Adam likes to have someone lay down with him to sleep. We are putz's as parents (and he otherwise isn't huge on physical contact unless it's wrestling) so it's become part of the bedtime routine.
While drifting off tonight "mom, let's cuddle", as he gingerly throws his arm over my neck and I nuzzle into his little chest.
There are more moments during a day than I can count that I am *this* close to losing my cool, but Dear God in Heaven, please freeze these moments for me. I never want to forget them.
Tuesday, February 7, 2017
Thursday, January 19, 2017
Overheard
While discussing with Adam the impending start of pre-school for him (yes it's late. Long story), of which he's a little nervous
Adam: But I like to stay with you mom. Because...you're beautiful!
This kid has my whole heart.
Adam: But I like to stay with you mom. Because...you're beautiful!
This kid has my whole heart.
Monday, August 8, 2016
Olympic Musings
Unless you live under a rock, I'm sure that we are all aware the Olympics are currently underway in Rio. The olympics are awesome for a myriad of reasons. They bring the world together, they allow us to witness great victories, and crushing defeats. For two weeks, we are all united in a form of patriotism that truly seems unique to the Olympics. It's also some flat out good entertainment.
I was an athlete once. And so the Olympics hold some special weight and meaning for me. Not because I really think I could have made it there (although my mom still holds out some hope. Sorry mom, but that ship really has sailed), but because...I have dozens of friends, former teammates, rivals, and acquaintances there. For years I played part of a breeding ground designed to feed into the greatest of all athletic pursuits. In many ways, despite having been retired since 2009 (can you call it retirement when only your parents really paid attention?) and officially checked out, I am still invested. I can't seem to help it.
This morning I tuned in to the rowing events. And my heart both soared, and broke, for the people I know who successfully progressed, and for those who weren't so fortunate. Rowing is unlike any other sport, and you have to be a glutton for punishment to really engage. Elite athletes at the olympic level generally train 3 times a day, 6 days a week, often receiving little or no funding, and the only time the world really pays attention is at the olympics. It takes a special athlete, as well as the ability to be selfish. Selfish about your needs, your caloric intake, your rest. To be successful, it is imperative to take care of yourself. And so today, I was surprised at the emotions I felt as I watched races play out on the Lagoa, naively thinking that I was now far enough removed to be able to watch as a particularly well informed spectator.
I would be lying if I said I wasn't nostalgic, and maybe even a touch jealous. Could it have been me? Probably not But could I have been on the cusp? Maybe. And yet...as I watched with my two little ones cheering and playing next to me, I couldn't help but draw parallels. I can't be selfish in the way I once was. Teething babies at night are not conducive to 6 am practices that require your best. Nap times aren't scheduled around practices. And in the end...I chose this life. And I chose it willingly. And I wouldn't change it.
Rowing is a sport of intensity and miles. Truly countless hours and practices that feed into one race that, boat and conditions depending, will last between 5-9 minutes. The investment is staggering, all for several minutes to prove yourself. But each practice, each mile, each blister, each race, build on each other. And even then, even when you've done everything right leading up, the wind, an injury, or a rogue wave can ruin it.
I may not be an elite athlete anymore. These days I'm lucky if I fit in most of my training workouts for my upcoming half marathon. But each day I'm investing. It may be in other ways, but it's still an investment. I'm investing in my marriage when I choose kind words over snarky sarcasm. I'm investing in my children with each kiss, each late night feeding, each afternoon at the park, and each tantrum that I don't lose my cool over. I have my own victories, and my own defeats. Nine months of pregnancy, extended breastfeeding, sleepless nights, vomit, and homemade meals don't look anything like a boat down a race course. But it is an investment of my choice all the same. And EVEN THEN, even though I have given my everything to this extended process of child rearing (quadrennial my a**), there is no guarantee that it will go perfectly, or even how I want. A frightening world, wars, temptations and vice are all real threats that could throw THIS race sideways. But that doesn't mean I give up. It doesn't mean I expect defeat. It doesn't mean I don't work like a dog for the best possible outcome.
