Squatters Pub and Brewery (2 blocks from the Sunstone Symposium)
147 West Broadway
Salt Lake City, UT

Since many of us will be coming from Sunstone, we may get there closer to 1:00. We’ll reserve a big room and a huge table to accomodate anyone who would like to come. If you happen to be in town, we’d love to meet you!

Just leave a comment below if you want us to reserve a spot for you.  Hope to see you there!

People, religious people mostly, like to know where I belong. Saying that I’m an unorthodox Mormon makes no sense to many and tends to upset most of those in my faith who are orthodox. I guess they like to call me ‘lukewarm’ or a ‘fence sitter’. Though I usually run hot and tend to speed walk every where I go.  It has been a challenge to realize that while I don’t participate in most of the “church” duties of my religion, I still am happy and proud to be a Mormon.

It’s been an envious realization that most of my friends in other faiths have the option of the level of activity in their faith. Yet, they also have no qualms in actually claiming that faith–even if they haven’t been to church in five years. Most of my Jewish friends are unorthodox and that is just fine. Their roots, their identity, is still solid in Judaism, without them having to wear a prayer shawl. And they don’t have a fear of ever being kicked out of the Jewish faith. Once a Jew, always a Jew. This goes for most of my Catholic friends as well. They attend church twice a year, use birth control, live with someone before they marry them (if they ever marry), and the like.  Most people my age do many things not authorized in their religion. However, never, but never, would they ever say they were not Catholic. It’s their foundation. It’s who they are.

It’s a little different if you are a Mormon. You don’t really hold that power. If you do not qualify to attend the temple, you do not pay tithing, you like the occasional glass of red wine,  you live with your boyfriend, and you are a little too outspoken about Prop 8.  Well, then, they could very well just give you the boot and tell you that you are no longer one of them. I find this simply unfathomable. I find it crazy that some panel of men could look at me and say, “You are no longer one of us.”

I’ve jokingly said, in a few passing conversations, that I’m trying to create a world where orthodox and unorthodox Mormons can all just get along. But why does it always sound like a funny joke when I say it? The terms that we tend to use are ‘active’ and ‘inactive’ (and the middle ground of ‘less active’). I do not subscribe to these terms and I do not appreciate all the stereotypes that come to mind from a simple label. I actually wish we didn’t have to be as obsessed by levels of activity in the religion as we typically tend to be. My level of activity still comes up at every single family event and it has been over three years now. Every time you meet with a Bishop–he questions you more on your sexual thoughts than on your actual passions and intents for your life’s path. He wants to know your “worthiness”…and yet, what does that word even mean in this context?

Many many things on my path do not subscribe to orthodox Mormonism. Yet, my very foundation of being raised Mormon is something I love, cherish, honor, and would never want stripped away. It’s at the core of who I am and it’s at the core of who I am becoming. The fact that I did not grow up to become an orthodox Mormon is not something that should be pitied or changed or solved or discussed or worried about or prayed over or be the reason for my parents to fast. The truth is, I AM a Mormon.

But, I am an unorthodox Mormon. I do things my own way. I will not apologize if I do not fit in the box that you need me to fit in. I will be me. Sounds simple…but it took me a long time to get here and I don’t take that simplicity lightly.

by Anonymous

It happened on an evening in which I had discovered that my husband had volunteered to make phone calls urging people to vote yes on Prop 8. This was an unexpected blow to me, since I had remembered him commenting during the similar Prop 22 campaign that he wouldn’t feel comfortable getting involved.

I was furious when he told me. I felt betrayed, and I felt sickened. Most of all, I felt scared. What kind of future did we have as a couple if we differed on something that was to me such a fundamental indicator of the way people look at the world?   What did it mean if we were mobilizing on opposite sides of this?

Out of fear and anger, I ripped into him and questioned his kindness and the validity of his motivations. Then I locked myself in the bathroom for a half hour and I tried to calm down and stop crying. I finally came out and I was still upset at him, but I was also upset at myself for acting like that. I’m usually pretty even keeled and not the type of person that blows up at people.

