Casper, the friendly roommate

I love ghost stories. Not horror flicks, or gory slasher movies. But stories about people who have moved on beyond this mortal state, and are yearning to maintain some sort of connection with life, and the loved ones they left behind. Or stories about people who can't seem to make peace with death. Like "The Sixth Sense", or "The Others." If you haven't seen either one, and you like ghost stories, I recommend them. Especially "The Others". It will tug at your heartstrings. And scare you just a little.

Do I  believe in ghosts? This, for me, is a tough question to answer. The best I can come up with is, "I don't know." I really don't. I think life is incredibly mysterious, and the more I learn, the more I know I don't know. And since nobody who has ever truly left off this mortal coil has been able to come back and tell me about it, I have nothing real to base a belief on. However, I cannot discount completely the experiences I, and others, have had that cannot be readily explained by modern science. At least to my satisfaction. So, do I believe in ghosts? I don't know. I really don't.

I have had a few experiences in my life that could be called ghost stories. I wasn't drinking at the time, so they weren't the hallucinations of an alcoholic stupor. And most of the strange happenings at my apartment in Salt Lake City took place during daylight hours, while I was awake, so they can't be blamed on that weird half-sleep state that seems so conducive to other-worldly visits. I love relating these stories to my children and seeing their awe-struck expressions. They think I'm really brave because I didn't run screaming from my apartment. The truth is, it wasn't scary at all. Just weird, and slightly disconcerting.

Way back in the last century, 1988 to be specific, I moved into an apartment all by myself. I was working in Salt Lake City at the time, as a nurse, and living by myself fulfilled a lifelong dream. I grew up in a large family, so having my own space was literally a dream come true. My first night alone, I rolled around on the living room floor, reveling in my own private heaven, soaking up the silence. It was awesome. So, so awesome. I had my own space, and I could do whatever I wanted to it, or in it. The freedom was slightly intoxicating.

Shortly after moving in, I started to notice some strange things. Odd things that were out of place, like bobby pins on the floor in front of the couch. I didn't use bobby pins, didn't even own any, so their presence in my apartment got my attention. Then, the plant I had in my window ended up on the floor of the kitchen, which meant it had traveled across the living room seemingly all by itself. I had a bubble gum machine in my apartment, a fun novelty item at the time, and a large picture of a bubble gum machine with a goldfish inside it, that I'd placed on the wall above a bookcase, with the bubble gum machine itself standing next to the bookcase. The wall was a load-bearing wall between the living room and the kitchen. One day, I came home to find that the picture had been taken down, and placed in the kitchen, on the floor, leaning against the stove. It couldn't possibly have landed there had it fallen off the wall, as it was around a corner, and seemed to be carefully placed so as not to break the glass. I put the picture back on the wall, feeling a little uneasy, but brushed it off, as my mind was not willing to accept that anybody, real or imagined, had been in my apartment and was messing with my stuff. But, when I got home the next day, there was the picture again, leaning against the stove. Weird. I put it back, and, about a week later, it was again on the floor. I was a little unnerved by this, so I had the lock changed on the door to the apartment. And, once again, came home to find the picture off the wall, leaning against the stove. I finally gave up and left it leaning against another wall in the kitchen, out of the way. And there it stayed. Whoever kept moving it apparently didn't approve of my taste in 'art'.

Then there was the stereo I had on the top shelf of the bookcase. I favored 80's pop music, and kept the station tuned to my favorite channel. One day, while I was showering, I had the music turned up loud and was rocking out, singing along to Elton John. In the middle of the song, I heard the sound of the station being changed. It sounded as if someone was turning the dial, searching for a particular station, then it stopped on rock-a-billy country music. Blech. Not my kind of music at all. But there it stayed, until I finished showering and changed it back. And I yelled out to the room, "I don't care about the picture, but leave my music alone!" There was no response, of course, but by this time, I was feeling a little annoyed. Fortunately, for me and my otherworldly visitor, the stereo stayed tuned to my chosen channel. Not sure what I would have done otherwise, as hand-to-hand combat with spirits usually doesn't turn out well for the corporeal being.

The strangest occurrence of all happened late one night, shortly after I'd climbed into bed, and was laying there contemplating the wonders of the universe. Or fantasizing about Patrick Swayze as Johnny Castle. The apartment was silent, and as I was drifting off to sleep, I heard the bubble gum machine rattling, as if someone was shaking it in an attempt to get a piece of gum to drop out. I stiffened, frozen in place, my heart beating rapidly, as I envisioned someone, or something, just outside my bedroom door, robbing me of my precious gumballs. The nerve. He, or she, or it, wasn't even trying to be quiet about it! I didn't dare move, as I didn't want to confront the stranger who had invaded my space. I was imagining a piece of gum being masticated by a ghost, hanging there in mid-air, teeth marks showing up on the gummy surface. And I had to giggle a little. Seriously, what kind of a ghost steals bubble gum? Casper? My fear faded as I realized that I was in no danger from this spirit. If all he wanted was bubble gum, he was welcome to it. And I peacefully drifted off to sleep, feeling safe from more sinister beings, as I had my own private ghostly security guard stationed just outside my bedroom door, happily munching on bubble gum.

A few days later, I was relating these tales to a friend, and her mother overheard our conversation. She exclaimed, in horror, "Your apartment is haunted! You can't stay there! You're not safe!" And I laughingly told her that I felt no danger present, no evil spirits haunting me, no feeling of unease whatsoever. Whoever was haunting me did not wish to do me harm, I said, and I didn't feel unsafe at all. She stared at me fearfully, and said, "Let's call your bishop. He can do an exorcism." I couldn't keep my laughter inside, which, unfortunately, just confirmed her suspicion that I was under an evil influence. I told her I didn't think Mormons believed in exorcism, nor performed it. She replied that the priesthood could, and should, be used to bless and sanctify our living spaces, making them amenable to only the best of spirits. I'm paraphrasing, as I can't remember exactly what she said, but that was the intent. Exorcise the ghost who disliked kitschy art, listened to sappy country music, and enjoyed an occasional piece of bubble gum. Who surely meant me no harm. I mean, come on, he had a point about the art, and he left my stereo alone after I yelled at him, and I didn't mind sharing my gum. I wasn't happy about the plant, and the bobby pins could have messed with the inner workings of my vacuum, if I'd ever attempted to use such an appliance, but having an otherworldly roommate wasn't anything more than a minor inconvenience. I didn't see the need to call down the powers of heaven on his head. For whatever reason, he was stuck in my apartment, and he certainly made things interesting. Never mind the fact that if I called on a bishop to come perform an exorcism, he'd be more likely to have me committed to a state facility. No, my ghost was welcome to stay. After all, it was probably I who was the intruder. In all likelihood, he was there first, and I didn't want to anger him by demanding that he leave. Just so long as he left my stereo alone! I do kind of wish he'd offered to help pay the rent. But the entertainment value of the stories he gave me were worth more than money, to be fair, and I've continued to reap the benefits in the ensuing years. I love telling people I lived in a haunted apartment. And that I had a roommate from another world!

I did consult my dad, a man who is both visionary and reasonable, and I value his opinion. His only question for me was, "How do you feel in your apartment? What does your gut say?" I felt safe, and at peace, and at home. I did not perceive any danger whatsoever. I never felt threatened, and, except for the brief moment lying in my bed listening to the bubble gum machine rattle, I was never truly frightened. He said it sounded like I had nothing to fear, and saw no reason to call for a priesthood blessing. This, from a man who highly values the priesthood and views it as actual power from heaven, was reassuring to me, and I continued to live in the apartment, sharing my space with my ghostly friend, until I met and married my husband.

To this day, I have no explanation for the strange happenings in my apartment in Salt Lake. My logical self knows that an explanation exists, but my mystical self is satisfied to believe that I lived with a ghost. A country music loving, bubble-gum chewing, art critic, who seemed to have no agenda beyond making our apartment a livable space for us both. I kind of miss him.

Temporary Insanity

My mom has brown eyes, the kind of brown that looks like melted chocolate. When I was a kid, I wished that my eyes were brown like my mom's, and I'd imagine all the ways my life would be better with brown eyes. Can't remember any of them now, but I do remember thinking, "I wish my eyes were brown like my mom's." But alas, they're not brown. They're blue. Like my dad's, sort of, only not as clear. Blue-ish, really. I realize that I could change this fact with colored contact lenses, but the expense combined with the awkwardness of actually putting my finger in my eye seem like pretty significant barriers. I'll stick with blue-ish. For now.

It is what it is. I know, as a saying that has taken on a life of its own, and become quite cliche. But if I claim that I used it before it was in vogue, will anybody believe me? 'Cause I did. I've been telling my kids for years, whenever they have expressed a desire to escape reality, "It is what it is, kids. Best get used to it, then move on." I don't see the point in wallowing in wishes. Because, as we all know, wishing something was different doesn't make it so, but instead results in discontent with things as they are. And discontent breeds ingratitude, which leads to unhappiness, and before you know it, we're all just sitting around bingeing on chocolate and whining.

The other day, my son asked me what led to my current position with regards to religion. My skepticism, agnosticism, ignosticism (not sure what this is? Wikipedia, my friend!), whatever you want to call it. For the first time, he wanted to know why I don't believe the church is true. I tried to explain it, and found myself struggling to get the words right. His teenage mind can't seem to come to terms with why I can't see church, and God, the way he does. The way I taught him to, when he was a child. And my explanation of my journey didn't give him any comfort. I looked at him with tears in my eyes, and said, "I wish I could believe it, son. I really do. It would make things so much easier."  He looked back at me uncomprehendingly, and said, "Then why can't you? If you want to, why can't you?" Sigh. Because, it is what it is. I have blue eyes, not brown. I like chocolate, not tomatoes. And I just can't believe that religion is anything but a man-made construct, intended to give purpose and comfort to human beings struggling to make sense of this thing called life. It is what it is.

I have a daughter who is gay. She came out to us this year, and revealed that she had been struggling for several years with her sexual orientation. It has been a difficult journey for her, and for us as her parents, as we've watched her try to figure out how to fit into a very heterosexual world. She looked at me one day, tears rolling down her cheeks, and said, "Mom, why can't I like boys? This is too hard. I don't want to do this anymore." My response to her? You guessed it. "It is what it is. I don't believe in God, you like girls. Life would be easier for both of us if we could conform to cultural expectations, but that's not who we are." It is what it is.