My mom has always called me her "reluctant athlete". I fell in love with a sport that turned me into one. And one I eventually had to walk away from. But maybe, those aspects of athleticism are still deeply engrained. Maybe, there's an olympian in every parent. Maybe. I like to think so.
I was an athlete once. And so the Olympics hold some special weight and meaning for me. Not because I really think I could have made it there (although my mom still holds out some hope. Sorry mom, but that ship really has sailed), but because...I have dozens of friends, former teammates, rivals, and acquaintances there. For years I played part of a breeding ground designed to feed into the greatest of all athletic pursuits. In many ways, despite having been retired since 2009 (can you call it retirement when only your parents really paid attention?) and officially checked out, I am still invested. I can't seem to help it.
This morning I tuned in to the rowing events. And my heart both soared, and broke, for the people I know who successfully progressed, and for those who weren't so fortunate. Rowing is unlike any other sport, and you have to be a glutton for punishment to really engage. Elite athletes at the olympic level generally train 3 times a day, 6 days a week, often receiving little or no funding, and the only time the world really pays attention is at the olympics. It takes a special athlete, as well as the ability to be selfish. Selfish about your needs, your caloric intake, your rest. To be successful, it is imperative to take care of yourself. And so today, I was surprised at the emotions I felt as I watched races play out on the Lagoa, naively thinking that I was now far enough removed to be able to watch as a particularly well informed spectator.
I would be lying if I said I wasn't nostalgic, and maybe even a touch jealous. Could it have been me? Probably not But could I have been on the cusp? Maybe. And yet...as I watched with my two little ones cheering and playing next to me, I couldn't help but draw parallels. I can't be selfish in the way I once was. Teething babies at night are not conducive to 6 am practices that require your best. Nap times aren't scheduled around practices. And in the end...I chose this life. And I chose it willingly. And I wouldn't change it.
Rowing is a sport of intensity and miles. Truly countless hours and practices that feed into one race that, boat and conditions depending, will last between 5-9 minutes. The investment is staggering, all for several minutes to prove yourself. But each practice, each mile, each blister, each race, build on each other. And even then, even when you've done everything right leading up, the wind, an injury, or a rogue wave can ruin it.
I may not be an elite athlete anymore. These days I'm lucky if I fit in most of my training workouts for my upcoming half marathon. But each day I'm investing. It may be in other ways, but it's still an investment. I'm investing in my marriage when I choose kind words over snarky sarcasm. I'm investing in my children with each kiss, each late night feeding, each afternoon at the park, and each tantrum that I don't lose my cool over. I have my own victories, and my own defeats. Nine months of pregnancy, extended breastfeeding, sleepless nights, vomit, and homemade meals don't look anything like a boat down a race course. But it is an investment of my choice all the same. And EVEN THEN, even though I have given my everything to this extended process of child rearing (quadrennial my a**), there is no guarantee that it will go perfectly, or even how I want. A frightening world, wars, temptations and vice are all real threats that could throw THIS race sideways. But that doesn't mean I give up. It doesn't mean I expect defeat. It doesn't mean I don't work like a dog for the best possible outcome.
My mom has always called me her "reluctant athlete". I fell in love with a sport that turned me into one. And one I eventually had to walk away from. But maybe, those aspects of athleticism are still deeply engrained. Maybe, there's an olympian in every parent. Maybe. I like to think so.
Sunday, February 14, 2016
Overheard
Adam and Jim were wrestling, far and away Adam's favourite thing to do.
Jim: Adam, I'm gonna put you in the python!
Adam: Daddy, I'm gonna put you in the BUM!!!
I prefer not to try and imagine just what that wrestling move might look like.
Jim: Adam, I'm gonna put you in the python!
Adam: Daddy, I'm gonna put you in the BUM!!!
I prefer not to try and imagine just what that wrestling move might look like.
Monday, December 28, 2015
Mormons are Christians
For anyone remotely interested, here's the original article written for Mormon newsroom Canada. I didn't realize (like an idiot) that writing like a journalist would be necessary and so the final product reads quite a bit differently. That said, I thought it worth posting the original here.
