The End

I never thought it would happen, but I’m not going to be going to church anymore. This has been a very hard decision for Chris and I. We love our ward family. We love our bishop, but after the recent actions the church has made concerning married gay people and their children, we don’t feel right attending or supporting this institution anymore. I can’t even go into a church. I’ve always said that no matter how weird a Mormon I was, I would still continue to be one so long as it continued to make me feel good. 

Two weeks ago it stopped making me feel good.

I came home to find an article stating that the church was releasing new rules in their handbook. Gay people that are married are now considered apostates and are to be excommunicated. Their children are not allowed to be members until they are eighteen, living outside of their parents’ home, and disavow the practice. At first, like many, I thought this must be a joke. A lie. Then I started checking every news site I could think of, and they all were reporting the same thing. Understanding slowly started to fill my body. It started in the pit of my stomach and spread to my limbs. It was a cold, numbing burn that felt like it was being carried through my veins and into my extremities. My whole body felt limp. Then the tears came. They started as a trickle and moved to a downpour. 

This was so so very wrong to me.

There are so many reasons why this resonated inside of me as wrong. In the coming days the church and members began to explain away most of them—trying to rid themselves of cognitive dissonance, I’m sure. But no matter what excuses I was given, that’s all they were. Excuses. Rationalizations. Trying to make everyone feel better for this whole handbook provision. I judge no one, honestly. I love everyone from my ward. I love my friends back home. I love you all. But I can’t rationalize, and I can’t get rid of the ugly feeling inside of me. This post is to explain why, and to help people understand things maybe a little differently than they understand in their worlds. This is to help all those I love understand me, and maybe keep them from judging my husband and me in a negative light. So here it goes.

I’m bisexual. 

A lot of people look at this word as an ugly word. It doesn’t really exist to them. It’s not real or it’s just a weird phase teenagers go through. Or whatever. They will read this and think it doesn’t apply to me because I am married to a man. This isn’t a new revelation. I’ve known I was somewhere on the spectrum since I was a kid. Chris has known since we were dating. It’s not new for him either. I never “came out” so to speak, because I think coming out is silly. Why should we have to do that? Bring home your date. Show them to your parents.  Whatever their sex. Be done with it. That’s how it should be.

I have always known how the church feels about homosexual relations, but there was one difference between then and now. It was up to the bishop to decide the “punishment,” so to speak. People weren’t automatically excommunicated. It was up the bishop’s discretion. I’ve known many bishops who wouldn’t do anything. They wanted these people to continue to be included. They were welcomed with open arms, or just left alone, or whatever. And they weren’t automatically referred to as apostates. I took issue when people were excommunicated because of their sexual orientation, but again, it mostly depended on the bishop. I could handle that, and mostly looked at the positivity the church was making with the LGBT community. I attended the wards that I felt good in. I didn’t attend those that made me feel bad.

But now we’ve label them as “apostates.” An ugly word by our definition, only given to those who have abandoned their deepest sense of morals. They are pushed away. Oh yes, I know they can attend church if they want to, despite not being a member. But let’s be honest. Once someone is excommunicated, they are not usually welcomed with open arms. They are scoffed at. I have experienced this more than once. So while the idea behind the practice might be one based on love and dignity, the realism behind it is one of shame and self-doubt. Why would someone want to return after that? Do you know which groups of people aren’t automatically labeled as “apostates?”

Murderers. Rapists. Child abusers. 

In fact those groups of people are in the maybe-give-some-discipline group of the handbook. So in essence we are calling two people whose only “sin” is loving each other worse than those people who do things out of pure hatred or control. And now their kids aren’t allowed to be members either, due to something that they have no control over. They can attend church, yes, but again I looked at the realism behind this idea.

Kids are mean.

What happens when a little boy or girl is in a class and everyone else is getting baptized, but he or she cannot? What happens when the other kids ask why so-and-so isn’t getting baptized like everyone else? Someone is going to reveal that it is because so-and-so’s parents’ are married and gay. There will be talk, and that talk will follow them through church. They are going to feel bad when they can’t be baptized. It will come up again when they can’t get the priesthood. And again when they can’t do baptisms for the dead. And again when they can’t get their patriarchal blessing. And again when they can’t go on a mission. In essence, we’ve painted a big, red target on their backs that will follow them through life. I know what the idea behind the rule was. But realism and idealism don’t always match up.

