Star of David

Sometimes I wear a Star of David. I have a lot, the last couple weeks.

A couple hundred years ago, roughly, I had great great great grandparents married in a British Israelite wedding. I don't know what that religious designation and choice meant to them, but I have my own theories. Though it certainly irks many of my family members when I say it, I'm happy to call on that mother's mother's mother's mother's line, and carry on a Jewish heritage. Obviously I'm Mormon. I'm Christian. But as a Bible lover, I'm only too happy to take on this heritage that rings only too true with me. In me I see that same stubbornness and pride, a life of blatant answers and miracles from God, feeling chosen, but still being a stupid head in acceptance of it all. The Bible speaks to me like no other book of scripture ever has. Sorry Book of Mormon! You may have been "written for me," but that Bible was DEFINITELY written for me.

So I've been wearing my Star of David. It's a symbol that may have literally had nothing to do with King David. They honestly don't know. As with most symbols, it means different things to different people. Different times and generations interpret it differently. But I know what it means to me.

To me, the Star of David is about the union of men and women to perfection. If you've seen the Da Vinci Code movie, you've seen Ian McKellan hold his fingers to points, demonstrating the Blade, or symbol of manhood. You've seen him hold his wrists together, demonstrating the Chalice, or womanhood. Da Vinci Code shows you the two pyramids at the Louvre, one on top of the other, but I prefer putting them together, to form the Star of David.

As a Mormon, I've felt, very often, the painful distinctions placed between the genders. Don't get me wrong! I believe men and women are different - that we have very different roles, HOWEVER, the Church continues to teach that one of those genders is assigned the position of "presiding," which, though I may go to Hell, I disagree with. Are we supposed to run our families like corporations, where we have a CEO? No. We're equals. Equals don't need someone to preside. Being married to a man, where once I was single, I am more acutely aware now than I ever was that we are equals. Nathan, my dear husband, does not have a more "preside-y" spark than I do. Equals don't need a preside-er. That just makes family life and equality that much more confusing for everyone involved.

So I've been wearing my Star of David and finding that true "equality" comfort where I can, because unfortunately, I don't find it in the Church. Yet? Together we are beautiful. Together we complete each other. And only together. We BOTH need that New and Everlasting Covenant stipulation put on us, preferably without polygamy hanging over one of our heads, but I digress.

Brushing my teeth, the other night, I was admiring my necklace and pondering on what it means to me. And I got to thinking. About stars in general. About how there are many different types of stars, and about how they all have their own meaning. I looked at that "chalice" portion of the Star of David, pondering on my own roles, and realized, frankly, that if we made a star out of that, it would be an inverted one.

I worried the role of women might be Satanic, for a moment, until I calmed myself and reminded me that that's a relatively recent way of looking at an inverted star. No, we have inverted stars on our temples that, they say, are symbols of Christ.

Nauvoo has a ton of these. Nauvoo sports their traditional inverted star windows, but additionally interspersed with another inverted star, with a stretched out bottom. Traditionally, this inverted star represented Venus. For Christians, it was the coming of Christ, or the downward flow of revelation. 

I realized that it was fallen. Not in a bad way, mind. We're all fallen, thanks to Adam and Eve. But this star represented coming into mortality. I found that a beautiful thing, knowing that that star was created by, and represented by my very own gender's chalice.

It reminded me of a scholar's testimony I had read once, of why she was a member of our church, BECAUSE she was a feminist. She laid out a new way of thinking about genders and roles in our religion, that blew my mind, and has changed absolutely everything for me. She spoke of two trees, two roles, Adam and Eve, Mortality and Salvation. Eve, our Mother, made everything possible, by her willingness to fall, and create life. Adam was given his own ordinances to perform on our behalf, with the priesthood, to get us back from the fall. Motherhood with its ordinances, and Fatherhood, with its. Both essential, good, and ultimately, perfecting. 

But only together. Just as the one who falls needs ordinances to be saved, you cannot be saved unless you fall. If you're reading this, your momma got your back on that one already. She got you here. But just because her specific work for you is done in 9 months, and your dad is going to be baptizing you and dragging you through the temple for the next 18 years, doesn't mean your dad is in charge. His role is just different. 

I realized that though the Star of David and its specific origin is unknown, I appreciate what it means to me. To me it symbolizes US, having gone through everything, and ultimately attaining Godhood. It is the symbol of us. It is a symbol of a God - one who has fallen and risen again. One who has been through water and fire and stands, now, pure and impenetrable. 

My husband was falling asleep as I attempted the broach the conversation with him, and discuss the possibility that perhaps Ruin and Preservation, from Mistborn, would be better represented with a female Ruin, and a male Preservation, because women are the ones who bring the fall, bring the chaos, while men "repair" it. He didn't want to talk about it, but I was excited nonetheless. 

Being One

As I was tidying up around the house today and doing laundry, I found myself thinking.

Yes, this again. Thinking.

I was pondering on my new home, my new ward, new people, new opportunities, etc. As I often do, I doubted myself, and worried about how things would work out. I’m more than aware that I’m an overweight tomboy with Depression, that I’m a Democrat in a red state, that I’m a member of The Church, yet disagree with many of the current policies and culture, and that my opinionated, brutally honest soul can be a large deterrent for some. Because of these things, I hate moving. I hate having to start over, take all those social risks again, and decide, ultimately, how I want to define myself anew – will I take the route of leadership, speaking and being myself without fears, or do I take the route of being a quiet observer who attends, but doesn’t put my whole self out there, or risk offending. I’ve gone both routes, and I definitely see the pros and cons of each.

Cleaning, I began to wonder what Christ meant when He said that “If ye are not one, ye are not mine.” How can God’s people be “one,” when they are so obviously different?