Mormons Are Christians
“But Mormons aren’t Christians, right?” This was the response I heard from one of the girls who lived on my dormitory floor during my first year of university right before Christmas break. We weren’t close, but we had had positive interactions, we got along well, and had a healthy respect for each other. I was gobsmacked. Mormons not Christians? Where did she get that from? And had I not done enough in my actions to indicate otherwise?
Ten years later wisdom and learning have taught me that her perception isn’t all that unusual. There are still many people who operate under the misconception that Mormons aren’t Christians. And maybe I shouldn’t blame them. There are some differences between Mormonism and mainstream Christianity. The most marked of which are our additional canonized scripture, The Book of Mormon, the structure of our church which holds at it’s head a modern and living prophet, and our shunning of the Trinity, believing instead that Jesus, God, and the Holy Spirit are three separate beings united in purpose. There can be little doubt, when held against our peers we are a peculiar people.
But yet…while the differences in Mormonism might define us, must they separate us so? Do we not share much more in our commonalities than in our differences? At this time of year when all of Christianity celebrates with such reverence the birth of the Messiah one cannot help but see how much we share in our love and devotion to the one who redeems us from death. How we are unified in our desire to return to Him. How we are once again reminded of how unworthy we are of His love for us, and of the depths to which He has gone to allow us to return to His presence. It is our love and devotion to Him that unites us and allows us to converse in the same language.
As members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints we believe in the Restoration of the gospel. More specifically this means the gospel as it existed on the Earth during Christ’s ministry. Most notable aspects of this are the Prophets and Apostles that lead our church, others include our belief that the heavens are still open and that priesthood keys have been restored. As Paul so courageously spoke before King Agrippa “Having therefore obtained help of God, I continue unto this day, witnessing both to small and great, saying none other things than those which the prophets and Moses did say should come: That Christ should suffer, and that he should be the first that should rise from the dead, and should shew light unto the people, and to the Gentiles.” Paul’s testimony is now book ended by modern day prophets who foretell and testify of His millennial return to Earth.
My all time favorite scriptural account takes place in John 20, immediately following the burial of Jesus Christ. In it Jesus appears to a broken hearted and bereft Mary Madgalene who is at a loss to know where the body of Jesus is. In verse 15 he asks her “…Women, why weepest thou? Whom seekest thou?” We are told that she supposes Him to be the gardener. When I picture her, I imagine a woman so overcome with sadness that she is on her knees with her head bowed. Unable to see for the river of tears flowing down her face. She then says “Sir if thou hast born Him hence, tell me where thou hast laid Him, and I will take Him away”. It isn’t until this moment that Jesus calls her by name “Mary”. And then she knows. She knows that she is speaking with her resurrected Savior, and that her tears were not needed. The first, and only words that the scriptures tell us she utters in His presence are “Rabboni” which is Hebrew for Master. How I yearn to not only see Him, as Mary did, but to know Him as she did. To feel at one and at home in His presence. To call him by the same word. Master. For isn't He the master of us all?
In the end, I looked at this acquaintance of mine. This girl that I liked but didn’t know particularly well. And with all of the confidence that an inexperienced 18 year old could muster I said “we believe in Christ. We worship Him. Isn’t that what a Christian is?”. She was quiet for a moment before nodding her head in agreement.
Mormons Are Christians
“But Mormons aren’t Christians, right?” This was the response I heard from one of the girls who lived on my dormitory floor during my first year of university right before Christmas break. We weren’t close, but we had had positive interactions, we got along well, and had a healthy respect for each other. I was gobsmacked. Mormons not Christians? Where did she get that from? And had I not done enough in my actions to indicate otherwise?
Ten years later wisdom and learning have taught me that her perception isn’t all that unusual. There are still many people who operate under the misconception that Mormons aren’t Christians. And maybe I shouldn’t blame them. There are some differences between Mormonism and mainstream Christianity. The most marked of which are our additional canonized scripture, The Book of Mormon, the structure of our church which holds at it’s head a modern and living prophet, and our shunning of the Trinity, believing instead that Jesus, God, and the Holy Spirit are three separate beings united in purpose. There can be little doubt, when held against our peers we are a peculiar people.
