Holidays and Belief

 My five-year-old son has been trying to convince me, this week, that Santa Claus is real. 

This is an interesting predicament that most parents likely don't have to deal with. Most parents, in this area, at least, are the ones who tell their children that Santa Claus is real in the first place. Santa Claus is the one who arrives on Christmas Eve and leaves toys under family Christmas trees - not Mom and Dad. 

There are family traditions of visiting Santa at the Mall and getting your photo taken, while you're told to sit on this stranger old man's lap, and spiel the beans on all the neat stuff you want, this year, from him, while he nods, dutifully, and tells you he'll bring you nice toys, but only if you're good. (What even IS good? There's a lot of bratty kids out there I wouldn't label as "good," and I guarantee they get presents "from Santa." Empty threats, people. Empty threats.)

But I don't want to just rant about why I think Christmas is weird. Heaven knows, I've done plenty of that in my time. I want to talk about my five-year-old trying so hard to convince me Santa is real, and why that is the strangest thing to me.

He's in Kindergarten. He's learned the songs. He's taught them to his younger brother! But Santa has never been a part of his life prior to this year. 

In his living memory, this boy has never had a Christmas tree. He's never celebrated anything other than Hanukkah with us, his parents. Our choice to celebrate Hanukkah instead, with our children, was a deliberate choice - one made over the course of years and many, many conversations. In the spirit of full disclosure, we stumbled into Hanukkah on a technicality. We found ourselves in a moral bind over Christmas, and, with obscure family heritage, found a solution to our moral concerns. 

I am grateful to "technically" be Jewish. I was fully raised Mormon, however, and Judaism was never a part of our lives, growing up. To say that I am Jewish feels like a great misdirect, if not an outrageous feint. If you asked me my feelings on the Torah and the Law of Moses, I would confess that pork is absolutely my favorite of the meats. I don't speak an ounce of Hebrew, I didn't circumcise my sons, I've never been anywhere near a Synagogue, and I spent over thirty years of my life praying, "In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen." 

But I wanted to understand that side of my family line. I read books, I celebrated the holidays, and I made that great heritage a matter of prayer. I found many things that I loved. The Old Testament / Torah has always been my favorite book of scripture. I found kindred spirits in those stubborn, religious folks. Frankly, the Old Testament was written by raving Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disordered individuals, and that thing SPEAKS to me. (You mean there's another rule about something, because it's "RIGHT," and if people don't do it, we can judge them for it? Count me in!) The stories were, all of them, lessons of right and wrong. 

But back to the holidays! 

Hanukkah became our family celebration, for the December holidays. Why? Because of my love for Jesus. 

It's deeply ironic, to choose to celebrate a Jewish holiday that has nothing to do with Jesus, because you love Jesus - but so it was. I've had strong feelings about Santa Claus for decades. (My first essay in college was a criticism of celebrating Christmas with Santa Claus. I'm THAT girl!) To me, taking a "Christian" holiday and adulterating it with pagan worship and traditions was immoral. Throwing in a red-suited anti-Christ to distract young, impressionable children who really just want STUFF, was Satan's plan that would cause children to fall prey to consumerism and fall away from their Lord and Savior and the humility of his birth.

Yes, I'm aware that was some intense emotion, and I had it for a very long time, thank you very much. (Remember those OCPD Old Testament writers I love? I'm that girl. Be patient.)

Having children, I felt the double-bind of being unable to celebrate in the way that I felt was appropriate. Extended family, for one, celebrated the "traditional" Christmas, and that wasn't going to change based on Crazy Grace, Who Gets "Like That." The fact that my children would attend school with other kids - always bragging about their presents. "What did you get?" "Nothing. My mom thinks the obsession with consumerism is particularly un-Christian, so we got nothing," was an unacceptable future for my children. I had to give them presents during December. It just had to happen. So how? 

Enter Hanukkah. To me, it felt like a lifeline. Eight days to spread presents out, over. Eight nights with family, celebrating miracles, and frankly, the story of reclaiming that which was holy from the ungodly pagans. (aka - traditional Christmas.) Hanukkah felt fitting, for that reason. I reclaimed "Christmas Day" for Christ, and spread out all the materialism and gift-giving over a calm, family-oriented week, completely separate.

This has worked very well for us. 

BUT...

This year has been my year of religious wrestle. 2021 was the year I resigned my membership from the Mormon church. 2021 was the year I tried out another church - found I loved the people, but the bread and water didn't speak to me anymore, like it once had. 

And so, with that, I wrestled with Jesus. (Isaac wrestled with God. I'm allowed to wrestle with Jesus.) I read his words, I studied him in context, and couldn't shake the fact that offering people his blood to drink was the most unbelievable thing I'd ever given myself permission to consider. This man was a Jew. Why on Earth would he say something so unbelievably un-kosher? There was no symbology I could pull from it, other than to look, quite seriously, at the fact that the Sacrament might have been plagiarized from Mithraism as a conversion tool for Gentiles. 

I concluded Jesus never did that. Through a lot of studying, I concluded it was quite possible Jesus never said or did a lot of things I'd been led my whole life to believe. Did I love the teachings of the Gospels? With all my heart, and I always will, I think. Those words could save the world if we followed them, and the example of that character, Jesus. 

But, ("unfortunately" for some), I no longer believe in the divinity of Jesus Christ. I think, on a technicality, again, that makes me an Ebionite, but again I fail because I'm not a vegetarian, and I'm just the worst Jew, and I don't even believe the Jewish tribes have exclusive access to God, and am I even a Jew, probably not, according to most of my family, and I'm SORRY, Grandma, but the Shamash kept blowing out this year, cause the candles were cheap and the wicks were thread, so I just took the damn lighter to the candles one at a time, and I'm SO SORRY, Grandma! 

Anyway. I no longer believe in the divinity of Jesus - any more than I believe that we are all sons and daughters of God. 

The Nativity.

I don't believe there were three wise men, or Magi in any number. (Zoroastrian priests? Compelling, but no.) I don't believe there were shepherds. Mark says nothing of them, and the Gospel of Mark was the first Gospel written. 

I, personally, believe there was a Jesus. And I believe this Jesus was born to a young, unmarried teenage girl, who would have suffered much, from that life circumstance. "Son of Mary," they called him - a hint at the fact that his father was unknown, and that this man, this Rabbi, Jesus, was a bastard. 

Jesus was a bastard, and he was raised by a woman who would have been marginalized by her society. (Perhaps Joseph, the father, entered the picture and married her, which would have made the situation much easier, and what a merciful, good man he would have been.) But Mary was still known as the unwed mother. "Son of Mary" is as much evidence as any Scarlet Letter would have been, and this, even some thirty years after the fact, was she remembered for.

And who did Jesus serve? The marginalized in his society. The prostitutes. The tax collectors. The leprous. Even if these stories are not true, the symbolism of a boy who grew to protect the marginalized, so very much like his own mother, is astounding. What love is this, that a boy would have seen the wrongs done his mother, while knowing her heart, and inviting all to consider the hearts of those around them, irregardless of whatever labels society may give. 

That was my tangent on why I still love Jesus. 

But I don't believe in the Nativity. 

How does an ex-Christian who still loves Jesus, but no longer feels the moral requirement to defend and honor his "birthday," who has spent some fifteen years avoiding secular Christmas songs like the plague, but now has a holiday soundtrack with lyrics she no longer believes in, who also happens to be Jewish and has celebrated Hanukkah for years, but doesn't feel any real calling to keep up that tradition she was never any good at in the first place and only did it for reasons she no longer views as holy... celebrate winter solstice? 

This has been a very long road, and I bought stockings this year. 

Folks. I bought stockings. 