The Bible tells of the apostles approaching Christ with a dilemma, not coincidentally following the telling of these same apostles arguing about which one of them would be better than the other in Heaven. The apostles told Christ of this problem – that they had seen a man casting out devils in Christ’s name, and he wasn’t even one of His apostles. Christ’s apostles had tried to stop the man, but Christ corrected them, telling them not to, stating, “He that is not against us is for us.” To me, this story begins to sum up the concept of “one.”

What makes us God’s? What makes someone a person that God would want to claim ownership of – to state, “Ye are mine”? What is this thing that we can all have in common, that we can all be “one” on, despite all of our differences?

To me, I think the answer boils down to the first and second great commandments – love of God, and love of our neighbor.

This is something that everyone can do. You can be Mormon, you can be Buddhist, you can be Muslim, you can be Baptist. You can be Republican, you can be Democrat, or you can be a Libertarian. You can like classical music, you can like Emo music, or even Spice Girls. You can be from Norway or Liberia. Everyone can love God, and everyone can love their neighbor. Love is what can make us “one.” The capacity to love is not limited to the sinless or perfect. It isn’t limited to those who follow the status quo, or fit “the mold.” Love is an action that happens with each moment, with each decision. It is a choice that can turn into a habit, which can shape a life.

The man who cast out devils in Christ’s name, who was not an apostle, had love. He was casting out devils. He cared enough about someone to do so on their behalf. He did it in the name of Christ, a sure show of faith, and likely subsequent love for God. The apostles looked down on this man, feeling that he didn’t belong, that he didn’t have the right, or place among them they felt was required. He didn’t “fit in.” But Christ taught that he did. His love put him on God’s side. God owned this man for his love, irregardless of his official status among them, or even his background or experience. Love broke any other perceived requirement to “belong.”

This comforted me, and taught me as well. Love is the motivation that counts, and frankly, it doesn’t matter who I am, or what side of me I show. So long as I am loving, I belong. So too others. If they are loving, our differences don’t matter. They can even like Spice Girls. If they have the ability to love, then we can be “one” with God.  

I Dreamed a Dream

I dreamed a dream a couple nights back. I didn't dream a dream about time gone by, when hope was high and life was living. I didn't even dream a dream about my kids living in a nation where they aren't judged by the color of their skin.

I dream a lot of dreams. Last night Brendan Fraser, who was playing the paternal protector role, pulled the ancient ring off of the skeleton we found in the cave before he died, and I was able to use that ring to charter a ship and a crew back to the island... I dream great dreams, and Brendan Fraser is in an embarrassing number of them.

The night before last night, however, I dreamed a different kind of dream. I feel greatly blessed that sometimes God sends me dreams with messages. In college I dreamed that someone was painting clear paint on my food, and slowly poisoning me. I was dating a guy at the time who, though not literally poisoning me, was poisoning my spirit. I knew the dream was a warning, and promptly dumped the guy the next day. (In retrospect, DEFINITELY the right choice.)

Night before last, though, I was with a group of people on a hike. It was a crazy hike, the kind that would never be open to the public. Angels Landing on steroids. There were rock bridges only a foot wide, sandy mountains to climb, steep ledges to cross, and finally, a rock wall with footholds only half an inch wide. Along the path I saw a lot of people enjoying themselves, playing in snow, or otherwise generally exploring. But I wanted to get to the end of the hike.

Once I finally made it up that last rock wall, I saw it - a beach.

I LOVE the beach. I was so excited that I'd made it! My family, who hadn't been a part of the dream previously, was suddenly there, and I was so excited! My two toddlers came running, with my husband trailing behind. We were all smiles and laughter. I put a life vest on my oldest, Julian, and Nathan ran off to change into a swimsuit. As I was standing there with my babies, I saw the first big wave.

Very quickly I realized I was in over my head. I hadn't realized how big those waves would be. The first wave rocked at our feet, and I struggled to hold onto my babies' hands. The second wave hit, and we crashed backwards, swept off our feet by the wave and carried into... a wall?

The water didn't relent. It just got deeper and deeper, rising while trapping us against the wall, which held the water in. I lost Julian. He was swept away in a current, yelling at the water's surface, bobbing away in his little life vest. I screamed for Nathan to get him. I waved and gestured, all the while doing my best to hold Dexter over my head, to keep his head above the ever rising water.

Fortunately, I woke up at that point. I woke up and I cried, because I knew the dream had a meaning.

All my life I have been a fairly religious "Nazi." Not in the "don't drink caffeine" way, but in following all the little rules that make up that For the Strength of the Youth pamplet, kind of thing. I've been fortunate that I've never really struggled with anything so obviously a "sin" in my life - except pride. Like many members of my church before me, I have struggled with my own self-righteousness, and lack of mercy for those who fall off the path. In recent years, I have improved. I've had more questions that have made me consider what I truly believe, and it has been a very eye opening experience for me, that I'm continuing to grow in.

This dream explained the faults in my system better than anything I had ever understood before.

Beaches are great. You can enjoy the beach from the view in your car, you can enjoy the beach on the sand, and you can enjoy the beach in the water - surfing on those waves. Beaches are GREAT.

Heaven is great. You can enjoy heaven in any of the three degrees of glory that we believe in, in our church. Celestial, Terrestrial, Telestial. All are kingdoms of glory, and ought to be enjoyed.

Our church has the very important job of telling its members how to attain the highest degree of glory - the Celestial kingdom. To have a church tell you exactly how to get to anything less than perfection defeats the purpose - churches are supposed to bring you back up to God's presence, and set the example of what "perfection" is supposed to be. Church, if you will, is suppose(d to draw the line in the sand. Church lays out, plainly, what will help you attain Celestial glory - staying within the lines and bounds set by the Lord, and how, exactly, to ride those waves and surf your hearts out.

