The Parable of the Damn Talents

I recently wrote up a little “year in review” for the family Christmas card, explaining what the family was up to, and what everyone’s highlights were. As I’m sure many are familiar with, after writing it up, I began to feel the familiar self-doubt that often plagues me when I look at my life.

Surprise. I’m not living the life of my dreams. 

When I was growing up, I wanted to be a veterinarian. After that, I decided that I wanted to be an FBI agent. Eventually I settled on wanting to be an Elementary School teacher. Why?

Elementary School teachers have the perfect schedule for raising children, of course - and as a Mormon mom, it was expected that I would do exactly that. I majored in Elementary Education for my first semester of college, and when they eventually stuck me in a first grade classroom, I had to have a major “come to Jesus” with myself. Teaching children math was torture. Dealing with 20+ children at the same time was chaos to my rigid, anxious personality. I had no interest in that kind of chaos. Sure, I liked kids in theory, but no. No, no, no.

After that, I majored in Social Work. Why? 

Because I love people. I genuinely love people, am intrigued by the psychology of them, and feel like I have a bit of a gift for understanding the “why”s of human behavior. 

I was a social worker for many years. I was accepted into a masters program, but didn’t do it, as my husband needed to go to school. So work I did. I was only ever in love with one of the jobs that I had, though - the one that let me talk to old folks on the regular, and be a friendly face to talk about their hard times with. Even that, though, was stressful. 

Eventually I had a second child, and daycare for two kids didn’t win the cost/benefit analysis of having me work outside the home. So I became a stay at home mom. I tried my hand at Olive Garden in the evenings - go breadsticks! But Depression has always been worse for me, in the evenings, so I didn’t do well with evening work. DoorDash worked great, as I could work on the nights Depression wasn’t kicking my butt. I tried cashiering at a grocery store as well, but ran into that same “depression in the evenings” problem again. 

Which brought me to uninspired present. In my “year in review” I had written that I am currently in training to be a substitute school bus driver. It’s true! Today, I passed all the written exams to get my drivers permit. I studied, people. I haven’t studied something against my will for a hot second, and it was weird. But I did it. Now I can start training to substitute as a school bus driver in the mornings, so I’m still home when Nathan starts working, to watch the baby. Ultimately, when the baby starts school, I can pick up more and be a full-time driver with my own route. It’s perfect, just like Elementary School Teacher was perfect - same schedule as the kids, summers off, but also great perks of government work - retirements and health insurance. 

Today, I told my mom that I was embarrassed. 

Younger me would feel very confused to see the me of today. "Just" a bus driver. Sure, I loved Pat, our driver, on bus 239, growing up. (My bus memories are strong.) But I had a 3.9 GPA. I had a full-ride scholarship all through university. I could have been anything. (Except an FBI Agent. Low muscle tone.) I literally could have been anything. 

I love history. I could have been an archeologist. I love scriptures. I could have studied theology and been a professor, or a preacher. I love ghost stories. I could have led haunted tours. I could have helped conduct social experiments. I could have been a writer, or an actor, or a chef. I could have done anything.

"I'm so embarrassed." I told my mom. "I'm not dumb. I'm so worried that people are going to read that and just assume that I'm dumb."

I've never lived my dream.

My mom and I talked about the jobs that we could have done - doctor, or lawyer - and the reasons we didn't pursue them. We didn't want people's lives in our hands. We didn't want the schedule, or the stress. We talked about the jobs that we HAVE done, which we loved, and why - department store, cashier, or student librarian. 

Why did we love those jobs? They were low-stress jobs. They were done when they were done, for the day, and you didn't take anything home. But best yet? It was so easy to make people happy. These are "easy" jobs, that you could give almost 100% of your attention to making your customer or patron's day better. 

"It's a pity that these jobs don't pay." I remarked. "Our society would value these jobs more, if you earned a livable wage doing them." (The physically hardest jobs I've ever worked paid the least. Guaranteed.)

I realized that my embarrassment and concerns were about value. I worried, being a "lowly" bus driver, that I would not be seen as a "valuable" person. I still desire respect. I still hope that I am of value somewhere, and that I am appreciated, and seen as capable. I want my life to make a positive difference.

My recently retired mother admitted to struggling with similar feelings - wanting to be useful and valuable, to the extent that she struggles with taking any number of days to herself, just to sit and enjoy her free time.

"It's that parable of the damn talents!"

The master gave one servant a talent, another five, and another two.

The servant with five earned five more, and the servant with two earned two more. The servant with one had buried it, and had not earned any interest on it. 

All my life I've been told not to put my light under a bushel. All my life I've been told not to bury my talents.

But damn the talents! Because this parable is a critique of exploitation.

I let my social work license lapse when we moved to Missouri. I have no intention of becoming licensed again. I don't see myself practicing social work again. Social work was great for a time, because I got to help people.But I'm an easily stressed out person, and my life matters. My life is for ME to enjoy, and that's not easy for me in the high stress atmosphere of social work. (Where you don't even earn decent money to make up for it.) I love helping people feel happier, but I don't like the burden of feeling solely responsible for others' happiness. I enjoy the small moments of comfort. 

So what is my dream job? Potentially psychedelic drug treatment administration! Who knows! Maybe the job hasn't been invented yet! But until then, a bus driver can bring some small happiness to the lives of others. If not students, me. Because I should be allowed happiness too. And if a school job makes me available to be with my children when they need supervision, then it is a good job. And "good enough" doesn't get enough credit. 

New World Views with Mark Twain

"New World Views with Mark Twain," says the title. She must have read something by him, thinks the reader. 

You would be correct, but which came first - the chicken or the egg?

A couple weekends ago, our family went to Hannibal Missouri. Apart from having a fantastic name, Hannibal is also famous for being the hometown of Mark Twain. 

Mark Twain? Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer's author, yes. That year of assigned reading in High School. And, as with all things that are assigned reading, his books became assigned drudgery. My memory of the books, in essence, was racism floating down a river. 

I was no fan of Mark Twain. As I got older, and listened to my mother talking about how much she enjoyed him, I was willing to move from dislike to apathy, regarding the author - not taking much of an opinion on the man, but not seeking him out. 

Because, aside from Huckleberry Finn, the only thing I knew about Mark Twain? He was anti-Mormon.

That's it, folks. Game over. I didn't like him. He once said, "All men have heard of the Mormon Bible, but few except the "elect" have seen it, or, at least, taken the trouble to read it. I brought away a copy from Salt Lake. The book is a curiosity to me, it is such a pretentious affair, and yet so 'slow,' so sleepy; such an insipid mess of inspiration. It is chloroform in print."

No, my friends, I did not like Mark Twain.