Because the whole thing just feels so ironically, painfully funny, like shoving candy in socks. 

I think I'm going to buy a tree next year. 

I feel like I'm selling my soul, but for the life of me, I can't figure out who's buying it, why they want it, and who had it in the first place, if not just me and my own pride.

When you learn a new thing, you can move on. You don't have to be embarrassed about your past. It was part of the journey, and it will always be a part of you.

But this year I'm totally going to listen to some of those "sinful" seasonal wintertime secular songs, and I'm going to try not to flinch like I'd taught myself to do for all those years.

Just Deck the Halls. Deck them all!

Experienced Relief

Last night I was too groggy to thank the woman helping me. I heard beeping in my resting chamber. There was light, and multiple people were present. She approached, stopped the beeping, said something, and left. 

I didn't thank her, I thought. 

That's okay, I reassured. You're the queen. 

The resting chamber was my bedchamber, which quickly evolved into a kingly balcony, concourses of presences viewing me, as I was, apparently, the queen, after all. 

And all of this felt rational and normal.

The drug began to clear my system, however, with the IV run out, and the conclusion that I was "the queen" tickled me, as I envisioned myself explaining this conclusion to others, and I "came to" with uncontrolled, quiet giggling. 

The nurses later checked back in, explaining they weren't sure if I was crying or laughing, as both explanations were completely plausible. Just last week, as I was going under, I heard a man in another room yelling in a frightful way. One of the anesthesiologists also told me a story of some blessed idiot who decided to listen to classic rock, while his IV was running, and when ACDC's Highway to Hell came on, he had quite a terrifying trip.

I listen to ocean waves. Sometimes the waves are overwhelming, and become static, but most of the time the waves meld into the flow of the scene just fine. It's far better than "river sounds," which are far too bubbly, for my taste, or simply the sound of the fan next to me, which promptly turned into the sound of upset people who were, naturally, spiraling down the red-lined, vertical tunnel to Hell, alongside me. 

You come to learn that you can change the scenes, and I was fortunate to escape this tunnel to Hell without difficulty - though the rest of the experience was littered with robots, crossing lines of black, red, and purple, with shooting lasers, and general discomfort. That day I was a little too stressed out.

I've been doing IV Ketamine Infusion Therapy. 

I've struggled with Depression since my High School years. For many years I went unmedicated, convinced I could "solve" Depression through sheer force of will. (You can't.) Over the course of many years I tried multiple medications, eventually maxing out the doses as I struggled to find relief. Medications would show some effect, then the effects would wear off. The dose would be raised, I would find positive effects, but then the effects would wear off, in a continuing cycle of maxing out dosages and switching to new medications.

It's called "Treatment Resistant Depression," and I have it. For literal years I've dealt with Depression, and the Oh-So-Helpful, naturally depressing conclusion I repeatedly came to that I might never find relief. I've dealt with guilt regarding my condition - guilt as I'm acutely aware of how Depression affects my mood, and the affects that that depressed mood has on those around me. My Depression makes me "prickly," and I respond sharply and with anger - things that have reared their ugly faces around my closest family members, most of all. I've hated myself, as I've seen myself snap at my children, dwell on the negative with my husband, and cycle endlessly in thoughts of helplessness, despair, and dread. 

Despite feeling able to manage being Depressed on my own, I've been torn with guilt that my Depression inevitably affects the ones I love in terrible ways. They haven't complained. They've been nothing but supportive. I am my harshest critic, but this fact drove me to continue the chase for relief from Depression for years, to no avail, resulting in profound familial guilt and frustration, on my part. 

This last year I began to seriously consider another option - an option advertised to help those suffering with Treatment Resistant Depression, like me. A couple years ago I went to a clinic that advertised offering Ketamine treatments. I sat in a room and interviewed with the director of the clinic, asking him my questions, about the "how"s of the treatment. I left feeling discouraged, however. I blame it entirely upon the decor. Their clinic was in the basement of a dingy multi-office facility, and was decorated with beanbags, colorful tapestries, and a fantastic mural of Ganesh in progress. It felt very "hippie," and while I appreciated the hippie vibe very much on a personal level, it was not what I was looking for in a medical procedure, and made me dubious regarding the efficacy of treatment. I wasn't altogether convinced these people weren't all just tripping for kicks and giggles. The director of the clinic had a bit of an "I've done LSD my whole life, and I can't stop this tremor anymore" vibe, too. Again, kudos for him, but not the treatment option I was looking for, and certainly not from HIM as my doctor.

But this year, a family member underwent Ketamine treatment for Depression, and swore by it, up and down. A friend of theirs had a daughter that went through the treatment, and SHE swore by it, up and down, as well. My family member claimed the treatment raised their baseline. They found themselves smiling more, sleeping better, and better able to cope with the inevitable frustrations of work and life in general. 

So I had my baby and finished that pesky "pregnancy" prohibitor, and signed up for Ketamine Infusion Therapy a couple weeks later. I went to a different clinic, obviously. No Ganesh murals setting me up, thank you very much.

I went to the Utah Ketamine Clinic in American Fork. I am fairly convinced that you will find no better human beings on this planet than those who work at Ketamine clinics. It is fortunate. If you choose a career where you literally have human lives on your hands - not just their lives, but their very psyches, as you're literally inducing dissociative states on these people - it is good to be a good person. The "tone" of an experience is very important, when people are dissociating. I believe these Ketamine employees understand that, and I've never seen one running at less than 100% care and concern, with overwhelming positivity. 

My first experience was touching. The most lovely nurse was taking care of me - my favorite nurse by far. She had a contagious smile. She put in my IV, gave me medication for nausea and dizziness, the anesthesiologist plugged my Ketamine in, turned the lights off, left the room, and away I went, feet up in the soft, sturdy recliner, with my blanket tucked in around me. 

I saw sparks of color on the periphery of my vision, first - gold. My mouth warmed, as the drug filled in my system more, and then? That warm taste in my mouth exploded into a half-mandala, with sharp, pointed edges growing and swirling from the right of my field of vision, in golds, yellows, and whites. Danged, if it wasn't beautiful and weird. But with the warmness in my mouth, the mandala growing in my blurring vision, erasing the room around me as it softly melted down into blackness, I felt a tender moment of love - something my spiritual past experiences would have described as "The Spirit." In that moment I felt an overwhelming warmth of love, and the thought - "You are very brave to do this for your children." I remember feeling a tear falling down my face, which became, instantly, divine. 

I don't know if that feeling or that thought were real or artifically induced, which, frankly, set the tone and question for all my subsequent treatments. 

That first treatment was full of blacks, golds, and comfort. I traveled up a black valley, flew up darkened mountain sides and up past their snow-capped peaks into the dark blue sky, dancing with green aurora borealis. I watched as a godlike figure - yes, it was Sazed from the Mistborn book series - climbed stairs that rose up to meet his feet, flowing in oversized pant legs, on a dazzlingly white, gold, and light orange background - each step slow, smooth, and deliberate.

I morphed into a baby - just like my own newborn. The purring of the IV machine became my cat, and I, my baby lying at its side. I sat and breathed in the calmness of that moment and the realization that my life was very complicated - that things were far bigger than me, and that I was as good as my baby in terms of what I knew and understood and could change, and that I could rest and find peace in that knowledge, or lack thereof. 

My mother, who sat in the room with me, to help me through any first-time potential complications, morphed into Whistler's Mother in her chair, when the IV medication began to wear off. I recognized that she must be incredibly bored, and that alas, that was the role of mothers after all, wasn't it? To be a bored observer? I felt very connected to that message and motivation in that moment, and the urge to find peace in it - peace in boredom, and the steady, calming purr of ignorance and powers beyond my control next to me.