Sometimes, through the imperfections of mortals, the church's teachings are misinterpreted as walls, not mere lines in the sand. Parents do their best to force their children to stay in the water, and, if they start to drown or falter, there is no mercy on the heavenly side of the wall. Children who struggle with LGBTQ issues, chastity, drugs or alcohol, etc, are left to drown, or, fundamentally, disowned, and cast to the other side of the wall.

I know many who have left The Church. I have not drawn back or hesitated to join in those discussions. (I am, humbly, pretty much an expert on anti-Mormon information.) The number one complaint I hear from those who have left the church, or those who have never been members of the church, is the complaint of THE WALL. Members close themselves off in their perceived bubbles of righteousness, shoving off those who are different, have made mistakes, or willingly choose a different path.

But lines in the sand and walls are entirely different. Lines allow room for others to grow. Lines allow room for people to struggle, take a step back for a breath of air, and then return, with no judgement. Lines allow room for us to continue to have conversations, relationships, and friendships with those who may not want to get their feet wet in the water with us, but are happy sunbathing on their towels. We don't have to ignore them. They are our friends, they are our family, and they are deserving of love too. Heck sake, for missionary work, lines allow other people to have a glimpse of the great fun we're having in the water, and might even convince a couple people to come in and join us! But it's okay if they don't, because we are literally ALL AT THE BEACH. (Don't underestimate beaches!!! I truly believe that some people are happier on the sand then in the water, where, lets get real, there is seaweed.)

Many unknowingly build walls where no walls were intended. It is the parents who don't let their kids play with "non-members," so as to avoid their children being... contaminated? (I have no clue.) It's the parents who kick their children out of the house, if their children come out as gay, or refuse to invite those significant others over for family evenings. As was announced as reversed, the day that I had this dream, it is policies that forbid children of LGBTQ families from being baptized at age 8. (That was a very unnecessary wall for an innocent 8 year old to have to deal with.) It is people looking at the woman at church with the "too short of skirt," and weighing her up and down in their eyes. In that instance, there is no visible wall, but the wall was already set in that individual's heart - judgment, condemnation, without prioritizing the individual, irregardless of where they stood on the beach.

Christ taught us to love one another. There is literally nothing more important than that.

Some day my children may struggle in the water that I would call the Celestial lifestyle. I can only hope that I have the sensibility to view the beach in its entirety, my child in their own unique, beautiful glory, and grant them the mercy to live how, when, or where they need, or wish to. I will always encourage my children to join me on the waves, but if not? That shouldn't change anything about anything.

The Problem with Relief Society

My family has been attending church in my mother's ward, ever since they changed our church to a 1:30 start time, and we have two toddlers... Tonight I dragged my mother to a Relief Society activity. It was a dinner, celebrating the birth of the Relief Society, and I had signed up to bring a fruit "salad." Oh my goodness, it was amazing. Cool whip and sweetened condensed milk? Say no more. That was a dessert.

For pertinent backstory, my family has a bit of an "unholy" personality. My sister was present at the birth of my second child, and we laughed up a storm the whole time, and told jokes to no end. During my labor, when I'd asked my sister if I'd pooped during a contraction, she said that I absolutely had. "You're disgusting." she had added. And it was the truth. And we laughed. My mother and I began our conversing at the dinner in like manner - pointing out truths boldly, but without overt emotional investment or intended offense.

Mom pointed out to the Relief Society president herself, that the Relief Society had once been run independently from the priesthood, but had been consolidated underneath the priesthood in the mid-1900's, she thought. A few feminism jokes at the Relief Society's expense, and we sat. The tables had pictures, and later we would find, matching pictures taped underneath the chairs, for a "getting to know you" activity later on.

My mother had been asked to speak. The topic? Why I Love Relief Society. But fun fact.

She hates it.

My mother had imagined concourses of women assigned 2 minute talks, as she had been. But fun fact.

She was the only one.

My mother, who never tells a lie, did not, in fact, tell a lie. (You don't lie, do you Mom?)

An uncomfortable room full of women celebrating the birth of the Relief Society sat and listened as my mother stated that she did not, in fact, like the Relief Society. She did not, in fact, have a testimony of the Relief Society in its current condition. Now, that may make it sound like my mother jumped forth from her seat and paraded her opinion, lording it over everyone's heads. She didn't. In fact, she apologized about 4 times, stated she was worried the Relief Society president had called the wrong person to talk, and spoke humbly regarding the inconsistencies she saw. But then my mother made a point that has stuck with me.

She mentioned that she was raised by a feminist father - that she had never doubted that she had any more or less importance then anyone else. When she joined the Church, however, she first saw and questioned that equality - in Relief Society.

Women treat each other like children, like victims, as incompetent. Instead of intellectually approaching a lesson with pertinent, thought provoking conversation, valuable time can be spent on doilies and handouts. (Just the week before, in Relief Society, our teacher had been discussing The Good Shepherd, and had handed out scriptures to read to the class on paper cut and shaped like SHEEP. She spent at least 20 minutes cutting out those sheep and writing scriptures on them, because why? Because we, as full grown women, would appreciate a scripture more if it was CUTE?) Building a maternal, supportive community, and serving our neighbors takes second place to being "nice," "polite," and "delicate." To quote a talk from a General Conference, "The world has enough women who are tough; we need women who are tender. There are enough women who are coarse; we need women who are kind. There are enough women who are rude; we need women who are refined." While these are certainly lovely traits to aspire to, they must not come at the cost of honesty, sincerity, and being "without guile." And heaven sakes. Don't be stuffy. Have fun!