After thinking about it for a couple of days I came to the conclusion that I need to let him have his journey. He lets me have my journey and goodness knows I do things that he does not like or approve of. But he doesn’t get in my face. He gives me space to follow my conscience and to do what I think is right. I realized that I needed to give him space to follow his conscience and do what he thinks is right.

I’m not very interested in debating the merits of Prop 8 here. I’m just using this story as an example of those moments in life that lead to important realizations, realizations that change the course of a relationship or that give peace when peace was not expected.

Please share your life changing moments.

January: The last bud of the season.

Spring 2009.  I awoke one morning to a future that seemed frighteningly uncertain and months of prayers that seemed unanswered. Limbs achy with anxiety.  I’m sure you know the feeling . . .

That morning, as I left for work, a bush at the base of our steps met me with an explosion of color; a dozen or more petite roses in full bloom. I had not known this was a rose bush.  I had not noticed the buds forming. The bush had not bloomed the year before.  I tearfully plucked one flower and pressed it in my wallet.

At least one rose kept constant vigil until the mid-January snowstorms finally pushed it into hibernation. This past April, on a day that seemed particularly bright, with an unexpected opportunity unfolding, the bush became enflamed once more.

Sign-seeking is dangerous business (sign-seekers in the scriptures don’t end particularly well . . . ).  And aren’t signs usually created in retrospect? The rainbow on the blind date that led to marriage – a sign! The other rainbows on all those other afternoons are forgotten, with no outcomes to secure their place in our emotional narratives.

Sign is the wrong word for my roses.  They were not pointing to an outcome, not even to a bend in the road.  They provided no epiphany.  Instead, they offered beauty, with such vivacity that I couldn’t look away.  Each afternoon, well into the cold of winter, I stopped before entering the house, stooped and . . . well . . . smelled the roses.

Sign might be the wrong word, but these flowers did feel like a spiritual gift of serendipitous timing.  I don’t think my prayers made the flowers grow.  But perhaps those hours of petitions attuned me to look for manna in my wilderness.  The flowers were a natural offering that I chose to make a symbol of hope.  I chose to accept the gift.

Here’s another way of looking at it: It often seems that when I’m seeking, I find more moments of grace. Moments that might have occurred regardless, but moments I might have missed.  Perhaps prayer opens me to gifts that are already there for the taking. The unexpected email from a friend, the perfect song on the radio, and the still lizard on my windowsill: moments of grace.

And it makes me want to be that moment of grace for someone else — to write the note, send the flower, or offer the smile that might keep another soul tethered to hope just a little bit longer, at least until this storm lets up.

Oh, and when we went house-hunting a few months ago, we walked into an empty kitchen and saw single rose in a blue vase.  I like to think I would have chosen this house anyway . . . !

P.S.  Do you believe in signs?

These copies really show off the vibrant artwork of Tessa Lindsey, Sharon Furner, Alice B. Hemming, and Cassandra Barney (to name a few!), and I find it’s just so lovely to curl up with the Exponent II magazine on my couch, rather than reading the PDF on my computer.

Click here to purchase your copy.

I got a laugh out of the smart mudflap girl with her book. I wonder where she keeps her library card.

In retrospect, I realize that reading for pleasure was curtailed in college when text books necessarily replaced my escapist novels. I was too busy studying for the test to read for my own enjoyment. Then graduate school came with more text books, followed by a new marriage, then a career that had me commuting down the 405 freeway everyday. The arrival of two kids in less than two years put a stop to my reading altogether. An exuberant little boy was followed by a profoundly handicapped and very needy daughter. Those years were a blur of the usual busy mom stuff mixed with a healthy dose of therapy appointments, caregiving and the worry that accompanies a disabled and fragile child.