That daughter had her 23rd birthday this past summer, and to celebrate, she asked me to get a tattoo with her. Obviously, I'm not against tattoos. But I wasn't sure I was ready to add another to my collection. However, it was what she wanted. And her chosen tattoo was the saying, "It is what it is." I guess it has sunk in after all these years, huh? So, off we went to get inked. She chose her ankle; I chose, well, something else. I've always joked that I was going to tattoo "It is what it is" on my ass. I got as close to it as I could without adding insult to injury. To myself, that is. I'm sure the artist has seen his share of derriere in his life.

I went to the appointment with script in hand, and an idea in mind of how I wanted it to look. The tattoo artist spent some time redrawing my concept, and came up with a reasonable facsimile. It looked okay on paper, so I gave the go ahead. I can honestly say that what came next rivaled birth in terms of pain. I was tempted to call uncle after the first word, but I thought it might look weird having "It" stamped on my backside. This was my fourth tattoo, so I knew it would hurt, but this one inspired the utterance of previously un-uttered swears. It hurt like nothing I'd here-to-for experienced. I gritted my teeth throughout, telling myself that it would all be worth it in the end (literally), because I'd have my favorite saying stamped on my backside for the remainder of my earthly existence.

Finally, he was done. He got a mirror and showed me the finished product. At first, I thought it looked weird because it was backwards in the mirror. So my daughter took a picture with her phone and handed it to me. And then I thought it looked weird because of the swelling and blood. (Yes, tattoos bleed. Don't do it.) Then, I realized it looked weird because it was weird. The finished product looked nothing like what I'd envisioned in my mind. I'm not a fancy-pants kind of gal, and I'd wanted to keep the script simple. It wasn't simple. It had curlicues, and flourishes, and extra lines and curves throughout. And it was permanent.

I'd tattooed "It is what it is" on my ass! And it was permanent! And it looked awful. I hated it. I really and truly hated it. I was embarrassed to show it to anyone, even my husband. How was I going to go through the rest of my mortal life with this monstrosity on the back of my front?!? Sigh. It is what it is.

There is no more fitting illustration of the concept "It is what it is" than a tattoo gone horribly wrong. It is what it is, indeed. It could be removed, of course, but not without a great deal of pain (been there, done that, not going back), and an insanely large chunk of change. Might as well get used to it, accept it, and move on. The stages of grief flashed past rather quickly, and I arrived at acceptance with an ease I hadn't thought possible a few moments earlier.

I have blue eyes. I hate tomatoes. I don't believe in God. My daughter is gay. And I have an ugly tattoo. It is what it is, y'all. And I wouldn't change a thing.

Doing it my way. . .

I was recently accused of being a Deist. The nerve! Can you imagine how that felt to an agnostic-atheist/secular-humanist? However, I can see how one could arrive at that conclusion, based on past blog posts I've written. For most of my life, I believed what I'd been told about God, Elohim, Jehovah, Yahwah. My parents are fervent believers in the God of Abraham, as taught by the Mormon church. And they passed that belief on to me, with the hope that I'd cling to it as they have, living out my days on this earth as a Latter-Day-Saint, expecting to receive celestial glory as my eventual reward.

Unfortunately for my parents, I couldn't hang on to that belief for the duration of this life. Not for lack of trying, though. Because they believed, and because they so wanted it for me, I believed. The church was true; I was deeply flawed. Or so I thought.

I've had several experiences in my life that felt spiritual in nature, other-worldly in origin. And because I'd been raised to believe in God, I naturally assumed that He was the messenger, the source from which sprang assurances that He lived, that He loved me, and that He was watching over me. This gave me comfort as I struggled through various life-altering events, and an anchor I clung to when life got too stormy. As I've re-examined the stories that have made me who I am today, and written about them, I've come to conclude that what I thought was God communicating to me was actually my own voice, my own wisdom, long hidden and unrecognized as valid. And allowing myself to listen to my own voice has brought me the greatest peace I've ever known.

There was a time in my life when I would have been appalled at the arrogance in that last paragraph. But the last 3 and a half years have brought me to a place where I am able to acknowledge what I believe, both to myself and to my loved ones. As I've previously written, I no longer accept that beliefs can be chosen, simply because we want to believe. That it is a sin to reject God, or the prophets, or the church. That I have allowed myself to fall under the influence of evil. Church members are taught that there are few reasons a person would choose to leave: they are lazy, they have been offended, or they have unresolved sins. The day I realized I was not a believer, none of those applied to me. I had doubled my efforts to study the scriptures, pray multiple times daily, faithfully attend all of my Sunday meetings, attend the temple as often as I could. I was a full tithe payer, I wore the sacred garments day and night, I adhered to the word of wisdom as it had been taught to me. I had never in my life had a cup of coffee, nor had I taken a drink of alcohol since my days of youthful experimentation. I was doing everything I reasonably could in order to be worthy of God's love, and his spirit. I wanted to 'know', as my husband has always known. I wanted my lifelong doubts to be resolved. I wanted what I thought others had. I wanted a sure testimony that God lived, and that the Mormon church was the one true church. I pleaded with God, on my knees, begging for some confirmation that what I'd always been taught was true.

One of my favorite singers is Amy Grant. Her music did more to keep me faithful than any LDS artist, as I felt what I believed was the spirit in her songs. I thought I felt God's love when Amy sang. Through the last year or two of my belief in the church, her album, "Legacy, Hymns of Faith", was a favorite. I played it over and over, wanting so much to believe as she did. Wanting to feel what she felt. When she sang, "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing", I sang along with her the words, "never let me wander from thee. . . here's my heart, oh take and seal it". Those words were a prayer, uttered to the God she loved, that He would still the disquiet within my heart, and make me His. Forever. That I would doubt no more, just believe. I was looking for peace, begging for relief from the questions plaguing my mind. And finding only more doubt, more misgivings, more disquiet.

One summer day, in 2008, I met a woman at a baseball game, the mother of one of the players. As we visited in the stands, she revealed that she had left the Mormon church some ten years previously. She was friendly and talkative, and very open about her life. And I experienced an unexpected reaction to her story. I was jealous. Intensely. I wanted what she had, something I had never realized about myself. I wanted out. I wanted to be done. I wanted to be an Un-Mormon. Not a Mormon anymore. I realized what a blasphemous thought this was, and I felt like I was spitting in the face of God to wish such a thing. I'd been blessed to have been born to a righteous, Latter-Day-Saint family, to have been raised with the true gospel of Jesus Christ, and I wanted to reject it. Walk away from it, as if I'd never been a part of it. I didn't want to be Mormon anymore.

The next year or so was a time of intense prayer and study, as I tried to forget my new friend's revelation and solidify my own testimony. I tried to reject my heart's desire by following what the church, and my parents, had always taught me. I gave it my all. And, in the end, it wasn't enough. I couldn't hold on to what I'd never had.

October of 2009. I can't remember the exact date, but I will always remember October, 2009. I had spent the previous summer doing as I related above, reading scriptures, praying, and attending the temple. And I was getting tired. Soul weary. Exhausted by the effort. One day, I read an article in The Deseret News about an internet site called staylds.com. It was created for people who were tired, or who had experienced some trauma in the church, and had come to the conclusion that it wasn't true. The intent of the site was to allow people a place to tell their stories, and get support as they figured out how to stay active and involved in the church, while not believing some or all of it. I thought maybe this would be a good place for me to figure out how to navigate the stormy waters of doubt. As I read other's stories, however, I realized that I didn't want to be where they were. I didn't want to continue to be an active, albeit non-believing, Mormon. This wasn't the place. But, there were links to other sites that seemed more fitting for my situation. And, as I read, I came to a startling realization. For the first time in my life, I allowed myself to think the most blasphemous words I could have ever imagined. What if the church was not true? And I was okay?

In that moment, my whole being was flooded with peace, the peace I had sought for years. Blessed relief, that peace. The church was not true, and I was okay. I was okay! I was not flawed; I was enough, and I was okay. I cried as I sat at the computer that day, and I felt like I'd finally come home after a long journey. In losing a testimony, I had found myself. In a most unexpected place, assuredly, but I had indeed found myself. I was okay! And the church was not true. . .

Since that day, there have been many changes in my life. Not the least of which is that I'm no longer a card-carrying, active Latter-Day-Saint. This change has been hard on the people closest to me, those who profess a knowledge that the church is true, and that I have been deluded. I respect the opinion of those who believe in, and love, God, but I cannot bring myself to want what they have. Not anymore. I am happier than I have ever been, and more at peace in my own skin.

"Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life." The gospel according to Steve Jobs. Not a prophet, certainly, but they are still wise words. Words to live by. Words I can live by. This is my life, and I am living it authentically. And peacefully.

"I gave you life so that you could live it. . ."

Motherhood. A fearsome and loaded word. A life choice not to be entered into lightly, and yet, we do. Rarely does a person consider the ramifications of begetting children, until those children are already under production, well on their way to becoming little people capable of creating chaos and wreaking havoc on the unsuspecting folks who unwittingly invited them into their lives. And then we fall in love with them, and their domination is complete.

I recall staring into the face of my newly-born first child. A beautiful little girl, who looked as if she'd dropped into my arms straight from heaven. I couldn't imagine, as I gazed lovingly into her eyes, that I'd ever find occasion to raise my voice in frustration, or, heaven forbid, yell at her. I would, I vowed, always treat her with love and respect, remembering this moment when she looked so innocent and adorable. It took three weeks. Three long, tortuous, sleep-deprived weeks. She wasn't innocent, and she certainly wasn't adorable. She was a she-devil, come to punish me for enjoying sex.

As she grew, it became ever more apparent that her goal in life was to thwart my every attempt at happiness. Okay, not entirely true. But the child did seem intent on breaking me down and stomping on my soul. From dumping out an entire bottle of maple syrup on the floor of the pantry, to flinging honey all over the kitchen with a butterknife (thus ruining the blinds and carpet), to decorating the baby's room with permanent black magic marker (including the baby sitting quietly in the crib watching), to drawing artful murals on the walls complete with captions, to adorning my bathroom walls with feminine pads and toothpaste, to taking scissors to my carefully crafted dried flower arrangement. All before the age of three. She tried my patience, and found me wanting. Sigh. Had we had any idea of what was in store for us, she would have been first and last. Fortunately for us, we had already put in our order for a second. Then a third, and a fourth. None of whom ever tested our patience like number one did.