But yet…while the differences in Mormonism might define us, must they separate us so? Do we not share much more in our commonalities than in our differences? At this time of year when all of Christianity celebrates with such reverence the birth of the Messiah one cannot help but see how much we share in our love and devotion to the one who redeems us from death. How we are unified in our desire to return to Him. How we are once again reminded of how unworthy we are of His love for us, and of the depths to which He has gone to allow us to return to His presence. It is our love and devotion to Him that unites us and allows us to converse in the same language.
As members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints we believe in the Restoration of the gospel. More specifically this means the gospel as it existed on the Earth during Christ’s ministry. Most notable aspects of this are the Prophets and Apostles that lead our church, others include our belief that the heavens are still open and that priesthood keys have been restored. As Paul so courageously spoke before King Agrippa “Having therefore obtained help of God, I continue unto this day, witnessing both to small and great, saying none other things than those which the prophets and Moses did say should come: That Christ should suffer, and that he should be the first that should rise from the dead, and should shew light unto the people, and to the Gentiles.” Paul’s testimony is now book ended by modern day prophets who foretell and testify of His millennial return to Earth.
My all time favorite scriptural account takes place in John 20, immediately following the burial of Jesus Christ. In it Jesus appears to a broken hearted and bereft Mary Madgalene who is at a loss to know where the body of Jesus is. In verse 15 he asks her “…Women, why weepest thou? Whom seekest thou?” We are told that she supposes Him to be the gardener. When I picture her, I imagine a woman so overcome with sadness that she is on her knees with her head bowed. Unable to see for the river of tears flowing down her face. She then says “Sir if thou hast born Him hence, tell me where thou hast laid Him, and I will take Him away”. It isn’t until this moment that Jesus calls her by name “Mary”. And then she knows. She knows that she is speaking with her resurrected Savior, and that her tears were not needed. The first, and only words that the scriptures tell us she utters in His presence are “Rabboni” which is Hebrew for Master. How I yearn to not only see Him, as Mary did, but to know Him as she did. To feel at one and at home in His presence. To call him by the same word. Master. For isn't He the master of us all?
In the end, I looked at this acquaintance of mine. This girl that I liked but didn’t know particularly well. And with all of the confidence that an inexperienced 18 year old could muster I said “we believe in Christ. We worship Him. Isn’t that what a Christian is?”. She was quiet for a moment before nodding her head in agreement.
Sunday, November 29, 2015
Home
Home. It's a concept that I've referenced in various ways at various times here before. As a child of a naval officer we moved frequently, and as such, home tends to be a fairly fluid concept for me. I have lived and loved in many places, and I hope to live and love in many more. As I type I have the computer set up on top of my suitcase that soon needs to be packed for our journey home from visiting family in BC. From one home to another. Home.
I haven't exactly been secret about my struggles of late. Be they in regards to motherhood or disciplehood, or as a member of the LDS church. Secrets and I haven't ever really gotten along. My husband likes to joke that I would make the worlds worst spy (and he's right). I tend to live my life fairly openly and this blog has proved a safe and creative form of expression for me, for which I'm grateful.
This morning we attended church with my sister and brother-in-law and their family. And the choir sang a number that I have heard before, but for some reason pierced my heart especially today. The lyrics are as follows.
My shepherd will supply my need:
Jehovah is His name;
In pastures fresh He makes me feed,
Beside the living stream.
He brings my wandering spirit back
When I forsake His ways
And leads me, for His mercy's sake
In paths of truth and grace.
When I walk through the shades of death,
Thy presence is my stay;
A word of thy supporting breath,
Drives all my fears away.
Thy hand, in sight of all my foes,
Doth still my table spread;
My cup with blessings overflows,
Thine oil anoints my head.
The sure provisions of my God
Attend me all my days;
O may Thy house be my abode
And all my work be praise!