And lastly, in order to become members, these kids cannot be living with their parents and then they must disavow gay marriage. More problems in my mind. What age were you when you fully didn’t need the support of your parents’ house anymore? Were you 18? I wasn’t. I was much, much older. Then we make them disavow the practice. They may not have to use their parents’ names, but that doesn’t matter. Their parents will know that in order to become a member they said gay marriage is a sham, and therefore are going to feel very hurt as the loving providers and caretakers of this child’s entire life, because in essence, their marriage is being called into question. This doesn’t feel loving. It feels horrible. How would you feel if the tables were turned?

But wait, my friends say. How many people actually want their kids or themselves to go to church when the church so obviously doesn’t fit in with their “lifestyle?” I know of several friends who are in this boat, and are now horribly hurt because of this ruling. We don’t know anyone’s life. We don’t know what they want or need. Just because someone doesn’t fit our mold perfectly, that means they can’t want to be a part of something they consider beautiful? I’m pretty much agnostic, but I have always loved the teachings and the community of the LDS church, so I attended faithfully. I have never been able to say I “know” anything is true. I’ve never even been able to say I “believe” anything is true. What I said is that I “wanted” it to be true. I planned on having different rules at home than the church taught. There are tons of members with different guidelines at home than the church teaches. I grew up with different rules than the church taught. It was fine for me. Kids aren’t stupid. They are resilient. Why are we okay, but children of gay people are not? And I wasn’t a true blue Mormon, but people still wanted me to be there. 

Or so I thought.

So how does this all come together? Why does this have anything to do with my being bisexual you ask? Clearly I’m in a heterosexual marriage, so why do I feel hurt? Because that night, I realized something. I realized that if you kept everything else constant about me—my personality, my silliness, my loving nature, my want to follow Christ’s teachings—all the things that people say they are glad to have from me in the church (including my atypical Mormoness), and changed the sex of the person I love (which could have definitely been a possibility), I would suddenly be labeled worse than a murderer, a rapist, a child abuser. I would have been an apostate, and nothing else would have changed about me. I would no longer be the primary teacher everyone is glad to have their kids going to. I would no longer be the cute ward hairstylist that everyone wants to go to. I would no longer be that girl that everyone is excited is still going to church, despite the fact that she is atypical. I would be an apostate, and my kids and I would be barred from membership. I would no longer be good enough to be a member. Not only that, but I would be lower than a murderer. Just because of the sex of my partner.

And that hurts so deeply I cannot even describe it. 

 

My poor children, who chose nothing, would be left out. And in order to be accepted they would have to declare my marriage, my loving relationship, my raising of them a problem. A sin. Unholy. A sham. It was hard enough to think of other people going through this, and then when I thought of the very real possibility I could be one of them, I collapsed. It hurt so much to think that the institution I loved so much would throw me and my family out. And that, did not feel like Christ’s teachings. It didn’t not feel like the God I’ve been taught to know and love. It felt ugly. And that is how my husband and I feel about going to church now. And that is why we won’t be there anymore. Stepping into the building feels like endorsement, and we can’t endorse something we feel this ugly about. I would be a hypocrite. And I won’t be a hypocrite.

We place no judgment on those that stay. Your religion is your religion. It’s personal. It’s your choice. If you feel good there, you should be there. We love everyone from our ward family, and we hope that people stay in touch with us. We know that we will lose friends over this, but we hope that those that we’ve felt real love from will continue to love us. I love my primary class. I love all of the wonderful things that my ward family has done for me over the years. We love our family. We love our friends. We still love all of the beautiful teachings the church has to offer. If this ruling changes, you may see us in your halls again. But right now, we do not feel any spiritual uplifting from those halls and we have to stand for what we believe is right. If anyone feels the need to talk to someone, because they are having issues too, we are there for you, objectively. We know this step isn’t for everyone, but we also know it’s nice to have a non-judgmental ear. If you want to talk to us about why we should stay, please refrain. We’ve made our decision, and we feel good about it.