I think it took me moving to Missouri to think about Mark Twain again. I didn't know that was where he was from. I didn't know he grew up an hour drive south of Nauvoo, just across the river, and was raised, there in Hannibal, starting in 1839. He would have been nine years old when Joseph Smith Jr was killed in Illinois. I have plenty of memories from the age of nine. Mark Twain would have had opinions, surely. 

But OH, how I hated assigned reading.

I went to the Museum there because my husband suggested it. We went with his mother and, obviously, our children. Surprisingly, the museum was VERY child-friendly, so I went into it with a positive mindset - seeing the costumes kids could try on, and the stagecoach they could climb inside. There was the fake raft, which, artistically, was very well done! There was a cave to walk through, and white picket fences half-painted. (Somewhere inside my memory I think that's Tom Sawyer...) 

My love for Mark Twain, and not just his museum, really grew on the third floor of the building. Inside cases were displayed many of the books, with summaries, that he had written. I had no idea that Mark Twain had ever written anything aside from books about bratty, ignorant boys. Because that's how much I knew about him, before forming the opinion that I didn't like him. 

Turns out, Mark Twain wrote a lot of stuff. Also, turns out, the man had some great one-liners. Who knew that he was so quoteable! And so dry, and witty! 

Turns out, Mark Twain was a father of daughters. (I have a soft spot for men with no sons. I think they stand a chance at beginning to see how the world works, that way.) 

He had terrible hair. He frequently wrote while lying in bed. He bought his wife lovely things. He wore out his clothes until they had rips, because they were his favorite things. 

Mark Twain, turns out, was liberal. He was probably an old timey Bernie Sanders. 

And not only was I impressed, I think I realized that I love him.

Mark Twain made me see him as a man of authenticity - who didn't care what others thought. He was humble. He enjoyed being comfortable. He was "without guile," per the words of Jesus. And he was impressively observant, and eloquent about those observations.

I picked up a couple books, in the gift shop, and had finished both the Diary of Adam and the Diary of Eve before the weekend was through. And I laughed. I so enjoyed how he thought.

I concluded, at the end of this trip, that assigned reading, in school, in a surefire way to make people hate authors. Don't tell ME what I'm supposed to enjoy thinking about, in my free time, cause it sure as hell isn't some redneck boy floating down a river. No thank you. Stop making teenagers read books written for adults.

But SECOND, I still have a lot of background biases I'm still unpacking, from Mormonism. 

My mother has been enjoying Missouri with me, since we both moved here. We've been exploring, and she has been exploring with her photography. One of her friends commented, "Thank you for showing me that Missouri is a beautiful place. I'd always thought it was terrible, and unfriendly."

If you ask my ancestors, Missourians are the worst sorts of people. Devils, frankly. (That's written in teenage girl pioneer journals.) I think it's easy to look back on Mormonism's past, and make some pretty easy assumptions about the sorts of people who must live in Missouri. (Yellow dog prophecy, anyone?) 

Missouri is so beautiful and wonderful that Joseph Smith named it as the Garden of Eden. Surprise, it's fantastic. Even my neighbors that I share almost NOTHING in common with, apart from also having children who go to school, are wonderfully social and kind. I would never pick them as a friend, and yet I think friends we are, simply because of their kindness and openness to be a good neighbor. 

More biases - the other day I was watching a movie when, surprise, the lead character of the plot was a lesbian! "Oh no," some quiet voice in the back of my head whispered. "I probably shouldn't watch this." I was only ten minutes in. I'd already stopped watching a Viggo Mortensen movie that wasn't to my liking, so... 

She was a LESBIAN. That was IT. It was a historical drama! It was my kind of movie!!!! I LIVE for historical dramas! And I was going to let the fact that she wanted to kiss a woman stop me from watching a retelling of an actual person's life?! I watched the movie, I'll have you know. There was no reason not to! If she'd been a heterosexual I wouldn't have blinked twice. But there I was, blinking before I even knew what I was doing. 

I blinked about a lesbian, and I spent over a decade blinking about Mark Twain, because all I knew about him was that he was anti-Mormon. I love him, and I may never have known that, if I hadn't been willing to reconsider everything. 

I'm grateful that I'm growing up. It's uncomfortable, sometimes, to look at my biases with honesty, but I'm grateful that I'm seeing myself for who I am, now. And I'm grateful that I get to write my story with my own values and words, now. 

Deconstructing in Stages

This blog is mostly religious. I can't help it. My "official" religion was a defining aspect of my life, up until I left it, and has been at the root of much of my life trauma since then. 

Trauma. That's a strong word. 

Well, wrestling with damnation, for a once believer, IS traumatic. Unlearning a lifetime's worth of biases and bigotry is also rather difficult. (Yes, that's very nice if Mormonism never made you a bigot, but it absolutely made me one.) It's been traumatic to wrestle with what was once a well-defined afterlife, and having to form my own beliefs about it. Trust me, the day I realized I didn't believe I would be "twinkled" at a Second Coming was a tearful dance with the reality of my own eventual death - the kind of harsh awakening that most 8-year-olds go through, but which I never did, well into my thirties. 

I don't experience "trauma" much anymore. I'm grateful for that. Things have settled down into a happy place of having my own answers - my own beliefs, values, and relationship with whatever power, or "God," exists outside of myself. I am at peace.

It's been quite the road, though. 

It's been a journey of 1,000 "coming out"s - of speaking the truths of who I am and what I feel and believe. I've been grateful to have a supportive, loving husband along for the journey, with me, who has done his own deconstruction as well. I hear solitary deconstruction is a real bugger. Dodged that one.

I finished painting the first coat on all of the downstairs hallway walls, this afternoon, and found myself washing out my brushes in hot water at the sink, the sound of the baby monitor humming quietly away next to me. Olive sat in the windowsill in front of me, watching. 

"What a good cat." I thought to myself, as all cat owners do. I wondered at her quiet strength, her hunting skills, her panicked, desperate cuddles for love, each morning, her introverted nature, and the way she loves my baby. "She'd make a great little Familiar."

I'll draw a card on that one, later. She's still a baby. 

Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn't have named her Hazel, or Hecate. Baba Yaga was in the running too. So sometimes I DO accidentally slip up and call her the wrong name. Her sister has always been Alice. But my little Olive sometimes shows the lonely wisdom of a Hazel. (See - Watership Down.)

I've never been opposed to name changing, though for the cat's sake, we'll save "Hazel" for the moments I feel it suits her best. Or just whenever I screw up. 

Because it happens. People screw up on my name all the time. I started going by "Murphy" months ago. But "Grace" still happens - often, even in my own head.

Why would someone go from the perfectly good name "Grace" to the name "Murphy"? I have a perfectly good middle name - Katherine. My mom still calls me "Kate," from it. I could have been Kat. I could have been Kathy.

