 

How proud would my mother be if she overheard that conversation? Would her heart swell or break? Did it matter that I had this conversation, or did it only matter that the outcome favored the Mormon way? How would she react if she knew I told my daughter it was okay to go against he Mormon norm? How could my mother be proud of me when this was my daughter’s decision and I was just being supportive? I wasn’t moving forward because, deep down, I knew “it was the right thing to do” and I hope my mother didn’t think that. I hope my mother wasn’t proud just because I was doing what she deemed correct.

Honestly, when it comes to my parents, I wish I could ask them these questions:

  • How proud are you, really? Are you proud of the woman I’ve become, Mormon or otherwise? How far does your pride stretch? Are you proud of the growth I’ve gone through, even though it lead me away from the church? 

  • Are you proud of my thoughtfulness, my tenderness, my empathy, and my intellect? These traits directly lead me out of the church.

  • Are you proud of the many ways I steadied my family and marriage during this turbulent time? Every step I took, I took with care. I knew leaving would hurt, but I was also hurting every day I stayed. Are you proud that I was able to balance my authenticity while honoring my family’s feelings?

  • Are you proud of my voice? I no longer say what you expect, but are you proud, regardless? I’ve become less afraid to speak up and do what I know needs to be done. I’m not quiet anymore. Is that okay? Can you be proud of me, still? Even when we disagree?

  • Are you proud of the ways I’ve pushed forward, dug deep, and didn’t turn when things became heavy? I sat in a lot of uncomfortableness and pulled out parts of myself so I could examine and better understand. Do you know that I sank deep and then swam myself back to the surface, breathless and crying? Would you call my actions brave? Or would you say I’m lazy and easily offended? Do you know how I shook with fear and sadness, but kept moving out of hope? 

  • Are you proud of where I stand, even though the picture of my life is completely different from what you envisioned for me? Does your pride only come when my life looks a certain way? Are you proud that I followed the path that I felt was correct? 

  • Are you proud of the ambition and dreams I possess that have nothing to do with raising children or being married? Do you see how those things enrich my life?

  • Are you proud of me, even though I can no longer call myself a Mormon?

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to ask my parents these questions. I hope they’re proud of me—even with all my un-Mormon ways. I know they love me, so, for now, that will have to do. We can have this unspeakable wedge between us because we love each other enough to know some things need to stay unspoken—for now.

Truth is, I’m learning to live with their disappointment. There was a time when the most important thing was keeping my Mormon community happy. I couldn’t face their disappointment, so I continued on as if nothing had changed. However, for every day I stayed, I disappointed myself. Leaving, for me, was one of the greatest acts of self love I could muster. Now, the further I move away from the church, the more I feel their disappointment but the more I feel comfortable with myself.

Glennon Doyle sums it up nicely in her book, Untamed:

 “I’ll abandon everyone else’s expectations of me before I’ll abandon myself. I’ll disappoint everyone else before I’ll disappoint myself. I’ll forsake all others before I’ll forsake myself. Me and myself: We are till death do us part.”

I’m a disappointment to my parents, but not to myself. 

Until next time,
September Marden

Photo by Maria Oswalt on Unsplash

An Open Letter to My Mormon Community About Black Lives Matter

My Dear Mormon Community, 

I’ve been trying to write this letter for days. Trying to find the right words, the right tone, and the right way to phrase things isn’t an easy task. Nothing seems adequate and if I’m being really honest with myself, I’m not sure the ones who need to read this actually will. You see, I’m your resident post-Mormon—the one who left—so it’s easy for believing members to discount anything critical I say about the church. I’ve been called angry, bitter, unreasonable, and mentally ill for my decision to step away. It’s okay, I get it. So please, hear me out for a bit. Listen before you decide I’m full of it. You can always go back to thinking I’m wrong after you’ve read my letter.

These last few weeks have been really intense, and we all know why;  the news and the protests, the memes and articles passing around on social media. We’re rubbing up close to our friends and family’s political leanings that we may or may not exactly share. These weeks are a page in our history books that our grandchildren will one day read. Except, right now there’s a dividing line and it’s stark: either you support the protests and change brought about by George Floyd’s murder, or, well…you don’t. 

This week I took the opportunity to “mute” or “unfriend” everyone who falls in the “don’t” category. Normally I believe in surrounding myself with people who hold different views, if for no other reason than it challenges me to research and confront my own ideas. But on this issue, I draw the line because I cannot tolerate the tolerance of the intolerable. This is too much and I’m frustrated at the lack of listening in these social media spaces.

I wasn’t surprised by who I was “muting” and “unfriending.” No one who I unfriended made me sit back and say, “Oh my gosh, really? She thinks that way?” Usually the only thing escaping my lips was a long sigh or a mumbled, “Of course.” As I reflected on this division between the “supporters” and the “non-supporters,” I realized a common factor: I wasn’t “unfriending” people from a particular political party, I was “unfriending” my Mormon community. The ones exhibiting the worst behavior on social media were my dear Mormons. This wasn’t one or two instances or people, but a one-after-the-other kind of a deal. 

I tried my best to explain with love and patience, to back up my reasoning with facts and figures, to show what was happening by pointing to Black voices and experiences. The Black community has been trying to explain their frustration and pain for a very, very long time. Each time I tried to engage with another Mormon about this issue, I was dismissed. I get it, you don’t want to hear what this post-Mormon is saying. However, I had hoped you would listen to what others are saying and not disregard my words because we disagree on the church. I thought, perhaps, you could at least acknowledge the issues and problems, the hurt and pain. 

Within the church, outsiders aren’t really listened to; I was born and raised in this religion and lived a decade of my adult life as a faithful member. During my time in the church, I had a very real sense of “us vs. them” with the “them” being non-members. I was taught again and again that God loves me when I pray the Mormon way, when I dress the Mormon way, and when I act the Mormon way. Those things didn’t just mean God was pleased with me, it meant I was better than anyone who didn’t follow the Mormon way. God loved me more because I was Mormon.

I can already hear you saying, “You’re wrong! We don’t teach that, we don’t say that. We love everyone just as God loves everyone.”

My response to that is to think about the last time you heard someone in the church say, “He’s not a member, but he’s still a good person.” I personally heard that just two days ago. Being a church-going Mormon is an automatic qualifier of goodness. If being a member didn’t matter to someone’s goodness, then we wouldn’t automatically trust the Mormon salesman, the Mormon doctor, or the Mormon politician. How many authors are on the bookshelves of Deseret Book for no other reason than they’re Mormon? I’ve seen Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight being sold at Deseret Books as well as Orson Scott Card’s Ender’s Game. Those aren’t Mormon books, but they’re written by Mormons. 

So, again, the question always comes back to this: are they a member? If not, that’s okay because they can still be good.

My dear Mormons, that’s a problem. By setting up this “us vs. the other” type of thinking, we’re too quick to discount what other’s have to say. If it doesn’t come from the church, then it must be wrong, not as correct, not as worthy, or not as good.

Again, I can hear you say, “You’re wrong! We have NEVER said that.”