I adored this kid. I mean I really, truly adored her. She was so funny, and so smart. And always a step or two ahead of me. I still adore the adult she became, who is still funny and smart, but I wasn't always sure the kid would make it to become the adult. And I wasn't always sure that I would survive those years with my sanity intact. They say insanity is hereditary; you get it from  your kids. And she did make me crazy.

The elementary school years proved to be even more challenging than the terrible two's, three's, and four's, just in different ways. This child struggled academically and socially. Not because she wasn't smart, but because she saw the world in her own diverse and original way, and her style of learning didn't fit well with the style of teaching public school had to offer. We were fortunate to find a teacher in second grade who recognized our daughter's unique gifts, and she helped her learn to use them in ways that propelled her ahead. By third grade, she was reading on a high school level. But by fifth grade, her social skills still lagged, and she couldn't seem to find a way to fit in with her peers. That year was a tough one. The other girls were trying out their teenage personas, experimenting with make-up and gossiping about boys. My daughter was not interested in either activity. She loved horses and science fiction. And her insistence on being uniquely herself manifested itself in ways that led to some pretty intense shunning.

That year was tough on both of us. As a room mom, I attended each class party, and was privy to the bullying that went on. The girls didn't even attempt to hide it from me, her mother. As a kid, I'd always been part of the 'in' groups, so I struggled to understand why she couldn't just fit in. But, she stood out, and not in ways that brought admiration from her peers. For example, her much older aunt had given her a turquoise, floor-length, down coat, that was at least 2 sizes too big. She insisted on wearing it to school, and came home in tears. The kids had made fun of her, as I'd known they would, and she was not just hurt, she was angry. I gently suggested that the coat be put away until she grew into it, to which she replied, "It's my coat! I'll wear it if I want!" I couldn't persuade her to reconsider, even with the memory of the kid's mocking fresh in her ears. She wasn't about to be bullied into giving up what was, to her, a precious gift from her aunt.

And then there was the braid. She got her hair cut early in the school year, a cute chin-length bob, but wanted to leave a small strand of hair at the temple long enough to braid. I figured the kids at school would relentlessly tease her about it (which they did, calling her "Obi Wan Kenobi"), and she'd cut it. Nope. She came home in tears, again, but angrily insisted that it was her hair, and she'd wear it any way she pleased! I so admired this kid's chutzpah, and wished I had some, but I also ached that her elementary school years were being spent as an outcast. And I felt helpless to change that for her. I was her mom, but I couldn't fix this. I couldn't change her into someone more acceptable to her peers. And yes, I wanted to. As much as I admired her strength and courage, I wanted her to be more like me, and at least attempt to conform. I'm not proud to admit that, but there it is.

Toward the end of the school year, I had an experience that forever changed me as a mom. I had been consumed with anxiety over my daughter's inability to make friends. I worried about her incessantly, lying awake at night thinking of ways to help her fit in, strategies to increase her social capital. It killed me to see her spending her time alone, and lonely. I have always been an extrovert, a social butterfly, and I couldn't understand how I ended up with a daughter who seemed to be the exact opposite of me. And while I'd like to say that my anxiety was solely related to her unhappiness, I have to admit that my ego recoiled at the idea that my child was the kid nobody liked.

With these thoughts weighing heavily on my mind, I had a rare moment alone in the car one day. As I drove along, I took the opportunity to talk to God. Those were my best prayers, back in the day, just chatting with him as if he rode beside me. I don't interpret the experience the same way today as I did back then, but that is irrelevant to this discussion. Anyway, my overwhelming thought that day was, "God, you screwed this one up. I'm not the right mom for this kid. I can't do this." And what I heard in my head was a gentle chuckle, and the thought that maybe I was the one getting it wrong. I was worrying about all the wrong things, and wasting precious time agonizing over that which I could not control. My job as a mother was actually much more simple than I was making it: love her, set a good example for her, and let her have her journey, whatever that was. That was it. I could let the rest go, trusting that she, herself, would figure this out. What a relief! The anxiety, the worry, the sleepless nights were all superfluous, unnecessary. It was truly a lightbulb moment for me, the moment when I stopped trying to save her, and learned to just love her.

I'd like to say that all my parenting woes were fixed that day, and I never experienced another moment of worry over one of my children. Unfortunately, that was not the case. I have had many moments when I've wondered what the hell I was thinking, why I thought that I was capable of raising these children adequately before unleashing them onto a world unprepared for their level of crazy. In fact, the idea that I could end up parenting for all eternity was one of the factors that sent me screaming from the church. No thanks. I have zero interest in populating worlds without end, and watching from afar as they screwed up both themselves, and the planet we spent six long days creating just for them. Nope. That kind of eternity is not for me.

But, back to parenting on this planet, the one we call Earth. I think sometimes we make it too hard. We agonize over things we cannot control. Which pretty much includes anything and everything. I may have invited these children here, to be part of the family hubby and I created, but what happens next is on them. The journey is theirs, to be enjoyed or not. I have to give them the opportunity to create something that makes sense to them, that looks like them, and feels authentic to them. Just as my parents have done for me. My parents may have wished it was otherwise, and that their offspring had chosen the path leading back to their god, but they have recognized the futility of forcing that choice on us. And they have given me the room to be myself, to think for myself, to believe differently than they do. Which has done more to preserve our relationship than attempting to push their agenda on me could have. I'm just trying to pass that legacy on to the next generation.

So, what have I learned about parenting? That my kid's choices do not define me. Their failures do not define me. Their successes do not define me. They are not extensions of me, put here to fulfill my hopes and dreams. And that has been the most freeing realization of my life. I can love them, set a good example for them (or at least, attempt to), and let them go. Whatever happens to them in this life will be because of who they are, and what they do, and has relatively little to do with me. I gave them life, now they have to go live it. (Brownie points for anyone who gets the movie reference!)

The Truth About Weight Loss

I've experienced a few changes over the past few years, many of which cannot be seen with the naked eye. But, the fact that I have decreased in size has become obvious, and has become a topic of conversation with which I am not comfortable. I don't like talking about weight, or weight loss, dieting, exercise, deprivation, discouragement, depression, devastation, disease, death. You see where I'm going with this.

Like most females of my generation, weight has been an issue for most of my life. Even in grade school, the 'fatties' were noticed, and separated into their own social class. I'm not proud of my participation in the shaming, but I cannot deny that it happened. We were kids, and differences were noted and called out. Even now, I think there are few things more painful than a fat kid seeking acceptance amongst her thinner peers, and being relegated to the sidelines of life. It seems to me that fat has always been an acceptable prejudice, and it starts early.

At about 13, my body began to change. That summer, my oldest brother worked as a lifeguard at a pool in Idaho, and we didn't see each other for about 3 months. When he returned at the end of the summer, he looked at me with some surprise, and said, "Boy! Your butt sure got big!" I was humiliated, and devastated. His observation left it's mark on me, though in later years he denied any recollection of his comment. But it was my first experience with shame associated with my body. And it hurt.

Throughout my teens, I paid attention to my peers' attempts to control their weight, and took a variety of stabs at it myself, mostly unsuccessfully. The teen years are emotional ones for the majority of us, and I dealt with my stress by eating. I remember once, as a high school senior, I participated in a fundraiser for the high school choir in which we sold candy bars to earn money for a trip to New York City. Instead of selling the candy and raising the necessary funds, I ate it, several boxes worth, and donated the money I'd earned working at McDonald's. That was some good chocolate, and it went well with the stacks of books I checked out from the library. There's a snapshot of my teen years: me, shut away in my bedroom, devouring books and candy, and ignoring the contention just outside my door. I instinctively knew that my binging was unacceptable behavior, and I kept it behind closed doors. But it was comforting, and stilled the anxiety I couldn't seem to calm any other way. It was a bad habit that would dog me for many years afterward.

As a young adult, I became what I jokingly referred to as a 'dysfunctional bulemic': I'd binge, but not purge. Many of my binges were in the company of friends; we'd get together for Thursday night TV, and enjoy my famous rice krispie treats, or brownies, or chocolate cake, or sometimes all three, combined with ice cream. Whatever was causing me stress could be forgotten, or at least set aside for a few hours, as I got high on various combinations of fat and sugar. Followed by pretty deep lows, as I'd roll around on the floor in gut-busting agony, regretting the choices of the previous few hours, and berating myself for my complete and utter lack of self-control and discipline. Occasionally, I'd take a break from the self loathing, and vow to become the person I most wanted to be: thin, and in control. I would read a magazine article that promised the secrets to weight loss, or I'd buy a book touting the latest approach in weight 'management', and I would get excited at the prospect of shedding the pounds that were masking my 'true self'. I am well acquainted with the euphoria that accompanies any new weight loss plan. And the utter and complete discouragement and despair upon realizing that there was no secret, no magic formula or pill, no spell that would transform my pudgy self into a slender, sleek, desirable beauty worthy of my own, or anyone else's, respect and admiration. And then falling victim to the next big idea, the next revelation in the dieting industry. It seemed to be an endless cycle of triumph and tragedy, though maybe not so dramatic as that. But, anyone who has followed this path knows of what I speak. High highs, low lows. Accompanied by depression and anxiety. And being forever a slave to a number on the scale, whether it was attainable or not.

As I progressed into marriage and motherhood, I found food to be an even more endearing companion. But not a very good friend. Pregnancy wreaked havoc on my body, and made a mockery of any vow I'd make to eat for health. Even the thoughts of the young ones I was nurturing within the womb weren't enough to stop the cravings and binging. I tried, I really tried, but I'd become overwhelmed with exhaustion, hormones, emotions, fears, etc, and I'd eat to dull the feelings. And it worked. I look back at those years, and they are coated in a chocolate haze. Between each pregnancy, I did manage to lose a bit of weight, and I basked in the attention I'd receive. (I've always wondered why thin is considered more beautiful than fat. Why wouldn't it be acceptable to say, "Wow! Look at you! You've put on some weight, and you look positively radiant!" I imagine that would go over about as well as broccoli ice cream.)

Throughout my 30s, I managed to lose weight a few times, coming close to my goal on occasion, but always, always, returning to my previous weight. Or higher. Sometimes it was the result of another pregnancy, sometimes it was just a return to my old friend food. Because food is always there, at the ready, prepared to comfort and coat, soothe and sustain. Food was my best friend, and my hated enemy. I couldn't run fast enough to escape the cravings. Depressed? Eat. Sad? Eat. Lonely? Eat. Angry? Eat. Happy? Eat. Excited? Eat. Whatever the emotion, food was the answer. Accompanied by bouts of self-loathing, followed by commitments to try again. It was an emotional roller coaster, and I was getting sick of the ride. The head-spinning, nauseating, vertigo-inducing up and down of it all. I wanted off.