I could have been HAZEL! (It was in the running. I do love that name. Thank the rabbits.) I could have been Cleo. I could have been Ana, or Carol, or Edna, or Meghan, or Deborah. Of all of the names, the wide world over, why Murphy? 

I remember being in elementary or middle school, suggesting changing my name to my mother. What did I pick at the time? Tarren. It didn't stick, and I was so embarrassed by anyone's lack of trying that I never suggested anything of the sort again. But I never did like the name Grace. 

Grace was a girl in pigtails. Grace wore pink, with curls in her hair. I never was a Grace. 

I jokingly suggested Justice to my mother. But no. 

I was more interested in pixie cuts, leather, and debating people with confidence. But that was something about myself that didn't quite fit what a girl "was." My friends were interested in their hair, in their skin, and were great at being "demure" for the boys. But I would rather be dead than demure. 

A kid called me a "lesbian" on the bus. Bullying, and some such. But as a good Mormon, that hit me. Was I? I'd never felt like I fit in with the other girls. Was I a lesbian then? Hormones convinced me otherwise. And Sean Bean. Wowza. I was not a lesbian. But I didn't fit.

I knew this because I was a girl. I knew that because of my gender. As a good Mormon, I knew that my gender "was established before [I] was born into mortality, and [was] an essential characteristic of [my] eternal identity." And also, thanks to the Family Proclamation, I knew that, due to this eternal identity, I was supposed to play second fiddle for eternity, as my husband would "preside." 

I was not, and have never been content playing second fiddle. I knew that THAT was in my nature. It had always been. Maybe I was just a tomboy, which seemed acceptable to be, in Mormon culture... But I didn't like sports, and I wasn't particularly good with my hands. 

"Grace" was a name that was far too feminine. It played much too much for the "girl" team, and, thanks to my religious upbringing, "girls" were something I associated as being weak. "Girly-ness" is not inherently bad, but as it was forced upon me, as an impossible standard for myself to live, it was easier to despise it. Unfortunately, "feminists" were frowned upon, by those of religious authority, as they dared believe women were equal, so I could not "really" be one of those, though, either.

I was also the best damned Mormon you'd ever met, so this feeling of not having a place within my own prescribed gender was a personal failing, on my part. Mormon culture taught me that "girls" were one specific thing, which, intrinsically, I knew I did not fit. We had leadership quoting things like, "We have enough women who are tough; we need women who are tender." It felt like a rejection of who I was - that I was flawed, and unacceptable. 

Being free of the church is a blessing. I get to look back on anchor-less me, and call it what it is. 

Gender is a social construct. Conservative gender constructs are NOT one size fits all. (As a fat woman, I KNOW that one size does NOT fit all.) I was raised in a culture that taught me that "girls" were helpmeets, were support staff to the men in the family, and that was the identity they should be happy with. 

If I had remained in Utah as a member of the church, I believe I eventually would have come out as Gender Queer - a Demigirl. I managed to escape that culture with all its pervasive gender constructs, however, and getting away from the church has allowed me to redefine what it means to be a "woman" for myself - and all the kick-assery that womanhood entails. 

I'm still "figuring this out," for myself. But I'm figuring it out for myself, as Murphy. Because gender is STILL a social construct, and there are ways that I still feel like I will never quite "fit in." Choosing to move our family to Missouri, I knew this was my chance to finally change my name to something that fit my soul a little better, androgynous as it may sound. 

The added bonus is that on resumes, it's not immediately clear if I'm a boy or a girl. And with sexism being the problem that it STILL is, I prefer it that way. 

Zelph's Mound from an Ex-Mormon Adventurer

I remember visiting the home of my youth, after several years away due to my mother moving, and myself going off to college. I drove the streets in an odd sort of awe. Everything was so SMALL.

There was the church next door to our house. The brick enclosure around the flagpole, where I had "run away from home" for ten minutes to, in my youth, was tiny - not the elegant, expansive future home where I was certain I could live. The walk to my school was short - not in distance, but in the houses lining the streets themselves. The houses didn't tower over my head like they once did. They were actually pretty modest and small. 

Seeing the past with my new, adult eyes, I realized how my adventurous, poignant, pivotally important youth was, well... really really unexciting. As a child, I saw the bubble of my life as something remarkable and special. As an adult, I saw it for what it was - a neighborhood like any other neighborhood. For children everything is enormous. As an adult I had enough distance from the location to see it for what it really was. 

After visiting Nauvoo, in my last entry, I realized I couldn't get enough of Mormon history sites. There was something fantastic about seeing these sites for myself - tying history together in my mind, and seeing how SMALL it was, in actuality. Hearing stories of miracles and angels and visions and prophets, everything gets so BIG - everything shown at its most flattering angles. Seeing it all for myself as an ex-Mormon adult, I saw it for what it really was. And I wanted more of that.

Enter Zelph's Mound.

The prophet once said that people who have crises of faith are "lazy learners and lax disciples." As one of those "lazy learners," I scoffed at the accusation. Zelph is a prime example of just how "lazy" my learning was - considering that most Mormons don't even know about Zelph.

In June 1834 Zion's Camp was making their way through Illinois, when some of the men came across a Indigenous American burial mound. Heber C Kimball and John Taylor recorded that the mound had three altars, one on top of the other, and that the ground was scattered with human bones. "General" Joseph Smith ordered the men to dig into the mound, and one foot below the surface, they found the bones of a man. (Some reports indicate that the man was 8 or 9 feet tall, given the size of his leg bones, which they took with them... I'm happy to not judge them too harshly on this. It was a different time, but yes. That would be desecration of a grave.) 

They laid the bones out on a board, carefully, and Joseph Smith gave a speech, prophesying that the bones of the man belonged to a Lamanite general named Zelph, who was killed in battle 1500 years prior. More information about Zelph was given. Zelph fought alongside the prophet Onendagus. He was known from the Atlantic to the Rocky Mountains, and was a righteous Lamanite, so his skin was white... O_o 

As someone who studied Book of Mormon archaeology for literal years, trying to make it fit, Zelph was important. Finding Zelph, to me, was additional proof that the Book of Mormon, a literal history, would have taken place in North America, not meso-America. Because of evidences like Zelph, I was happy to call myself a "one hill" girl. (One hill Cumorah - not in the camp that believed there was a Cumorah in upstate New York AND a Cumorah in South America.) The prophet himself had found a Lamanite in the heartland of North America. I read and listened to Wayne May extensively, and subscribed to his theories on the matter.

Obviously, I no longer do. 

But also obviously, I had to see this place. So naturally we drove the hour and a half to walk the short hike with our family, my mother joining us for the trip. 