I love you. I hope this helped to clarify things.

You Know.... I Don't Know What to Call This One

 Just as I have problems with people in my faith looking out and judging others, I have a problem with other people looking in and judging us. I think in the very few postings that I have done, I have made it clear that I am odd and different and try to stand for something other than what my religion is stereotyped to be. I talk about being hurt from within a lot, but I am also hurt from the outside as well. Today I have nowhere else to go to express this.

As a hairstylist, I get to meet a lot of different people every day. Hundreds of people have been through my chair; I hear hundreds of stories. We get to know each other, become friends, form relationships. I laugh when your children have said something funny. I cry when you're going through something hard. I love you. I don't care about all the things the world might care about, and I would never ask prying or rude questions into your life. I also would never judge you for life choices. That is not my job, and I hope that I receive the same courtesy from you.

My three years in Ohio tells me that this is not always so.

I meet lots of beautiful people with sweet intentions, and lots of not-so-nice people with less than desirable intentions. Whoever you are, I ask a series of questions to get to know you.

1. "Do you live around here?"
2. "Are you originally from Columbus?"
3. Do you work or go to school or....?
4. What are/were your plans this weekend?
5. Do you have any kids? /A spouse?/ Siblings?
6. Do you have any brothers and sisters? Is your family nearby?

I have way more than this stuck up my sleeve, but this tends to be how I start talking to someone I've never met before. In turn, I get asked the same or similar questions, and I can pretty much write you a word for word script of how the introduction goes.

Me: Are you originally from Columbus? *scrub scrub lather lather*

Them: (settles into shampoo chair and smiles) No, I'm from (Dayton/Eastern Ohio/Cincinnati/ Cleveland)/ Yes, born and raised.

            Are you?

Me: (slows) Nope. I'm from out west.

Them:(Confused) Where out west?

Me: Utah (Pause)     (Pause)

Them: (Eyes opening wide) ARE YOU MORMON?!

I am going to take a pause right here. No matter your intent, which I can sometimes read, I find this question to be incredibly exhausting, not to mention rude, at this point in the conversation. If you heard I'm from Utah, don't drink, don't smoke, don't go out on Sundays, etc, then it might be polite to be inquisitive and ask, "Ohhh... are you Mormon?" But upon hearing I'm from Utah, and the only thing you know about Utah is that Mormons grow in hives there, asking me (someone you've been talking to for about 3 minutes) about my religion can sometimes get a little overwhelming. I have this conversation with every single person that comes through my chair. I would never ask you if you were Christian with no other knowledge of you than being from the bible belt. I wouldn't ask if you were Catholic after finding out you're from Vatican City, and I definitely wouldn't assume you were Muslim, just because you were from the middle east. In fact, I probably wouldn't ask at all, unless we were close friends and I was trying to understand everything about you.

I gotta say, at first I was not annoyed by it. I loved describing my weird background as none other than "Mormon Lite" (a term I coined myself). "Dad was a Mormon, Excommunicated. Mom was a Jew, Converted. I'm not quite a Jack Mormon, but I'm definitely a liberal one!" But quickly after I first moved here, I often started to feel JUDGED and ATTACKED for laying any claim to this "devil" religion! Sometimes I want to lie and tell people I'm from my husband's city. I'm still trying to come up with a good way to detour the conversation, so we don't sit and talk about me being Mormon for an hour. There are so many more things about me, even religiously/spiritually. I also celebrate Hanukkah and Passover. Sometimes I go to the synagogue. I've been to more churches than I can count. I love spirituality in all its forms. I love the feelings of community, culture, passion, and loving understanding that are taught in many churches!

Honestly, it gets really disheartening, to be told what I believe from someone who thinks they know everything about me. Or for someone to judge me upon hearing me say "yes" to that question. I get anxiety now to admit it, because sometimes people shoot me a fleeting look of disdain. Sometimes they laugh. Sometimes they look as though they pity me, because I'm stuck in this patriarchal society, and my husband will never respect me and I will have to be a boring stay-at-home mom and how unfulfilling for me (or whatever they think). And it sucks. And it's tiresome. But not much gets me heated or perturbed. I laugh and do my job. Silly Non Mormons, stereotypes are for kids.