There would I find a settled rest,
While others go and come.
No more a stranger or a guest,
But like a child at home.
The last two lines of the song are repeated amid swelling voices and music, and the effect is quite striking. But almost more than the music (and the music IS stunning. Seriously. Go youtube it now!) the words hit me. In my last post I mentioned repeatedly (more than I think I meant to. Maybe I need to work on my editing. Or just not post so late at night?) how much I find a home in the gospel. That is absolutely true for me. And I love it. I want for my relationship with my Savior to be more important than anything else. One of the speakers today referenced John 21 where Christ returns after His resurrection to find the apostles fishing. Which they likely were doing because...well...what else were they to do? Christ was gone and fishing had been their profession. I'm sure I would have done the same thing. They fish all night and they catch nothing. A man comes and tells them to cast their nets on the other side and they catch, literally, more than they can handle. It's at that moment that Peter recognizes the Lord, and he's so excited he literally can't contain himself, and so he jumps from the boat to swim to shore. Sometimes I wonder. If it were me, would I be afraid? That I hadn't done or been enough? I yearn to be like Peter. To be so overcome with my excitement that I can't wait another second to embrace my Lord and Savior.
I don't always feel at home at or in the church. And I'm pretty ok with that. I don't lose sleep over it. Luckily, it's not a requirement for membership. I sometimes think that I stick out like a sore thumb for my at times outspoken opinions. Sometimes I feel less put together than my counterparts (what other 28 year old mormon woman do you know that can't figure out a curling iron to save her life, has never used eyeliner, and doesn't own hairspray. I am a rare and lazy breed). But especially lately I feel less at home when it comes to hot button issues like women and the priesthood, or the church's treatment and association with gay people that I love. And I have struggled as I have watched many friends and acquaintances, who I love and respect, leave because they feel thay they can no longer make or feel a home in the church.
As I heard that beautiful hymn sung I held my baby and wept. Because I realized that where many issues are concerned, I DO feel like a stranger and a guest. I don't freely support the policies and many aspects don't sit well with me. There is much to learn and discuss, and believe me when I say that I am....but outright, immediate support and acceptance has not been my reaction. I have never been a detail oriented person. Mercifully my husband is and so he compliments me well in that arena. But...if I can be like Peter, if I can feel like a child at home in my Savior, if I can unabashedly run into His arms like my three year old son does when his dad returns home from work, I don't feel like I'm lacking. I can put the rest aside and breathe until an increase in knowledge and understanding comes. Because with my Saviour, with my brother, I can feel at home. And if I can do that, then what else matters? If I am making and keeping my covenants, if my home is in Him, and in the gospel, I think, I hope, I pray, that that can be enough.
I want to make it my mission to help others find that same home, because the rest? I think it's just noise. And I don't want to focus on it. As much as possible, I don't want the noise to keep me up at night. Home is a fluid concept for me. But I want my primary home to be in my Saviour. And I want to invite as many other people over as I can. I'm not much good at it. But here's to hoping I can turn this weakness into a strength.
I haven't exactly been secret about my struggles of late. Be they in regards to motherhood or disciplehood, or as a member of the LDS church. Secrets and I haven't ever really gotten along. My husband likes to joke that I would make the worlds worst spy (and he's right). I tend to live my life fairly openly and this blog has proved a safe and creative form of expression for me, for which I'm grateful.
This morning we attended church with my sister and brother-in-law and their family. And the choir sang a number that I have heard before, but for some reason pierced my heart especially today. The lyrics are as follows.
My shepherd will supply my need:
Jehovah is His name;
In pastures fresh He makes me feed,
Beside the living stream.
He brings my wandering spirit back
When I forsake His ways
And leads me, for His mercy's sake
In paths of truth and grace.
When I walk through the shades of death,
Thy presence is my stay;
A word of thy supporting breath,
Drives all my fears away.
Thy hand, in sight of all my foes,
Doth still my table spread;
My cup with blessings overflows,
Thine oil anoints my head.