It was difficult to find. Unlike most Mormon historic sites, which have large signs and plaques, and usually two dozen missionaries, this place had no signs at all. AT ALL. If you didn't know the history before you showed up, you wouldn't have known what you were looking at. The entrance to the trail was marked with overgrown weeds, and a literal tree fallen across the path. 

But we were not to be deterred. I had done my research. There were mounds up there. 

I took the lead, enthusiastically, and stepped face first into a spiderweb. A massive red orb-weaver. After that, we took the trail much more carefully, recognizing that this place was not frequented, and that no previous hikers had cleared the way ahead of us. We each swung large sticks in front of our faces to break any webs that may have been in our path, my brave Australian mother taking the lead. She ain't afraid of no spiders.

The trail was steep, as we needed to climb to the top of the bluff which ran a stone's throw away and alongside the Illinois River. But it was very do-able - entering low muscle-toned five-year-old as exhibit one. Another fact that I appreciated was that the back trail, which we were walking on, circled the mound. With my limited Indigenous American knowledge, I knew that circling sacred sites was a respectful way to approach. And that was something that was important to me - was approaching with respect. 

To our pleasant surprise, the trail led us directly to the top of the mound itself, as it continued it's half circle around. It was shocking to feel the earth under our feet - firm, surprisingly flat, and deliberate. But it wasn't entirely flat. The entire center of the mound had been removed, probably eight feet deep, like some wide volcanic pit in the center. 

(See in the picture, my husband at one end of the mound, blue-shirted son down in the center, and the rest of us up on the other side.) 

Whoever that man was, I doubt he expected the place of his burial to be so thoroughly investigated to the point that it was seriously damaged. 

"Zelph" was a part of the Havana Hopewell culture. The Hopewells traveled extensively, and in future excavations of other mounds in the area, artifacts were discovered from throughout the east. In Zelph's Mound - officially known as the Naples-Russell Mound #8 - an eagle pipe was found. 

The Hopewells were active from 100 BC - 500 AD. (Wayne May would enthusiastically say, "See! The timeline fits!") The Havana Hopewells would eventually go on to form the Mississippian culture, which would build Cahokia, which is a popular tourist destination to this day, with massive, well-preserved and documented mounds just across the river from St. Louis. 

I'm from Utah, and spent my youth exploring petroglyphs with my family throughout the state. But I can honestly say that I am not very familiar with eastern tribes and cultures. I am doing my best, though. Because my heart mourns for these people, and the land that we stole from them. 

Researching their roots, THEIR stories, it is hard to see how few of their traditions and histories remain. I had a HUGE "come to Jesus" when it came to Indigenous American culture, and my own Mormon upbringing, when it came to appropriation. 

Mormons are really bad at appropriating. Just look at how they view Judaism. Mormons assign themselves tribes of Israel in patriarchal blessings. They, like most Christians, take Jewish celebrations and rituals, and assign Christian imagery and theology to them, without consideration for the historical relevance or accuracy involved. 

"Zelph," I believe, was appropriated. White men took another person's life, and made of it something that fit their narrative, and suited their own faith-promoting needs, with no respect to the actual story. 

Indigenous Americans were not white. The Havana Hopewell were NOT white. Whiteness has nothing to do with "righteousness." 

"Onendagus," the prophet warrior that Zelph allegedly fought alongside, is a name more likely ripped off of the actual Onondaga Tribe of New York - which Joseph Smith would have been familiar with. 

Standing at the top of the mound, I tried to pay my respects. Theirs was a story that was lost and exchanged with some white man's telling. I don't know who this man was that was buried, with an arrowhead lodged in his ribcage, but he was respected, and it wasn't because he was a white Lamanite. 

Indigenous Americans have their own cultures, and their own stories. They have their own gods, and their own customs. To me, Joseph Smith's appropriation of Indigenous Americans began with the Book of Mormon. Much of that book is plagiarized from the King James Bible, and, I was surprised to learn, some of the most touching stories of the book were plagiarized from the Indigenous Americans themselves. 

The Onondaga tribe I mentioned earlier are a part of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy, which was one of the earliest recorded participatory democracies. (The arrows gripped in the claw of the bald eagle, on our own country's emblem, represent this confederacy of five tribes, and the strength of those tribes when bound together.) Sometime between 1142 and 1450 AD, this Confederacy was formed. The leaders of the five tribes, together, buried their weapons of war, an act memorialized in the sacred Haudenosaunee Wampum belt to this day. 

The story of the people of Ammon, or Anti-Nephi-Lehis burying their weapons of war was one of the most touching stories from the Book of Mormon for me. You can debate which came first - the chicken or the egg, the wampum belt or the Anti-Nephi-Lehis - but for me, it was beautiful to rediscover this favorite story had a basis in reality. And that reality was just as important, if not more important, than the story told to me from the Book of Mormon. 

The Indigenous Americans were not Jewish, as was claimed in the Book or Mormon or the contemporary View of the Hebrews. They were their own people, with their own gods and power. They didn't need prophets like Nephi, or Mormon. They had Handsome Lake, The Peacemaker and Hiawatha, Tenskwatawa, and more. They didn't and don't need someone else's culture or story forced onto them. We should be listening to them telling us their own stories. 

The drive back for home we questioned if the people who lived down the road from this mound knew what they were living next to. Did Mormons journey, like we had, and embarrassingly wax long in telling the locals about the great white Lamanite buried nearby? Do archaeologists widen their eyes in patient, comical disbelief when told about how the Hopewell had swords and horses, and battles in upstate New York with thousands of dead unaccounted for in the historical record? Oh, and they were Jewish. So look for those clues too. But they were pretty Christian Jews, even from the beginning, so look for those clues as well.

It's easier to respect the Indigenous Americans for what and who they are. They are The People. And they have their own stories to tell. 

Zelph!

Nauvoo Through Ex-Mormon Eyes

Having recently moved to Missouri has put my family in prime location for visiting historical sights. Suddenly we're twenty hours closer to everything east of the Mississippi. Chicago? 5 hours. New Orleans? 10 hours. Virginia Beach? 14 hours, but totally more do-able. We're talking a two day trip instead of a week's worth of driving. 

For an ex-Mormon, I've found myself nestled comfortably, living in a spot about halfway between the Garden of Eden and Nauvoo. The area is rich with history - and a lot of it pertaining to my own pioneer roots. I've joked multiple times about petitioning Missouri for that $2,000 my great great great grandfather sued them for, that they've never repaid, back from when they threatened our people with extermination and drove them from the state. 

I've come back, though. Home sweet home.

You can imagine my joy, Sunday morning, when I woke up and was immediately told, by my husband, "We should go to Nauvoo today." I showered and dressed in under ten minutes, and immediately began packing the family bags in giddy excitement, providing no room for my husband to take back his suggestion.

Two and a half hours of driving later, and we arrived. 