Ketamine turns me into a artist, and every experience I usually have a moment of thinking, "Wow, I wish I could draw this." or "I wonder if anyone has ever tried to draw something like this." It's that wish that I could share it, and that others could understand the intimate, random firings of my brain dissociating. I've had moments where I think I've almost thought of some movie or song that almost captures it, but nothing ever captures it quite right. Though I've tried. 

It's always constant motion. It's waves, it soaring, it's morphing, drawing space out, falling into colors, sights, sounds, textures. Colors and sights are interpreted by your own knowledge, experiences, meandering, and desires, into further movement, color, impressions, and interpretations. 

I've seen God, creating. And I've created. The room has swam around me in sketched blacks and whites, and I've found myself interpreting, "If I come out of this now, will I be an atheist?" The room swirled with greens and golds, architecture, leaves, pillars and stone, and I've found myself interpreting, "If I come out of this now, will I be Hindu?" And it all made perfect sense. I've looked for God in these artificially induced visions and I've found God. I've also looked for God and recognized the biological, physiological randomness of it all instead.

I've questioned and watched the process of the drugs taking my body through these spins and visions. I've also done as John Lennon recommended, to "Turn off your mind, relax and float downstream... That you may see the meaning of within." (Lennon did drugs. He knew what he was talking about! I was happy to take his advice.) The things I dredged up were all things from inside of myself - impressions I already knew, of things already considered, but not quite so vividly or with the exact processes or images. It was all random, very much so, but when experienced, I knew it was all mine. 

So has it helped with my Depression? There have been days where I've doubted it. I'm just as stressed as before. But then, in retrospect, did I really think that Ketamine would change my life situations? I'm still raising three children, one a newborn who doesn't let me sleep and yells at me regularly, one struggling with ADHD who needs frequent reminders and monitoring, and the other with a sassy attitude who likes to "flop" to the ground if I ask him to go anywhere. I have to remind myself that EVERYONE would feel overwhelmed about this, and that being stressed out, frustrated, constantly argued with, and sleep-deprived is not the same thing as being Depressed. 

My Depression has historically taken the light out of my days. I remember once, years ago, recognizing that I knew if my medication was working if I enjoyed listening to music, or caught myself singing. And in the last several weeks, I have caught myself singing. I've found myself smiling. In turning off the light in my boy's room, yet again, I didn't bemoan the messy state of their floor, like I usually would. Instead I noted that it appeared they were making a blanket fort! and I took joy in their spark for life. Just a few days ago I caught myself folding laundry right out of the dryer, without making a "laundry heap" in the hallway, for days on end, as I usually do. For me, that was a big deal. And I was happy while I did it. I made a meal plan for the week, and have stuck with it, without Depression driving me to make excuses for takeout. 

Yesterday and today have been long days. The children all have a cold, and I'm suffering from the slightly nauseated, dizzy remnants of my Ketamine infusion last night. No one is on their best behavior, and there have been several angry, frustrated moments. I questioned, today, if the Ketamine infusions have been worth it, as my final one is tomorrow night, almost $2,000 later. 

Last night was a night of textures and voices. The nurses were chatting with each other in their office across the hall, and the pleasant conversation carried through my visions as inaudible, happy mumbling. I DID hear "No pressure!" to laughter, which set a light-hearted tone. I fell into fabrics, cushioned rooms and cities. I was even carried to my living room's black fur rug, which was scanned foot by foot with calm, soft precision, to the dull, happy mumbling of unseen others. And yes, it was good. 

I pulled the room lengthwise, turning it into white, arched doorways which, when stretched, pulled downwards into a black river, with a head like a lizard. I fell into a rug of ripped fabrics, surprisingly soft, which I floated in, like a seaweed-y river - and I thought to myself, "At least being fat makes me happy and comfortable."

Were my Ketamine infusions worth it? 

I think so. Undoubtedly, time will tell. I have seen results. The nagging question and worry, which experience has trained me to be cynical in, makes me wonder how long it will last. They do have return appointments - only one infusion for follow-ups, not the initial six, which they state work wonderfully. Some people return every few months. Some people never feel the need to return! (The Ketamine MIRACLE?!) 

Time will tell. But I'll take what I can from the experiences. Be bored. Recognize your ignorance and inability to fix everything, and embrace that. Be satisfied with your body. Recognize your potential. Embrace that your type of "goddess" self might not be stereotypically feminine - all the best female gods are gods of war, and there is absolutely comfort and purpose in that. I have the ability to change what is unbearable, but being uncomfortable is not the end. The scene will flow on and turn eventually, and who knows? At the end of it you might even discover that you are the queen!

The Story of Your Birth - Matilda

The decision to have a baby is never made lightly. 

The decision to have a baby in the middle of a global pandemic under the regime of Donald Trump is never made lightly either. 

You will grow up being one of "those" babies - your parents were serious enough about their desire to have you, that they chose to have you despite a world of risks, which they were taking very seriously. 

Despite the fact that babies are beautiful miraculous gifts, I'm pretty sure I didn't come up with any fancy way to tell your dad when I found out I was pregnant. We both knew we were pretty reliable when it came to trying for a baby, by this point, that we kind of figured that once we'd tried, we'd succeed. (Not everyone is so lucky, and we're terribly sorry about that.) I'd thought up cute ways to tell him, when I was pregnant with your brothers. But with you? I'm pretty sure I just told him. Sorry. 

My pregnancy with you was both easy and difficult - difficult due to constant nausea throughout the first trimester, and half of the second trimester as well. I'd never been that nauseated with your brothers. But the pregnancy was easy as there were no complications or anything even remotely eventful. When I finally got an appetite back, I craved Arctic Circle's Country Chicken Sandwiches, which, post pregnancy, I would be happy to never see ever again. 

I'd always assumed you would be a boy - not through any profound "gut" feelings, or experiences, but because I'd already been a "boy mom" for five years, and because your father assured me that girls were rare in his family, and genetically speaking, it's the fathers who get to determine the gender of their babies. On our wedding night, your Grandpa Lisch had even warned your dad, "The Lisch boys are good swimmers!" I'd already mentally prepared myself for a future home packed full of raving wild boys.

So when I went in to your 16 week gender reveal appointment, I was fully ready to be told I was having a third boy. Really, the appointment was just so we could start planning baby names. They laid me down in the the chair, started the ultrasound, when lo and behold, we saw something I had never seen before! It was very exciting to say the least! I cried, and was beyond ecstatic to recognize that I would not be the only girl in my house anymore. But more than that, I was excited to have  daughter, and envisioned a potential future relationship just like the relationship I have with my mom. It was wonderful to imagine that perhaps I was carrying a future best friend. 

In the most recent few years, my Jewish heritage has also been something that I have longed to learn more about and participate in. Having a daughter was a beautiful blessing in that regard, as she, too, would give birth to baby Jews, and that my carrying on some Jewish Traditions would not have to die with me, necessarily. I would have a daughter who could carry those traditions on with her children as well. (Only if she wants to, mind!)

Knowing that I was having a girl changed everything! I was no longer a confident mother. I was now a terrified mother. Despite the fact that all babies are pretty much the same, I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that I could be capable of raising a girl! I think I was thinking too far ahead! But despite the surprise gender, the pregnancy carried on.

When it came to picking your name, your dad and I couldn't agree on anything. We had completely opposite tastes in names. After what FELT like months of deliberation, we decided that they only way you were going to get a name was if we divided and conquered. I chose your first name, and your dad chose your middle name. To me, Matilda felt like a strong, confident name, that could be as tomboy or girly as you wished. It felt beautiful and versatile. I loved the Dahl book, Matilda, and having two Australian grandmothers, it seemed only right that I could rock you to sleep with the lovely ballad of Waltzing Matilda. To me, your name was perfect. (I also seriously considered Madeline and Deborah (from the Bible,) but Matilda won out fairly quickly.)