Relief Society has lost its vision, and unfortunately, I fear, may be causing doubts in many a faithful feminist who does not feel at home in the Church, where the culture casts aspersions at a woman's capacity.

The Relief Society claims to be the world's largest women's organization, but can it truly be called a women's organization if it operates under the direction of a men-only organization? So long as Relief Society Presidents are called to assist bishops, receive lesson topics from bishops, have to seek approval for activities from bishops, etc, that "equality" can be questioned. Recently some ladies from my actual neighborhood, and 1:30 ward, were asking about a ward Facebook page. When were we going to get one? I, as a semi-member of that ward, waited in anticipation for this wonderful means of communicating with my "actual" ward, and the thought that we might have activities, quick social invites to play groups, etc.

The women spoke. Not our job, so we'll just have to see. As a feminist, I commented, "Well, why don't we just do it, and make it our job?" No go.

Women are intelligent, and, believe it or not, we have something to offer.

I follow Big Ocean Women. They're a maternal feminism movement, which I would not be surprised to find is run by a bunch of members of The Church. This week they've been at the UN, and, during naptime, I tuned in to listen to a live cast of one of their speeches. (Thank you Facebook.) They spoke about the Maternal Economy. They felt that government/the UN/the MAN was going about "fixing" things all wrong. They currently operate under the assumption that women are in the negative - they are lacking things. So they're sending women in other countries things that they think they need - abortions, etc, to help them. The Maternal Economy, Big Ocean Women argues, is not lacking. They are not in debt, and do, in fact, have things to offer. Instead of women screaming out a list of demands, and things that they NEED, women are better empowered by offering what they have, and being valued for that. This fight for women cannot be won from the outside in. We don't need outside entities to take care of us. WE can take care of us, and then we can take care of them, and them, and them, etc. I don't need my government to take care of me. I take care of my family. I give and care for my community, and make the world a better place from the inside out.  Let's be honest. I missed the first 50 minutes, and this probably sounds like the rantings of a crazy, tired mother, but that 5 minute summary at the ending got me thinking.

What is wrong with Relief Society?

I asked my husband what he loved about Elders Quorum tonight. He told me that he loves it more than Sunday School. He loves how relevant it is, and noted that they have some great discussions. Elders Quorum, when done well, creates a strong feeling of fraternal brotherhood.

The sheep handouts and strict, rigid lesson structure I had in Relief Society last week gave me no feelings of sisterhood.
I feel sisterhood when I can tell my sister I think I pooped on the table, and she can tell me, "You totally did," and we can laugh about it. I feel sisterhood when I can take my screaming toddler by the arm and tell my sister we have to leave early, and she doesn't judge me, or worry about our relationship. I feel sisterhood when I can whisper covertly with my sister, calculating days on her phone's calendar, to determine if my pregnancy scare is genuinely concerning. (TOTALLY not pregnant. Thank goodness. Not trying for that, right now. Thank you Hannah.)

Being told we couldn't create our own ward Facebook page gave me no feelings of empowerment.
I feel empowerment when I come up with an idea, and see it through to successful completion. I feel empowered when I am supported in my ideas, and assisted, rather than roadblocked for petty tyrannical reasons. I feel empowered when I don't need permission at every step, and can be independent. I feel empowered when I can help someone who was unable to help themselves.

My mother and I were some of the last people left at the dinner. We'd had to switch to a different table, though fortunately had gone together, to tell the new people at this new table some of our favorite things.

Our table-mate loved her nail gun, and building furniture. I loved archaeology and ancient history. My mom loved cemetery photography. Everything about US screamed capable and independent. We talked about travel, we talked about neurology, we talked about the proper way to finish a table. If you'd put the three of us in a room to discuss finding a solution to a problem, we would have found one. We were smart. But all three of us hated Relief Society.

I don't know what needs to change, and understand that it is cultural. Perhaps it is only a Utah problem. (And a BYU-Idaho problem, but their problems also had to do with too many women and not enough men, so secretly, we were all kind of jealous and critical of each other.) I don't know what the solution is. But I'm not alone in hating the Relief Society.

Maybe it would be better if we were truly run independently, no bishop approvals, etc. Generally, the church could give us back all the "relief" jobs - global disasters, training programs, etc. I would love to see women run that department.

Do you have an answer?

Minute Writes

Just felt like posting some of my "minute writes" because I literally have no outlet for my writing. If anyone wants to write with me, you just let me know, and we'll write together. ;)


KNOWING NOTHING:

Pain. Flashes and streaks of pure white, clouding vision and all thought. Blinding, deafening, pressing harder and harder...

Pain.

In a moment it was gone, an afterimage miraging shapes with each blink. Oxygen came more easily, and she found herself sweating, trembling, gasping, and weak.

“Are you alright?” a voice asked, and she was faintly aware of another presence. A hand gently touched her arm, cautiously soothing.

“I’m fine. I’m fine.”

She voiced the words without thought, doing all she could to calm her frenzied senses, still a fevered heart, recover a clearer sight, and breathe through the splitting of her head.

“Alright. Come over here.” the voice directed again, and she felt a slight pressure on her elbow, pulling her from her seated position to walk wearily to a padded chair.

She sat, blinking slowly, gingerly touching fingers to head.

“I’m so sorry.” her companion sighed. She saw him then – graying at the temples, his clothing wrinkled and worn. He walked beside her with care, obvious concern pinching the corners of his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright.” she confirmed, feeling herself slowly regaining control of her senses. “I’m alright.” She glanced behind herself, back towards where she had been.

A hard metal chair, a metal bowl-shaped disk hung upside down over top of it. She couldn’t remember, but by the looks of it, the contraption had likely been placed on her head. That was the shape of it, anyway.