Then let me present you this:

Of the remaining Mormons on my Facebook feed, almost all of them have shared President Nelson’s statement that was co-written with the NAACP. The church has done the bare minimum by putting out a statement against racism that Mormons can hold up. Mormons can now point to that and say “See? We’re not racist. We’re not the problem!”

Now, how many of those same Mormons posted the Salt Lake Tribune’s article, “Despite joining President Nelson in call to end racism, NAACP would like to see the LDS Church do more”?

Not many. 

More specifically, this an excerpt from that article:

Indeed, the two organizations have collaborated on a handful of employment and education initiatives. But those were “minor efforts,” Colom [who is authorized to speak on behalf of the NAACP] said. They “do not befit the stature and magnitude of what the LDS Church can do and should do.”

The NAACP is “looking forward to the church doing more to undo the 150 years of damage they did by how they treated African Americans in the church,” Colom said, and by their “endorsement of how African Americans were treated throughout the country, including segregation and Jim Crow laws.”

Which one are you more ready to say is wrong? Which one do you automatically support? Which one are you more willing to believe about history and the issues of systemic racism? Which one will you discount first: the church or the NAACP?

If you’re ready stand up and say, “The church doesn’t have a history in racism!” then I’m sorry to inform you otherwise.

The church didn’t just ban black men from holding the priesthood until 1978. The ban meant black families couldn’t be sealed together in the temple. Black men and women couldn’t receive their endowments; those saving ordinances that are essential for one to get into the highest kingdom of Heaven. Also, by not being able to hold the priesthood, Black men couldn’t hold any leadership positions in the church. They couldn’t be bishops, branch presidents, quorum leaders, counselors, or even pass the sacrament.

And what about Jane Manning James? She was a Black woman pioneer who petitioned the first presidency to be sealed to Joseph Smith based on promises that were made before his death. In 1894, she was eventually sealed to him—but as a servant and not as a child (which is what she had been promised by Emma Smith). She wasn’t even allowed in the temple for her sealing, but someone had to stand in as a proxy while she waited outside. She tried, again, to petition to be sealed to Joseph Smith as an adopted child, but her request was denied. I haven’t found an instance or record in which it has been rectified. 

Additionally, Mark E. Petersen (an apostle of the church) said in 1954, “If that Negro is faithful all of his days, he can and will enter the Celestial Kingdom. He will go there as a servant, but he will get a Celestial resurrection.” The idea that Blacks were less superior and valiant within the church went far beyond the Civil War and all the way up until the priesthood ban was lifted—almost a decade after the Civil Rights Movement.

Regarding the Civil Rights Movement, Ezra Taft Benson said the it was a tool of communism during the October 1967 General Conference. The next year, Deseret Book republished the talk as a pamphlet titled: “Civil Rights: Tools of Communist Deception.”

“But that’s all in the past,” I can hear you say. “They were speaking as men of their time. That doesn’t reflect the church’s current position. Look at what the church is doing now!”

First, things that happened a long time ago can still affect current day thoughts and practices. It sets a precedent for people to follow and if we’re not good at recognizing harmful thoughts and ideas, they continue to be perpetuated.

Second, we are all men and women of our time. Just because it was acceptable years ago, doesn’t make it right. What it does is give us an explanation for why nothing more was done about it at the time or why it was allowed to continue for so long. Harriet Tubman was a woman of her time. She was born around 1820 and grew up in the same years that Joseph Smith was establishing Mormonism. She also claimed to have visions from God and was deeply spiritual. Why was God telling her to be an abolitionist and helping her free slaves while telling Brigham Young to support slavery at the same time? 

Third, the church talks a lot about it’s history. Every four years we have another lesson manual for us to follow all about the founding of the church through early pioneer life in Utah. I’ve been taught again and again about the Hawn’s Mill Massacre and how the Mormons were driven from Missouri and Illinois. I’ve sat through many pageants centered around Joseph Smith and Brigham Young and the Utah Territory. You can’t even graduate from BYU without passing at least one church history class! We talk about our history and heritage all the time. Why is it okay to talk about the Mormon Extermination Order but not about how the church didn’t oppose eternal servitude? Why can’t we talk about the priesthood ban and the implications of that within our Mormon community? These things are also part of our history and they should be discussed. Discussing issues within our community shouldn’t stop us because it’s uncomfortable. That’s how we learn and grow and better understand others. 

Lastly, I am looking at what the church is doing now and I am not seeing much. The church still hasn’t formally shown contrition for it’s racist past. I’d always been taught that the first steps towards repentance and forgiveness is to recognize your wrongdoing and apologize. The church has done what it can to disavow and distance itself from its racist past and teachings, but I haven’t seen or heard an apology. Disavowing and distancing isn’t the same as recognizing and repenting. If someone stole something from you and years later you confront them about it, and their reaction is “But I don’t do that anymore. Stop talking about it.” you wouldn’t feel heard or validated or understood.  You would feel dismissed because the conversation over the wrongness of the act and the ways to make it right hasn’t been had. 

So that is why I look to the individual members. The leadership of this church seems unwilling to apologize. Change can either come from the top and trickle down, or the bottom can demand change from those above them. If the leaders of the church won’t do more, then the members must.

A handful of Mormons have raised their voices in support of Black Lives Matters, but those are “fringe” Mormons. I call them “fringe” because they’re not exactly mainstream. Either their belief in the church is nuanced enough that I won’t be surprised if they leave in the next year or so, or they have children in the LGBTQAI+ community and have had a front row seat to their children’s pain. They have to be nuanced in order to fully accept their children and be faithful members of the church. The one Mormon friend who is a true-believing member and supports BLM happens to be a BIPOC (Black, Indigenous Person Of Color) themselves. These aren’t your typical, Utah-bred Mormons.

When this handful of Mormons speak up by pointing out problems and presenting solutions, the ones pushing against them the most is other Mormons. The ones most unwilling to engage in understanding and discussion are church going, scripture reading, General-Conference-listening, I-pray-daily Mormons. Most heartbreakingly is when the BIPOC Mormon tried to share their experiences and advice, a member from their ward told them to stop talking because they were “tired of hearing about this.” This was the first time I’d ever seen this person talk about their experience and they were readily shut down because a white member of their ward was “uncomfortable.” 

My Mormons, it shouldn’t be this way!

When Christ taught about the Good Samaritan, it wasn’t just a lesson about serving others. It was about overcoming biases that have been passed down generation after generation. The Samaritans weren’t liked or respected during Christ’s time. 

When Christ taught about the shepherd who left the 99 to go after the one, it was because the one was hurt and needed help. I don’t recall the 99 saying “What about me? Don’t I matter as well?”

When Christ was asked to judge the woman caught in adultery and he said, “Ye without sin, cast the first stone,” it was about understanding another’s pain and life. My favorite part of that story is what came after, when Christ brought the woman to her feet and didn’t condemn her. He saw right through to her heart and embraced her. He heard her pain and sorrow.

I want this church to be more Christ-centered. I could almost—almost—excuse it’s past misdeeds if I felt it was making a better effort to own up to it’s mistakes and continue on with a more charitable, progressive stance. Instead, I see the leadership do the bare minimum and the members follow their example by do even less. Again and again, I’ve seen believing members dismiss the protesters because of the violence, yet I’m not sure I’ve ever seen them listen in the first place. Colin Keapernick taking a knee was “too unpatriotic.” Black Lives Matter was “too exclusive.” There have been calls for peace, but do you want peace or do you want silence? Because, every time the issue is brought up, you shrug your shoulders, roll your eyes, and say, “Not again.”