One day I realized that a decade had passed and I’d hardly touched a book. How had that happened? Life happens I suppose. I found my role as a new mom to be all consuming. Somewhere along the way, I lost an important part of myself, the bookish kid part. Well, my children are older now (we even added a third) and I like to think I’ve achieved some balance and perspective. I’m reading again and it’s sublime! I’ve read a lot of classics, some lovely memoirs and biographies, and some delectable novels. Until recently I was a member of not one but two book groups. I’m not a little sad to know that I missed out on ten years worth of great books. I don’t think I had to relinquish my library card in order to be a devoted young mother. In fact, I think it would have helped me get through those difficult years to escape into a good novel from time to time. I wish someone had sat me down when I was twenty-five and told me to keep on reading no matter what. Now my “to read” list is long and it’s constantly being added to. I’ll never get to the end of it but it will be fun trying!

So I’m curious. Have any of you had this experience of suppressing something that was fundamental to your personality? I suspect it’s a fairly common phenomenon. If so, I hope most of you didn’t let it go on for a decade. Oh, and any great book suggestions are appreciated! Here’s a list of a few books I’ve particularly enjoyed.

The House at Sugar Beach by Helene Cooper

The Pleasure of My Company by Steve Martin

The Memory Keeper’s Daughter by Kim Edwards

Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert

Buddhism Without Beliefs by Stephen Batchelor

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins

Sugar Daddy and Blue-Eyed Devil by Lisa Kleypas

Lowell L. Bennion: Teacher, Counselor, Humanitarian by Mary Bradford

The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger

I was asking…pleading for a colectomy. Every year at this time, I think about this surgery, which for me, happened to be my cure from ulcerative colitis.

I am so lucky. Lucky, lucky, lucky.

Over the past 4 or 5 years, I’ve realized that now, I have lots of peers and dear friends who are far wiser than I–their struggles make this event 15 years ago look like a trip to Disneyland. That smug wisdom I had at 18 is over.

But, for a few years, that illness made me wiser than many of my peers. I learned about mortality. I knew, as only a select group of teenagers ever know, that sometimes, no matter how badly you want to live, your body won’t cooperate. You’ll keep bleeding, loosing weight, getting weaker.

No matter your positive thoughts.
No matter your prayers.

And, I learned that sometimes, for whatever arbitrary reason (because the older I get, unfortunately I realize that who stays and who goes feels terribly arbitrary), healing can happen, though it’s often not in the form I originally thought it would come in.

Instead of the miraculous healing I prayed for, the one where my symptoms disapper, and I walk out of the hospital, leaving doctors scratching their heads… I ended up with a different result, one without a colon and a few adjustments to my life, but a healing just as miraculous because of the many lessons it taught me.

If I hadn’t gotten so sick that summer, I think the life I led would have been very different. There are dear friends I would have never met.

I think it even had a profound affect on the person I chose to marry.  We didn’t (don’t) seem to have much in common on the surface, but 1995 was a rough year for both of us. And the things we learned that year (though such knowledge came under very different circumstances) formed part of our immediate bond when we got reacquainted in college and still frames our lives today, carrying us through difficult times.  

I wouldn’t have gone into religious studies or found hospital chaplaincy. I don’t think I would have applied to the graduate schools that I applied to and certainly wouldn’t have had the courage to go to the one I ended up going to. In fact, my mantra for five years post-surgery was, “I can do that. I’ve gone without food or water for 40 days, I’ve been in the hospital for 2 months, and I’ve lost a colon. This is nothing.”

That last flare-up taught me more about God and charity (and how God uses others to show love, do God’s work, and comfort us) than I have learned before or since. It also taught me a reliance on God that I don’t know if I could have learned any other way. I learned that when it’s 3 am, and I had to wait 2 more hours before my next doses of anti-nausea medication and/or pain medication, well, there wasn’t anyone else who was able to sit in that room and wait with me quite like Jesus did (though my mom was a close second).

The memory of that very real presence in my hospital room on more than a few hard nights in the hospital sustains me when my faith waivers even today.  So much knowledge was gained in such a short time that I sometimes wonder if I’ve learned anything since that illness or am I just constantly reframing that experience, trying to glean more from such a difficult time.