Her companion continued to mutter to himself with mothering worry as he stepped towards a fireplace, tucked off in a corner of the room. A pot hung over it, simmering. She vaguely heard the words “...don’t know how much longer...” as he grabbed the pot with a cloth and placed it on the table beside the fire.

She looked around the room as he worked, doing her best to focus her vision. The room was dark, with a dusty sense of age. All of the essentials were present – bed, table, chairs. The fire seemed to be the only source of warmth, and she could hear a howling wind outside, from underneath the wooden door. Through the window she saw only darkness – night.

“Here.” her companion pressed, at her side once more, holding a steaming mug. “Drink up. You’ll feel better. How is your head?”

“Getting better.” she stated honestly, taking the mug from him with careful hands. The warm ceramic felt good on her fingers, so she gripped it with both hands, holding the steam to her face and breathing it in. It had a fresh peppermint scent, which seemed to chase off the last of the fog from her mind. She drank it gratefully.

Her companion sat, sinking down into the remaining padded chair in the room. He leaned back, rubbing at his eyes. “I don’t know why this isn’t working.” he sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t want to keep doing this, if it’s not going to work. There’s got to be something on the other side, that we don’t know about, that’s preventing it.”

She listened quietly, sipping silently in response, still recovering.

But from what?
“If there was an easier way, we’d give up.” he continued. “But I can’t see another option, not with things as they are, right now. Can we really afford to keep putting you through this, though?”

She didn’t say anything, only continued sipping her drink.

He watched her, waiting, and his eyes slowly darkened. “What are you thinking?”

Worry slowly crept its way into her chest, replacing her numbed silence with dread and fear.

“I...” she started, biting her bottom lip slowly. She didn’t want to disappoint him. “I want to help. I do.” she mumbled. “I just… If you could tell me what it is exactly we’re doing, then I might be able to help more. I just don’t… I don’t know what you need...”

Her companion’s eyes had widened, horror replacing the sad expression that had been present only moments earlier. He leapt from his chair to crouch at her side, a hand shooting to her arm then hesitating, trembling. “Do… Can you tell me your name?” he asked.

It was a simple enough question. Yet she found that the answer was not so simple.

She shook her head, too afraid to state her not knowing out-loud.

Her companion swallowed, and his trembling moved from his hand to his throat. “Do… What is the last thing you remember?”

Nothing.

“I… Pain?”

“What kind of pain?” His eyebrows furrowed, his eyes fixed on her face.

“It… There was just white, and then it stopped, and I was here...”

Despite all her not knowing, she knew enough to know that she should know more. And that made her afraid.

Her companion seemed to crumble internally before her. He swallowed, his eyes brimming with tempered emotion. He sucked in air, holding it in with tight swallows. “Okay.” he mumbled, blinking quickly. “Okay. Um...”

She knew nothing, but sensed his grief. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...”

“No, no, no!” he stated quickly, swallowing back more emotion. “No, it’s okay. It’s alright. You don’t need to be sorry. I just...” He straightened himself, and smiled, something she knew was entirely forced and painful. His moistened eyes betrayed him. “You’re safe here.” he assured, smoothing her arm. “I will take care of you. You are perfectly safe. I’m here to help you.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“That’s alright!” he assured again. “You haven’t done anything wrong! I just… I’m going to head outside for a minute.” he swallowed. “You make yourself comfortable. Have something to eat, or you can lie down and rest. You’re probably tired. I’m just going to be right outside for a minute. Everything is fine. You’re safe here. Is that okay?”

She quietly nodded, then took another sip of her drink.

Her companion stood carefully, then stepped towards the front door, glancing back with anxious eyes, and a false, comforting smile, before he stepped out, closing the door behind him.

She sat back and breathed in the steam of her drink, closing her eyes and trying to let the drink’s warmth spread through her. She could feel its warmth in her chest, could hear the crackling of the fire, and the light hiss and pop of bursting wood.

She tried not to worry.

Outside the wind continued to howl, and faintly, she imagined, she could hear her companion begin crying silently beneath the wind’s cover. She felt to cry, herself, but could find no reason to.

A girl who knows nothing has no reason for tears.  

(Obviously could be a good story, but probably won't be. Just wanted to get that scene out!!)

WE LOST OUR MOTHER

We lost our Mother, and nobody cared.

I have to believe she exists, because I exist.
I have to believe that she loves me,
For I have a Father who loves me, undeniably.
Is there really room to doubt a Heavenly Mother’s love?

Our prophet recently listed 10 Most Important Things he Knows for Sure.
The first thing he mentioned was that God is our Father.
Second, he mentioned Christ is our Savior.
Our Mother didn’t even make the list.

She is a woman shrouded in mystery and silence.
She is unmentioned, unacclaimed, un-worshiped.

The ancients knew of Her, and worshipped Her with Him, as God.
However, in history, she was expunged.
We read that idolatry was rampant. Groves were set up, and there, unholy worship occurred.
It would be just the act of a Mother to step back, sacrifice Herself to silence
To ensure a clear path set for Her children to walk on - one less ambiguous and trying.

Regardless, she is a mystery,
Though a mystery our Church does nothing more to know about.
Through carefree indifference for half of our deific parentage,
We inadvertently disregard Her daughters - Her offspring, who know nothing of
Her, Her roles, or their own potential.

Through policies, ordinations to a solely male priesthood, and lack of female guidance,
We perpetuate the notion that only the male God is to rule,
While women accept their silent, unmentioned and mysterious places behind the men.
To say that roles are different, resulting in strictly male leadership and authority, is to suggest
That our Mother quietly takes her place
Because it is her ROLE to be a quiet, passive, obedient God.