I had my last child at 40, and I assumed that, once I was through with any possibility of a future pregnancy, I'd be free to pursue my life's dream of achieving and maintaining my goal weight. Which, by the way, was higher than my starting weight the first time I attempted Weight Watchers. So, once again, I joined WW, feeling the excitement and enthusiasm that usually accompanied the beginnings of a diet. I lasted a couple of months, I think, then life got in the way, I got discouraged, and I quit. Again. And then I got mad. Mad at God, mad at biology, mad at physics, mad at chemistry, mad at thin people, mad at my parents. Mad at reality. And I really quit. I got off the roller coaster. I turned my back on the entire weight loss industry, and I walked away.

One of the ideas I'd found sprinkled throughout a few diet books was the notion of 'letting go', of divorcing oneself from the calorie-counting, scale-watching, numbers game. I'd read of people who finally found success in the battle for weight control when they stopped worrying about the 'how', and just accepted themselves as is. Their claim that their weight normalized after a time off the dieting roller coaster was appealing, and I had attempted to follow this advice on several occasions. However, letting go as a method of weight control is contradictory and counter-productive. How does one go about consciously 'letting go', with the idea in mind that the situation will resolve itself? It doesn't quite work that way, much to my dismay. I found that I couldn't 'let go' entirely. It was always there, always lurking, the scale always taunting me. In the back of my mind, the hope of weight loss lingered, and I'd find myself back in the game, discouragement and depression dogging my every step. It was the hardest fight I never won.

Until the day I was well and truly done. I could not take the ups and downs any longer, the highs and the lows. I have observed many of my friends' and acquaintances' numerous attempts to control their weight, and have cheered them in their successes, and kept quiet about their eventual failures. Because it seems that everybody eventually fails. It just feels like an unwinnable war. Humans against biology: humans-0, biology-6,000,000,000,000. And counting. I knew I could not take it on again; I just didn't have it in me. I don't have it in me.

So I got off the treadmill. I stepped out of the race. I decided, once and for all, that I would never diet again, and I would never speak of diets again. Weight became a verboten topic, and I began to avoid conversations that center around it. Like the plague. Or I try to, anyway. Dieting and weight loss are popular topics everywhere I go, and it is hard to avoid. But I generally find a way to change the subject, or walk away if that fails. Because I just don't want to talk about it anymore, and I definitely don't want to do it anymore. I can't take another roller coaster ride. I'm out of Dramamine.

So, how have I managed to finally lose some weight? When asked recently, I said that I got here by allowing myself to just be myself. But that's only part of the story. The rest involves letting go. Really, truly letting go. Refusing to give it a place in my life. And meaning it. My letting go is not an attempt to fool my body into thinking I'm not looking, that I'm not paying attention, that it can go ahead and shrink if it wants 'cause I'm indifferent (wink, wink). I honestly had no intention of ever losing weight again, and no illusions about what my future weight would be. I had come to accept that my casket would be a double-wide, and that it would take a crane to lift it into place. And I was okay with that. I was okay with me. I could move on, and fill the extra space in my brain with other things, more interesting pursuits. And, gradually, as the years have passed, the weight has slowly come off. It was disconcerting at first, losing weight without trying, and I even consulted my doctor. But, I'm as healthy as a horse (albeit as big as one!), and the only explanation for the weight loss is that I stopped trying. That's it. I dropped my weapons of war, and walked off the battlefield. Done. Finito. I will fight no more forever.

So, if you see me out and about, and you congratulate me on my weight loss, don't be put off by the awkward smile, and the stammering acceptance of your compliment. I'm not quite sure how to reply to such statements, as saying, 'Thank you", implies that I had something to do with it. And I'm really not sure that I did. All I did was let go.

(And, just to be clear, this is my truth about my weight loss, not the truth about weight loss. Just so we're clear.)

Agnes and Adelaide

I went for a walk through the cemetery yesterday. The Logan Cemetery is one of my favorite spots in Cache Valley. It is peaceful, obviously quiet, and calm. Being there quells any anxiety I might be nurturing. Life can be very anxiety-producing, and everybody needs a getaway spot. I just happen to like hanging out with dead people. Don't be nervous; I don't see dead people, I just enjoy walking through their final resting place, soaking up the ambience.

Walking around looking at headstones gives me perspective. I think, as I walk, about all of these people for whom it is done. Whatever it is that they intended to do with their life, whatever plans they had, whatever worries rested upon their shoulders, exist no more. Gone with them, into whatever comes next. I don't wish my own life was over, and I don't relish the thought of joining my friends there in the cemetery. But it does help me to realize that most of what I worry about is temporary, and trivial. It reminds me to pay attention to what matters most in my life. Who matters most. The people I love.

Because love is what I feel when I walk through the cemetery. I am not a very spiritual person, meaning that I am not much in tune to what others have described as 'the spirit'. If it isn't concrete, I struggle to get it. Except in the cemetery. I read headstones, with their birth and death dates, and usually some clue to the relationship that existed between loved ones, and I'm moved by the emotion that went into creating that memorial. I'm moved by the connections that were formed, bonds that continue on after death. Some move me to tears. One in particular.

I stumbled across an old marker a couple of years ago, one that I feel compelled to return to, again and again. It is made out of cement, and shaped like a podium, with words etched into the top and sides. Across the top it reads:

To the

 Ever blessed memory of

Adelaide Cochran Barrett

 November 2, 1842 

January 20, 1910

This spot is forever dedicated by her friend

 Agnes C. Cassidy

There are other dates etched into the sides, presumably death and birth dates of Agnes. On either side of the podium, there are small headstones, each with only initials etched into the stone. ACB and ACC. And no other clues as to the relationship that existed between the two women. The first time I saw it, I leaned on the podium itself, read the words, and cried. My husband was with me at the time, and he remarked, "This must be the first feminist gravesite in the cemetery", because the site was dedicated by a woman. Maybe. I tried to research the names, using my friend Google, without any luck. I don't know who these women were; I don't know the relationship between them, whether they were sisters, sister-wives, neighbors, or best friends. Or lovers. All I do know is that Agnes loved Adelaide, so much so that she declared her devotion in stone, for all the world to see. And when I stand in front of it, I feel that love, and that connection. I take a regular route when I walk through the cemetery, pausing for a moment each time in front of this monument to two friends, reflecting on the relationship between Agnes and Adelaide. And vowing to love my own friends and family with the same devotion and dedication.

My religious journey has led me to an entirely unexpected place. I'm not fond of labels, but if I had to apply one to myself, it would be agnostic atheist. Meaning that I don't believe in God, but I don't know that one doesn't exist, and I'm not all that concerned with the question. I don't believe it is a knowable proposition. For me, anyway. Others claim to know, and I can't refute their testimony of their truth, because it is just that, their truth. And this is mine.

This week, a friend asked me about my morals, now that I no longer count myself amongst the religious. She had been in a conversation with another friend, who asserted that those who have lost their belief in God have also lost their moral compass. And she was interested to know what I thought, and where my beliefs came from, if not from God. I replied that I believe in integrity, and compassion, and in applying the Golden Rule in my relationships with others. What I left out was that I believe in humanity, in people, and in the deep, mysterious, powerful forces that connect us with one another. I believe in love. (And not just as a song lyric.) I believe in time spent nurturing those connections, and making sure that the people in my life know how much they mean to me.  Because, some day, I'm going to be six feet under (or sprinkled in the ocean, or mixed into potting soil for a tree), and it will be done. I will be no more. And the only things I will leave behind are the connections I made with the ones I love. Memories of our lives together, and maybe a headstone marking the spot of my final resting place.

I already know what I want that headstone to say. In the words of one of my favorite entertainers:

 

I'm so glad we've had this time together

Just to have a laugh, or sing a song.

Seems we just get started

And before you know it,

Comes the time we have to say,

So long.

Good night, everybody

 

 

That's it. That says it all. I had a great time, a few laughs, sang a goofy song or two, and it's over. And I hope that when people read it, especially my posterity, they will smile. And remember the love.

Little Miss Muffet no more

I have always lived in fear of spiders. Actually, terror. Visceral, gut-wrenching terror. It probably stems from the time my brother killed a spider at my behest, then laid the corpse on my pillow. Or the time a mother spider laid her babies in my light fixture, and all those babies drifted down oh so gently upon my bed as I lay in quiet repose. This fear followed me into my adulthood; I once called my husband home from work to save me from what appeared to be a giant arachnid intent on terrorizing me and my defenseless children. Only, as it turned out, the spider in question was already dead. I can still picture the look on hubby's face as he turned to face me, stifling a laugh (unsuccessfully, I might add), reporting the demise of the poor creature. When I looked closer, I could tell that it was already in an advanced state of decay. Fear had prevented me from noticing this before calling for my knight in shining armor.

My fear didn't feel to me like something I could control. I once had a therapist tell me that he could cure me, if I wanted him to. No, thanks, I said. I'd prefer to keep a healthy distance. Spiders are creepy, and crawly, and nightmarish. Shudder-inducing. I spent 18 months in Venezuela, the country of origin of the spiders featured in the hit film, Arachnophobia. I have never seen that movie; it was the one time my husband put his foot down and went all patriarchal on me. He said he valued his job, and couldn't waste any more time rescuing me from deceased insects. Just as well. I experienced those spiders first hand; seeing them in a starring role of a movie just might have driven me over the edge.

But, I fear spiders no more. At all. Just the other day, my youngest daughter screamed in terror and climbed onto the kitchen counter, attempting to escape a creepy crawler speeding across the floor. Of course, I rushed to see what was causing all the commotion, then grabbed a glass, trapped the spider beneath it, put a piece of paper underneath the glass, and took the spider outside, releasing it into the wild of the backyard. Leaving my daughter standing on the counter open-mouthed with astonishment. "Mom!", she said. "Why didn't you just step on it? Now it's going to come back in and get me!" Nah, I replied. It's safely outside, away from the possibility of being crushed underfoot. "You rescued the spider? I thought you were rescuing me!!" Nope, my darling girl. You had no need of rescue. You were never actually in danger. It was just a harmless critter, doing what critters do, looking for a place to hide from your screaming. I just helped him out, literally.