Entering Nauvoo, we drove down a stretch of road that bordered the very edge of the Mississippi River. Lillies filled the water for miles, with bright yellow flowers. It was easy to envision the swamp that must have been Nauvoo's edge, back when the Mormons first arrived. Driving into Nauvoo, Joseph's house, itself, was one of the first turn-offs. We took it gladly. 

It being Sunday, we knew that the Community of Christ sites would be closed, but in truth, we didn't care. I wasn't in much of a mood for tour guides showing me fireplaces and coaching me through old timey facts about candle-making. For me, visiting Nauvoo was about putting stories into the streets where they happened. It was about walking the roads, feeling their distances and the air around us. The stories would be supplied by my own years of study. The feelings would be supplied by none other than the buildings and ground itself. 

We arrived at Joseph's house, then quickly moved to visit the Smith family cemetery. 

Sure enough, he was dead. 

Just kidding. But he was.

This was Joseph's FINAL resting place. The dramatic stories of hidden burials and reburial are not often discussed. It was a story of men trying to fight a woman for rights to her dead husband's body. She won, naturally. That's why Joseph is in Nauvoo, and wasn't dragged along to Salt Lake City. Because despite what the mainstream Latter-Day Saint movement would have you believe, Nauvoo isn't THEIRS. It was obvious, visiting Nauvoo with new eyes. Nauvoo was Community of Christ's. Everything that actually mattered to Mormonism's history was theirs. Nauvoo, ultimately, belonged to Emma - the leader, the wife, the mother, the woman who stayed. 

The disparity between men and women was one key component to my leaving the church - wanting more for my daughter. It was reading about Nauvoo and subsequently Salt Lake, and the existence of women trying to thrive within the patriarchal systems set up there. So visiting Nauvoo, for me, involved a lot of mourning for those women, and anger. 

Seeing Joseph's grave, I was surprised to feel that anger. It was sudden, and it was quietly raging. It filled my eyes with tears, and it took a great deal of distracting myself to not grind my teeth, growl, and weep on the spot. I, fortunately, have children, and there was a poopy diaper to change, which was a good distraction - though what to do with said poopy diaper certainly tempted me. But I wouldn't do that to some poor missionary somewhere who would have to clean it up...

I was comforted by some small, generous gesture. Someone had left flowers for Emma. Joseph had nothing, and she had something. It was comforting to me to know that there were still SOME people, the people who cared for her home and grave, that saw her, and knew HER, and what she had endured. Whoever had placed those flowers had honored her before her husband, and to me, that was comforting. 

Next was the mansion house. 

It was harder than I expected, to know a place's history, and be confronted with the location itself. "The Mansion House" is deceiving, given today's mansions. My own house is easily bigger. 

Privacy. So many things happened in this house. So many affairs, and flirtations. So much that was harmful and wrong to so many women. And it was shockingly small. All I could think about was privacy, and the lack of privacy that comes with smaller dwellings. What things would have been obvious, that could more easily be covered up in a twenty-first century mansion? Had I considered privacy before, when I read those stories? 

There was the Red Brick Store. 

We read the story of Martha Brotherton on our drive. Martha was 17 years old when Heber C Kimball, Brigham Young, and Joseph Smith locked her in the top room of the Red Brick Store and tried to convince her to marry Brigham Young on the spot, as his second wife. They chortled with each other about what good men they were. They told her it was "lawful," so don't worry about asking your parents. This smart, smart girl demanded she be given time to think. 

"I will have a kiss, any how." insisted Brigham. 

Naturally, they all denied this happened. They implied that Martha was a skank, obviously. What a little liar. Her family moved to St. Louis. She was married a year later, and had five children. She died at thirty-nine. After her death, Brigham Young had the last word, and had her sealed to him for time and eternity. This girl he had called a liar at the time. But he would have his kiss, any how.

We visited Heber C Kimball's home. We had moved into the mainstream LDS property, now, where things were open. The senior missionary couple at the site were lovely, as they always are. They told about how the Kimballs were only able to live in their home for a few short months before being driven West. They told about how Heber had left his family behind, while they were all sick, as was he, to go serve a mission. They talked about his wife, and about how she was a lovely woman, and a "peacemaker." 

I asked the Elder if the Kimballs home, prior to this one, had been built on the same lot? (Because they'd lived in Nauvoo prior to 1844, I knew, which is when this home had finished construction.) The Elder didn't know, and casually had no more answers to any questions. I wasn't being combative or obvious. We listened to their testimonies and smiled and nodded politely. 

But I still wanted to know, because this Heber C Kimball home was on Partridge Street, and the irony was too much, for me. I wanted to know if Heber had ALWAYS lived on this street - named after the Partridges. Because of Emily. 

Emily Partridge had been propositioned by Joseph Smith, when she was a teenager living in his home with her sister, as her mother was dead and her father was on a mission. She'd told him "No thank you." But spiritual wifery and eternal marriage kept being brought up to her by those "in the know" who were helping Joseph. Eventually, she was convinced to meet with Joseph at Heber C Kimball's home. 

Her story was the final shelf-breaker, for me. See, I was molested when I was a kid. Deep down inside of me, there is some visceral fear response that echoes when things just aren't right. I understand, personally, what it is to be in a position where you are young, weak, and dumb, and someone else is older, smarter, and stronger, and the fear and cognitive dissonance that come when you are made to do something, or be somewhere you don't feel comfortable about, and how that happens, and how you "go along with it," keep quiet, and rewrite the narrative that everything was "normal" and "okay."

Emily approached the Kimball home. The children were playing, and Emily was with them. Heber C Kimball entered the room, and basically told the kids to get lost, outside, and go play somewhere else. Emily got up, as well, and started for home. She knew Heber wasn't "actually" dismissing her, but she left. In writing about the experience later in life, you can hear her fear in her words. She walked fast. Behind her, she could hear Heber trying to call her back, quietly, and secretively, and she pretended she couldn't hear him. She kept walking, and fast. But, she writes, Heber chased after her, and she knew she couldn't get away, so she listened to him, and went back.

She was married to Joseph Smith on the spot.

Learning that story was when I finally allowed myself to label Joseph Smith as a predator. He was a predator. That wasn't the first time, but Emily's words were vivid and relatable to me. And Heber helped him. The street she would have taken that speedy, terrified walk for home on? Partridge Street. 

Heber was so willing to help the Prophet Joseph in attaining his plural wives that he even supplied him with his own 14-year-old daughter, Helen, to marry. Helen wasn't a person to him. She wasn't a little girl who wanted to flirt with the boys her age and go to the dances with her friends. She was a bartering chip to get him in Joseph's favor. And Heber's "peacemaker" wife? She was heartbroken and devastated, and yet, like a good Mormon woman, she did what her husband told her to do. She wasn't a peacemaker. She was a pushover. She, like so many others, was a victim to a church run by men for the men.