Is she God the Mother?
Does She have nothing to teach?
Do our mothers serve no purpose but to feed and clothe the children, and support our fathers?
Are our mothers ordained to simply not stand and be counted strong on their own?
For all our praise of earthly mothers, we certainly treat them as second-class citizens,
Incapable of real independent thought, intention, or action.

Can we not be leaders? Can we not even lead ourselves, that we must be coddled and led
By men, and their priesthood?

The Bible mentions prophetesses. Women of power.
Their husbands are not mentioned.
I do not believe our Mother ought to be assigned
An afterthought position behind our Father.
Together, they are God.
But she can be mentioned as a capable God on Her own.
To simply have to state that sentence is offensive.

Ancient prophetesses received revelations.
We know in this dispensation women do too.
We see visions, we are given answers and understandings.
Anciently prophetesses were sought out for their wisdom and guidance.
There is no structure today in which a man would ever seek wisdom of a woman
Unless he were related to her.

Women provide insight, and different ways of thinking
That men do not have.
We compliment each other, to the point that our unions
Are sealed, and given divine weight.
Together, and only together, we receive exaltation.
Yet in our churches, men consult, preside, and decide on their own.

But women, too, are capable of standing.
A religion which does not reinforce honoring our Mother
By treating Her holy authority with reverence is lacking.
To say our Mother has Authority is easily met with confusion.
And if our God-half is not openly seen and treated as equal to our Father,
What hope do we have of ever being Her priestesses?
What hope do we have of ever having any say, or rule, or wisdom?

What kind of family could lose their Mother,
And say nothing?
What kind of family quietly acknowledges their Mother,
Knows that She exists, but cares little to know Her?

I am a mother. My religion has taught me that someday I can be like God.
I will be like my Heavenly Mother.
But she is lost.
And I don’t want to be.

And Then There Was Light

Recently, like every other Latter-Day Saint woman and their dog, I went on a 10-day Social Media fast, as encouraged by our prophet. I knew it would be a good experience, like most of us, deep down, knew it. How many hours a week do we waste scrolling? A lot.

But to me the focus was on fasting from media that brought negativity, too. No more late night John Oliver or Colbert Reports with my husband. I was fasting from all of that, too. (Instead we watched Runaway Jury and had another Lord of the Rings marathon, which was totally legit.)

I've been back on social media for two days, now, and, like returning from my mission, I feel like I can see with new eyes what I was blind to before. I don't mean to run around "holier than thou." Please don't misinterpret. But it started my thinking.

Social Media is my number one bringer of "doom and gloom." On a day to day basis, I can safely say that I don't have many social interactions with people that make me feel like I might get nuked, brainwashed, or shot in the next week. On Facebook, it took me about 2 minutes to feel like that just might happen.

I'm not saying it's good to be blind to current political tensions, goings-on, or public discussion. It's really good to be an aware human being. Being aware makes smart choices. Knowing there's a scary white van driving around Elementary Schools in Herriman makes me make safer decisions. Knowing Saudi Arabia assassinated an American resident, and our President doesn't feel like calling them out on it, because of billions of dollars of "business" helps give me insight into the importance of voting for good candidates next month, and, on a more personal level, makes me evaluate if I have ever taken a more "comfortable" position, to protect myself and my self-image. Thought provoking.

There is plenty of good that comes from being aware. But I also feel more strongly now that pessimism is the beginning of the end. Pessimism brings hopelessness and despair. Being swamped with routine, habitual negativity drives out faith in God, frankly, and His love. It limits our vision and scope, and instead focuses our energies on worry, rather than on the Mr. Rogers mentality of looking for the Helpers, or of being the change that is needed, in the world.

When you spend more time talking with people, rather than reading the extreme, popular negative view, you come to find out that your day to day people really are genuinely good and kind. Yes, the world is full of issues, but when you talk to people instead of type at them, you come to conclusions, rather than insults and distrust.

I got caught in a Facebook conversation. (Dude, if you know me, YUP.) A friend was upset at something that was said in General Conference. They felt that Elder Oaks' talk was insulting to the Singles in the Church, and that "this kind of thing" is what is driving people away. Now, it might just be because I'm happily married, but nothing Elder Oaks said upset me, and I had no idea people were upset about it until after my Facebook fast. They felt that when Elder Oaks said that "many" are delaying marriage and family, he meant it as a personal attack on all single people, irregardless of whatever reason for their singleness. What one person felt negative about was blown up in a blog post, misinterpreted and misconstrued to fit with their own personal feelings of offense, when simply put, Elder Oaks was simply saying that we should be less caught up in the things of the world, and trust that family life is the way to happiness. (I'm sorry, but even if you're single or childless, you should still recognize that children and spouses are what God intends for us - yes, even EVENTUALLY - for our eternal happiness.) Their negative interpretation and bias was then spread for mass production, leading many readers to vaguely agree, "Why yes! I am single, and I don't like being told that I am wrong!" Motives and situations are completely ignored, while the negativity is spread.

This happens ALL THE TIME. Everything! And frankly, I'm kind of sick of it. Social Media almost proves that we would rather be unhappy about SOMETHING, then happy about literally everything else. I honestly do think that the Depression we see has a lot of root in social media. Frankly, if we didn't have someone suggest the possibility for offense or upset to us, would we be offended about half of the things we are offended or upset about? For my part, I can safely say no. Honestly, I wouldn't be. And our prophet is warning us against this danger of social media - primarily to the youth! I don't think he's warning them against it because he wants to brainwash them, and keeping them away from social media blinds their eyes to the evil that is their Church. No, honestly, I don't think that's what it is. I think our prophet wants our youth to get off their phones and experience life for themselves, and see the hope that is in the people and the lives around them.