The sure provisions of my God
Attend me all my days;
O may Thy house be my abode
And all my work be praise!
There would I find a settled rest,
While others go and come.
No more a stranger or a guest,
But like a child at home.
The last two lines of the song are repeated amid swelling voices and music, and the effect is quite striking. But almost more than the music (and the music IS stunning. Seriously. Go youtube it now!) the words hit me. In my last post I mentioned repeatedly (more than I think I meant to. Maybe I need to work on my editing. Or just not post so late at night?) how much I find a home in the gospel. That is absolutely true for me. And I love it. I want for my relationship with my Savior to be more important than anything else. One of the speakers today referenced John 21 where Christ returns after His resurrection to find the apostles fishing. Which they likely were doing because...well...what else were they to do? Christ was gone and fishing had been their profession. I'm sure I would have done the same thing. They fish all night and they catch nothing. A man comes and tells them to cast their nets on the other side and they catch, literally, more than they can handle. It's at that moment that Peter recognizes the Lord, and he's so excited he literally can't contain himself, and so he jumps from the boat to swim to shore. Sometimes I wonder. If it were me, would I be afraid? That I hadn't done or been enough? I yearn to be like Peter. To be so overcome with my excitement that I can't wait another second to embrace my Lord and Savior.
I don't always feel at home at or in the church. And I'm pretty ok with that. I don't lose sleep over it. Luckily, it's not a requirement for membership. I sometimes think that I stick out like a sore thumb for my at times outspoken opinions. Sometimes I feel less put together than my counterparts (what other 28 year old mormon woman do you know that can't figure out a curling iron to save her life, has never used eyeliner, and doesn't own hairspray. I am a rare and lazy breed). But especially lately I feel less at home when it comes to hot button issues like women and the priesthood, or the church's treatment and association with gay people that I love. And I have struggled as I have watched many friends and acquaintances, who I love and respect, leave because they feel thay they can no longer make or feel a home in the church.
As I heard that beautiful hymn sung I held my baby and wept. Because I realized that where many issues are concerned, I DO feel like a stranger and a guest. I don't freely support the policies and many aspects don't sit well with me. There is much to learn and discuss, and believe me when I say that I am....but outright, immediate support and acceptance has not been my reaction. I have never been a detail oriented person. Mercifully my husband is and so he compliments me well in that arena. But...if I can be like Peter, if I can feel like a child at home in my Savior, if I can unabashedly run into His arms like my three year old son does when his dad returns home from work, I don't feel like I'm lacking. I can put the rest aside and breathe until an increase in knowledge and understanding comes. Because with my Saviour, with my brother, I can feel at home. And if I can do that, then what else matters? If I am making and keeping my covenants, if my home is in Him, and in the gospel, I think, I hope, I pray, that that can be enough.
I want to make it my mission to help others find that same home, because the rest? I think it's just noise. And I don't want to focus on it. As much as possible, I don't want the noise to keep me up at night. Home is a fluid concept for me. But I want my primary home to be in my Saviour. And I want to invite as many other people over as I can. I'm not much good at it. But here's to hoping I can turn this weakness into a strength.
Sunday, November 15, 2015
Processing
I bet you thought this blog was just for updates on my life as a mom of two cute boys, huh? GOTCHA. Sometimes I hijack it to ponder, process, and write about other things going on in my life outside of my family. Not often, but sometimes. And I think that this is one of those times.
It's been just over a week since the information about the LDS church's update to the handbook regarding the baptism/blessing of children of gay parents was prematurely leaked. Just over a week since the internet (and my feelings) exploded. And while I don't intend to say much more on the matter, I've had so many dear friends, and even some acquaintances, reach out that I feel obliged to put to paper/blog where I'm at, what I think, how I feel, and what I believe.