I can’t stay silent anymore and I can’t ignore the anguish of the Black community. I can’t tell them to “tone it down” because they’ve been telling us for a very long time about the injustices they deal with every single day.  I can’t look at the issue and say, “I’m not the problem, this doesn’t apply to me,” because it does apply to me. I live in this world, I teach the next generation, and I vote every chance I get. We don’t function in our own little bubble; our lives are interconnected. 

My dear Mormons, I expect more from you. I want you to surprise me. I want you to sit down and listen. I want you to learn and grow. I want you to educate yourself on these matters, to pick up a book and learn the history of racial injustices that came after the Civil War and not just in the context of Martin Luther King’s “I Have A Dream” speech. I want you, just for a moment, to step outside of yourself and consider how someone else might feel and experience life. Maybe, just maybe, you’d be out there protesting, too.

If you want to read more about racism, then let me recommend the book White Fragility. You can do the research for yourself and still come away thinking I’m full of crap. We’ll never know if you don’t do the work.

Your resident post-Mormon,
September Marden

Photo by dylan nolte on Unsplash

Taking Back Mother’s Day

Last weekend was Mother’s Day and I loved it. I have no reason to dislike Mother’s Day. It isn’t a hard day for me, I have a fairly good relationship with my own mother, I didn’t suffer through infertility, and I haven’t lost any children. I know Mother’s Day can be a really difficult day for many and my heart goes out to those who struggle. Yet, I am not one of them and so have no reason to dislike the day. 

Yet, for years my opinion of Mother’s Day was just…okay. It’s an okay day and I felt selfish in thinking so. I never expected expensive gifts or big pronouncements and I was happily content with what my family gave me. “It’s so nice!” I’d say, or “That was lovely.” And it was. I was being honest. Every Mother’s Day was lovely, nice, and good, but each year I would inwardly sigh with relief when it was all over. 

There seemed no reason for it. What in the world did I have to complain about? My expectations weren’t grand and things always went according to plan. Growing up, my own mother never seemed completely happy with Mother’s Day, either, so perhaps I picked something up from her. I was like my mom—calling everything lovely or nice and always grateful for the homemade cards and breakfast in bed. Maybe that’s just how Mother’s Day is, I thought, a nice day that passes with a bit of relief.

It was easy to brush aside this dissatisfaction as something unreasonable, so that’s exactly what I did. It was Mother’s Day! I’m a mother and if I’m not happy with it it’s because I’m selfish. What more could I possible need or expect?

Then one Mother’s Day it all changed for me. I was laying in bed, thinking about the day and feeling the weight of it all pressing down on me. I went through the day’s activities, picking out the things I was looking forward to: the homemade gifts, the breakfast and dishes I won’t have to do, and the neatly wrapped set of candles I had pointed out to my husband that I wanted. Yet, I stopped when it came to imagining what followed. After the gifts and breakfast came church, three hours of it and all the exhaustion that comes after. 

 I didn’t want to go to church. I didn’t want to sit through the youth talk who doles out parenting advice with little to no experience with children. Bonus points if they’re from a family where I vehemently disagree with their parenting style. 

I didn’t want to sit through the talk done by Elder’s Quorum President, where his praises for his mother and wife are endless and overblown. Not that these women wouldn’t deserve praise, but so much of it rises to the level of unbelievability. 

I didn’t want to sit through the last talk, always given by a woman who clearly has a complicated relationship with the day. Either her relationship with her mother is such that she skirts the subject or struggles with her worth as a mother because for whatever reason she is unmarried or childless. The tears she holds back will be evident as she tries to get through the day’s crushing disappointments.

I didn’t want to sit through lessons meant to praise motherhood that left me feeling inadequate in my own mothering. I didn’t want to hear about apostle’s wives with their unwavering patience and perfection that I could never measure up to. 

I didn’t want to feel guilty over being a mother when so many suffer over not being one. I can acknowledge their struggle, but with so many emotions flying around those three hours, how can I not feel like I’m shoving my happiness in their face? 

Those three hours of the day left me feeling exhausted and worn out, like sponge being rung to tight. I didn’t want to go to church for Mother’s Day, I wanted to enjoy the day!

I turned to my husband. “Can we go to the beach today?” It was the first place I could think of that wasn’t church. If we went to the beach, we’d be gone all day. I didn’t wait for his answer, I just kept going. “We can pack a lunch, grab a few extra clothes. It’s only a hour or so away and the kids would love it. I know it’s a bit cold, but we could go anyway. Wouldn’t it be nice? We should do it.”

He looked at me, a bit stunned, then sort of shrugged. “Yeah, okay. It’s your day.”

So, that’s what we did. We packed a hasty picnic lunch, threw our beach gear in the car, and head out. As we pulled out of the house, I felt excited, but I couldn’t help feeling that I wasn’t choosing how to spend the day, I was actually running away from Mother’s Day. 

It was too cold and windy for the beach. Sand got in our food and we shivered way too much. We collected shells, built sand castles, and ran up and down the surf while screaming when the ice cold water touched our toes. I loved every moment of it.

By the time we piled into the car, I felt refreshed. Watching the waves, feeling the breeze, and breathing in the salty air felt healing. I couldn’t describe why, it just did, like giving me something I’d hungered for but didn’t know until I held it in my hands. I ran away from Mother’s Day and felt amazing for it.

We got home in time to throw a frozen pizza into the oven and spent the rest of the night on the couch. “Did you like your Mother’s Day?” My husband asked.

“Yes! I loved it! That was the best Mother’s Day I’ve ever had!”

The next year, I was preemptive. I made plans for Mother’s Day weeks in advance, again asking myself what I really wanted and following through. We went to a national park for a small family hike and again I loved the day.

This was year was different because of the pandemic, but in so many ways it was the same. Church hasn’t been an option since I “ran away” those two years ago and again, all I had to do was ask what I wanted.

I wanted Starbucks and a pedicure. That’s it. That’s all I wanted. 

I couldn’t get a pedicure, but I did one at home. I was able to take the morning to myself so I could sit in a too-long drive-thru line for an iced mocha. Then I parked my car at a park to spend my time writing. I wrote enough to finish my biggest, longest project—a novel. That was my Mother’s Day gift to me.

Every year I have been in the process of “taking back” Mother’s Day. Two years ago I was running away, the next year I staked claim to it, this year I relaxed into the day. Every year I asked myself what I wanted and listened. I followed through with whatever the voice asked of me—the beach, the national park, an iced mocha, writing time. Those were the things that defined who I was and what was important to me at that exact moment, and that’s how it should be. 

Mother’s Day is no longer about the ritual of the day. It’s now about who I am and I have a plethora of words that describe me. “Mother” is just one that gets tossed in with writer, wife, daughter, sister, kind, smart, determined, anxious, and loving. I am all of those things, one not being more important than the other. My children come first in many aspects of my life, but the label of “mother” does not. I’m a mother, but almost many other things.