The last month of my pregnancy dragged on. I had told the midwife on multiple occasions that I would be having the baby early. "I tend to have my babies early," I said confidently, as if two previous babies were enough to know. And so every day for about three weeks I was vigilant and ready for your imminent arrival. And then you never came. It was stressful to have rides constantly planned out, plans for your brothers, who would be watching them, etc. 

Because your birth would be a little bit different than theirs. I will preface by saying that your dad is a good man. He loves his family, and would do anything for them. Unfortunately, your dad also doesn't do well with blood and high-stress situations, in terms of being empathetic and present. This has nothing to do with his ability to love his family, but more to do with poor coping mechanisms in regards to stress situations. Having dragged your dad through two previous births, I felt confident enough in myself and my ability to give birth without dying, that I was open to the idea of letting Dad off the hook, and getting myself a confident, calm support person in the delivery room. The fact that you were a girl made that decision more naturally for me, as I psyched myself up for a traditional “women's work” birth.

My mom was an obvious first choice for me to have in the delivery room. After discussing that possibility with your dad, who was not offended in the slightest at the suggestion that I could do this without him, we approached your grandma with the question of if she would be willing to be present for the blood, the nudity, the screams, the needles, the beeping machines, etc. She was happy to tell us that in her former life in Australia she had been present for MANY births, and that she was, in fact, a professional at being just that sort of support person in the delivery room. (It was part of her job, in fact!)

So as the days drew nearer, we were balancing school schedules, and trying to psych ourselves into giving birth on a weekend day, or another day that wouldn't be so inconvenient for Grandma to drive the sometimes hour long drive to get to the hospital to be with me. We had a couple false alarms. I have always had an irritable uterus, which means regular Braxton Hicks throughout my entire pregnancies, but most especially when you really want to give birth, and so you start timing them. It is as if timing the hicks makes them come regularly at three to four minute intervals. Obviously, I absolutely hate not knowing when babies are coming.

Your grandma sat at the hospital with me for the first false alarm, two weeks before you were born, and I called her off a week later before she got to the hospital the second false alarm. She comforted me with the assurance that you would be, in fact, the last grandchild, and she never had to deal with false alarms again! A few days after the second false alarm, my midwife stripped my membranes, in the hopes that it would get things moving, but it did the opposite. My irritable Braxton Hicks stopped being so irritable and regular! It was a relief, at least, that it didn't make things worse!

The next week the midwife stripped my membranes again, and we made an appointment for the following morning for her to strip them a third time! I was dilated to almost a four, and my cervix was absolutely ready. The midwife agreed that my body was embarrassingly ready to give birth, and I should have done it the week before! But the second time stripping my membranes was the charm, however. That afternoon, while Julian was at Kindergarten, I took Dexter for a walk to pick up garbage along the street, came back home, picked up Julian from school, and was having regular contractions by dinner time. I called your grandma, told her I was about "Defcon Orange?" sure that you were coming, and told her I would feel tremendously guilty if she drove all the way to our house if you didn't, in fact, come.

She sat with me on the couch after your brothers were put to bed, and we continued to time contractions together, while she smiled comfortingly and knowingly at me, telling me we should drive to the hospital while I told her I wasn't sure enough, yet, that this was the real deal. After about an hour, things were starting to hurt enough that I was confident, so away we ran to the hospital. We checked in around 9 pm, and immediately were given a room. I don't know how the Labor and Delivery nurses know when someone is, in fact, in real labor, but they knew. They knew that the false alarms were false alarms, and they knew a real contracting woman when they saw one. I had dilated to a five, and things were progressing.

Getting an epidural with your brother Dexter was easily the worst pain I have been in in my entire life. It was so much pain, that I was seriously considering giving birth to you naturally, without pain relief. I was terrified! But after months of deliberation, I'd concluded that ten minutes of pain had nothing on potential hours worth of labor and then birth, and that I could do another epidural.

Your Grandma held my hand while I shook like a leaf. It was very comforting, especially when I realized that THIS anesthesiologist wasn't going about the epidural with the intensity of performing a root canal, like I'd experienced with the last one, so I was able to calm down. Even then, he nearly called for his supervisor, as he struggled to get the epidural in place, until I assured him it felt like it was going in straight, not to the right or left, so he gave it one last attempt, and it worked beautifully. And Grandma didn't even faint or look the least bit pale!

Grandma read to me for a couple hours and we chatted as casually as ever, while I continued to labor in perfect comfort. (Epidural was the right choice!) The midwife came and broke my water - she literally leaned back squinting and flinching, which was funny to me. (Gross.)

As the next couple hours passed, the nurses informed me that it was up to me to let them know when my numbed body was ready to push. (I have always found this odd. Sure, you feel pressure and things, with an epidural, but no real guttural "push" urge.) Subsequently, I had the nurse keep tabs on the "readiness" factor fairly regularly for the last thirty minutes, as I wasn't sure and didn't want to miss anything! I'd popped your brother out in one contraction last time, and didn't want to make your Grandma catch. Though obviously we joked about it, and she, in all seriousness, told me it wouldn't be a problem. Part of me still wonders if she hoped she couldn't get her hands a little dirty and catch a grandbaby!

She didn't have to, as the nurses knew what they were doing. The midwife came in with her trainee, and the trainee delivered you, at nearly seven months pregnant herself! I had you out in three contractions, and you came out perfect at 12:01 am, 6 pounds 10 ounces, 19 inches long.

You cried the right amount, and calmed right down when I held you and started talking to you. After everything settled down in the delivery room, Grandma excused herself to go home and sleep, and I was wheeled up to our Mom/Baby room. While wheeling along being pushed in the wheelchair, your eyes were open wide, taking in all the new sights, and I was in love. You were SO interested and satisfied!

You got hypothermia after an hour, but after being on the warmer, you leveled out just right. That first day, during daylight hours, you also took an eleven hour hunger strike, which my favorite nurse smiled and calmly assured me, "She's not hungry. She was right there with you, with that birth, and some kids just AREN'T HUNGRY for a bit. She'll be fine."

And you were. Of course. We later learned that you were a little connoisseur when it came to formula. I'm fairly confident that you ate so poorly at the hospital because the formula came room temperature. Once you got home, you learned to gag at anything less than optimal temperature, and demanded WARM formula from thenceforth. 

And you SMILED. I'd never had a baby just SMILE. Sometimes babies will smile while pooping, or farting, and parents are thrilled that they caught a smile, but yours weren't fake smiles. They were genuine, REAL smiles, right out the gate from Day One. You loved looking at me, and you loved getting your head stroked - something Grandma figured out!

When it came time to take you home, obviously, we were nervous about your reception, but both of your brothers were ecstatic. Dexter immediately ran to find you a toy, and Julian followed us around closely, desperate just to TOUCH you, and know that you were real! He'd been waiting for WEEKS, right along with the rest of us, for HIS baby to come. 

We had to be very careful that their sheer excitement didn't crush you to death! There was a lot of love! And still is, now, as I'm writing this! You're one month old, now. This morning I set you on the shag rug, desperate to wash dishes, and your brothers, unprompted, ran over to keep you company - to show you your toy, and help you play with it. You were more interested in them! 

Julian is always grabbing your hand, even when you're asleep, so that we have to tell him to stop! Dexter prefers to kiss the top of your head, and he doesn't necessarily do it softly! 

I was crazy, the first week, worrying about how small you were, worrying if you were eating enough, worrying about if you were pooping enough, and all the things you worry about, with a brand new baby. You were my smallest baby, by a sizeable amount, and I was scared. 