Did we go and eventually learn how to make candles? Yes, we did. Because despite having our own religious trauma to work through, we also had a five and six year old, and as good parents, we let them be entertained. (We learned how to spin wool, make rope, make candles, and weave rugs!)

At the Visitor Center I asked for information on where my pioneer family members lived, in Nauvoo. Growing up, the pioneer ancestor we talked about most, as a family, was Freeborn DeMill. (He later settled in Manti, Utah. Over the years we've visited his grave many times. Also, he had several wives, including a 14-year-old girl he married in his 60's or 70's, and had children with...) 

We were told the plot and intersection where Freeborn lived, with his wife Anna Knight, in Nauvoo, and drove out there to check it out. 

It was an RV Park. Handwritten signs and all.

To say I chortled is an understatement. Sorry, grandpappy. I'm no longer one to reverence someone just because I'm related to them or their story. Freeborn was pedophile, and I hope he's proud of his RV Park.

On, on to Carthage! 

Driving into Carthage, my husband asked me, sarcastically, if I could "feel the weight of the journey that Joseph made," to the jail there. "I don't feel sorry for him one bit." I informed my husband. 

The sign as we entered the city pronounced, "Welcome to Carthage - A Proud City." My husband and I laughed at that. "Welcome to Carthage. We're proud of what we've done." "Welcome to Carthage. We killed the bastard." "Welcome to Carthage. You're Welcome." "Welcome to Carthage. We'd do it again."

Welcome to Carthage.

We arrived just in time to use the potty and join the next tour, at the Visitor's Center, for Carthage Jail. A new missionary couple was there, smiling, from Kaysville, watching the older missionaries going through their scripted retelling. But first? A movie!

It was the five minute Jeffrey R Holland talk about The Book of Mormon, asking, in passionate, often heated tones, if a man would give his life for a lie. I held my distracted, happy baby, and bore it. Holland's rings were distracting - large, like a banker's jewels of wealth. I could have quoted this talk from memory. I was there when it was given. Holland's voice had made me tearful at the time. "Yes," I'd thought. "Of course. What a good man Joseph was, and they killed him. It's all true. Laying down his life to the hands of the mob was an act of love and courage."

The actual tour itself began outside, and the guides stuck to their script with exactness. "He was cleared of all charges, in Nauvoo." they explained. Yes, because Joseph Smith had declared himself God King of Nauvoo, so of course he would. "Then he was charged with treason." See God King? 

The careful wording of the story made it so that they could present Joseph as completely guiltless. Anyone who actually knew the true history could see through the precision of their words and find the gaping, misleading errors in their tale. Still, our little family moved as quietly and politely as we could along with the others. (Which was not terribly quiet, as the baby was hungry and the children were maxed out on quietness. That's one thing to be grateful to Mormons for, however. They all smiled and bore the children with extreme love and patience.) 

The mentioned Joseph's friends willingly being jailed along with him. They mentioned the mob that was present for days. They mentioned four friends leaving the jail, then being refused re-admittance. They didn't mention the guns the men had. They didn't mention that Joseph himself had shot and wounded several of the mob members - to the point that John Taylor bragged he had even killed two. It was much easier to play him as the defenseless "lamb to the slaughter," listen to the hymn "A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief," and pretend that Joseph gave his life willingly, and not in a drunken shootout. (Because yes, they were drinking.)

I noticed a change to the official narrative's story from the missionaries, however. John Taylor was no longer shot in the watch, which saved his life. John Taylor fell against the windowsill, was shot in the leg, then rolled under the bed. The watch broke on the windowsill. It was interesting to hear the concession to the ballistics, regarding the watch miracle having been disproved. The watch had been on display in the museum for decades, advertised as a miracle. It was interesting to hear that quietly taken back. 

We left as soon as was appropriate, to run outside and feed the baby on one of the outdoor benches, while the boys gathered acorns and cicada shells. I stepped back to the jail to snap one photo. 

Naturally, tattooed me, was approached. 

I love the missionaries. I love them. This enthusiastic, new missionary from Kaysville, asked me how I'd found the tour. "It was great." I said, thanking him. Not feeling like discussing Mormonism, I redirected, "How thick are the walls, again?"

"Twenty six inches." he confirmed with his wife. 

"That's amazing." I stated. "I just recently found out that a house my family owns, from about the same time period, used to be an old jail! This place reminds me of it, so it's very much confirming that discovery for me!" 

He was amazed, appropriately, and I excused myself to go back to my family. 

The family house that used to be an old jail? It's in Manti Utah. We still own it. Turns out, my great great grandparents were jailers during the Utah Black Hawk Indian Wars. I found it while reading over a biographical piece on my grandmother, which stated she knew the native american language. It was sold as fantastic, and charming, that she would share food with small native children who came to the house to beg, and they were amazed at her speaking to them in their own tongue. Quietly buried in the text was the fact that she knew the language from her time jailing natives in her own home. 

The truth was buried and kept as quiet as it could be. We still walk the walls of that place, Easter in the kitchen with extended family and drive four-wheelers in the yard. Sleeping in front of the heater in the living room, on the black and white, floral, textured rug was always my favorite spot. And I never knew it was a jail. Someone had hung an angry painting of a native american that was given to my grandfather in the room upstairs, and it always gave us kids the creeps. It was more appropriate than we ever could have known.

I don't know why some people prefer to keep the past's secrets. 

On the way home, we stopped in Quincy Illinois to eat dinner and let the kids run around on a playground there. It felt like a humid Ogden. Quincy is also known to Mormons. When driven out of Missouri, the Mormons found friends in the good people of Quincy, who were too happy to condemn the actions of the Missourians. The Mormons talk about that.

They don't talk about the fact that Quincy sent a message to Nauvoo, years later, basically telling them that they should leave Illinois as well. The people of Quincy, when given a taste of the Mormons as neighbors, changed their tune, and decided that Missouri hadn't been wrong, after all.

Telling half-truths isn't telling the truth either.

We talked about morality on the final stretch of the drive home. What makes someone a good person? I love the missionaries, but it felt like they were lying to people - spinning half-truth stories to convince others of some beautiful reality that never existed as they describe it. Are they bad people, for this? Do they not know any better? And if they do?

Sweet Summer Child

It's time. 

My Dear Sweet Summer Child,

You don't know how wonderful you are. 

How I love you. I love everything about you, while simultaneously knowing that you are extremely sad and lonely. That doesn't last forever. 