This Mother’s Day I sent a friend a “Happy Mother’s Day” text and she responded with “Happy Divine Feminine Day.” How fitting. Devine Feminine encompasses how Mother’s Day has changed for me. It’s more about who I am and who I am becoming, without elevating one role above the others. It’s an acknowledgement of the many different parts of me that make me whole.

This year, Mother’s Day felt like it belonged to me, but not because I’m a mother with homemade cards and sticky kisses. Those things symbolize the start of it, but everything that follows feels deeper and more sacred. I am who I am and I can fully rejoice in it.

So, Happy Divine Feminine Day to all who need it. Next year, I hope everyone takes the day for themselves, however it is needed.

The Busy Mormon Life

Over a month ago I had one of those annoying-but-not-a-big-deal moments with Mormonism. Obviously, living in a mixed faith household means it happens on occasion. When it does, I inwardly roll my eyes and let it go. Not a big deal, it’s just something that comes with the territory.

Except, over this last month I kept thinking back on it. The thought would pop back into my head and I’d have to sigh and roll my eyes again. I guess it wasn’t as small as I originally thought.

Almost six weeks ago we were told to shelter in place. That same week an email came from the stake president to everyone in the stake. I skimmed it, just to know if there were any changes about to impact my family.

It was the usual rhetoric about having faith and being in God’s hands. There was even particular praise for the bishops (but not the Relief Society presidents) and instructions from the general authorities about monthly sacraments. One paragraph, however, caught my eye. I’m going to paraphrase it because I want to keep what little shred of anonymity I have. 

Basically, Mr. Stake President urged members to not “idle away in front of the tv, video games, social media, and other unedifying entertainment.” We should all remember to seek after those things which are “honest, true, chaste, benevolent, and virtuous.” Now is especially not the time to sit back.

Perhaps it was because I was coming down from a day of utter exhaustion and stress, but all I could think was “REALLY?? What the fuck do you think I’m doing over here? Do you honestly think everyone is treating this as a vacation?”

It felt like a slap in the face. Nobody I’ve talked with was treating this as a time to relax and take it easy. Nobody was saying “Finally! I can now watch ten hours of Netflix and scroll to the bottom of reddit.” That’s just not reality! Everyone I know was stressed to the max. Everything had turned upside down in the matter of days, if not hours. We’re home, but there’s no way we were relaxing.

Of course, it’s not just this tone deaf message that irked me. Something much deeper within me was touched. When I was a Mormon, I was endlessly busy with the checklist of living the “good Mormon life.” There was always more I should be doing—more praying, more studying the scriptures (not just read them, mind you. I had to STUDY them!), more visiting teaching (now called ministering), and more fulling all my callings. On top of all that, I should make time to regularly attend the temple (at least once a month), organize weekly Family Home Evenings, write in my journal, and do my share of family history work. 

Are you exhausted yet? Because I feel exhausted just remembering it all. 

It was a never ending stream of “have-to’s” and “I should be.” 

I have to read my scriptures. 

I should be planning my next lesson. 

I have to listen to this conference talk.

I should be at the temple. 

This pressure came with weekly reminders every Sunday. Lessons, talks, testimony meeting… Most Sundays I’d come home either feeling reinvigorated to get more done, or feeling like I was failure because I had yet to establish a nightly family scripture reading, do any visiting teaching, and start my family history. All these things had to be done on top of the normal, everyday living tasks most humans do—plus all the things I really wanted to do in my life. Whatever I did was never quite enough, but I needed to do these things. I had been promised again and again that God would bless me and my family. If I didn’t, blessing would be denied us.

Looking back, I think “Is it any wonder that I constantly jumped between overwhelmed, discouraged, and frustrated?” Of course, I never showed those feelings as they were pushed far, far down inside me and what came out was depression. It was always me that was broken, never the system. If only I get my act together and do all the things God wants me to do, then I’d be happy and fulfilled.

It is this part of my past—those memory, ideas, and feelings—that touched me again when I read the stake president’s email. It was also the implication that because church wasn’t happening that meant all the “church things” were also being relaxed. I can only imagine how I would have felt if I read those words while I was still a believing Mormon. On top of the stress and tenseness of everything around me, I would suddenly have a heap of guilt. It wasn’t enough to survive the day, I need to also keep up with all the church things. 

Those first few weeks of sheltering in were hard for our family. On top of the fear and anxiety of the situation, we struggled with work schedules, home schooling, canceling major plans, and missing friends. We walked through each day in a half-daze as we bounced between keeping it all together and watching the news. We weren’t “doing much” but each day ended in exhaustion. Our “down time” was bingeing Netflix or playing video games. It was our way to cope and decompress. Were they “edifying?” Probably not. I don’t care, it was what we needed.

Life is busy enough without the “Mormon checklist.” At a pivotal point in my faith crisis, I asked myself “Do you want to be a good person, or a good Mormon?” I laughed at first, thinking “isn’t that the same thing?” But in the silence that followed, I realized that wasn’t true. 

To be a good Mormon, I had to check the checklist and follow all the rules. I lived the letter of the law, thinking it would bring me all the happiness I lacked. 

To be a good person, I got to decide where to put my energy and time. I could focus on patience, empathy, and kindness for my fellow humankind. I could just “be good” without the feeling I was lacking something. It was enough to be kind, generous, and…well, myself!

When I said, “I want to be a good person!” I suddenly felt a sense of relief. I didn’t have to read my scriptures, pray every day, and do all those Mormon things in order to be considered “good.” As I stopped judging myself on the yardstick of Mormonism, I saw how quick I was able to outgrow it. I no longer needed Mormonism as a measure of my worth.

So, Mr. Stake President, please know that I’m busy and I’m not idling away in “unedifying ways.” My life is filled to the brim. It’s full of the wonder and awe of experiencing who I am and of knowing how powerful I can be. I’m secure in my worth and not the worry of “being enough.” I am doing those things which are most needed, even now during a pandemic. If that involves a stupid amount of mobile games, then so be it!

And the best part? I’m passing those thoughts and ideas onto my children.

Photo by Willian Justen de Vasconcellos on Unsplash

This Unruly Child

“Even those who, like a headstrong, unruly child, become angry with God and his church, pack their bags, and storm out the door proclaiming that they’re running away and never coming back.”

Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf, Apostle for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints

Let me tell you the tale of an unruly child.

This unruly child was born into a faith-filled home. Growing up, church wasn’t just a place to go every Sunday—it was a way of life. This unruly child was very concerned about being everything God wanted her to be. She faithfully prayed and diligently read her scriptures. She listened to her leaders and obeyed her parents. Tithing was paid without complaint, as well as attending early morning seminary, dressing modestly, and working hard to achieve her Young Women’s Recognition Award. As a young adult, she attended BYU and was sealed in the temple to a worthy priesthood holder.

This unruly child was never a “checklist” type of Mormon, but she checked all of those boxes anyway. She did it because she knew it was what God wanted and God promised it would make her happy. Be a good daughter, receive exaltation.

This unruly child was actually pretty happy. Life worked out very well for her.

This unruly child also had some concerns. While she had received her spiritual confirmation that this church was true, some topics made her squirm. Why would God deny black people the priesthood? What was the real purpose of polygamy? If men and women were truly equals, then why didn’t it feel that way?