If I'd opened my mind, been susceptible, and believed everything I'd read on Social Media in the last two days, then most men are shallow, sexually perverted, easily manipulated and corrupted. I'd believe that my church wants LGBTQ individuals dead, and doesn't care if they all kill themselves. I'd believe that the local school district doesn't give a dang about me or my kids, and that they are ignorant and stupid for changing the local boundaries for our Elementary schools!!

There are literally always two sides to a story. Talking to people, REAL PEOPLE, is the only way we will ever really know what the truth is, and in talking to those people, we'll likely find that our worst fears are highly exaggerated. I don't doubt some men are sexual predators. I don't doubt some members of my church have been hateful and despicable to the LGBTQ population. I don't doubt that I'm going to be terribly inconvenienced by where my children need to go to school, once they get there.

HOWEVER, I also know, from actual conversations with MEN, that most guys are actually pretty normal, like most girls actually, and have concerns, weaknesses, and faults, like most girls actually, and, for the most part, don't spend their free time thinking about how they can molest me or my children just for fun. I also know that my church believes in loving everyone. I know that in the past they have said some terrible things, pointed some blame in unjustified directions, but also know that they are trying very hard to fix those negative aspects of the past. Yes, they made mistakes, and stupid proud people have made mistakes. But they are trying SO HARD not to, now. As for my school boundaries issue? I know Herriman is going through crazy growth. I know the school board doesn't "have it out for the Lisches." I can trust a little bit more, and choose to be more optimistic, and grateful that I don't have the job of trying to make everyone happy.

Being positive and hopeful is a choice - and that's how I'm choosing to make my Social Media habits, now. I would invite anyone to join me! Yes, I'm not saying I won't post when my baby pees on the floor, and Julian screams and kicks me in the store, and life happens. Heaven knows, I might need advice, or an ice cream date. Sometimes things suck. But there is ALWAYS something to be happy about, which makes the down sides of life mere momentary inconvenience.

A few weeks ago I wrote something. It was a feeling I'd been struggling with for awhile, and the only way to express it, and give the troubling thought due credit, was to write it out. I didn't share it - only with my husband, who asked. And frankly, I'm glad I didn't. Because it's no longer relevant. The things I wrote I wrote in confusion and anger. I wrote them with tears streaming down my cheeks, and an empty upset in my chest. But over the next few weeks, the questions I had got answers, the unfairness I felt was consoled, and I came to a point of understanding and patience.

It is too easy to speak without thinking. It is too easy to post without care. Heaven knows, social media is the perfect outlet for such thoughtless, blind moments. But thoughtless, blind moments are not what we should live for, and fill our days with. Our days should be filled with family, growth, and God. So if that means less browsing of social sites, to keep that perspective, that's one option. Being more picky about the posts and individuals you follow is another. But all in all, I was grateful for the reminder of perspective.

That's awfully introspective for a Thursday.