Child? Drugs. You have depression and anxiety issues. There's no shame in that, and guess what? You can feel five times better than you currently do, and all you have to do is tell your freaking doctor and get on some good medications. That's my first piece of advice for you. For the love of all that is holy, goodness sakes, child, GET ON MEDICATION, and don't you dare stop it! It took you far too long to figure out what "normal" feels like, and I'd like to spare you that. Go get on some medication. Prozac seems to work the best, cause you're also going to end up getting an OCPD diagnosis - SORRY - and Prozac seems to be the best fit for that one. Then, when you're less stuffy and grumpy from OCPD, the Depression/Anxiety stuff settles down even easier. Maybe start with Prozac. Might be really nice for you? Who knows! (Yeah, that's a personality diagnosis I mentioned. Scary stuff, eh? It's not that bad. Don't let "personality disorder" scare you off. You can manage this. Frankly, you already have been, and with some insight, you might even have an easier time of it.) 

But anyway, why am I thinking of you today? 

Facebook Memories.

Understandably, there are several things here we need to talk about. 

Yes, that is a bearded man in the profile picture with you. (That's the first thing you noticed. I know you, friend. You're a little obsessed with getting married. It's the culture, I get that, but take a freaking CHILL PILL.) 

GIRL. That man IS your husband. You've been married for many many years. (I'm not going to tell you how many, because if I did that, you'd do the math, and that would quickly become the worst year of your life as you obsessed with getting married, which is exactly what you're NOT supposed to do, because if you obsess, you might screw it up. The only reason things worked out so well was because your husband was absolutely, 100% a rebound, so your "give a damn" was busted, and you were refreshingly YOURSELF, which is who your husband loved. AWWWWWWW.) Yes, you have kids. Life is good. Each year of marriage is happier than the last, and you can quite assuredly state that your husband is your best friend. 

Second, you're wondering at the name change. Is this an April Fool's Day joke that just hasn't been changed back yet, you wonder? This would be on par for your personality. But no, no it's not. Actually, your plan is to remove "Grace" from the name after a couple more months, as people you know are getting used to the new name. New name? Murphy? So many questions. Why? Who? What? 

Calm down. "Murphy" sparked tremendous joy, and in a few years, a short woman named Marie is going to say, "This sparks joy." and you're going to understand a lot better. That moment will come, and the alarm bell is going to go off in your head, and you're going to remember this letter from future me, and say, "NOOOOOO WAAAAAAAAY." And it will absolutely be "way."

You've never liked your name. Remember when you tried to change your name to "Tarren," but nobody would call you that, because Tarren is not a real name? And then you complained to your mother that she named you "Grace," and that you felt that "Justice" would have been more fitting? You've never liked your name, and as an adult, life happens, and you figure that you might as well change it. And like I said. "Murphy" sparked tremendous joy. 

MURPH. Say it with an ugly face. Laugh. It's awesome. Remember how you get on medication and get over your Depression and Anxiety and you're married to your best friend, and nothing can hurt you anymore? MURPH. This is joy.

So why did THIS post catch my attention, you might be wondering, now. 

That's what I need to talk to you about. 

God is cool. The first bit, where you talked about God? Absolutely great. God loves us. God is absolutely involved in your life! When you're dating your husband, you actually have huge commitment issues, and guess what? God literally tells you in your head that you need to marry him. Out of the blue. No question, God is behind your marriage. 

Because God is behind a lot of things in your life. You're at the university you're at, right now, because God told you to go there. In less than a year, God is also, undeniably, going to give you another direction. I hope you're sitting down, because SURPRISE. You're going to serve a mission. (I know. Bull crap! But really, you are!) You're going to graduate, and then? Toronto Canada. Just like that. You turn down a job offer and everything. You do it, because you know, 100%, that that is what God wants you to do. Because you're REALLY GOOD at listening to God, and frankly, you know it, you cocky devil you. And you do it, because you do EVERYTHING that you're supposed to, because you are an amazing person, and I will never cease to be amazed by your commitment and love for truth.

I heard a bible scholar say, the other day, that "truth," historically, was seen as a path, and not something that could ever have "scientific evidence." "Truth" is a journey, not a certainty. 

You said that you were grateful for the gospel. I am grateful for Christ's teachings, too. Christ taught one message, over and over again. He taught that the Kingdom of God is here. The Kingdom of God is available now. In preparing for your mission, you'll go through the temple, and that will actually be a huge takeaway for you. You "enter the presence of the Lord" today. You can symbolically pass through the veil into God's presence EVERY DAY that you go to the temple. You sit in the "Celestial Room." The Kingdom of God is here and now. "Time" is not the same, for God, and your salvation is to be experienced in the present. Christ taught this.

Unfortunately, your future leads you to different interpretations of "truth," than that which you expressed in my Facebook memories this morning. I know. You just had General Conference, and you were bearing your testimony. I understand that. That's the expectation, and honestly, good things were likely said which resounded and brought you peace. I believe that, and I'm happy that it brought you peace. 

Today, I know that I'm happier than you, though, and I had a glass of wine while preparing dinner, tonight. Chardonnay. You like the after taste. Lambic beer is the best, though. The alcohol content isn't as high, so not as "sharp," and yet it is prepared similar to wine, so it's more fruity than camel pee, dirt tasting traditional beer. Which is garbage. The lemonade stuff is fine. (You spent a lot of money trying out different alcohols to figure out which ones tasted good, so I'll try and save you the money. Do NOT start with Bailey's. Your eyes burned! You're not ready for that, and frankly, you might never be. Heaven knows, I'm not.)

I'm not huge into alcohol. I enjoy a glass while cooking upon occasion. It makes me appreciate food more. It makes me think about taste. I'm not addicted to sugar quite like I was, because my pallet has matured. Today I was also stressing about money issues, and the glass took that edge away. 

I drink coffee every morning - start with a mocha, and heaven knows, do NOT drink coffee without creamer to start with, again, for that immature pallet which is going to tell you that you will die. Coffee is fantastic. You feel healthier drinking that than the Diet Coke which you were previously addicted to, to get through the day. (Drink more water. Do it for your kidneys. I'm begging you.) 

Sweet summer child. I am trying to stand in your shoes in this moment. I have just dropped a bomb on you, and I did it in as shocking a manner as I could, to break the ice. I did it with a smile, and tried to keep it light-hearted, but I know what you're thinking. 

You are rejecting yourself. Future you is weak. Future you somehow got "lost." Future you must be so unhappy. Future you is disappointing you.

Future you only has love for you. I understand you better than you know, and I am in awe of you, not because I think you are better than me, but because I know where you are, why you are there, where you will go, and why you will go there. Because YOU are ME. 

"No." I can hear you say. "No. I will never become you, and make the mistakes you make. I will do better."

I've had that conversation with God several times. On our mission, God told us to go home early. Oh boy, girl, it's uncomfortable, and you just KNOW everybody assumes you sinned. And did you? Girl, you know you. Of COURSE you didn't. But God tells you to go home anyway. 