Perhaps it's my age, perhaps it's my personality, or maybe it's even a sign of the times but it seems that more and more the church is taking firmer stances on certain issues. I love the gospel, and I love what it brings to my life. It is home to me. But it seems that quite oft of late...I feel the earth move beneath my feet. And when that happens it's a cause for me to pray, ponder reflect, and discuss with those that I love. I remember once when I was at college one of the main contributors to the Joseph Smith Papers came to give a fireside to address and unpack many of the criticisms regarding Joseph Smith, and especially the first vision. It was an enlightening evening, but a theme that he kept returning to was the importance of being a "seeker". I distinctly remember sitting in the audience and thinking to myself "but that sounds like so much WORK! Just tell me what is true and I'll believe it!". Isn't it lovely to be innocent and 18? I don't feel that way anymore. The ability to hear and to believe without question is no longer something that I can easily do, and sometimes I envy those I know who can. It seems lately that I...fit the mould of the standard mormon women less and less. And I have no problem with that, I really don't think it's a negative thing in any way. In fact, I think it's a really good thing. But along with that it seems that increasingly often now it seems my lot in life is to really fight things out. Ask God, sometimes repeatedly, learn from those around me that I love and respect, and, as best I can, be led by the spirit. Is it more work? Absolutely? Is it worth it? A thousand times yes! Because the victory of finding and knowing the truth for myself...of finding new ground to stand on is a sweet experience, and it is mine to own.
These last two weeks haven't been easy. A sick husband, a teething baby, a toddler who seems to relish pushing his boundaries, a new policy, and what seem to be countless terror attacks have been cause for a great deal of thought and introspection. I'd be lying if I said that my heart didn't feel a little more tender than usual. I'd also be lying if I said that this new policy was an easy one for me to digest. It absolutely was not. I love my home in the gospel. Because it IS my home in more ways than any other place. There are some things I know, others that I believe, and a great many more that I don't know. But a rhetoric often repeated by many people that I know is "it was released by the brethren. We sustain the brethren, therefore we sustain the new policy". And while I believe that there is a great deal of wisdom and logic in that line of thinking, my thoughts and feelings aren't quite so linear. At the end of the day, this policy, no matter how well intentioned, is divisive. I have gay family members and friends, and I love them with a fierceness that I defy anyone to challenge. They are without question some of the very best people that I know. And it pains me to know that the home that I find within the gospel, is not a home as easily made for them. It hurts me that in order to not be considered apostate by this new policy that they are required to remain celibate. That isn't something I could ever ask of anyone. It hurts me that any marriage undertaken by them is one that my church doesn't recognize. And so I guess it shouldn't be surprising that the church would discourage the baptizing and blessing of their children as well. And if it hurts me, I can only imagine how much it would hurt them. Do I understand the logic? Yes. Families are the most important thing, and it would be difficult, to say the least, to not have church teachings be congruent and supported by home life. I understand. But that doesn't mean that I don't have deep empathy for those for whom this effects. It is more suck to what already feels pretty sucky. I believe that instead of being defensive, maybe compassion could rule, or at least temper the day.
A few short weeks ago I had the opportunity to bear my testimony. I tend to think that those are opportunities to share our victories in the growth of our testimonies, a time to share what we know while coming from a position of strength, and often that is the case. Of late I've been wrestling with enough issues that mine isn't usually one of strength. If anything it's been me trying to remain humble enough to find the answers that I'm looking for. And bit by bit, they are coming. But lately as I've watched some pretty disastrous things happen in the world, and in the lives of those that I love, I've realized that...the ground that I've won I am still holding. The things that I knew before I still know. I still know that God lives, and that He loves me. I still know that He hears my prayers and, more often it seems, is waiting in the wings to answer and hold me. I still know that I am not alone, and that I matter to Him. They may be simple truths...but my knowledge of them hasn't changed. And perhaps that is a victory in itself. Some answers come slowly. And some might not come in this life. I'm learning to be more cognizant and comfortable with that. As the ground beneath me shifts I am finding my footing. But I don't know that that is as true or easily said for those that I love who struggle with their sexuality because the home in the gospel that I love...I imagine would be a less easy home for them. And so I want to offer my love, my empathy, and my compassion. It isn't much. It is paltry. But it is all I have to offer, and I offer it freely.
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