A Bad Mom

Having a bad mom day. I woke up Depressed. I have Depression. This happens. I made breakfast for the toddler, and made a bottle for the baby, then sat down on the couch to feed Thing 2 while Thing 1 ate at the table.
The toddler finished quickly, and announced, "Done!" If I don't retrieve him from his booster seat soon, he gets grumpy, and heavens knew I didn't want that. I put the baby down, who proceeded to cry, from being interrupted, while I cleaned up the toddler and instructed him to "Go play!" with a smile on my face.
I proceeded to feed the baby. He's been teething, I think, so is exceptionally grumpy, and gave all the cues that he wanted to go back to sleep, shortly after finishing his bottle. I laid him down, and sleep he did not. He only cried, while his eyes rolled back tiredly. While I'm checking on the baby, the toddler is attempting to enter the baby's room, while loudly talking, yelling, and crashing things. I proceeded to close the door behind myself, from then on, while checking on the baby, which made toddler jealous and angry. I would leave the baby alone to cry, for a time, to follow the toddler around wherever he wanted me, but when I would inevitably get up to check on the screaming baby again, the toddler followed behind with a loud whine.
I got a notification I had a grocery pickup ready at WalMart, so I grab the baby, who never slept. He screams on the floor while I throw shoes and a jacket on the toddler. I drag the toddler outside, and attempt to put him in his carseat. He sits with his bum at the edge of the seat, lazily staring at me. I try to lift him back, to correct his bum, but his stuffed dog is in the way. I throw one of his arms through the seatbelt, chuck the dog on the floor, and get his other arm through, with effort, while he screams at me over being restrained, and over the missing dog. I return his dog when I'm done with the seatbelt. (The baby, fortunately, gives me no grief, and is quite cute.)
By the time we're home, the baby is still yawning, rubbing his eyes, and has started screaming again. The toddler has removed his shoes, thrown his dog on the floor again, and is whining about it. I carry the baby in the house, and go back for the toddler. I grab a gallon of milk to carry upstairs with him. He leans over, intent on carrying the milk himself, resulting in his near falling out of my arms while we're up half a flight of stairs. At the top of the stairs I'm barely holding him under his armpits. I set him down, and thankfully, he heads for our door. He complains the ground is cold, and, while I'm opening the door, he attempts to run to the neighbors door. I catch him in time, and herd him inside.
The baby is screaming on the floor. I throw the groceries down, lay the baby in bed, then head back to the kitchen to put food in the refrigerator. The toddler wants milk. Somewhere along the line half of his toys escaped their toy boxes, and are all over the floor. I give him milk. The mess is getting to me. The toddler is trying to grab a toy he can't quite reach. He's yelling. I help him reach the toy, and put on Clifford. This calms the toddler down enough that I can clean up, and put everything away.
We watch Clifford for an hour. I try to sit and breathe, and actually feel like the day might get better. I eat some chocolate. Toddler gets some too. 11:00 rolls around, and I'm thinking about what to make for lunch. I'd put away a can of Spagetti-O's, but I'd also put away a pizza dough mix. I want to be a good mom. I go to make the pizza.
The toddler begins whining. 'The TV is off, because I don't want him getting too much screen time. I was trying to be a good mom. He's mad that mom is in the kitchen, and not currently playing with him. He's also now starving hungry. He sees me shredding cheese, and begins screaming for cheese, thus waking up the baby. I leave the baby to cry while I finish as quickly as I can, wiping the cheese crumbs into a bowl for a yelling toddler.
I get the baby, and decide to give him some pear, because I haven't given him anything besides formula today, and I really do need to get this kid some food. It's a perfect time because the pizza is cooking. I put him in his high chair, and begin to feed him pear. The toddler finishes his cheese, and decides this is a great time to climb the high chair. He knocks over the tray, he jolts the seat, scaring the baby, and earning himself a scolding. He feels unloved by mom, and begins playing with toys while crying.
Mom finishes feeding baby, places baby with toys on the floor, and baby begins to cry. Mom gets pizza out of the oven, and cut into pieces. She feels guilty for only having pizza for the toddler, so cuts up a tomato as well, and pulls together some pineapple chunks. Baby is still crying. Toddler is yelling because he knows food is in the kitchen, and does not have the cognitive capacity to understand that it is for him. Mom hauls him to his booster seat and straps him in. She runs to the kitchen and makes a bottle of formula for the crying infant who wanted no more pears, but perhaps wants formula? Mom throws a couple slices of pizza on a plate for herself as well, props baby in her arm and feeds him, while taking bites of pizza for herself.
Peace for a second.
The toddler is done, after eating four bites, maybe. I put the baby down to clean up the toddler. The baby cries from being interrupted. I throw the toddler's leftovers in the sink. I sit down to finish eating, myself, and feed the baby more. The toddler is angry I am not playing with him. I attempt to explain to him that I am still eating. He throws more toys around recklessly.
The baby spits up all over himself, and me. It is already his second shirt today. (There was another spit-up in there somewhere.) I move over to the couch with him, when I've finished eating. The light from the window reflects off my watch, casting a glowing orb over my side table. The cat attacks, and knocks my books over. The toddler grabs the books, and begins pulling on the pages with far from delicate hands. I'm telling him no. I'm trying to keep him from grabbing my Diet Pepsi. The baby isn't actually drinking, only arching his back and still crying and crying.
I know the toddler just wants attention. I try and talk to him about his toys, and his playing, while bicycling the baby's legs, assuming he has gas. This works for a couple precious minutes. Baby still crying. Toddler running towards the front door, saying he wants to leave. Obviously tired. Not going to happen. Toddler stands on the rug and, before I know it, has gagged himself with his finger, until he throws up on the rug. (I thought he'd grown out of this attention seeking thing with the vomit.)
I'm frustrated. I set the baby down, who cries, from being interrupted. I strip the toddler, who has vomit on himself, and put him in his room while I clean up. He smells like poop, but there's vomit on the floor and a crying baby. I let him loose in his room.
I clean up, then open the toddler's bedroom door to let him out. Baby wants to try drinking again. I give him more of the bottle. (He's still only had 2 ounces in the last hour that he's been awake.) The toddler climbs onto the couch, and I see the poop escaping up his back. I immediately put the, screaming again, baby down, and take the toddler to change his diaper. He has poop on his fingers and under his fingernails, from obviously investigating his dirty diaper, while he was alone in his room. I clean his fingers with a wipe as well. He accuses me of biting him. I want to bite him! I don't.
I'm feeding the baby again, who's still not eating, but still not happy. He doesn't want to lie down and play. He doesn't want to talk to me. He doesn't want to eat. But he is happy lying on my chest, so I let him do that. The toddler is not happy about this. The toddler is not happy in general, and really needs to go to sleep, but I don't have the time to help him lie down, without disrupting the baby again, which I don't want to do, and is the toddler drinking my Diet Pepsi? Stop it! Why can't he have mercy on me?!
At some point toddler places a megablock on my foot, and tries to stand on it! "Stop it! Just stop it!" I yell at the toddler, shoving him away. I begin to cry, and it's not just my foot. Tears falling down my face. Two people in audience, and do either of them care? Nope. Nobody cares. I'm never alone, but I'm completely alone. "Cry." the toddler notices. Thank goodness, I think. Maybe he'll be nice to me now. He climbs up on the couch next to me, and... proceeds to poke at my face. "Eyebrow."
I have to go to the bathroom. I lay the baby on the bathroom rug, and keep the door propped open, so the toddler can come in if he wants to. He tells me, "Bye bye," and closes the bathroom door, successfully locking himself out. I want to smile. The baby is happily chewing on a foam letter. I hear the toddler in the hallway trying to climb into the baby's walker, which happens regularly. He's stuck, yelling "Stuck!" and crying. I feel smug about it, very much thinking, "I told you so." But then I imagine him trying to get himself out, re-breaking his femur, and so I hurry and finish to go and save him.
He's fine. He got out on his own. I lay the baby down in the living room to continue chewing on his foam letter. It's a mess. I know I'll feel better if I can clean it. Someone knocks on the door. Are my eyes still red from crying? Still have spit-up all over my shirt?
I open the door and step outside, closing the door behind me, to keep the cat in. It's the Spanish Elders. I tell them who in the building speaks Spanish, and let them know that if there's anything we can ever do to help them, we will.
The baby is finally ready to go to sleep, so I put him down. I convince the toddler to help me clean up. He picks out a book, and I read it to him in bed, as is the routine. He always screams when I close the door for him, like it's a surprise, every single time.
It's blessed naptime. I wrote this, and yes, the baby has just stirred back awake.
And I have work tonight.
No rest for the wicked.