But those things only bothered the unruly child for short amounts of time. After all, she knew this church was true and there were just some things God hadn’t allowed us to know yet. One day, God would make everything crystal clear and the church would be on the right side of history. She was as certain of it as she was certain the church was true and the Book of Mormon was the work of God. 

So, the day she stumbled upon the church essays, this unruly child was overjoyed. Here would be the answers she faithfully waited for. This unruly child was careful to never delved deeply into church history. Anything published outside of the church was tainted and couldn’t fully be trusted. Here, though, was something from the very church she loved and it would shine a light in all the dark corners she always refused to explore. 

By the time this unruly child was done reading, she was heartbroken. How could this be? It wasn’t just the new information. Actually, a lot were things she had heard before but always dismissed as anti-Mormon literature. Except, all those dismissed things were actually historical facts. If she could be this wrong about something so near and dear to her heart, what else could she be wrong about? What else had she dismissed as “anti-Mormon” were actually true? What else had the church never told her?

This unruly child sat with her doubts for a long time. She didn’t know where to turn. She tried to read apologetics from faithful church members, but they left her feeling even more confused and uncertain. The arguments couldn’t stand up against her logic and reason. What could be explain, wasn’t explained well. They didn’t hold the answers she desperately needed. 

The more she researched, the more stones she overturned. Every stone brought with it another uncomfortable truth or fact. It seemed that every aspect of her beloved church held a different version than what she had been taught in church, seminary, and BYU. Nothing felt safe or sacred anymore.

This unruly child laid awake at night, listening to her husband breathe and wondering what was better: divulging her doubts, fears, and worries to her husband or silence for the sake of keeping the only life she’s every known. 

This unruly child chose three years of silence. 

This unruly child did her best to keep it together. She served her callings, turned a blind eye the tithing leaving her bank account, and continued praying. She would read the scriptures and conference talks she felt could be comfortably read. She taught lessons, being careful in her wording to only teach the things that felt true and necessary. She was determined to carve a place for herself in this church. Except, the more she chiseled, the more she realized she was actually chipping away at her soul.

Funny how this unruly child only became “unruly” when she stopped being silent. 

When this unruly child started packing her bags, she did so carefully and purposefully. This wasn’t easy on anyone, and she knew it. Kindness and love were her words of choice, but not everyone was receptive. Some dismissed her and said cruel things. No one asked her why, though. They all said they were sorry to see her go, but if that were true, wouldn’t they try to find the answers she so diligently searched for? Wouldn’t they try to better understand her decisions and build a bridge between her disbelief and their belief? Or was she only of value to them when she stayed silent and pretended? Was her contribution to this place worthless now that she chose authenticity over painful silence?

Of course, I am this unruly child and this stubborn, unruly child didn’t leave in a knee jerk reaction of emotions. I did everything I could to make this work, even in the face of cruelty and willful misunderstanding. I kept my mouth shut and called it respect.

But you know what? If being the unruly child was the only way to be heard, then that is a badge worth wearing. Being the headstrong, unruly child means seeing the world and heavens for what they are and not through the filter of someone else’s glasses. Speaking up and demanding to be heard means opening that door for others. For every voice that screams out, others nod in agreement, silently whispering “That’s my experience, too!” 

You may call me headstrong and unruly. You may say I’m just a petulant, ungrateful child throwing a tantrum. You may brush aside my demands as unreasonable or “too much.” You may do all of those things, but I am the one who holds truth in her hands. I am the one who picked up the pieces of my shattered faith, looking at each one and carefully rearranging them into a beautiful stained glass window. I am the one who shined a light into the dark and scary corners of my belief. What I found there wasn’t a monster, but a woman with more strength and integrity than your little finger. Because it took courage to speak about what was happening to me and it took strength to steady myself in your whirlwind. Not only did I do it, but I did it with a heap of kindness, love, and patience. You cannot rewrite the version of who I am to best suit your needs. It’s not my fault you cannot see the things I had to offer while you minimized everything I’ve gone through. You are the ones who refuse to understand and accept me. 

So, to the headstrong, unruly children of this world: keep at it. Silence was a heavy price to pay for love, but the greatest, most authentic love I experienced only came after I was deemed “unruly.” I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Photo by Manthan Gupta on Unsplash

Dear Mormon Friends, your spiritual and overly positive texts aren’t helping

Earlier this week I was sipping my coffee, looking over my children’s daily lesson plans, and writing out my never ending to-do list when my phone buzzed. I quickly noticed my friend texting me. That’s not an unusual occurrence right now as sheltering in as made me fastidious texter—much more than I was before.  

This particular text was different. So much so that I let out a long sigh and rubbed my forehead as my thoughts centered somewhere between “ugh” and “Welp, there goes the morning.”

The text was from my very devout Mormon friend and it was…strange. More strange than the usual “spiritually uplifting” texts Mormons like to send. Anyone who has left the church recently (or not so recently) knows what I’m talking about. They know the feeling I’m trying to explain when a text comes in full of scriptures and Mormonisms. It’s the type that instantly makes your stomach tighten and heat form in your chest. 

The text started out as a “check-in” that quickly went from a Book-of-Mormon-scripture-share to an overly positive “Look how good I’m doing. I just LOVE all this extra family time” then ended with excitement over General Conference. I had to read it a few times because the whiplash was so bad and I was trying to figure out what, exactly, was the point of this text? Although, I could very well guess.

It’s text likes these that makes me reevaluate my friendships with my Mormon friends. I’m sure this friend had genuine concern over how my family is faring, but I also very clearly saw how she’s mixing that concern as a “missionary moment.” She might’ve thought it was subtle, but I assure you it wasn’t. Just because I left the church doesn’t mean my memory went with it. I remember the ploys, tactics, and anecdotes that were shared over the pulpit and in lessons. Those tips and tricks were passed around frequently with eager nods as if sending a spiritual text or inviting someone to participate in a church activity would be just the thing to bring people (back) to the fold.

Between printing out homeschool worksheets and pressing play on YouTube lessons, I sat down to write out a response. It took most of the morning because I wanted to respond well. My complete text was devoid of snark, but I assure you it wasn’t far away. I somehow decided early on in my exit journey to be loving, kind, and patient for the sake of friendship and building bridges. Unfortunately, my Mormon friends make that very hard and are not making it any easier.

I don’t think my believing friends understand just how much work goes into respecting their beliefs. There is so much hurt and emotion that gets pushed down and away when it comes to interacting with my Mormon community. You would think it would be easy as I’m easily able to show respect to my Catholic, Muslim, and Jewish friends, but there’s not the same emotions connected with those religions as there is with Mormonism. When it comes to that community, it’s as if I get more still, more focused. I have to maintain a smile and good nature so they don’t think I’m a bitter ex-Mormon hell bend on destroying the church. Whatever anger I have inside me must remain there as I remind myself that I value connections over beliefs. I’ve had to slowly work up to setting boundaries and some are more receptive than others.

 Because the truth about all those texts that have scriptures, quotes, and invitations is this: We know those things are important to you, that they fill you with comfort and peace, but they do the exact opposite for those who live in the post-Mormon world. 