Not much gets me feeling hurt until today.

A man whom I can only describe to you as Bret Michael's wannabe stalker comes into my salon, 50's 60's maybe, Bleach blond hair, light washed jeans, cowboy boots, and crying because he did not bring his signature cowboy hat. Hasn't had his hair cut over a year-and-a-half , but wants me to take off only a weeny inch. He sees me and he makes a judgment about me from only what he sees.

And it is that I wasn't Mormon

He smiles and says, "I was hoping they wouldn't put me with someone that looked like everybody else." What I think he his referring to is the fact that I have vibrant purple and teal hair... Every other part of me is dressed up in black salonwear. I'm wearing red lipstick. I have pink cheeks. The only thing that stands out is my hair.

We got to talking at the shampoo bowl. I started into my questions. He followed the usual script.

"Utah!" He says loudly, pulling his head up and out of the shampoo bowl. "Mormon town!" Oh good. He didn't ask.

"Yes. It sure is." Not out of the woods yet.

"From the way you are dressed...." No. let's not. 
".....and your hair....."  Uh oh.
"I can only guess that you aren't Mormon." Smile sheepishly. Look to the side. Maybe a good enough answer...
"......Or at the very least, you don't have anything to do with it." Uh.....

Me: .........I'm..........liberal.

"You at least drink caffeine?" He laughs. That's not really a thing. Let's not get into it.

Me: (laugh laugh laugh. He's so witty) Sure do.

Good enough answer for him. I'm Not Really Mormon. He settles back into the shampoo bowl and speaks slowly and wistfully, like a cowboy telling stories over  the campfire.

"I hate that damn religion.... because of its founder, that disgusting Joseph Smith."

Me: Mmmmm.

I know people feel like this. Hell, I sometimes have mixed feelings about that guy, but that was over a hundred years ago. I don't know the whole story. I'm not a hundred and fifty years old. I know that he could have been just a man. Or maybe he was truly a prophet, who knows? There are zillions of stories in the bible of God people doing really weird crap, then getting yelled at for it. I'm not surprised that this upsets people, nor does it make me want to leave my church.

"He was a pervert, a child molester, and a rapist. I find it disgusting that people followed him. Idiots."

Me: Silence. Heart beating faster. Stomach contents rising up into esophagus.

"Did you know they used to live here in Ohio?"

Uh... hello? What did you gleam from our conversation where I said I'm Mormon? Do you not think they teach us history?

Me: Yup.

"They were kicked out of New York for being terrible people. For taking wives and children."

Me: Wow. Feel this conditioner in your hair. So soft.

(At this point I'm paraphrasing, because I started to get dizzy and I can't remember exact words.)

"Joseph Smith and his brother Hyrum were shot, because of this stuff. Because they were child molesters and rapists. They were just shot in the back, and they deserved it. I'da done it too."

Wow. That is really... offensive?

Me: Anyway, I just need to let this sit on for a minute. Can I get you a hot towel?

"Yes. Have you heard about how they were tarred and feathered? Whole lots of them." As he said this, he laughed. No, he cackled and guffawed at people being tarred and feathered. Not just a man he thought was a scumbag. He laughed at all the tarrings and featherings of all the members that experienced it. As an empathetic person, this tore my heart into little tiny pieces. I struggled not to let them bounce out of my skin, tried to mentally pick them up and scotch tape them back together. I don't remember much after this. Somehow, I succeeded at changing the subject, and then never spoke about this again. I remember feeling like he was applying his hatred to all of the people that had or ever would be Mormon. I remember that he said more than I can remember now. And I remember that I wanted to hide in a hole. It ate at me all day.

Because it's not that uncommon an experience for me.

I'm always trying to make a change from within. Members sometimes say stereotypical things that make me want to put an entire roll of masking tape over their mouths. But the thing is, people like this exist everywhere, in every facet of life. They permeate our existence. Stereotypes help us sort people, even ourselves, into tiny little boxes, wrapped tight with perfectly knotted bows, arranged in neatly organized rows of our thoughts about what they should be like. We like things tidy and neat with no overlap, because if there is overlap, then we have to open the box back up and make a new category of person, and this is far too exhausting and disorganized.