I wish I could drag you there and sit with you in that moment. It was heart-breaking. I can look back on you, crying as you sit on top of the bed in that Guelph apartment, tears streaming down your face as you beg God to forgive you. For what? Depression? Missing your previous area? It's so sudden, you're not sure, but you just KNOW it's your fault. Why would God tell you to go home early? "I'm sorry." you'll plead. "I can do better!"

But you can't. You, who does everything at 110%, CAN NOT do any better than you already have, and God tells you that you haven't done anything wrong, too. God thinks you're the best thing since sliced bread. God gives you peace, and assures you that this was a part of the plan. God is proud of you! And guess what? You go home, you meet your rebound, and badda bing, badda boom, you're married in less than a year. (DANGIT. I told you I wasn't going to tell you when it would happen. Oh well. Just joke about Ted Bundy. It'll all work out.) 

God is proud of you. And God is proud of me. Nothing has changed for me there. Walking with God is what brings happiness. I agree with you there. We absolutely agree. 

How one walks with God is what we disagree on. 

In your life, and on your mission, you were taught that the gospel was clear. Black and white. There were logical, clear answers to all of it. Everything had an answer and a place. It all fit neatly into its boxes.

Time showed you, however, that that God of Love, you believe in, didn't fit. You trusted what prophets said instead of trusting in Love. You calculated your way through human beings, that you forgot the expansion of loving them. You forgot that Love is the highest law, and you were not alone in that. You were led to believe that there were stipulations to love - conditions to love. Rules, laws, and bounds that regulated the appropriateness of love. That love was something that could and should be experienced the same by everyone - that happiness and peace was "one size fits all." That God would love us and give us peace, all of us identically - with no varying degrees of allowance, or respect for love languages and differing needs.

You trusted men to tell you what was sin, and what was righteousness, without trusting your own heart to tell you. These Facebook memories, I tell you! I swear, I saw a memory that was six years old, the other day, where you went off bearing your testimony about how happy you were to have your family, and that you didn't need to "party" and drink alcohol to find peace. You felt you were so much BETTER than other people, that your beliefs made you different than them - more enlightened. You were so busy judging them that you didn't love them. That you didn't see the love that THEY had, that light that THEY carried, which YOU didn't have. And you didn't have it because you didn't have love.

And that wasn't your fault. You were raised in a system that put limits on love. It put limits on potential. It put limits on you, because you weren't a man. It put limits on your neighbor, because they drank caffeine at a higher temperature than you. It told you to "fit in" rather than to "belong" - to come EXACTLY as you are - right and wrong defined and determined by your own authority, your own heart, and your own soul.

You are good. 

This is the flaw of Christianity. Christianity teaches that mankind is flawed - in need of saving. There is something intrinsically unacceptable about you.  

I reject this. You are beautiful in all your flaws, your weaknesses and imperfections. You don't like your flaws. Why should you be punished twice for something you are not proud of? Mistakes you made because of your mortality, the foibles of biology and psychology, and the complicated mess of intertwining relational cause and effects? You are human, and each step you take towards goodness, towards love, is a walk with God, is entering that kingdom. 

Gordon B Hinckley said that we should have "a love affair" with the scriptures. Remember how right that felt? How passionate that felt? How good? 

What makes us so uncertain about our own unworthiness, that we would assume God does not desire us in that same way? I want to have a love affair with God - not a pleading, begging, domineering relationship. It's never been that way for us, has it? Not when it was right, healthy, good, and we were getting answers. God has always been peace and love. I choose to have a love affair with God. I am of worth, and I am desired by God, as I desire God. 

I don't know what God is, and frankly, I embrace the uncertainty, now. Paternal doesn't feel right. Search out your experiences. Heaven knows. I've already searched them. All we've ever known from God is love. Unconditional love. I'm not sure the details matter.

I chose to make God's love unconditional, by rejecting any voice that made it conditional. God hasn't left. God hasn't warned me, or threatened me, or told me I'm risking hellfire in these decisions. The opposite. I've never felt so free, so at peace, so unburdened by pressure and anxiety. I have been heartbroken, yes. That's mortality, isn't it. But it had nothing to do with God. 

Sweet Summer Child. 

You will eventually journey down the roads I've been on. You'll see what I saw, and wrestle with those issues that I wrestled with. My heart breaks for you, my 110% girl. You will be devastated. But I need you to know that God is not leaving you. God is not bound within the confines of a church, or a set of beliefs. God is in you, and you are worthy. 

You will see God in the eyes of your children. You will see the beauty that is love. So much is uncertain, but with love, nothing else matters. The Kingdom of Heaven is now.

I love you, and you are worthy of every good thing. You are so small, and understand so little, in the scale of things. But look at you! Like an ant carrying several times its weight, your limited understanding only makes your potential for love remarkable. Everything is in its place, as it should be, and I wish you peace. 

Peace is hard to find, but only made harder to find by convincing yourself it is found in wrestling and fighting, not sitting still, and accepting the bounty that is already yours. 

Your life is going to be good. Better than you know. You are smart and capable, and the world is your oyster. Be yourself. YOU are fantastic. 

So Much Love,

Future You

Planets and Plagues

My children are very interested in the Solar System, and the workings of our Universe. In studying the planets with them, I have come to realize that the planets draw symbolic parallels to our own Earth life, and the ills and plagues facing our own futures.

Mercury is primarily made up of metallic substance. The parallel I draw is to our Earth's continued neglect of nature's habitats and continued industralization. Metal and steel, as far as the eye can see, it seems, is the goal of the powers at be.

Venus once had a climate similar to Earth's, but, due to greenhouse effect, the planet has become inhospitable in temperature, with sulfuric acid rains. Our own planet is on a similar course, with the climate change issue neglected and ignored.

Mars has dust storms that can cover continent-sized areas for weeks at a time, and often, spread across the entirety of the planet itself. It is a world overwhelmed by the tell-tale signs of drought and famine, lack of resources globally.

Jupiter's "red spot" is a storm of hurricane proportions that has been brewing in an area twice the size of Earth since it was discovered over 400 years ago. The people on our planet have been at war since before we can remember, fighting and "storming" for generations on end.

Saturn has more moons than science has even been able to confirm - an example of superfluous living, ignoring the lack of others and living with ravenous insatiability - the product of our capitalistic society.

Uranus rotates on its side, out of step with its solar dance partners - caring more for its own individual "rights" to its journey than it cares for its community as a whole. 

Neptune stole its moon, Triton, and in future years hence, will destroy it with its own gravitational force - like Native American land stolen and the inhabitants wiped out in the name of senseless expansion. 

Pluto is roughly the size of the state of Texas. Texas.