What caused this fundamental change? Interesting story, as it turns out. It has been an interesting journey, and I never foresaw this conclusion. Me, unafraid of spiders? Never, in my wildest dreams, did I think that was possible. Nor did I care. I could have spent the rest of my life stomping on them, gleefully sending them on to their next carnation, without a second thought. Except for how to get their squished remains off my shoe. And yet, here I am, defender of the creepy crawlers.

My transformation began over six years ago, when my beloved mother-in-law was diagnosed with cancer. I loved my MIL, and her diagnosis was devastating to me. She was the best person I've ever known. We didn't always see eye-to-eye, but it didn't matter. Her kind, compassionate soul was capable of overlooking any and all imperfections in her loved ones, me included. Because she had so lovingly raised the man who would grow up to protect me from dead arachnids, I saw an opportunity in her illness to return the love, and I promised her that I would do everything I could to get her through the experience.

For over three years, I took Norma to every doctor's appointment, and every chemotherapy appointment, except for maybe a handful. We became very close throughout the ordeal, sitting for hours together, sometimes talking, sometimes enjoying the respite from our crazy families. I began to see her as more than my husband's mother; she became my friend. My very dear friend. I didn't mind accompanying her, sitting with her, being her nurse when called for, interpreting the doctor's instructions for her, cleaning her up when necessary. I sat up with her all night in the hospital, incidentally the night before Mother's Day. I felt it was my duty to care for her, but it wasn't like most duties I performed, usually with resentment. I look back on those days with some fondness, in spite of the horror of the disease process, and the effects of the chemotherapy. Through serving her, I learned to truly love her. I would never wish such an experience on anybody else, but I can say that I am glad to have been through that with her. It changed my life in ways I'm still discovering, all these years later.

Norma had good days, and bad days, but the last six months of her life were mostly the latter. She deteriorated rapidly, and by the end of the summer of 2009, she was unable to participate in any meaningful way with her family. She had a daughter with severe disabilities, brought on by a brain tumor at the age of nine, and Norma had been her primary caretaker for 50 years. Her husband, my father-in-law, was also dependent upon Norma's ministrations. Their marriage was very traditional: husband worked to support the family, wife did everything else. Everything. She was the cook and housekeeper in every sense of the word. The daily grind laid upon her shoulders was heavy, but she bore it well, in the manner of women from her generation, without complaint. It was her lot in life, as she saw it, and she cheerfully went about the business of making life happen for those in her care. Until cancer stepped in, and put a stop to it. Then she had to lay the burden down, to the dismay of those who had so depended on her. They were unable to face her impending death, and were unable to allow her to accept that it was inevitable. Her husband told her once that choosing hospice was suicide. Ouch.

So, because they were unable to accept what was happening, she chose to keep fighting. Keep going for chemotherapy. Keep allowing the doctor to pump poison into her veins. Keep watching her life seep out through her pores. Keep smiling in spite of the loss of dignity, and the complete inability to care for herself, let alone others. I saw it as part of my job to make sure that she understood the options available to her, but I didn't think it was my place to make her choices for her. She had to be the one to call the game, end the torture. And, finally, she did. She had had a particularly rough day, and her husband had asked me, in despair, "How do you do what you do?" I just shrugged, and proceeded to bath her emaciated body as tenderly as I could. I could do it because I loved her. But, I told my husband that night (in a private conversation) that I could no longer sanction the continuation of chemotherapy by taking her to her appointments. If he, his siblings, and their father wanted it to continue, they were going to have to step up and take some responsibility for it. I could no longer take her into the doctor's office so they could inject her with the poison that was taking her life, and leaving an empty shell. However, the next day, before anybody else had a chance to make a decision, Norma spoke up, and she chose to be done. She looked me in the eyes, and said, "It's time. Call hospice." Hearing those words, I took control of the situation, and I made the necessary calls. With her permission, I stood between her and those who couldn't let her go, and I grabbed for her what dignity remained within reach. I didn't take my job lightly, but she had made her choice, and I was going to see to it that it was honored.

Once hospice stepped in, it took five long, agonizing weeks before she finally died. I was there at the end, standing at her bedside, watching as she drew her last breath, and the hospice nurse declared that her heart was no longer beating. I waited expectantly for some sign, some communication from Norma that she had made it safely to the other side. Some feeling, as I'd heard others express in similar situations, that the death had been attended to by otherworldly beings. Nothing. I felt nothing. She was just gone. What remained was an empty shell, just the flesh and blood remains of what had once been my mother-in-law. She was no more. I was sad, of course, but I also felt some small measure of satisfaction that I had done what needed to be done to release her from the agony that had become her life. I had stood up to those who lovingly insisted that she stay with them, without regards for her health, or her wishes. I loved her too, and would have liked nothing more than to have her stay here with us forever, but, as that wasn't possible, I take pride in the fact that I made sure she got what she really needed in the end.

Norma died in December of 2009. Just over a year later, our beloved yellow lab, almost 13-years-old, became feeble, and too weak to climb the deck stairs. It happened seemingly overnight, so we took her to the vet for a check-up. She had been limping, and favoring her left shoulder, so it was x-rayed to determine the problem. What the x-ray revealed was extensive cancer that had invaded her lungs, and it was so invasive that there was no way to determine the original site. There wasn't any other choice but to put her out of her misery. Libby was just a dog, just a pet, but she had been with us for so long that she was every bit as much a member of the family as I was. And the kids liked her more. It was a very painful decision, but, as I said to the kids when they questioned me, "How are you going to explain to a dog the side effects of chemotherapy? That the chemo will possibly, maybe, but probably not, save her life, but will more likely just prolong it, and make it miserable in the process?" They pointed out that Grandma's life had been prolonged by another 3 years after the diagnosis; why couldn't we do that for Libby? I reminded them of the hell that had become their beloved Grandma's life; was that what they wished for Libby? Of course not, they said. It was just heart-wrenching to have to say goodbye to their dog, their playmate.

The responsibility of that decision seemed to rest squarely on my shoulders. Everybody, hubby included, looked to me for confirmation that we were making the right choice. I questioned myself a few times, but the memory of what my mother-in-law had endured was fresh, and I couldn't see any other option than to put the poor dog out of her misery. We chose the following Saturday morning, the day before Easter, to have the vet come to the house and perform the procedure. It was a somber occasion, and we all walked around in a tearful daze. We went out and sat on the back lawn, waiting for the vet, and watched the dog limp around, wandering from house to canal, sniffing her old haunts. Crying, each of us of taking turns sobbing uncontrollably, petting the dog obsessively whenever she was within reach. I can remember clearly the details of that spring morning, the bright blue sky overhead, and the songbirds in the nearby trees. I can even still feel the damp grass underneath my knees as I knelt beside the dog.

The vet finally arrived, and proceeded to place an intravenous catheter in Libby's paw. Once that was done, she paused, and told us it was time to say goodbye. We were sitting in a circle, with Libby in the center, petting her fur and telling her through tears how much we loved her, and how much we would miss her. I remember noticing that the birds had stopped singing; I think our grief was so loud, we scared them. As the vet injected the heart-stopping drug, Libby turned her head to look at me. I had been feeling the tremendous weight of this decision all week, and it had intensified in that moment. Libby looked right into my eyes, and held my gaze until the light went out. Those beautiful brown eyes closed for the last time, and she dropped her head into Alix's lap. I know, in my rational mind, that she was just a dog, just a dumb animal, but I felt, in that last moment, that she was forgiving me for the events I had set in motion, and thanking me for insisting that we let her go. It was one of the most meaningful moments of my entire life, and, even now, I am moved to tears at the memory.

A few weeks after Libby died, I was sitting in an Adirondack chair on the front porch, visiting with a friend, enjoying a lovely summer evening. I happened to glance over at the table that sat between the chairs, and noticed a medium-sized, black spider slowly crawling along the edge. Hubby was standing nearby, and I said, with some alarm, "Honey! Kill that spider! It's creepy!" He ambled over, peered down at the spider, and said, "Spider! You, having been deemed creepy by my wife, have hereby been sentenced to die!" And he smashed it. Smashed that sucker flat. And I had a very unexpected reaction: I burst into tears. I had been the one to sentence the spider to death, and for what? Being a spider? A creepy one, sure, but still. I had held in my hand this creature's life, for a brief moment, and I had cavalierly decided its fate. It died, because I felt threatened by its creepy existence. I had taken upon myself the responsibility to determine another living being's fate, and I had taken it lightly. And it was too much. It was just too much.

It had been me who had taken steps to honor Norma's wishes, and it had been me who had decided to end Libby's life. And it was me who decided that a measly spider was too creepy to live. Life, in all its carnations, is sacred, and should be cherished. I know, I know! It was just a spider! And they're still creepy, and crawly, and, to be honest, if I were facing down a spider with an ominous red hourglass marking on its belly, I just might have to rethink my position regarding the sanctity of life. However, until then, I'm done playing God. I have no way of knowing where all these deceased loved ones, and creepy things, have gone, no way of knowing if they have gone anywhere at all; therefore, I'm through playing judge and jury. Creepy things, crawly things, rabid squirrels, all are safe within my presence. Except maybe for the squirrels. I'm not stupid, after all.

It is always now

Last week, I poured all of my sorrow into a blog post, my longing for the life I didn't get to have. It was good to get it out, as it was festering, and threatening to overwhelm me with regret. However, it's time to move on. It's time to get back to the business of living the life I did get. And it's a pretty good one.

I had a couple of a-ha moments this week, both inspired by friends who, without knowing it, gave me exactly what I needed, exactly when I needed it. Life works that way sometimes.

An old friend called me several days ago, and in the course of our conversation, I was reminded of a story she told me a few years ago, a story that helped her cope with a life-changing diagnosis given to her young son. Imagine that you have planned a trip to Italy, a dream vacation that has been months, maybe years in the making. You have the perfect itinerary mapped out, with visits to Sicily, Naples, Venice, the coliseum. Hiking in the Alps. Playing on the beach. Wine-tasting in Tuscany. Strolling through the courtyards and cobblestone streets of Rome. Seeing the Vatican up close and personal. Truly a dream vacation. (Stop stressing about the cost! You won the lottery, okay?!) This is the trip of a lifetime, and you are excitedly anticipating your grand adventure.

Then the plane lands, and you are not in Italy. You have arrived in Holland. The land of rain, and wind. No Rome, or Tuscany, or coliseum. No sunny beaches. No tour of wine country. What a let-down this is. Holland?! Holland! This is a miserable turn of events. (A friend pointed out to me, upon hearing this story, that somebody needs to fire the pilot!) This is not where you wanted to go, where you had planned to go, the trip of a lifetime. All that anticipation, and no satisfaction. I wanted to go to Italy! I planned to go to Italy! I don't want to vacation in Holland! Sigh.