I teeter on the edges of two large boxes.
             I really want you to stop organizing what you see as character flaws.

Why is it that, when some people see me and think, "No way. Not Mormon" they talk to me like a human being, like a normal person? When they find out that I am Mormon, suddenly it changes everything some of them think about me? Their box of me opens up, and in their brains I'm picked up by some cold metal forceps and shoved into the box marked, "Mormon?" Suddenly I'm in a box that apparently a lot of people hate, and I am 100% like those other people. They need to walk on eggshells around me. Then, the moment I reveal that I am in the gray area, I'm just as suddenly out of that box, into another, and have become the person that they can say really ugly things about Mormons to. Just because I have some big issues with my church, does not mean that someone can spout hateful and judgmental words to me about it. You want to have a civil discussion about your problems and fears that stem from my church? Fine. Do you want to spew hateful, judgmental garbage about my friends, family, and ancestors? Can I do that to the people you love?

And do we have to have these conversations every time you hear the word, "Mormon?" I really hope not. I really hope that people can look past the word, and see that we are just people. All of us are on different paths. We are all in different places in our lives. Just because our leaders say one thing, does not mean we even agree with what they are saying. Could you maybe ask me my personal opinions on the matter, before assuming that I want to take away your rights/choices/beliefs? Do you assume that every catholic you meet is parroting the pope? Do you assume that every Muslim is a jihad? I really hope you don't.

I'm tired of hearing how much I hate gay people. I'm sick of people saying that I'm going to hell. I'm also really exhausted by people thinking that I am a brainwashed sheep, following every word coughed out by every single person who has ever spoken in a church or temple. I honestly don't have that much conviction. I know nothing. I believe nothing. I want to believe, and that is why I'm here.

I am here because I want to be here.

There are lots like me. I am part of a beautiful community of people who love and help each other every day, in ways I cannot describe. When I move into a new place, they are there to help me unpack. When I move out, they are there to help me repack. When I'm sick they sign up to bring me meals. When I'm sad, they stop by to show their love. When I'm not at church they send messages that let me know that I'm missed. And when I'm far away from family, they step up and become my family.

We are not just Mormons. It doesn't define all of us as people. We are millions of human beings, musicians, doctors, men and women with careers, writers, poets, stay-at-home parents, feminists, bikers, bakers, grad students, sales reps, IT people, gay rights advocates, hair dressers, tattoo artists, republicans, democrats.  We have all kinds. We have all thoughts. We are not one voice or one idea. We are all just trying to live our lives and be good people. I'm so tired of all the assumptions about a group of people that contains millions. It is impossible for all of us to be the same. If you absolutely have to create boxes, create a separate one for each of us. Inside those boxes will be every bit of ourselves, and "Mormon" will be written on a thin piece of paper, stuck in the smallest corner, mixed in with every other facet of our lives.

I'm tired of being worn down to be like whatever it is that people want me to be. I wish that others would just let people be who they are, and seek to be knowledgeable about someone as an individual before letting preconceived notions cloud their judgments about another person. If there is anything that I hope that people take from reading anything I write, it is simply that idea. People are amazing as individuals. They have so many stories to provide, if you would just let them speak. We can't do that if we turn off our minds before we even meet them, before they open their mouths, or before they really get the chance to speak. My message, as always, is that if we treat people with respect, if we just live with love, it might surprise us where we can find new friends.

It might surprise us where our minds can go.

You Belong

Below is a talk I gave in church last summer: 

When we were asked to talk about our favorite story from Jesus’ life, I thought about it, and thought about it, and thought about it. I overachieved, and reread Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John at one time. I’ve read them all before, but never in succession. I don’t know about you, but whenever I read about Jesus, it’s always for some holiday, or some class, or just picking and choosing a story to read. It’s just a verse or series of verses to convey a point. So yes, I had read all of these stories before, but there was something that really impressed me when I read it all in one sitting. And it was really hard to pick just one story. So I didn’t. I cheated a little. Christ continually and unselfishly helped everyone around Him. Verse after verse, chapter after chapter, He is bullied, berated, hated, and questioned by everyone. And verse after verse, He stops to help the people those that hate him, those that others call small and unworthy. He says He loves them, without even knowing them, regardless of everything they’ve ever done wrong, and in spite of what others see in them. And this is what I decided to talk about today. His love.