Not so much now, one month in. You're good at eating, though you're still small - still wearing NEWBORN size clothes, which never would have happened one month in, with your brothers. But you'll probably size out of those in the next day or two, so you're catching up. 

You've been easy, baby, and it's a welcome blessing! Your quick smiles are an absolute treasure! I hope you never lose that! You're a beauty. You are smart and you are good. The prospect of raising someone who quite literally can be a "mini me" is thrilling. I hope you take the good, and leave the bad. I hope you take strength of will and character. Be a force of nature. So help me, take after your mother and lock the kids out of the school building at recess because it's "right!" Be brave, be confident, and stand up for yourself and what's good. Defend others. But don't take everything. I'll do my best to give you the good, and not the bad. Because you are perfect, just the way you are. You fill my heart with a fierce Momma Bear pride. 

I will always be fiercely proud to say that you are mine!

God of Our Fathers

I grew up idolizing my Mormon pioneer ancestry. My great-great-great grandfather, directly along my father's father's father's line, was Freeborn DeMill. His was the pioneer ancestor name I remembered first. He was married to Anna Knight - daughter of THE Joseph Knight Sr, whose wagon was "borrowed" by Joseph Smith Jr when he went to retrieve the golden plates from the hill Cumorah, with his wife Emma. 

Freeborn DeMill. He was the one I remembered first. 

I remember a church history tour in my youth, when the family had trekked, via Suburban, back to Nauvoo Illinois. I remember making one stop along the journey at some site - don't remember what - and that my father had read some information about Freeborn - I also don't remember what. But it was important because my family STILL had information about him, and he was important enough to read about on our trip. 

At the regular Knight family reunions, our family proudly sat in tables marked for "Anna Knight's" descendants. So while we never had the last name "Smith" or "Hinckley" or "McConkie," we were DeMills, and they had SOME place in Mormon history. 

Freeborn journeyed with the saints and settled in Sanpete County, like most of my pioneer ancestors. When he was in his 60's, he married a 15-year-old girl, polygamously, and had two children with her. This was something that the family rolled their eyes at, quietly admitting that yeah, Grandpa Freeborn was wrong about that, but it was never something talked about at length. Anna, his first wife, wasn't mentioned in the conversations. Her part in the story was not considered. Instead, we remembered Freeborn, and how he was our own family's namesake - the "DeMill" in the pioneer legacy, and we were proud of him.

We remembered the Allreds, another famous pioneer name. 

Orson Allred's face was one I remembered easily. His mustache was defining, and he looked a little like Jude Law playing John Watson. There were multiple wives there, too. I never bothered to remember their names.

Is it odd that I didn't bother to remember any of the women from my family history? I knew the names of my living grandmothers, obviously, but never any of the names of my female ancestors. Because in the culture of my upbringing, the women were not as noteworthy. They were not as important. They didn't have special callings, prestige of any sort, or any kind of "authority" or "ownership" of anything that would make them special. 

I don't know any of their stories. But something tells me that many of their stories would make me quite sad. I'm not sure there's a way to be a polygamist wife without tremendous heartache.

As I've grown older, and as I've studied polygamy, I've become less enamored regarding the history of the church of my youth, and I've found myself longing for the story of the women who were so long forgotten. I've longed to know who my MOTHERS are. I long to find ancestors that I want to emulate, for ME. Because I believe that women are worth it, and that they are just as important as the men. 

So I looked to my mother's line, and I found women of strength, boldness, and power. 

They were women who had also experienced hardships, but they perservered, and their stories were remembered. 

Ironically, my great-great-great grandmother along my mother's mother's mother's line, the exact opposite of the Freeborn DeMill I rememered so well in my youth, was Elizabeth Ann Tremayne Higgans. 

Elizabeth had 18 children. She lived to be over 100 years old, and had her picture in the paper to celebrate her birthday. (As seen above.) She was a Jewish woman who was modest, and upon her death, had told her children she didn't want any big fussy thing on her grave. But as she had so many children and was so beloved, of course, they bought a massive tombstone. The very night it was installed, a bolt of lightening struck that tombstone, and set it crooked ever since. 

On my mother's line, the women were epic. Elizabeth Ann Tremayne was so powerful that even after her death, she still managed to send lightening down to express her displeasure at not being listened to. 

The mothers in my family are forces of nature. 

They are the women I want to emulate. They are the women who seize life for themselves, and make demands, and have expectations. Are they all perfect, with no weaknesses or mistakes? No. But I have their stories, at least, and their strength inspires me. Their ability to "stick around," even after death, impresses me. Their smiles give me hope. Their personalities are unashamedly their own. And they are everything I want to be.

Telling Our Own Stories

What is the benefit of telling our own stories? And do our stories even matter?

I tend to believe that they do. Our stories make us real human beings, rather than compartmentalized stereotypes, or mere images of any given moment. A human life is far more complex than one interaction, than one perspective, or one biographer's well-intended slant. 

I have loved the often quoted ideal that "There isn't anyone you couldn't love once you've heard their story." Or the more popular adage to "walk a mile in their shoes," which teaches the lesson of empathy. 

In considering the stories that people might tell about themselves, I've had to wrestle with the discomfort of knowing that some stories might disappoint me, even despite the story being told by the individual of whom it concerns. Obviously this came to mind when considering the story Donald Trump might tell about himself. A rich boy who probably didn't feel as loved by his parents as he would have liked, was given everything he could ever need, and spent his days abusing those around him and spreading lies and bigotry because... I get the feeling that no matter what justification Trump might use to excuse his behaviors, in any moment, I would likely still be disappointed. Being disappointed even while understanding the "whys" of an individual is possible. But it feels like it would be right, more fair, to hear it in his own honest words. 

Because telling our own stories explains our motivations. Telling our own stories explains the thought processes behind our actions. I genuinely believe that nobody considers themselves the "bad guy." Nobody wants to be downright evil. People may make mistakes, but those mistakes are made with the best of intentions, I'm sure, or at least intentions clouded by ignorance.

I have had to wrestle many times, thoughout my life, with the fact that even my own story may disappoint people, regardless of my intentions, my motivations, or my personal convictions, beliefs, and experiences. My story carries with it the same risk that many others' stories carry - the risk that I may disappoint. As someone who cares deeply about my relationships with other people, that is a huge risk. But at least, in telling my story, I have done my part to defend myself - to throw my human life and experience out for judgement in context. 

I have debated sharing my story, or rather, one specific story. I have questioned my motivations in wanting to do so, and so frankly, haven't shared. But the longer I go on not sharing this specific story, the longer I find myself dodging conversations, fearing what stories others may be telling, and feeling like a figure in the shadows - hiding and ashamed. 

But my story does not cause me shame. I am proud of my story. My story is one of painful growth and development, uncertainties and absolute certainties together in one. There was such bitter pain and fear, loneliness, and heartbreak that I had the chutzpah to overcome, and I did it. I did it despite the pain. My story - THIS story - truly has made me who I am. Because there is literally nothing that has EVER been more important to me than this. 

So heads up. If you don't want to hear about a Mormon resignation story, you can stop reading. I won't judge you, because some part of your story is probably affecting you in such a way that this kind of story hurts you, scares you, or makes you angry. That's YOUR story, and I respect that. But this is my story, and I'd love it to be told by ME, and not by whatever preconceived notions others might have about me. 

I'll be delicate. I have no intention of "raising Hell" and wrecking others' faith, if that faith brings them happiness and comfort. My story, thank God, is no longer in the "angry" stage of grief, and I'm quite capable of not burning your houses to the ground now, never fear.

And so I give you - 

My Mormon Story

Despite having an unconventional Mormon family, my personality always led me to be quite conventional in my religious beliefs and practices, growing up in the heart of Utah. My youth was a faithful one. In fact, it was an Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder one, which meant I was the best darned Mormon you'd ever meet.