So, now you have a choice. Mourn your lost trip to Italy, or explore Holland and find out what it has to offer? Many people actually plan trips to Holland, intentionally! Maybe there is something to see and enjoy here after all? As it turns out, Holland has many treasures awaiting you, even a world-famous, beautiful beach. All is not lost! You can still have the vacation of a lifetime; it just won't be the one you planned.

I'm reminded of a line from a favorite movie, Dan in Real Life. "Instead of telling our young people to plan ahead, we should tell them to plan to be surprised." Planning ahead isn't the problem; it's good to have goals, ideas about what we want from life, and how we're going to get there. But, life is full of surprises, confusing twists and turns, unexpected forks in the road. That is one of the constants of life, it's unpredictability. Just when you think you've got it all figured out, someone or something comes along and bam! Everything changes. Sometimes in an instant. So where does one go from there? Sit and stew and mourn? Or move ahead, exploring Holland's beaches, and cobblestone streets, and historical monuments? And their wine country. Yes, Holland has world-famous wines! All is not lost. It just requires a change of heart, an acceptance that the dream of exploring Italy did not come true, but a new dream is possible. And a willingness to explore your new reality, being open to all that it has to offer. Welcome to Holland.

My other a-ha moment came while watching an excerpt from a Sam Harris lecture, posted by a friend on facebook. "It is always now". You need to go watch it. Now. Really. It won't take long, and it might give you something to think about. I experienced an epiphany while listening to this short narrative. A realization that I'm wasting the 'now' by mourning the 'what-could-have-been'. This is the reality I have been given by fate, the universe, life. I didn't plan to be here; in fact, I didn't really plan much of anything. I didn't 'plan' a trip to Italy, but I certainly didn't expect to end up in Holland. However, my life could be worse. I could have landed in Algeria. (hugs to my friend; you know who you are!) I'm here, with a loving, kind, adoring husband. Four great kids. A job I like, one that provides security and benefits to my family, which is no small thing in today's world. Friends. Extended family. Shelter. More food than I need. I have a lot, and I'm mourning what I don't have? The Eagles said it best, in Desperado: "Now it seems to me, some fine things have been laid upon your table, but you only want the ones that you can't get." I have some fine things upon my table. I don't want to miss what is here, right now, because I can't get over the ones that I can't get.

"The past is a memory, a thought arising in the present. The future is merely anticipated; it is another thought, arising now. What we truly have is this moment." Wise words from Sam Harris. I have now, right now, this very moment, and it is always now.

Regrets. . .

A facebook friend posed a question this week that has worked its way under my skin, and won't let go until I address it. She was asking for advice from those of us who left the church after age 40: what would we do differently if we had it to do over again (paraphrased)? I responded that it was too painful to explore the past, and I can only move one direction: forward. Without regrets.

But I do feel regret. And sorrow. And loss. And the 'what if' is killing me. Because I think the church did steal something from me; they took the future I could have had, the future I should have had, the life I've imagined and dreamed about in those moments when I wasn't aware I was dreaming of anything at all.

As a kid in elementary school, I knew I was smart. I was always at the top of my class in every subject, and I was very confident in my intellectual abilities. I don't remember my school performance being mentioned at home; I think it was just assumed that we would all do well academically. We were raised by parents who believed in education; we weren't allowed to miss school for anything but a bonafide illness (though that might have been because school was an acceptable babysitter!), and it was always assumed that each of us would do at least some college. My parents weren't college graduates themselves, and they wanted us to have the opportunities they had missed due to circumstances beyond their control. But I don't remember ever being praised at home for being smart. I also do not remember my future ever being addressed, beyond that of being a wife and mother. I may have been smart, but I was a Mormon girl, and there were (and are) certain expectations of Mormon girls that precluded career dreams. Even for a pre-pubescent elementary school student.

Once I hit junior high school, I discovered my true voice: sarcasm. I'm a genuine smart-ass at heart, much to the dismay of my parents and teachers. I ended up in the principal's office more than once, more than twice even, and was reprimanded by English teachers, math teachers, science teachers, seminary teachers. One thing I did not excel in was self-control. But I digress. The point is that I lost confidence in my intelligence. Maybe because it wasn't acknowledged by parents or teachers, maybe because I drowned it out with my antics. I managed to do well enough to stay off my parent's radar, keeping my grades in the adequate range, but I did not display any sign of ambition or even concern for my future. When I think back on my high school days, I don't remember any encouragement to consider what I wanted to do with myself in the future. It was assumed that I would marry, have children, and stay home and raise them. Maybe it had a lot to do with the fact that I never expressed an interest in a particular career; maybe nobody expected more from me because I didn't expect anything from myself. All I know is that I floated through to graduation, with no concrete ideas for my future beyond the next year. I did plan to pursue a degree in elementary education, but only because I'd been told that teaching would fit in well with motherhood; I'd be able to be home with my kids during their breaks from school, if I had to work, and I'd have skills that would make me a better parent. But I had no real interest in teaching. It was a fall-back plan, the only one I had, besides find a suitable Mormon guy, marry him, and start on our eternal family unit.

My first year of college, I discovered the LDS Institute of Religion on campus. Thus began my years of greatest religiosity. I became immersed in LDSSA (Latter Day Saint Student Association), even serving on the board, participating in every activity religiously. Pun intended. I wasn't very focused on my secular education, having discovered that elementary education was not the career for me. But I didn't have a plan to replace that one, and I was thoroughly enjoying college life. Institute life, anyway. And it was because of my activity there that I decided to serve a mission. That had not been part of my master plan, but it felt like the right thing at the time, and I do not regret that decision.

After my mission, I had some serious decisions to make. I realized that my life to that point had lacked direction and focus, and that I couldn't count on Prince Charming showing up, sweeping me off my feet, and carrying me off into eternal bliss. That was my goal, as I'd been taught, but it wasn't a goal I could make happen. I could not make a checklist that would result in marriage the same way I could plan for a career. And it appeared that I would need to do something while I waited for the man of my dreams. Ugh. Just thinking about that gives me hives. But, that is the reality of a Mormon girl. Maybe not all Mormon girls, but it was true for this one.

Before my mission, I had considered nursing school, and had applied a couple of times. The first time, I was not accepted; the second time, I was accepted, but I declined as I was too involved with LDSSA. I didn't want to interrupt my fun with the serious pursuit of a career. About a week after I returned from my mission, I received an acceptance letter from the nursing program at Weber State. I hadn't re-applied, as I was out of the country when applications were due, and to this day, it is a mystery how my application ended up being processed. I figured it was heavenly intervention, that it was 'meant to be', and I accepted gratefully. I needed to do something, and nursing seemed like a good fit. Turned out, it was a great fit. I loved it from the moment I started. Nursing school was intense, but fun at the same time. I felt like I had found my niche.

After graduation, I accepted a job at LDS Hospital in Salt Lake City. And I couldn't believe I was getting paid to do what I was doing! It was a great time in my life; I had a job I liked, I was living away from home in the big city, and I was meeting all kinds of interesting people. People who had not grown up with all the Mormon expectations. It was heady, and I was getting a glimpse of a world I had not even dreamed existed. After working for a couple of years in Salt Lake, I went to work as a traveling nurse. Let me 'splain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up. Hawaii and Boston. Good times. Fabulous experiences. My only regret from that period of my life is that I didn't go to more places. But, home and family were calling, so I returned to Utah, and got a job at Primary Children's Hospital. And it was through that job that I met my husband. More specifically, through the mother of a patient.

Meeting Daron deserves a post all it's own. Someday, maybe. The important point for this post is that, shortly before meeting him, I'd started the paperwork necessary to return to school for a bachelor's degree in nursing. I had become a bit restless, and was feeling ready for a return to the world of academia. However, by the time the paperwork had all been processed, and I was accepted into the program, I had become engaged. I was embarking on the adventure I'd long awaited, that of wife and mother, and I didn't see how furthering my education would be of any benefit. And I would have had to travel an hour each way to attend, as this was in the days before the internet made education more accessible. So, once again, I turned down an opportunity to pursue higher education. A decision I would later regret. But, at the time, I was focused on fulfilling my potential in God's kingdom. At last, I would become a wife, and I assumed motherhood was not far off. Correctly, I might add.

Marriage and motherhood fulfilled all of my wildest dreams. Okay, that's a lie. But, it was fulfilling, and I liked my life with Daron. We had 2 little girls pretty quickly, and they were fun, funny, and delightful kids. I was still working once or twice a week as a nurse, which was rather difficult as Daron was also doing shift work as a Sheriff's Deputy. Matching our schedules was a constant battle. It seemed that one or the other of us was always working, so we never had any family time. When the girls were 2 and 4 years old, we decided that the best decision for our family was for me to become a stay at home mom. A full time mom. I had had a job since I was fifteen years old, except for the 18 months I was a missionary, and I approached the idea with some trepidation. But, our stake president was a pretty traditional sort, and he had said, in a meeting once, that the Lord's way was for mothers to stay home with the children, and for fathers to provide for their needs financially. This was before the 'proclamation on the family' came out, which spelled out pretty clearly the same message. Mothers are, by divine design, meant to nurture and guide the daily lives of the little ones entrusted to their care. And at the time, I was very invested in following God's plan for me. Thus followed some of the darkest days of my life.

I was initially excited to get to be home all the time, and be my own boss. I wouldn't have to set my schedule by anybody else's needs, except my family's, of course. But I would be the boss, the big cajuna, the reigning authority. Oh, the naivete!

The excitement wore off within just a few months, and depression set in. Deep, dark, gray, heavy, bottomless depression. Depression that I could taste, and smell. Depression that sucked all the color out of the world. The summer of 1995, in my memory, had no sun, no warmth. No cold either. Just a whole lot of nothing. I had never before felt so hopeless, and so helpless. I never felt the urge to take my own life, but I started reading the obituaries with a longing that scared me. I wanted to be done. Even the sight of my daughter's beautiful faces wasn't enough to jolt me out of my despair. In fact, looking at my daughters deepened my depression. They were girls, females, lesser beings in God's kingdom. And I couldn't see a better future for them than I could envision for myself. I'd given birth to girls, who would grow up, get married, and give birth to girls, who would grow up, get married, and give birth to girls, who would grow up, get married, and give birth to girls. Into infinity. And for what? To what end? To always be at someone else's service? When would it get to be our turn?