Really, that’s all that Jesus was. Just love. Just the pure love of everyone in the world ever, as long as the world is or has been in existence- every person you meet and see. He loved them. He loves them. But it’s a certain kind of love that I really admire Him for. He didn’t just love the people who were showing up to church every week, getting straight A’s, doing everything right, being sweet angels. He loved the the odd, the weirdos, the sinners, the harlots, the jerks, even the people that hated him. He loved people no matter how much they stuck out, or how much others said they didn’t belong. He took the opportunity to care for them and teach them. He invited them into church just the same.

So I will start with my first favorite story of Christ’s love. It is the parable of the sheep in Matthew chapter 18. For anyone who doesn’t know the parable, it says that if a man has 100 sheep, and one of them goes astray, he’s going to go looking for that sheep. He’s not just going to leave it. He doesn’t say, “Eh, I have plenty more where that came from.” He gets his hands dirty and gets that sheep back. And when that one sheep does come back, he’s going to be happier about it than even about those 99 that didn’t wander off. God will always welcome us back with open arms. We, too, get so many opportunities to help our lost sheep, to nurture them and help them come back to us. Do we always recognize those opportunities, or do we sometimes miss them, because someone seems too lost or out of place?

When I was about eight or nine years old, my father was excommunicated. Before then he had loved this church. He taught me about the priesthood. He served as a high priest. He had gone on a mission. He was married in the temple. But now, my parents were divorced, and he no longer had the priesthood.  I was confused, and nothing made sense to me, but he was my dad and I still loved him. I was told by my leaders that excommunication was an act of love, to help him start over. This comforted me immensely, but then I witnessed many of my neighbors, his previous friends, stop talking to him. They whispered about him in the halls at church.

It broke my heart. Wasn’t he still one of God’s children? Wasn’t he still my dad?

Several years later, he was in another area, now a nonmember. He had become angry and bitter towards the church. He turned away missionaries and invitations to attend, but he had a bishop that reached out to him. That bishop would visit and talk with my dad, and they became friends.  That bishop found out that my dad loved and missed being involved in scouts, and decided help a lost sheep. He then invited my dad to be a scout leader, and my dad was ecstatic. He had missed being a part of scouts so much, and he talked about it weekly. He made sure my brothers were eagle scouts. He took me camping, and made sure I knew how to tie all the knots, and start a rad log house fire. So, of course, he immediately began preparing lessons for these kids.

One day, he received another visit from the bishop, who told him there had been complaints, too many complaints, about him in the scout leader position. They had threatened to pull their kids out of scouts because my father was a nonmember, and they knew he drank alcohol in his home, and so the bishop had no choice but void his offer. When my dad revealed this to me later, all I saw was hurt in his eyes. It hurt me too, because he was my daddy. The bishop extended a hand towards my dad. He was being Christlike and loving, which he will never know I am so grateful for. He was trying to help get my father involved again. But it can’t just be one person with a lantern, saying “here, sheep. Here, sheep.” In our congregations we are all shepherds and we are all sheep. We need to bust out a search party and love that lost sheep to death.

While giving the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus delivered one of my other favorite lines, “Judge not, that ye not be judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged.” He asks the people how they can point out a mote, or a splinter, in their brother’s eye, but forget about the giant beam in their own eye. Christ, the only perfect person ever to walk the earth, the only person that honestly could place judgment on someone without hypocrisy, tells all his disciples that they shouldn’t do it. I take this thought with me to church every week. I think we can slip up sometimes, and look at someone and think, “Why are they even here? Why are they LDS? They do this and this and this. They don’t deserve to be here. They should just leave.” We forget that someone could look at us, and for whatever the reason may be, they could think the same thing. And I don’t know about you guys, but I really want to be here. Church can sometimes be my sanity, even if I’m snoring—Of course by accident.