A couple years ago, I had an ob/gyn give me an exam. She looked at my stomach 14 inch vertical scar and the 6 inch horizontal scar. She said (as most people do), “Oh my gosh! What happened?!”

I explained I had a colectomy. She said, “You know, they only make about a 4 inch incision now for the whole surgery.”

But, I’m happy with my scars because a 5 inch incision just wouldn’t do justice to the illness or the healing. As I’ve reflected all month on where I was 15 years ago (yes, I’m a little embarrassed that I have thought about June 1995 this much), I wish I could show that 18 year old Emily my stomach today, pregnant with Baby #3, with the faded scars and most importantly, I’d have her notice that there aren’t any new scars. She never had another flare-up that would necessitate more scarring, she even got pregnant and that trusty pseudo-colon made it unnecessary for the Cesearans the doctors promised she’d need.

That ugly stomach would show her that she did what she feared she’d never be able to do when she got out of the hospital–grow up, move out, and move on.

Mary Ellen Sullivan
Arlington, Massachusetts
Vol. 5, No. 2 (Winter 1979)

     Gently, she was lifted on to me.  After the nine months of being with her, the months of feeling her little movements, the times we heard her heart beat, to see her sweet new body and to touch her with my hand filled me with such joy.
      She gave a little cough, a sneeze, and even a yawn.  She was looking at her father’s face close by her as he spoke to her.  The room was quiet and warm that June evening—we were home.  No one would yank her away, weigh her, wrap her, and carry her off.  The doctor would leave as would all the birth attendants, after they had finished helping me and straightening up.
      When my husband Douglas and I found out that a baby was coming to us, we were so thrilled and wanted to know all about what would happen.  To wait for seven months and then take a few classes at the hospital was just not enough.  Trying to figure out how to best learn more, I found the name of Homebirth, Inc., a Boston-based group.  If they teach people about having their children at home, I reasoned, I could learn what I wanted to know about pregnancy and birth.  I contacted them, found out about classes, and in the meantime, I read a book recommended by them, Immaculate Deception by Suzanne Arms.  Reading of the experiences of women giving birth in the hospital chilled me.  I realized then that only one of the births I had ever heard about first-hand had been what could be called a good experience.  And yet I was not willing to accept the idea of our trying to have a child at home.
      A few more weeks of classes, of meeting and talking with women who had given birth at home, and a visit to one of the obstetricians who had worked with Homebirth and would come to the home, encouraged us to consider a home birth ourselves.  We continues to read and study, especially Sheila Kitzinger’s The Experience of Childbirth.  The course of my pregnancy had been smooth.  My physical well-being seemed at a peak. No complications were indicated.  As the due date drew nearer, we purchased the supplies needed; we sterilized the sheets, towels, little clothes, we arranged to have a car and emergency back-up.  The four birth attendants we had chosen to help us came and spent an evening during which we went over what would and could happen and where the supplies were kept.
      In the last weeks and after the due date passed, we became more and more eager for the baby to come.  We certainly weren’t taking a natural birth at home for granted, but I hoped that we could be at home.  For years I had practiced deep breathing, and during the pregnancy, I had exercised and taken care of myself.
      The morning of that warm day in June, I woke to find the “bloody show.”  The time had come.  Douglas had an appointment that morning, and I can only remember being excited and thinking about the baby.  At 2:00 in the afternoon, I was lying down when my water broke.  An hour later, the first contraction took me by surprise. The strength of it was overwhelming.  “I can’t do it,” I told Douglas.  He held me and said he knew that I could.
      I showered.  We phoned the birth attendants.  One of them had arrived by 4:00 when the next strong contraction came.  They prepared the bed and I lay down, beginning to breathe deeply.  The contractions started coming, but not the respite I expected between each of them.  The labor was no longer painful, just powerful and so completely engrossing that I could no longer have dealt with anything else.  I wanted Douglas close by me constantly.  The other birth attendants arrived.  The primary attendant checked the fetal heartbeat and my dilation.  The doctor was reached, and when he arrived about 7:00, I was completely dilated and the pushing urge had begun.  The two attendants who stayed close by Douglas and me helped me with my breathing and relaxing.  The doctor wanted to do an episiotomy, but the attendants interceded for me and massaged the pelvic floor.  I could feel the baby’s head.  Another push by my body, and a little cry was heard.  The head was out.
       Emotion welled up in me as I heard that little voice.  Though my body was pushing effectively, I pressed hard too, and there was a tear.  Another brief push.  8:45.  A girl.  I could see her.  This new person was with us.  No one spoke.  She was so beautiful and well.
      In a little while, Douglas cut the umbilical cord.  I sat up a little and held her close.  She locked on to my breast.  I couldn’t take my eyes off her.  Later, we shifted a bit.  I pushed again a few times, and the placenta slipped out.  The attendants washed me, then the doctor gave me a shot so I wouldn’t feel the stitches as he repaired the tear.  I rested with the baby in my arms.  Her eyes were wide open and calm.  The doctor sat and talked to me, and then he went home.
      Too excited to rest, I got up and walked around a little, talking with the attendants.  They had some food, including real birth-day cake, and cleaned up.  The bed was made up and the baby’s bed and little clothes were ready, though she had already fallen asleep in my arms.  The attendants each said goodbye and they also left.  How much I appreciated all they had done. 
       Almost every account I hear of a birth is not like this.  The stories are of rude experiences better forgotten and/or physically debilitation for  both mother and child.  What I would like more than anything to say to a woman who wants to have a natural birth is that “you can do it.”  A woman should have the birth situation be as she wants it to be, whether in the hospital or at home, whether she must have a Caesarian or wants pain relief or monitoring or music.  Douglas and I recognize how blessed we were that as we took the responsibility for the birth of our child into our own hands, we were able to fulfill that responsibility—that our child did come to us in such a beautiful and peaceful way, and that we had each other for support always.
      Less than three hours after our daughter Mary Eleanor (Molly) Cannon was born, we also came to recognize the unexpected.  In our twenty-third floor apartment, we sat and talked at the kitchen table when the first alarm rang.  Fire, the only emergency that would place all of us in danger, had been my most dreaded fear when we decided to have a home birth.  Douglas’ brother had come up, and he helped us as we hurried to take the stairs to the ground.  We all walked down and out into the warm night air past first engines.  It was a small fire, as it turned out, but we decided to spend the night at his brother’s home.  We knew that birth begins a great adventure.