Up to this point in my life, I hadn't spent much time considering my lot in life. I had just accepted that, as a female, my greatest joy and fulfillment would come through marriage and motherhood. That's what my mom did, and most of the other mothers I knew. They were moms, and their lives and needs and desires took a back seat to their family's lives and needs and desires. I had not wanted anything more for myself, because nobody had ever suggested that more was available. Sounds rather naive now, but growing up in the sixties and seventies, in Utah, there was one path open to me. Motherhood. And the implied promise was that it would be enough. I would raise up a righteous generation, and my reward would be in seeing them succeed. And yet, it wasn't enough. I was not fulfilled, I was not satisfied, I was not happy. Being a stay at home mom was killing me slowly.

Daron could see what was happening, and when he suggested therapy, I was grateful to him for pointing me in that direction. I began to see a therapist, and I started a journey that would forever change my life.

What I learned in therapy can be summed up in relatively few words. Don't believe everything you tell yourself. And don't believe everything anybody else tells you, either. I learned to challenge my own thinking, and to face reality as it is rather than how I wish it would be. It is what it is. I might just tattoo that on my forehead.

As part of therapy, it was recommended that I exercise daily. I chose to walk, heading out every morning before Daron had to leave for work. Walking was as therapeutic as talking, allowing me time alone with my thoughts before dealing with the girls' needs. And, one day, I realized what was missing in my life. Me. I was missing. And I had been for a very long time. Who was I, and who did I want to be? What did I envision for my future? If motherhood wasn't enough, what else did I need? And I also realized that it was okay to think of my own needs as well as my family's. I mattered! And what I wanted mattered. If this was the only life I was going to get, what did I want it to look like? What did *I* want? What did I need? And it came to me in a flash: I wanted to go back to school. I wanted the bachelor's degree I'd denied myself for so long. And I felt excited about my life for the first time in a long time.

I started back to school in January of 1996, pursuing a bachelor's degree in Family and Human Development. The only word I can come up with to describe what I felt during that time is joy. Pure, unadulterated joy. It was the time of my life. I discovered a passion for learning that I had never before tapped in to. I was in my element. And I was having fun. Classes were fun, studying was fun, writing papers was fun. Everything about it was fun. I have to admit, I became a bit of a teacher's pet. My professors loved me! I was fortunate enough to be a research assistant for one of my favorite teachers, and fellow students looked to me for extra tutoring in statistics and research methods. Me! It was an amazing experience, and even now, I feel a bit of a thrill at the memory. I had found myself in a most unlikely place. And when I graduated, I was summa cum laude, a completely unexpected honor. But, wow, what a ride.

The last year of my program, I became pregnant with our son. We had always planned on having more children, and we had timed his birth to coincide with my graduation. So, when the dean of my college called and asked me to apply for a fellowship for graduate school, I very reluctantly told him no. I still believed that being my kids' mother, full time, was the right path. Getting my bachelor's degree was just a detour, and I was returning to my family to resume the role I thought God expected of me. And I don't regret being there for my kids. I had invited them into my life; I was happy to spend my days seeing to their needs. But. And this is a very big 'but'. Had I learned nothing? Did I really think I'd be satisfied making motherhood my career? It hadn't been enough before, why did I think anything had changed? Because it hadn't. Not really. I still yearned to be more than somebody's wife, somebody's mother. I wanted to be me, whatever that meant.

It has been almost 16 years since I graduated with my bachelor's degree, and in that time I have returned to work full time, out of necessity. Daron retired from the Sheriff's office, and we still had a growing family to support. I didn't mind stepping up to the plate; fortunately, I was able to go back to a job I enjoy. And my life is good, mostly. But, there is still that 'but'. That very big 'but'.

Who could I have been had I known that I had choices? That I could be anything, and anyone, that I wanted to be? That I could have had dreams beyond marriage and motherhood? That my life was mine to mold into whatever form fit me? How far could I have gone? This is the 'what if' that haunts my dreams, and exposes the hole in my center. I didn't fill that hole as a young adult because I wasn't aware of its existence. Some would say that I have no one to blame but myself, that I wasn't attentive and mindful of the options available. And they would be right. To a certain extent. But, the culture in which I was raised, with its Mormon ideals and notions of what it is to be female, this informed my life choices as well. I set my sights low because I'd been taught to set them low. I bought into the picture presented by those I looked to for guidance, assuming that what was fulfilling and satisfying for some would be right for me. It wasn't, and that is my biggest regret. I don't regret having a family, becoming a mother, and I don't regret spending time raising and nurturing my children. I regret that I neglected myself in the process. I neglected my gifts, and I neglected my soul. "Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: It might have been."

Today, I watched my 22-year-old daughter receive her own bachelor's degree. I felt pride, and joy. And regret. I want a do-over. I want to go back to my young adulthood, and figure out who I am supposed to be without the constraints placed upon me by religious dogma. I want to own my choices, to know that the person I became was the person I was meant to become. But I can't. There are no do-overs. So, my advice, as one who discovered all of this a bit late? You only get one life, as far as I know, and it is up to you to ensure that it is the life you want. And that it looks like you. No regrets.

Inconceivable

"You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means," said Inigo to Vizzini. (Anyone not getting that reference is sadly lacking in their 80's pop culture!) This phrase comes to my mind frequently when I hear people say that they 'know' something that is empirically impossible to prove. Like, for example, "I know that the church is true." I don't believe that is 'knowledge', per say. Not as Webster defines it, anyway. Or me.

To know something means to "be aware of the truth or factuality of, be convinced or certain of, to have a practical understanding of", the fact or idea in question. Or, to have sexual intercourse with. But that strays into an entirely different facet of 'knowing' that I won't go into today. Some other time, perhaps.

A couple of years ago, my husband and I had some fierce battles about what it meant to know. Until one day, when I shouted in frustration, "You can't know something that can't be proved! You can hope, and you can believe, but, you can't know!" To which he replied, "You did." And I had to concede the point. There was one instance, one time, when I did indeed 'know' something that could not be proven.

My third child, a son, was born when I was 36. I felt ancient, way too old to be having a child, and I vowed that he was it. I was done. That decision felt right and good, and I was content. Until the day I brought him home from the hospital. I'd sensed a disquieting murmur in the back of my mind, something I couldn't get a handle on, or name, since he'd been born, but I'd chalked it up to the trauma of giving birth. Trauma doesn't fully describe it, but this isn't a birthing blog, so I'll skip over the horror of pushing a fully developed 9 1/2 pound human being out of my body. (I'm having flashbacks! Get me some chocolate, quick!!)

The early days and weeks after my son's birth were difficult ones. He was fussy and cranky whenever we left the house, screaming for hours in the car or at Lagoon or Bear Lake or the store. Anywhere I took him, he was unhappy. Daron said that he must be a homebody, because he was pretty content when we were at home. He just didn't like being on public display, I guess. I think this was an early manifestation of the anxiety that has plagued him throughout his young life. He liked continuity, and structure, and boundaries; still does. None of which came easily to me.

He also liked just sitting in his car seat. I'd put him in the seat and place him on the kitchen floor, and he would watch me intently as I moved about. And, occasionally, I'd catch him smiling and waving, and I'd smile back, thinking he was looking at me. Except when I got up close, I could tell he wasn't; his attention seemed focused on something beyond me, something over my shoulder that wasn't there when I turned around. I figured it had more to do with the inability of babies to focus their eyes than on anything supernatural. But it kept happening, and kind of started to freak me out.

Then there was the feeling that had been dogging me ever since I'd given birth to him. And even now, almost 16 years later, I can't get the words right. Attempting to describe it makes me feel anxious. And derisive. I don't put much stock in stories people tell of visitations they've had from the great beyond. I'm just skeptical. But, I couldn't deny this very strong feeling I had that there was another child waiting to be part of our family. Ugh. That sounds so "Saturday's Warrior". I may have to turn in my skeptic's card for this. So be it.

Anyway, this feeling I had wasn't a pleasant one. I really, really did not want another child. More specifically, I didn't want another pregnancy. I was a cranky expectant momma, and I had no desire to repeat the experience. But I couldn't shake it. After about 10 weeks of suffering silently (something else that doesn't come easily to me!), I voiced my fears out loud. I told my husband that I felt like there was another child for us, and that it was a girl. And he laughed. He said, and I quote, "You can't know that!" But I did. I knew it. I didn't want to know it, had spent the previous 2 1/2 months denying it. But there it was. And I'd said it out loud, so there was no going back. And, once I'd said the words, the feelings of anxiety I'd had went away. And my son quit waving to imaginary beings hanging out over my shoulder.

Hubby had always wanted more children, so he was more than willing to go along with my story. We decided not to delay . We weren't getting any younger, and I had plans for my life post children that I didn't want to postpone any longer than I had to. I had not had any difficulty getting pregnant with any of the other children, and I had no reason to believe that this time would be any different. Except for my age. Apparently, eggs are not viable forever. And thus began the strange odyssey that resulted in Grace's birth.

The first year of infertility taught me only that I don't always get what I want, when I want it, even when I think it is also what God wants. It was a difficult lesson. Even in my adulthood, I continue to act like a petulant child. I threw several tantrums that year, crying and wailing, angry at God for telling me that I should have another child, then not following through. We tried, month after bloody month (no pun intended--- I just like using British swear words). To no avail. I wasn't getting pregnant. After a few months, I went to the doctor to see what the problem was. And I started tracking my temperature every morning, trying to pinpoint ovulation so we could time our 'coupling' (or 'knowing', if you'd prefer), and get this damn kid here already! Sex used to be fun. Now it became a chore. Success wasn't measured by pleasure, only by peeing on a stick. Thinking of the desperation of those days makes me a little anxious again.

About a year into it, I did get pregnant, but I only found out because I was having a miscarriage. I still haven't figured out the 'why' of that one. I want everything to have a reason, to make sense, and that didn't. But it did spur us on to consider more aggressive means to achieve our end goal. So I started on fertility pills. That wasn't any more fun than actual pregnancy. In fact, less fun. It felt like pregnancy, except that it wasn't. All the hormonal misery, none of the excitement. And I wondered if maybe I was putting my faith in the arm of flesh instead of God, and if that was why I wasn't pregnant. Was God testing me? (I don't miss that Mormon mindset--- sometimes life just happens, and it isn't about God at all.)