                Recently, I read a blog posted by a Christian actress. I’ve seen it floating on a couple of other Facebook walls, so I know some here have read it. It seemed almost too perfect for this talk. It is called, “Three Immodestly dressed women walk into a church.” It contains a story about three women, and shows why we cannot and should not judge people inside of our halls.

The first woman is new to church and has recently discovered the gospel, after previously being rebellious and a little wild. This is her first time attending, but all she has is a skirt that stops above the knees and a tank top.

The second woman has recently gained a lot of weight, and all of her clothes fit poorly and are now too tight. However, she doesn’t have the money yet to buy new clothes.

The third is a young teen, still grappling with the idea of being “cool” and “modest” at the same time. An older woman tells her that she would never allow her child out dressed like that, that men in this church only want “respectable” girls. The girl hides in the bathroom the rest of the day and many Sundays after.

In all of these stories, we have a couple of choices. We can judge an outward appearance and assume these women’s inner reasons and feelings for dressing like they do, potentially blocking some kind of spiritually uplifting experience for both of us. Or we can open our doors and unlock our hearts and just love them for being here, for taking that step. Christ, in all of his perfection, told us in Matthew 22 that the greatest commandment is to love God, and that the second greatest is to love thy neighbor as thyself. Can we remember this and act with love towards everyone we meet? We never know why people do what they do. We never know what they’re going through. Perhaps our love is just what they need to feel the spirit, to feel whole.

President Uchdorf gave a conference talk last October called, “Come join with us.” It resonated with me. He said that there is room for all here, that we can find similarities in our yearnings, struggles, and hopes. We may have different upbringings, but, and I quote, “we need your unique talents and perspectives. The diversity of persons and peoples all around the globe is the strength of this church.” I would like to add one more thing to this already fabulous idea. That we are all children of God, and we should treat each other as such. What a new found respect for people we can have if we view them this way. How will it change our actions and thoughts towards them?

I loved this talk and felt that it pertained to me, like he was speaking right to me. I don’t look like a stereotypical Mormon. I have a very unconventional upbringing. Aside from my father, my mother is a convert from Judaism. I grew up with bits of everything and teachings from everywhere. My dad even experimented with Native American spirituality. As a lifelong Utahn, I often felt alienated at church, like I didn’t belong there, but I loved the beautiful ideas from the Book of Mormon, adding to and extending broad ideas from the Bible. When I was struggling the most with my differentness, my brother would tell me something I loved. Chris has now informed me that what he said is a famous quote, but I’m going to continue attributing it to my brother, because it made him seem terribly wise and thoughtful. He said, “Church is a hospital for the spiritually sick, not a rest home for the righteous. You deserve to be here just as much as the rest of us.”

When we moved to Columbus I was nervous—nervous that I would have to start all over again, proving that I was worthy to be here with everyone else, that people might not accept me because I don’t seem like a “typical” Mormon. What I found was the opposite. My previous ward, and now this one, welcomed with open arms. So many people extended love in my direction, taking me in, making me feel like I belonged. Two Christmases ago, I sang at our ward Christmas party in full hair school regalia—All black from head-to-toe, a school shirt that was too small, because that was the only size they had left, pants when others were in skirts, hot pink lipstick, and yes, even my purple hair. Afterwards, one of the girls came up to me and said, “I’m so glad that you are you, and that you are here.” I can’t tell you how much that meant to me, something so small she will probably never know. She could have looked at me and thought, “She doesn’t belong here.” She could have never talked to me or done her visiting teaching, because I looked like the kind of person that wouldn’t be into that, but she didn’t. She reached out to me with a Christlike love, and pulled me into the ward, bringing us both closer to the gospel and to Christ. She just loved me.

                So many in this ward have done the same, and I thank you all for your love. If there is anyone here that is worried they don’t belong, I urge you to read any chapter about Jesus’ life. He welcomed all. His church is for everyone, so please stay here with us. I love that we are all children of our Heavenly Father, siblings to our Savior, Jesus Christ, no matter what else we are, and I hope that we can emulate them and remember to love everyone, inside…and outside… of this building. I’m so grateful to be a part of this ward, and for the friendship that many of you have already shown me. Thank you.

I say these things in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.