• Jana Riess on the Mormon themes in Twilight

• Speaking of Jana Riess, if you haven’t added her blog “Flunking Sainthood” to your list, do it now.

• For example, she has a guest post by Carol Lynn Pearson on Berkeley Saints attempt to build bridges after Proposition 8.

• And speaking of Carol Lynn Pearson, ESO offers a wonderful glimpse of a New York stake-sponsored production of her play Facing East, which depicts the lives an LDS mother and father in the aftermath of their gay son’s suicide.

• SLTrib: Mormon women and birth control

• Early Mormon Missionaries: The Women Left Behind

• Eve on parenting theories and the inevitability of grief

• Stephanie on her choice to have five children.

• Tracy’s review (of sorts) of Food, Women, and God

Any links you want to share? Post them in the comments!

However, in the space of time since my testimony has wavered and waned, I haven’t noticed a dramatic difference at all.  Despite some changes in time and focus (e.g. not attending marathon back-to-back temple sessions on Saturdays), my life hasn’t toppled into any cesspools.  Rather, it’s continuing on much the same.  I haven’t taken up any illicit hobbies, or broken any laws.  I’ve continued on in my suburban-Mom-cum-PhD-student lifestyle. Generally, I don’t think there’s anything about my demeanor or my appearance that readily exposes a change in belief.

I wonder if I’m an exception to the typical path of non-belief.  Or is it possible that many (if not most?) who lose belief continue on much the same afterwards?