In the midst of my all-consuming quest to get pregnant, we attended a regional conference in which Jeffrey R. Holland spoke. He 'congratulated' those present for their faithfulness in attending, joking about the Mormon tendency to view conference days as 'vacation from church' days. He then proceeded to pronounce an apostolic blessing on the congregation. I was all ears at this point. He promised us that, according to our faithfulness, the righteous desires of our hearts would be granted. I was moved to tears, thinking those words were for me alone. Hubby and I were not regular conference attenders, and had dragged our young ones there believing that we would be blessed for making the effort. And there it was! A promise, from an apostle's mouth, that what I really, really wanted, my righteous desire, would be granted. Because I had attended conference that day. (I blush now at my naivete. But, I so wanted to believe his words.)

Because of the promise made, I assumed, wrongly it turned out, that I'd be pregnant the next month. I was almost giddy with excitement. Then, the crushing disappointment when it didn't happen almost did me in. I was depressed, and angry at God, and despaired that any of my feelings had ever had any validity. I prayed desperately, begging God to tell me why I had been given this prompting, only to be disappointed over and over again. What was the point? What was the lesson? What do You want? Just tell me, and I'll do it! Anything! Sigh. . . I mostly just wanted to get on with my life, stop wanting something I obviously couldn't have, and be content with what I had been given. I wanted the yearning gone. But the feeling, the 'knowing', persisted. Where was she? Was I not faithful enough for this blessing to be fulfilled? What more do You want? Tell me, please.

And then, one night, as I sat wallowing in my despair, throwing myself a good old-fashioned pity party, I got what I needed. And it came in a most unexpected way. I was up late, surfing TV stations mindlessly, not finding anything that could hold my attention for long, when I landed on the very end of an episode of "The Simpsons". I've never, ever watched an entire episode of that particular show, but for some reason, I hesitated to change the channel, and sat through the credits as they rolled past. I was that depressed. At the very end of the credits, a screen comes up with the logo for the production company responsible for the show, a screen that looks like a movie theater, and the words, "Gracie Films" pops up. And I knew, in that moment I knew, that I would have a daughter, and her name would be Grace. I knew it, and I can still feel the certainty of that moment. I cannot explain it, but it was as real to me as the remote control I held in my hand. Grace. A name that had never come up for consideration when discussing our future daughter. Grace. A gift, given freely, simply, without merit. Gracie.

I wrote in my journal that night, an infrequent event but one I'm glad for today. It was a short entry, just one sentence: "Within a year, we will have a daughter, and her name will be Grace." That was it. And it was dated April 27th, 2000. My daughter, Grace, was born on April 26th, 2001. One day short of a year. A prophetic birth, it would seem. And she was, from the very beginning, her brother's friend. They had a closer bond than I'd ever seen between siblings, and I attributed that bond to their pre-earth life together. We have joked with him, when he gets frustrated at her, that he is the one who invited her to join our family. So he has no one to blame but himself! (Their close bond has been tested severely by the trials and tribulations of puberty, both his and hers! But they are still close; I suspect they always will be.)

I was arrogant that day, when I challenged my husband's assertion that he 'knew' the church was true. And forgetful. I don't 'know' very many things, not like he professes to know, but I knew that Grace would be a part of our family. I don't know or understand the source of that knowledge, I don't have a clue what preceded this life, or what will follow, but, once upon a time, I 'knew' something that I could not prove. I knew that I would have a daughter. I just didn't know how much I would love her. She is Grace; beautiful, funny, insightful, forgetful, forgiving, loving, joyful, happy. Grace. And I'm so glad to know her.

CTR (or, as Grace would say, cuh-tuh-err)

It's been almost three years since I came out. As an unbeliever, that is. I don't mean to hijack the phrase from a group of people for whom it has deep meaning, but there are parallels. Telling the people closest to you that you aren't who they always thought you were, whether straight or religious, is painful, and potentially life altering. Looking into my husband's eyes, and revealing to him that I did not believe what he believes, felt to him (as he told me later) like I was asking for a spiritual divorce. The eternity he had envisioned for us disappeared in an instant, and he was left trying to figure out who we were without our joint Mormon identity. No easy task.

We had many emotional, painful conversations over the next few months. He pleaded with me to endure to the end, to pray more, to read my scriptures as I'd been commanded. He struggled to understand how I could not believe what was so clearly true to him. How we could look at the same evidence, and come to completely different, and opposing, conclusions. How I could contemplate giving up my eternal glory with him and our future spirit children for the sake of 'authenticity'. He even wondered if our marriage could survive my change of heart. He thought since I'd changed my mind about the church, I might change my mind about him. Once he spoke those words out loud, I quickly put to rest that notion. I didn't change my mind about the church; I simply allowed myself to accept what I'd deep down suspected, that I wasn't a believer, not in any religion, and I had no desire to worship deity of any kind. With that acceptance came peace, the first real, true peace I'd ever felt, and it resonated deeply within my heart.

I had no intention of changing my mind about him. Marrying my husband was one of the best decisions I have ever made. Maybe the best. He is home to me. He is the calm at the center of my stormy life. He stills my soul. He provides a peaceful place to rest when all about me swirls frantically out of control. When the world is just too much. When I don't think I can tolerate another tragic news story, or crappy day at work, or disrespectful child. Whatever comes my way, I can take it, so long as I have him to lean on. He is my rock.

I'm still not sure what he is getting out of this relationship. Sex? Yeah, but I'm not convinced that what he is currently getting is enough to put up with the crazy. I'm not sure if any amount would compensate! So, why does he stick around? It's a puzzle to me, but he assures me that he loves me, is still in love with me, and wants to be with me forever. Whatever forever means. But, I think it took awhile for him to reach that conclusion. I made sure to express my love and appreciation for him frequently and fervently, and I tried to show him through my actions that I still valued our marriage. And we briefly consulted a counselor. I wanted Daron to hear me say some difficult things, with a third party present to soften the blow, and I needed him to know that this wasn't a mid-life crisis, or a passing phase. And, slowly, he seemed to get the message.

His heart attack, in the middle of that first year, served as a catalyst for both of us to re-evaluate our priorities, and to determine what mattered more: shared religious beliefs, or the bond we'd forged through two decades of married life. Yes, we married each other partly because we'd found someone who presumably shared our faith, someone worthy to marry in the temple, someone who wanted to raise a family in the gospel. Those things were all factors in our desire to be together. But, there was more to our relationship than the common bond of church. From the beginning, he was my best friend, the one person I most wanted to see first thing every morning, and the last one I wanted to talk to every night. And I know he felt the same way about me. I don't pretend to understand mortality or eternity, what came before this life or what will follow it, but I do feel very strongly that Daron and I were meant to be together for this period of time, and that has not changed. Not even a little.

After that first year, Daron seemed to find some peace regarding my religious leanings. I'm not sure exactly what it was that changed in him, but he came to accept me as I am, not as he'd like me to be. When asked by the counselor how he was able to make this work, as a change of faith seems to be a dealbreaker in many marriages, his response was that he believed in a loving, kind God, one who would not punish him for loving his wife by sentencing him to an eternity without her. And he said, and I quote, "I'd rather go to hell with Verlyne than to heaven with anyone else." Pretty awesome words. Pretty awesome man.

So, when all was said and done, he chose me. He chose our life together, imperfect as it is, rather than start over with someone else, someone who might see eternity as he sees it. He chose to support me as I've questioned some of our deeply held religious and moral convictions, even holding my hand as I got my first tattoo. A tattoo he helped design. Which, incidentally, is a four-leaf clover with the word 'lucky' in the center, placed over my heart, chosen as a symbol of our life together, which started on St. Patrick's Day, 1989. And I feel 'lucky' that he chose me. And that he continues to choose me. Lucky. Yep, that's me. Lucky.

Today, December 16, 2012, is an auspicious day for Mormon Feminists. It is "Wear Pants to Church" day. This event was created to give Mormon women, those who struggle with patriarchy, a place to begin a dialogue that many hope will lead to greater equality within the church. All that has led up to this day, and the many reasons it is needed, would take more words than I have to spare in explanation. I have stated my feelings on patriarchy elsewhere in this blog; suffice it to say that it was the last nail in the coffin that held my testimony. I walked away from the church, and all it represents, and have not looked back. No regrets. I can identify with those women, my sisters, who stay and hope for change within the ranks, but for me, it is done.

That being said, I have struggled this week as I have contemplated returning to church, wearing pants, showing solidarity with my sisters in their struggle to be heard, to have their pain acknowledged. Many of the women who have spoken out on facebook, and through other social media, I consider to be my friends. Women who love the church, who believe it to be the church of Jesus Christ himself, a divine institution led by their Savior. Women who know it isn't all it could be, as long as it continues to deny women the voice they believe their God intends them to have. I love these women, and I want them to see their hopes fulfilled. I want them to have what they want, what they need, to assume their rightful place next to men of God. As women of God, divinely inspired to lead and govern with all the power available to their male counterparts.

But as much as I want to support my sisters, two things hold me back. First of all, I do not share their testimony of the church. For me, patriarchy is a clear indication that religion is man-made, and simply reflects the greater society. And the social mores of the mid-nineteenth century, when the Mormon church got it's start, dictated that women assume a secondary role. So, even if the church decided to level the playing field and allow women to serve alongside the men, (truly alongside them, not presided over by them), it wouldn't change anything for me. It wouldn't make the church any more true. As a non-believer, I'm afraid that my support will not lend credence to their cause.

My other reason for staying home today: my husband. He has lovingly supported me as I have looked for answers to life's big questions. And he has continued to stand by me in spite of the fact that I have found my answers outside of his chosen faith. As stated above, he chose me. So, today, I choose him. I choose not to enter the sacred space he has carved out for himself to worship his Savior in peace. I choose not to make his pew a place to make my stand. I choose not to call unwelcome attention to him and our still-active children, to place them on the radar of those who would punish them for loving me. I have made my exit quietly, without fanfare, out of respect for them and their desire to worship how, where, and what they may. Therefore, I cannot in good conscience reenter their world in protest, even though my decision to stay home hurts a cause I believe in. Hurts women I love and respect.

My thoughts have turned frequently today to the many sisters who chose to worship clothed in their 'Sunday best' pants. I truly hope they get what they most want, and indeed deserve. But I'll have to be content to support them from the vantage point of the unbeliever, and hope they'll understand my decision. And support my choice, as I support theirs. Long live Pantsapalooza 2012!