I remember the first time I knew, for a fact, that God loved me. It was a Sacrament hymn at church - I Stand All Amazed. "I tremble to know that for me He was crucified. That for me, a sinner, He suffered, He bled and died. Oh it is wonderful. Wonderful to me." I was seven years old, crying in my pew, and embarrassed beyond all belief by the heat spreading from my chest and face, bursting from my eyes in tears, and my throat in a young, unpracticed sob. Because it was wonderful. It was SO wonderful to me. 

I remember scrubbing a shower clean, missing a church youth dance over a dramatic weekend. Angry tears spread down my face, and through grinding teeth I demanded of the heavens, "Doesn't ANYBODY care?" The anger vanished, and was replaced with a peace that could have had no other source than Heaven. Anger and frustration turned to gratitude for a God that comforted me, held me in His incorporal arms, and told me that He loved me, and that He would never leave me alone.

I remember my first experience with "anti-Mormon literature." I had just graduated from High School, and a friend and coworker, upon learning I was going to attend BYU-Idaho, took it upon himself to send me internet links to uncomfortable truths about the church, which I, in faithful over-confidence, gladly read. It was the first I'd heard of these things, which can now be found in the LDS Gospel Topics Essays. I was shaken, but only somewhat. The Spirit whispered to me that these facts were not disqualifiers of goodness. I accepted that answer as the whole of it, and carried on my confident way.

Several years later, well into my time at University, that same Spirit prompted me to go to the temple. THROUGH the temple. I felt a longing to receive my Endowment. I prayed about it for weeks. I fasted. I drove to sit in the temple parking lot. I basked in its glow, and the confirmation I received that God thought I was worthy and ready. I set an appointment with the Bishop, and told him that I felt I needed to receive my Endowment.

The Bishop told me no. He said there were things in the Endowment that I might have trouble with, in this stage of my life, and he denied my request. "If you're worried about how things will work out for your family, I promise you, God has a plan, and you will be happy with it."

My family?! I knew what he was implying. He felt I was worried about my family being sealed for eternity, since my parents were divorced. His comment was so far off base that I felt sick to my stomach. My family had nothing to do with my decision. My decision had nothing to do with fears or concerns regarding God's plan, and everything to do with wanting the blessings that I was already living worthy of. I didn't doubt my readiness. God had already made it clear to me. I was prepared to slit the throat of a lamb, if that turned out to be a part of the ceremony! I was offended by the implication that I would struggle with any portion of a ceremony designed for my empowerment. This man didn't even know me!

But because I was young, and he was old, and I was a girl, and he was the Bishop, I went my way. I cried. I quietly raged, and frankly, sat in church each Sunday distrusting and disliking this man that claimed to hold authority to speak on God's behalf for me, when he so clearly did not understand that God and I were already speaking.

A few weeks before my graduation, my life took another spiritual turn. I had interviewed for several jobs in my field, and had even received a job offer in that field at the same University I planned on attending for my Masters degree. I was thrilled to pieces, and life was really working well for me. Until the dreaded "stupor of thought." The same day I received a job offer, God threw all of my plans out the window. I sat calmly at work, on campus, when it hit. It was numbing. I went from thrilled at a job offer to weeping tears in my supervisor's office, rambling about how I'd wasted four years of my life, because, apparently, God didn't want me to work in that field? It was a vague impression. God needed me to do something else.

I prayed. I attended the temple. I fasted. I called and TURNED DOWN the job offer that SAME DAY! I did all the right things, and, several days later, received the dreaded answer - God wanted me to go on a mission. God filled my heart with joy at the prospect. I was happy to listen to God - not because I didn't want to work and get my Masters, but because I trusted His plan would be better than mine - and it was so obviously HIS plan. I anticipated miracles.

My mission was hard. Naturally, working 24/7 for the Lord is all-consuming, and exasperating. It's full of disappointment, discouragement, despair, blisters, and, for an introvert, wanting a dang-gummed day all by yourself listening to something that didn't fit the required "would be appropriate for a musical number in Sacrament Meeting." I had a hard time. I started on anti-depressants on my mission. The humiliation of getting a $90 bill sent to my mom at home every month, for medications, was the worst. I felt guilty. Surely, I could fix myself. Did I not have enough faith?

We had success. When the weather was bad, I felt better, because instead of overcoming mental obstacles, I was given physical ones, and those were a lot easier to feel like I could be successful in at least something. We had baptisms. I had wonderful companions that understood me, and lifted that Depression just a bit more as we didn't take ourselves so seriously and felt comfortable laughing and having fun. I was getting into the swing of things.

After a year there was another transfer to another city, and another companion. One early morning, after a productive hour of independent study, we started companionship study. Maybe two minutes into it, God hit me with another surprise turning point. He told me to go home.

I sobbed. I asked my companion to please study independently a little longer. I went to our room and wept, begging God to forgive me. I assumed He was punishing me for a lack of faith, for my continued Depression, for my missing my previous companion and area. I pleaded with Him to forgive me, and that I would do better. I would try harder. I could do better.

He kindly told me that there was nothing wrong with me, but that He needed me to go home. This had always been a part of the plan. He gave me peace, which I desperately needed. He gave me confidence, that He continued to be proud of me, and that I had done nothing wrong. I called the Mission President, and informed him of my spiritual prompting. He asked us to take the 3 hour drive to his office, where again, I informed him of my spiritual prompting. I told him I could finish the transfer, but I needed to go home. God needed me home.

My Mission President was aware that I had a sick family member at home. His quiet demeanor, lack of general happy agreement and pride in my ability to speak to God, made me feel that I was disappointing him. Maybe he thought I was lying and calling it a prompting. Maybe he knew I was depressed and potentially just homesick for my family. Whatever he actually thought, he asked me to not tell anyone. He pointedly asked me to not tell anyone that I was going home at the end of the transfer. My companion would know, obviously, but he didn't want me to tell anyone in my zone, or even my district. 

The last few weeks of my mission made me feel like I carried a dark secret. Something shameful and embarrassing. God had talked to me, and I was asked to keep it to myself. On the day of transfer, I remember our District Leader turning to me and asking, “Have you really been out a year and a half?! Why didn’t you tell me you were going home?”

Had I failed? Another baptism a few days before, but had I failed? 

I was released late at night, after meeting a couple new family members at the gate. I carried the regular Return Missionary souvenirs - an accent and distinct mannerisms that were hard to shake. After I was released, I never spoke with the bishop or stake president again. The looks from congregation members in the ward were too much to handle. I could see it in their eyes that they assumed I was “weak,” or had committed some terrible sin. They were telling themselves my story. I wasn’t even asked to speak in Sacrament Meeting. 

I ran away to a Singles Ward as fast as I could. I told no one about my early return. I got a job and moved away. I didn’t tell anyone there either. I met someone, and after several weeks of dating, I remember sitting in his car and confessing my “sin.” “Would it bother you if I told you that I came home from my mission early?” He scoffed. “No.” He later asked for the whole story, but that quick acceptance of something I carried as a needlessly shameful weight was relieving. It felt incredible to be accepted so simply for who I was, and not for any perceived error in my past. (I eventually married the guy. He was a real keeper.)

My Faith Crisis occurred during this time. There wasn’t a “day” that it started, though the questions and discontent likely came to the surface in my mission president’s office - where he told me to keep silent, rather than telling me that he trusted God did speak to me, and might have a plan for me that He was willing to talk to me about, individually. A simple, “I’m glad you know how to listen to the Spirit,” would have sufficed. Giving me a rationale on why he wanted me to not tell anyone would have been good too. But instead, I was left feeling that my Church had abandoned me, disassociated with me, for following God, for doing what I felt was right.