We know you’re excited about General Conference. We know that during this stressful, chaotic time that the thought of a higher power guiding and leading is calming to you. We even know you passing around scriptures and quotes is a way to spread the steadiness and peace you crave. We know because there was a time we lived and breathed it. We haven’t forgotten that time of our lives, I promise you.

The problem is that these texts and messages don’t serve as lovely reminders or comfort. Instead, it feels dismissive over the emotional journey we’ve experienced and the healing work we’ve done. Those messages don’t serve as a way to connect because most of the time the ones sending us those messages are the same ones who’ve refused to ask any questions about our exit.

If my friend had asked me why I left the church, she would’ve known that the Book of Mormon and General Conference fill me with sadness, hurt, and frustration. She would’ve known I highly value authenticity over positivity, that I’ve become a firm realist and prefer to acknowledge that it’s okay to not be okay. 

But, she hadn’t asked, even though I’ve sent the invitation and left the door wide open. She won’t ask, which makes this whole situation all the more frustrating. It makes me wonder, is she being my friend because she genuinely enjoy my company or is it because she’s more concerned with my status as a Mormon? Am I just a project to her? I hope not, but I fear it’s so.

I would’ve liked to have a real conversation with my friend. I would’ve liked to hear about her accomplishments and struggles, to talk about how she’s balancing all these new expectations, and what she’s doing to remain sane. I would’ve liked to hear about her exhaustion and how she’s taking care of herself during all this stress. How is she managing her children’s worries? How is she taking it one day at a time? Is she also going to the bathroom just to cry when it all becomes too much? Is she taking deep breaths and then moving on to the next expected task? What movies and shows is she watching as a way to decompress? What home projects is she working on? Or maybe, what home projects has she shoved off in favor of ice cream and tv?

I got none of that. Instead, I got a woman trying to hide all her worry and hair pulling moments with positivity and a sprinkling of Mormon theology. It doesn’t make me want to connect. Actually, makes me want to distance myself even more. How can they expect anyone to connect on a human level if they cannot be open and honest about their fears, worries, and struggles?

So, please, my dear Mormon friends, these messages don’t help. I don’t feel uplifted, loved, or accepted. I don’t feel that you are seeing the person I’ve become and how much joy I’ve experienced in finding and developing this person. Instead, I feel that you are trying to minimize and dismiss everything I went through, what I experienced, and how I struggled. That you don’t see the work and effort I put in to stay, and then gracefully leave. You don’t see it, not because I wasn’t willing to share, but because you refused to look and ask. I don’t need you to leave the church to be my friend, I just need you to be real with me.

After I sent my response to my friend, I realized how much I don’t want to deal with these types of texts anymore. With all that’s going on I just don’t have time or  the energy. If you can’t reach out with real love, concern, and friendship—without also having a secondary motivation to get me back to church—then I will leave you on read. Because, I see what you’re doing. You’re reaching out so you can pat yourself on the back and feel good about yourself. I am no longer interested in being the “feel good” project for you. Connect with me as a real friend, or don’t connect with me at all. 

Photo by Mario Caruso on Unsplash

What fasting says about the nature of God

My family didn’t fast on Sunday. Readers of this blog will know why I didn’t fast. My kids are too young, but my husband didn’t fast either. I’m not entirely sure why he didn’t. I know he received the same emails I did, both from church headquarters and from the wardd. However, he’s not much of a social media person, so maybe he hadn’t seen all the reminders. I never mentioned it to him because one of the many things I shedded when leaving the church was being responsible for his spirituality and church involvement.

Still, my thoughts keep turning back to that particular call to fast and pray. I have some things to say.

On the one hand, I see how it gives members a concrete action to take (beyond social distancing and washing hands). It’s a way to give hope and comfort for a subset of people during a troubling time. I can’t fault them for that. For myself, I’ve upped my meditation and podcast listening as a way to keep calm during this turbulent time. I’m sure fasting and prayer gave many people a sense of comfort and peace. It gives them a sense of control in a world that feels out of control.

But something is bothering me. Something isn’t setting right as I think about this fast. I don’t like what fasting and praying imply about the nature of God.

That fast, in particular, was for the physical and spiritual wellbeing of people during this time. That sounds nice, but it makes me wonder: is God sitting around, watching the global panic and uncertainty, and waiting to act only when enough prayers and fast are said and done? Is he just waiting to give comfort and relief only when it is asked of him?

I hope not because if that is true, then He’s a crappy father. 

To bring this down on a more personal level, I think about how my family has been faring during this time. We’re doing okay. It’s been tough, but we’re managing. We check in with each other and taking each day as they come. We remind each other to take breaks and time for ourselves and we do regular check ins with our kids.

The kids are doing as well as expected. From their perspective, the world turned upside down in a matter of hours. One morning they were going to school and excitedly talking about an upcoming field trip, and then in the middle of the school day their principal came into their class to tell them school would be out for whole month (and more at this point). They went from having regular play dates, homework, and after school activities to suddenly seeing their teacher in Zoom meetings, limited out of the house time, and a mother playing the role of teacher. It’s a lot to take in. 

This week one of my children started crying quietly to herself. I only noticed because I heard her big, snot-filled sniff from the other side of the room. I didn’t wait for her to call out my name or for her to walk over to me. I didn’t standby, ignoring her until she said some magic words or performed a special ritual. Instead, I went to her, knowing her and our situation well enough to know she needed a hug and validation. She needed someone to acknowledge her pain, fear, and loneliness and then feed her some comforting words. She didn’t need anything other than a sigh for me to go to her.

When I think that God is supposed to be a loving father figure who knows our hearts, fears, and desires, and is just sitting around, waiting for us to ask him for help, I can’t help but becoming upset. Why would he withhold blessing from us until we ask? Why would he hold back comfort and life-saving assurances until we deny ourselves food? Why is he waiting for a church that totals less than 1% of the world population to cry out for help in order to use Divine intervention?

After all, if the love I have for my own children is a small reflection of His love, then should I feed my children only when they cry out in starvation? Should I withhold medicine until it’s time to go to a hospital? Should I ignore their cries at night because they didn’t come and get me from my bed? 

Of course not. I don’t wait for them because, as the parent, I know I’m responsible for their needs. I can’t imagine withholding love, help, and assurances until the very last minute. 

I’m not flippantly asking why doesn’t God just solve all these problems for us with a flick of His wrist? I’m asking why is there this prevailing thought that God won’t act until we ask? I must we beg God for deliverance?

If isn’t true and God already has started taking care of us, then wouldn’t it be in the way of scientists and experts? Shouldn’t we more seriously take the recommendations to social distance and hand washing? Shouldn’t we also demand greater actions from our leaders, both elected and spiritual? Shouldn’t we invest more time and resources into this problem? If science is the way God is providing for us, why is there so much shrugging and distrust of scientist and experts?

And if God really is waiting for a certain number of prayers in order to take action, is this the type of God we want to worship? How can we say He’s a loving, compassionate being if He is unwilling to lift a finger unless we cry out in anguish?

God helps those who help themselves, they say. Maybe that’s a more subtle way of saying God isn’t really helping at all. 

