Dear Sisters,
I'm writing to tell you I'm sorry I
can't stand with you. I'm sorry, and not in the snide “sorry/not
sorry” way. I don't doubt your experiences, or motives, or that
you hope for a more fair, welcoming, accepting Church. I understand
that's where you're coming from, but I just can't wrap my head or
heart around this thing, and due to my experiences, I can't stand
with you. I'm sorry. I wish you well.
I believe you're fighting for
equality. I believe you're asking some deep questions along the way.
I get that. I have had a different walk though, and I'd like to
explain my point of view.
I was raised in an LDS home, but it
was anything but ideal. My parents were abusive. My father was a
downright bully, and in a home with five daughters, he “disciplined”
physically. I frequently had welts that I know I didn't deserve,
even as a toddler. I remember hiding under the couch or in closets
to escape his wrath. He was never a daddy. My mother was physically
abusive as well, but the emotional scars she left go deeper. She was
probably bipolar, but undiagnosed. She had moments of cruelty, and
neither she nor my father loved us unconditionally. Both of them
told us this.
My two escapes were school and church.
I did well in school and studied voraciously. On Sundays, I sang
and listened and prayed. I learned to love giving talks, and
remember as a young child learning of the Plan of Salvation, of
doctrine, of our mission here. Although I believed in Heavenly
Father and Jesus, it sometimes seemed too wonderful that I could have
a Father in Heaven who would love me no matter what. Vengeful God
seemed more familiar. I learned to fear authority figures at home.
It would take a lot for me to even believe that I could be
loved, let alone unconditionally. It took me many years more to
finally believe that God could love me even when I made mistakes. I
had never experienced that in this life. It took so much effort for
me to trust anyone, even Jesus, the true and faithful himself.
Where there is darkness, there is
often compensation. Sometimes people are compelled to be humble, and
because of that, are ready to receive a little more. I was rejected
by my peers (especially the “good” LDS ones) because I was awful
and awkward and didn't fit in. I was brought through the valleys of
depression so many times before ever learning the word for it. I
have felt so low that I desperately sought for strength – any
strength – so that I could hold on. I was able during this time to
read all of the standard works, Church history, and also found some
anti-Mormon literature. Ironically, it was the last of these that
drove me to my knees. It would have been so easy to walk away from
the church of my abusive parents and the cruel young people. It
would have been so simple to declare each a hypocrite and burn that
part of my life to ashes. Some in my family have done these very
things. I love them deeply, and pray to a just God for mercy. I
know what they've been through.
But for me, I needed to know. For
myself. With literature pointing accusatory fingers at the Church in
one hand, and lingering doubts about family, community, myself, and
God's very nature in the other, I knelt to pray. No angel. No
fanfare. Nothing instant. I kept at it. I worried. I thought. I
weighed what I could believe and what I couldn't. Slowly, I was led
toward an answer I didn't expect: patience. As dark and lost as I
was, I was being asked to be patient. Would a loving Father do that?
Yes. By receiving the answer slowly,
I was driven deeper. I started feeling greater peace as I studied
and prayed. It is because of the literature I didn't just read the
scriptures, but I dissected them. I cross-referenced the Bible and
Book of Mormon, found Church history, found ancient cultures, and
eventually found my answers.
Meanwhile, I was exposed to virtually
every question about the Church under the sun. I could not answer
all of the claims. Where there were questions, I chose to trust God
by asking Him. Sometimes I received peace. Sometimes I was driven
into the scriptures more. Sometimes I didn't get an answer. I don't
know why I couldn't get it all at once, but over the long process, I
learned to trust God's timing. I learned to hold on, especially when
the answers don't come right away. And I learned, finally, that God
is indeed loving, and He would not cast me off, neglect, abuse, or
forsake me, as others have done so many times. Learning that was a
miracle in my life.
Time passes. Sometimes I'm still
asked to wait. I've never been married, and it seems like I may not
be in this life. I understand the hard road of patience. I know
that it's like to be denied. I know the envy of looking at others
and wishing for righteous blessings. My arms have ached for a
husband and children. I know the pain of sitting in Relief Society
when a well-meaning sister proclaims that men have the priesthood and
women get to be wives and mothers. I have neither. I've painfully
had to separate the true Gospel from the culture, the stereotypes,
the well-meant falsehoods, and occasional lies I've been taught.
I've had to learn to believe when it was insane to believe.
The longer I live, the more I rely on
God's mercy. Perhaps a bit of the shame and fear of my childhood
still linger, because I still go through bouts of fear that God will
reject me. Every time, he lovingly begs me to come back, even when I
feel so distant, alone, incomplete, stained, or worthless. I have
learned that even though I sometimes can't see what he's doing in my
life, he hasn't left me. It humbles me to the core to think that He
still loves me.
The longer I live, the less I look at
my parents as semblances of God (or the devil). I realize how flawed
they are, and how in need of God they are too. I no longer reflect
on the scorn of my youth at the hands of “righteous” young women
or “stalwart” young men. These too are just people. I no longer
see those things because I'm focused strongly on the completely
incomprehensible mercy of Jesus Christ, and how far I am from Him.
Everything else disappears in light of that relationship.
In my weakness, He has given me
knowledge from time to time. Revelation. He has blessed me to be
healed when none placed hands on my head. He has let me call down
blessings on my loved ones. He has shown me deep and eternal things,
and sometimes in my lowest state. He has taken this fully rejected
creature and has promised me everything. And daily, he fills me with
just enough hope to endure the pain of a failing body, disease,
crippling depression, loneliness, heartache, unfulfilled dreams,
anxiety, fear, self-loathing, and disappointment.
Sisters, I know you're hurt because of
inequality. I know you want more. I know you mean well in this
endeavor. I do understand some of these things, but I cannot stand
with you. I cannot focus on the relationship between men and women
in the Church, because I don't see how that will help me draw closer
to Christ. I once saw the world through the eyes of an abused
person, and I don't want to see people as oppressors and oppressed
anymore. I see beloved sinners, both men and women. Sinners because
of our nature, and beloved because of our Redeemer. Do I know why
men hold the priesthood? No, but I have some guesses. Are there
abuses, inconsistencies, unanswered questions, troubles, and
everything else? Yes, but that's mortality. We strive for better
while doing the best we can.
We strive for patience in our
pleadings. We realize our own shortcomings and beg for mercy. We
receive Christ, and find something higher to focus on.
Fellow beloved sinners, I don't know
your hearts. I have never met you. I'm sorry you are hurting. I'm
sorry that you feel short-changed in this church. I'm sorry I don't
have any good answers for you. And I'm sorry I can't stand with you,
but my feet are called a different direction. My steep road of
patience tells me that answers will someday come, but rarely as
requested. Sometimes the answers may break your heart, but as I've
learned to trust God, I've learned that some of those heartbreaks are
the kindest answers of all. And always, eternally, he calls all his
children home. I hope to make it, and I hope to see you there.