I carried that grudge in my pocket - that awareness that leadership might not know what they’re talking about. In our first married ward, in a conversation with the Bishop, I mentioned my struggles with Depression. He told me, in no uncertain terms, that the “cure” to my Depression would come as I kept the commandments better. I had not confessed anything to him, and was, in fact, not aware of any commandments that I was breaking! I left his office feeling embarrassed and angry. I was angry that once again I had been misunderstood, and that leadership was always assuming the worst of me.

  

So began my Church History tour. I read everything I could about Church History. Innocently I can say that I was looking for confirmation that I could disagree with my leadership on issues, and still be a respected member of the Church. I had lots of leaders I had disagreed with, now. Could I still belong? Unfortunately, a lot of what I read was that I couldn’t. I read personal stories of people who’d been through similar situations. Worse situations. I read about people disagreeing with prophets in the past on an issue. So I read about the prophets of the past. So I read about people leaving the church and being excommunicated for disagreeing with prophets of the past. And unfortunately, I agreed with a lot of those people who had been on the “wrong” side of the Church. 

Being married, a lot of things said in the temple began to bother me. (They’re better, now, but still not there yet, frankly.) I began to feel that maybe God loved my husband more than He loved me. For some unknown reason, God chose to bless my mortal husband, with all his mortal husband concerns, more than me. I was there, married to the guy, knew that we were equals, and yet the Church quietly preached that he was superior. The Church could say we were equals in the public arena, and yet have doctrines, policies, and ceremony that taught otherwise in secret. 

Polygamy. I could not understand how the Church could preach being centered on the family, when ultimately, wives weren’t worth as much as husbands. Do wives even need to be happy with the arrangement, as wives of polygamous prophets past hadn’t been? If they want to have a personal, intimate relationship with their husband, all by themselves, that could be denied them in God's heaven? Don’t women have a say? Even in being excommunicated, women were excommunicated in a “lower court.” Like they were less accountable, stupid, or not as vital to the plan. 

And what about our Heavenly Mother? Where was She? Was I doomed to be banished to silence and invisibility as She was? If She was actually a part of our doctrine, why did we not talk about Her? Was she not important? Will I ever matter? Now that I was married, and I’d fulfilled that purpose life had for me, would God no longer speak with me, and instead speak only to my husband? Did I no longer matter to God? Was I important as His daughter while I was single, but now that He’d made me into something great to give to His son, with a uterus, was I no longer worthy of focus? 

Getting married was the harshest of demotions I’d ever received. 

I studied these questions. I found a disturbing lack of answers. I became angry. I felt tricked. I loved my husband, and yet found myself at battle with him, because my Church, that I had dedicated my entire life to, favored him over me. I had done nothing wrong, and yet he was the chosen one. It was the men that mattered. And perhaps because I was a thinking woman, who had the audacity to claim that God spoke with me too, leadership was at odds with me, and it would only be a matter of time until they found some minor thing to kick me out over. 

After decades of satisfaction, I found myself quite unsatisfied. I was afraid, I was offended, and frankly, I had little interest in being a part of this thing that had hurt me and betrayed me anymore. 

This went on for a couple years. More study and research on church history. More study and research on polygamy in particular. Through my research, I was convinced that it was false. Polygamy was a lie. There were facts about polygamy the apologists shied over, because if they were made known, it would be glaringly obvious that mistakes were made. And then, after enough study and wrestling, I knew it, finally, in my heart, as that loving God I had once known returned to speak peace to me - that I was my husband’s equal, in every way. Any teaching, policy, or practice that taught otherwise was wrong - no matter who said it or where it was said.

I became satisfied belonging to “God’s church,” led by mortal men who made mistakes. I learned to be satisfied disagreeing on anything that felt wrong to me. I took my questions directly to God, and accepted only His answers. I prayed about multiple piercings. God told me He didn’t give a crap about that, so away I went to get more. 

While I had been working through my own concerns with the church, my husband had been privately having his own spiritual questions and wrestles. In December of 2019 my husband confessed his plans to "step away" from the church, to me. Surprisingly, he'd made the decision prior to the the $100 Billion whistleblower reveal against the church, which had rocked me to my core. To say I was devastated about my husband's decision is putting it mildly. As the good husband he is, he assured me that if I wanted to raise our children in this church, he would support me and them in that, and continue to attend with us. But he didn’t believe it anymore. 

For weeks I put aside my own concerns and swung my pendulum back towards rigid righteousness once more. I feared for my family’s sealing. I feared that my husband would become a vile sinner, which "obviously" everyone who leaves the church does. I stopped speaking my honest thoughts and concerns about the church, and parroted the narrative on everything - hoping that through my “increased righteousness” I could somehow fix my husband.  

We attended several other churches as my husband requested, something I had never done before, and which, in the beginning, I responded to poorly, with flight or fight-type responses. My husband began drinking coffee again, which he hadn't touched since joining the church in his late teens. I promptly stashed it away in the highest cupboard of the kitchen out of sight, until the smell radiated through my Mormon home to the point I could no longer hide it. He removed his garments, which I responded to in a complicated mess of emotions, calling his perfectly normal new underwear "juvenile" and "childish." I was a wreck. I was angry.

Over the next months, God was able to calm my heart on the issue. He helped me understand that "the truth is in the middle." Not everything about the church was all good. Not everything about the church was all bad. I had swung far “righteousness” as my husband had swung far “it’s all a lie.” In talking with him about it, we came to that mutual understanding, and eventually to a place where we studied history together - comfortably feeling able to tell each other the things we had learned, and delving into the fascinating mortality of it all - that mistakes do not cancel out all the good that is there, either. The truth was in the middle.

I began reading everything. My days were full of learning, studying, and growing. I felt an obsessive drive to know everything. It was empowering coming to my own conclusions about which parts of history could have been divine, and which parts weren’t. It was reevaluating everything I’d been taught and just assumed was good. God prompted me along the way to stick with it. He pushed me and inspired me to learn more, read more, listen more. 

And I didn’t always want to. Reading one particular history book regarding women and authority, my heart broke. My children were running and playing, hammering out their own happy tunes on the piano, when I broke. I set my book down and stepped into the other room - the kitchen. My grief drove me to my knees, so I knelt and prayed. “God, I feel I know too much to ever be happy again. Have I done wrong to do all this reading? Am I wrong? What can I do to fix this?”

The prompting was no sweet spirit, but an inner hardening to courage. God didn’t tell me it was going to be okay, and that I could take a break and relax. The answer was clear. “Keep reading.” I wiped my eyes, stood up, grabbed a Diet Coke, and continued on studying.

I came to a place of religious humility. There were only a few things I accepted that I knew, and that I knew solidly. God was real. God loved me, and had directed me many times, and would only continue to direct me. Who or what God was didn’t matter. God was real, and that was enough. And God was love. Anything that hurt or devalued any of God’s children was not from God. And so, with love as my goal, and God as my motivator, I fought on. I eventually came to recognize the symptoms of grief in myself - grief for what I had once had, but had lost. Anger, denial, bargaining. I went through all of the stages. 

Finally a day came where I removed my own garments. I had come to a place where I could not answer the temple recommend questions - I vowed I would never give the Mormon church another cent’s worth of tithing. I felt that they had taken my life’s charitable giving and made a business out of it. I would not pay them my tithing, and I could not, in good faith, say that I felt Russell M Nelson was a prophet of God. 