So I guess that’s what really bothering me. It’s this conflicting idea that God is a loving, all knowing Being who continually helps His children, but only when enough people respectfully ask. What sort of God is that? And is that a God I want to follow? I think not.

As always, stay safe and please wash your hands. 

Photo by Tai's Captures on Unsplash

Smart Enough to Know About the Coronavirus, Not Smart Enough to Know About the Church

I started writing this post two weeks ago. Honestly, it could’ve been shorter than that given how fast everything has changed. When I wrote the very beginnings of this post, I wasn’t a homeschool mom. I’m still, technically, not a homeschool mom as my children’s teachers are giving me daily lesson plans. However a big portion of my day is now being spent on the managing of my children’s education. I’m pulling out workbooks, digging for learning activities, and setting up schedules complete with “creative breaks” and “outdoor time.” Everything else in my life has come to a screeching halt, writing included. I’ve been working on this article in bits and pieces as my children finish math worksheets and coloring pages.

I almost scratched this post because, hot damn, we all got bigger problems right now. I’m not one for fearmongering, but the empty shelves and panic buying has me concerned. Everyone is on edge and a random thought I had two weeks ago seems completely irrelevant to all the other thoughts crowding around in my head. 

Two weeks ago, I had a conversation with my parents over the phone. It was our normal weekly call, the one where we try to check up and catch up. I love and hate those calls. Before my faith crisis I loved them, but now…well, it’s hit or miss. My parents are wonderful and loving, they’ve accepted and managed my disbelief as well as could be expected, but there’s a disconnect now that wasn’t present before. Questions feel loaded, phrases are carefully worded, and conversations will suddenly become stilted. But sometimes the conversation just naturally flows like it did before, the connection suddenly there again. It’s not exactly like it used to be, but it is there. Two weeks ago the Coronavirus was that conversation. 

It started out normal. We live in an area where COVID-19 is practically in our backyard. At the time it was only a handful of cases, but we were still watching it closely. My children’s school started taking precautions by canceling events and we were all washing our hands like a pagan ritual to the god of science.

We started discussing the many ways we were minimizing risks when my dad started telling me about an article he read. This particular article had facts about the virus and how to treat it. Some of these facts weren’t adding up so I asked him to send me this article.

Turns out the article was actually a meme he saw on Facebook.

Yes, you heard that right. 

A meme. 

On Facebook. 

No sources provided, no links to the CDC or any research papers (not that there are many out there right now.) Let’s just say this particular meme had a certain political leaning that has tried to downplay the severity of the virus. After poking a rather large hole in one of the arguments, my parents were good natured enough to laugh at themselves. We then had a very good discussion on verifying sources, identifying actual and reputable article, and a quick lesson about how virus and diseases spread (complete with examples of herd immunity). 

It honestly was a wonderful conversation. It allowed my parents to ask questions they weren’t sure where to turn for information. It allowed me to tell them about my sources and why I was taking the precautions I was taking. Suddenly everything I’d been doing was then seen in a different light. Some of their fears were eased, although they became more serious about this whole ordeal. In the end my dad said, “Wow, you’re really smart in how you’re dealing with all of this.” I’m not going to lie, it felt good to hear. 

After hanging up, a thought struck me: I’m smart enough to know about the Coronavirus, But not smart enough to know about the church. At least, that’s how my parents feel, think, and act. 

The same way I gathered information and checked sources about illnesses and vaccinations was the same way I learned about the church’s history and issues. I looked into sources, I read counter arguments, I used the knowledge I had to make the best decision for me, and then did my best to follow through.

My parents were more that willing to listen and agree with what I had to say about the Coronavirus because they know I’m well read on a variety of subjects. They know I’m level headed, that I don’t make rash decisions, and I’m thoughtful in my approach. They listen to me because they know I know my stuff. 

Yet, when I talk with that same confidence and passion about the church, they refuse the listen. Suddenly, I can’t possibly know what I know. Whatever I’ve read must be anti-Mormon literature, which “everyone knows” is full of lies and misconceptions. I’m being lead away by Satan. I wanted to sin and I’m just mad at imperfect church leaders. To them, my reasons for leaving aren’t based in reason and careful consideration.

It breaks my heart, just a little bit, to see that disconnect. They know who I am and the type of person I’ve become, yet there’s a huge blindspot when it comes to the church. I can and will be believed in any other topic I wish to speak about, but never when it comes to the church. 

I know it has to be this way for them. If they did listen and consider my reasons, it would hurt their testimony and they might leave the church, too. You’d think I’d want that. That because I have left, I must want them to leave as well. 

Like most things, it’s complicated. Leaving the church meant I shed a lot of shame and guilt. I’m more reasonable, less judgmental, more vocal, and less fearful. However, I also intimately know the pain that comes from stepping out of Mormonism. It’s because of that pain that I hesitate when it comes to others.

I think of my faith journey like falling off a cliff and plunging into ice cold water. It’s hard to breathe and I wasn’t sure which way to swim to shore. It’s a hard journey. It’s exhausting and full of many lows. I struggled, and still struggle, with finding my place. I survived the fall, but I’m not sure my retired parents would. Their whole community and world is built around that church. I made it out okay, but I also had a safety net of non-Mormon friends, a good therapist, an understanding husband, and much longer life ahead of me. It was easier for me to swim for that shore than it would ever be for them.

For my children, at least, I’m providing a path down the rocky cliff. Their journey will not be a sudden fall. I can’t say the same for my parents. 

So, this is just how it is. They’ve put a wall between themselves and my knowledge for protection. It’s a sad truth and means this disconnect I feel will continue until they take it down, brick by brick. I can’t be the one to penetrate a wall they willingly built.

At least they believed me about COVID-19. So for now, that will have to do. 

Stay healthy and well, everyone, and please remember to wash your hands. 

Photo by Ibrahim Rifath on Unsplash

It’s Not Really About The Coffee

I want to talk about coffee. It’s a bit strange that Mormons don’t drink coffee. Off the top of my head, I can’t think of any another religion that bans it. It’s one of those strange enigmas for non-members, yet it’s divisive among believing members. There’s no gray area when it comes to coffee and Mormonism. If you believe, you don’t drink it. Period. Unless you do—then only in secret because it’s just not done. Coffee is beverage non grata.

So leaving the church means coffee suddenly became a very big deal. I drink it daily now as it’s part of my morning routine: get up, pack lunches, make breakfasts, get the kids (and myself) ready, drop kids off at school, come home to a quiet house where I sit on the couch and drink my cold brew. My husband knows I drink it. My children know. On the weekends or vacations I fix a quick cup with my breakfast rather than enjoy it with the slowness of a quiet house. The smell of mom’s coffee is a more recent addition to my children’s lives. 

There was a time, though, that I did all of this in secret. Coffee was only consumed when everyone else was at school or work. I wouldn’t dare try to sneak  it on the weekends. Regardless, the barista at my local Starbucks knew me by name because I was a frequent visitor.