I went to the store and bought myself undershirts and underwear. I knelt in the closet, a weeping mess, and begged God to forgive me, once more, for something I had not done wrong. I told God I could not wear garments that held such strong stipulations with them - a recommend of requirements in order to purchase and “righteously” wear. I told God that the covenants I had made with HIM were sincere - I wanted to give God everything I had. I had interpreted that covenant to mean God, not the Church. 

I begged God to forgive me, that I could not wear those church-sanctioned garments anymore, because they made everything so complicated. I told God my relationship with Him was pure - and it hurt too much to carry the Church and all their baggage in His place. I told God I felt I had authority to set apart my own garments - garments that no temple-recommend questions could take away from me. So I prayed over my newly purchased underclothes, heartbroken, and set them apart for myself. A week later, I had symbols tattooed on my wrist - symbols that, while not masonic, were also “temple building” symbols. I took the temple covenants I made WITH GOD, and owned them for myself. I felt a confirmation that it was accepted.

Despite all these changes of belief, was not satisfied with the idea of "throwing the baby out with the bathwater," though it was a dichotomy I felt increasing pressure from within the church to accept - either believe everything without standing for what you feel is truth, or leave, and abandon the wonderful strengths the church has. As the months wore on, I saw friends threatened with excommunication as well as officially excommunicated for things that I agreed with them wholeheartedly on. Their "problematic" stances were scientifically accurate and appropriate, or Biblically mature and educated analysis of situations breaking the hearts of thousands upon thousands of Mormons. The prophet turned around and called us “lazy learners and lax disciples" - a description so far from anything accurate, loving, or empathetic, that the words rang with nothing but deep-rooted, unknowing contempt for "doubters" like myself. 

I was grateful for a friend, who pointed out a beautiful logical conclusion - when you no longer believe in the truth claims of the church, when they are disproven by a study of history, all you have left in the church is the people. All you have left to guide you are the leaders. In order to find value from the church, frankly, the people have to be good, and the leaders have to be good. 

I had done my digging into the Church's history, and found plenty of holes - plenty of inconsistencies and unrighteous motivations - things which I felt that God had confirmed to me that I was correct in making conclusions about. I didn't believe in the truth claims of the church, and so all I had were the people. And I saw the Church - the leaders - forcibly and abusively removing some of the very best of them for being authentic Christians. 

But I loved these people deeply - the local ward members, the old Young Women leaders of my youth, the Sunday School teachers who taught with sincerity and passion. Mormons were the friends I grew up with, they were the people who loved me and played a role in raising me. They were neighbors. They were strangers who cared for me. They were my community. I loved these people, and the Mormons were my home. 

In the last few months of my official membership in the Church, I felt God’s prompting whispered truths leading me to a place of peace in making the decision to leave. It was in driving down the road one day, and having God place the parable of the mote and beam in my mind - with the whispered teaching that my job is not to remove others’ imperfections, but rather to concentrate my efforts on my own. For so long I justified my continued membership in the church by telling myself that I was staying so that I could fix the church and the culture from the inside. God comforted me to know that that was not my calling - not my burden. My responsibility was to make myself a better Christian, and to raise my children with the values and principles that would help them to become who THEY need to be in this life. 

At the same time God whispered the scriptures to my mind: “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou that killest the prophets and stonest them which are sent unto thee.” God mourned with me the leaders of the church, who would not listen to the wisdom of theologians, of Christians, of the teachings of the scriptures and CHRIST HIMSELF. It was humbling to ask myself, sincerely, what I thought I could do that even Christ’s scriptural example and teachings could not do. 

God gave me permission to leave, but I still couldn’t. Being a Mormon was all that I knew, and the unknown world outside of Mormonism was still too unknown, uncertain, and frightening. 

Until I found out I was having a daughter. I was pregnant, and at a 16 week appointment, I was surprised to see on the ultrasound that my “boy mom” identity was to be shattered, as I was very much pregnant with a little girl. Driving home I cried. I cried for joy at the prospect of having a daughter - something I thought I would never have. And I cried for joy because she was the last straw that broke the chains of Mormonism for me. 

I was raised my whole life doubting my worth because I was a woman. I had spent years listening to men, men who had authority, and men who thought one way or the other, the women who disagreed with them, in many cases, literally, be damned. And now I had a girl. And there was no way I would turn her over to these men who would teach her she was anything other than perfectly worthy and capable, exactly how she was. 

Resigning was my sure-fire way to protect my children. They are young, and impressionable. I wanted to protect them from the life that I lived - doubting myself, holding others, who “sinned,” in disdain. I cannot raise them with false illusions of inequality, or the image of a God who loves conditionally. That is not the God I feel comfortable teaching my children to follow, and I would not risk anyone else teaching them or implying that, and shaming them into obedience, because God is so much better than all of that, and those teachings cheapen Him. 

I have left the Church at great personal loss. I will have perpetually disappointed friends and family members who will never be fully pleased with me, regardless of how good I am, how spiritual I am, how kind I am. Being a Utahn, I have lost friends, and I assure, will lose more opportunities for friends as I become a dangerous, spiritual pariah. I have journeyed from comfortable self-assurance and 100% certainty down a road of questions. I used my faith to jump, to sky-dive, with no clear view of where I would land. It is a frightening, alienating, torturous experience, as I am afraid of heights by nature.

In all my resigning, however, I do not accept any man’s claim to have authority to deny or grant me salvation, which is offered by no one other than God. In this, God has given me great confidence. There are many things I am all too happy to leave behind, on this journey. Things I no longer believe in, things I know cannot be right or true. Things that have caused myself and others undue pain and suffering. 

There are many things I will take with me - things which are mine, and which I will always keep. I will be taking the Book of Mormon with me. I don’t agree with the narrative of its origin, but I am satisfied that it is a wisdom text. (Frankly, if the Mormons actually read it and followed it, I’d probably still be a member!) I will be taking with me some vague agreement with the King Follett discourse - that man’s purpose is to become like God - and God is one who nurtures others in their own growth. 

I will be taking with me a heavy heart and desire for the community and fellowship which Mormonism can be so good at providing. I will take with me a love for service, for doing good when good is needed. I will take with me personal revelation. I will treasure the church for the upbringing they gave me - the assurances that God was real, and that I, even I!, could have a relationship with God, and communicate with Him. That relationship with God has led me along this life path, and I will ever be grateful for the trust I have in Him, which CERTAINLY came from this church, which fostered that empowerment in the beginning. 

I don’t believe in the necessity of temple ordinances, but oddly, I love the temple, and I’ll be taking that with me as well, like my Book of Mormon wisdom text. I have always found insight and empowerment in the temple. The biggest takeaway? Heaven is now. You are admitted to the presence of the Lord in THIS life. God is with us NOW. I don’t have to wait for permission.

Eve’s has been the example I have followed, in this path. She went from an existence of comfort, having all the answers because there were no questions, to making a very real choice to attain knowledge. 

It’s uncomfortable. It’s painful. It’s raw. It’s alienating. It’s traumatizing.

It’s liberating. It’s empowering. It’s eye-opening. It’s seeing there are no “others.” It’s humbling. 

I have been through the valley of the shadow of death, on this faith crisis. I have cried like I have never cried before. I have spent literal years wrestling, weeping, questioning, doubting, learning, studying, growing, and praying. And there is no joy quite like God’s affirmation that you have done something you were always meant to do. That you are known. That you are loved. And that you are on to the next step of your personal-betterment journey.

I recognize that my story is my own, and that many will have come to different conclusions than me, have different experiences than me, and disagree with me outright. I love that God is like this - that God gives answers to individuals. I'm also sorry if my conclusions and decisions disappoint. I know it's inevitable in this culture that many will be disappointed, and at a loss for how to proceed forward with our relationships. 

The truth is I am very much the same person I have always been, and have no intent to go about "sinning for funsies." I hope that my story does not change OUR story.