It’s so strange how something so normal and so small can cause such upheaval. I understand because I grew up with a very real belief that God didn’t want me to drink coffee. I thought coffee (and alcohol) were some of the worst things a person could put into their bodies. Now, I’m in this weird place where I’m so far removed from that thinking that it almost feels foreign to me. I sometimes forget that coffee caused a lot of turmoil. I now order it with ease and out of habit, but occasion I’ll still look around out of fear that someone will see me. I have to remind myself that all these strangers don’t care, that my good friends don’t care. This is all normal for them. It’s not a big deal.

But trying coffee for the first time was a big deal. It was September, a few weeks after school started up again. I know this because pumpkin spice latte was back and I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I hadn’t believed in a long time (maybe a year or two) and but I was still fully immersed in the church. I was going through the motions, not because it was a well oiled habit. I actually felt more like a grating marching wanting to be put out of its misery. I was trapped and frustrated. My faith crisis was a silent, heavy weight within me. I wasn’t living a full life. Every time I came upon a limitation, my anger flared. I felt desperate, full of bitterness that was constantly bubbling up whenever I was alone.

I don’t know why I chose that particular morning. Maybe something I read on reddit set me off or maybe I just felt it was time. What I do remember was the questions bouncing around my head: Why shouldn’t I have coffee? What was really so bad about it? Would God really love me any less? If abstaining from coffee was really about obedience, and if God could see into my heart, why would he need to test me? I don’t demand obedience tests from my own children. 

Most importantly: if Joseph Smith could manipulate women into secretly marrying him and still be revered as one of the holiest men in earth, then why the fuck can’t I have a cup of coffee?

So, I picked the nearest Starbucks with a drive thru. I figured I wouldn’t be seen that way. If my car was recognized, they’d assume I was after some hot chocolate. Even so, I took a quick look around before practically spitting out my order. I had an urge to whisper or mumble it, but I knew the barista wouldn’t fully understand and ask me to repeat it. If I had to repeat myself I would’ve chickened out. 

I took it home so I could sin behind closed curtains. I’m not being dramatic. That is exactly what I did. I refused to take a sip until I was home. I literally went through the house and closed all the curtains tightly. Then, I curled up on the couch with the cup clasped between my hands. I remember how strong it smelled. I half worried the scent would become embedded in the cushions and I curled myself tighter as if I could make this act smaller.

I hated it. It was disgustingly bitter. Why the hell anyone would want to drink such a nasty thing?

I took another sip. And then another. And then another. I made myself drink half of it before walking it out the the dumpster where I hid it under a bag of garbage. I even peeled the sticker off so if anyone found it, it wouldn’t be traced back to me. The rest of the day I felt jumpy, as if everyone could see what I’d done, like a big stain on my shirt. I knew they didn’t know, that I was being irrational, but I couldn’t help feeling that way.

The story doesn’t end there because that night, as I laid in bed next to my husband, I felt as if I should confess. I never kepts secret in my marriage and this was a big one. We’d hadn’t talked about my faith crisis yet, but he knew I was struggling. This, though, felt like a whole other level of falling away. It’s one thing to struggle with faith, but it’s something else entirely to act against your faith.

I didn’t want to keep secrets, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him. I imagined and knew what would happen if I did. At that moment his arms were wrapped around me and once I uttered “coffee” he’d pull away. He’d turn from me and a chasm would open between us.

I couldn’t face that chasm, that sudden withdrawal I was certain would happen. A wedge was already forming as my discontentment rubbed and chafed him. We had a lot of silences and unspoken words surrounding my struggle, but this would be a new silence. It would be the silence of disappointment, of anger, of hurt, of betrayal. This new silence was one I wouldn’t be able to live with.

Because coffee is against the Word of Wisdom, which means I broke a temple covenant and am unworthy to enter the temple until I fully repented. Being worthy for the temple is the epitome of a Mormon life, so he’d want me to talk to the bishop to get this all sorted out.

I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t talk to the bishop. It would mean me confessing to all the disbelief building inside of me. I would either defend it—letting my anger and frustration come out and burning the fragile bridges I was desperately trying to keep—or I’d cower and let myself be led where everyone wanted me to go. I would “repent” and be the success story my husband and bishop would want. It would mean continuing to pretend what was happening wasn’t actually happening. It would mean continuing to hide and I knew I couldn’t do that any longer. I couldn’t go back to believing anymore than I could go back to childhood.

So I stayed silent and two days later I ordered a Mocha Frappuccino (which went down much easier).

As I write this out, I can’t help but think how ridiculous this all sounds. Even for other Mormons leaving the church, it sounds way dramatic and over the top. I’m half embarrassed, half defensive because this is what happened to me. I know it’s almost incomprehensibly strange to those outside of Mormon culture. It’s coffee for goodness sakes. How can this possibly be such a big deal? How could coffee nearly ruin my marriage? 

Yet, I feared it would and I acted on that fear. As I write this, I’m certain that other marriage have ended over coffee.

Except, it’s not really about the coffee. Marriages don’t end over coffee. It’s about the disbelief, the stepping away from a religion you never imagined leaving. It’s about the changes that happen while going through that process. Sometimes those changes are incompatible with who you once were and the relationships you once had. Drinking coffee (or more accurately, stepping out of Mormonism) creates a sudden distance from loved ones and that distance is filled with their fears, their uncomfortableness, and their sadness. For me, it was also filled with the desire to keep whatever love and closeness there was. 

A lot of progress has been made since that first cup. I eventually told my husband, but it took time. We had to go to marriage counseling first. I never gave him specific details, never told him how long I had been drinking coffee without him knowing. I would’ve told him if he asked, but I think he’d rather not know. It took months after to order coffee in front of him—and only after a brief conversation. A few months later I finally bought my coffee from the grocery store so I could stop spending so much money at Starbucks.

Even with all the progress I’ve made in my marriage, some milestones still haven’t been reached. My parents and siblings don’t know, although I’m sure they’ve guessed. That is another thing that fills the space between us: unasked questions. They’d rather not know the answers and I’m still trying to steady the rocking boat for them. But until something dislodges—either they ask, I tell, or I drink it in front of them—that silent space will remain. It’s as if we can all pretend this hasn’t happened—even when it definitely has.

So coffee really isn’t about coffee. It’s about all the thoughts and feelings around what it represents. To me it represents my freedom and becoming. It was my first truly un-Mormon act, my first acknowledgment that something had to give and I had to stop going through the motions. Which is why I won’t be giving it up any time soon.

To my family, it represents my apostasy—I am no longer connected to them in the hereafter. The space just isn’t mental, but physical as well. I will be the empty chair at the (proverbial) dinner table. They will have to visit me in the lower heavens. I am lost to them because I no longer conform to Mormonism and it’s created a heavy sadness in them. If I could give up the coffee—return to my belief—I could be with them again.

It won’t happen. Coffee means too much to me. I can’t exchange all I’ve learned and become to make them feel safe and happy. To do so would break me. 

So, I will drink my coffee and wait for the day they ask me why I left and what I know. It may never come as there’s still so much fear surrounding disbelief and broken testimonies. Mormons are the great holders of unasked questions. 

Thankfully, my husband and I have managed to close that gap. He believes, I don’t, so our main focus is love and respect for one another.  Still, it could’ve gone very wrong. My marriage could’ve ended over a cup of coffee.

For the record, I still don’t like pumpkin spice lattes.