I let the pages drift away. The wind carried the delicate pages—that bore a story of heartache, frustration, triumph, and redemption—a few feet away me before gently laying them on the surface of the water. I watched as the water slowly spread, the writing becoming blurred, and the once crisp pages became translucent and fragile.

The sun was out and the clouds were wisps. I closed my eyes, turning my face towards its warmth, processing what had just happened.

I know that I said I would post a follow up to the experience I shared about racism. That post was actually meant to be one of three parts, a saga that unfolded throughout my life in the church, often plaguing me. I mentioned how overcome with emotion I was when I first wrote about the experiences, and that they were too difficult to share. But after I finished rewriting the last segment, something changed; I no longer wanted to share the series. Maybe I didn’t want the criticism and the inevitable arguments that would follow; maybe I recognized a line too personal to cross; or maybe I just found peace and closure in the writing itself.

My blog was never intended to attack the church, or to be a place to vent or cause contention. It was simply a way to be part of a narrative that was going on around me, but seldom included me. I thought that my writing could be my defense against the rumors, gossip, and misunderstandings that circulated around my leaving the church.

I knew that the people who whispered about me, who spewed resentment and criticism, would probably never read my writing. And that was OK. Let’s face it, when I was in their shoes, I might not have read it either.

But something happened to my blog along the way. Words that I thought were written in my defense—to try to help others see my point of view, and understand my struggle—weren’t my defense at all. They were not weapons to fight back.  They were instruments of freedom.

It wasn’t until a book that I was reading fell apart, and my cousin pointed out the symbolism, that I was finally able to express this understanding.  It was a used book, a little tattered, but still in good shape. I was careful to not get it wet as I floated around the pool one afternoon. (Our pool is my favorite place to read and stay cool in the Las Vegas heat.) Several chapters in, I turned a page and it came unbound in my hand. Then, one after another, the pages I turned broke free of the binding and the rest of the story. I was left with a stack of loose pages in one hand, and the last half of the book barely holding together in my other. If you have lived in Vegas, you are familiar with “the blower dryer”— it’s what they call the summer wind that isn’t refreshing and doesn’t cool you down, just blows thick, hot air. A quick little gust from the blow dryer whipped the newly loosed leafs from my hand and carried them across the pool.

The pages I had read were gone—some blown across the yard, some floating in the pool next to the floating pink flamingo, and some still tumbling with the breeze. But the remainder of the story was in my hand. I didn’t reach for lost the pages. I didn’t try to gather them up and glue them back in. I didn’t even get out of my cool spot in the pool. I just let them go. I didn’t need them anymore. They were important while I was reading them, and I would have been lost in a confusing plot had they not been bound tightly together. But with each turned page, that piece of the story became the past.

I don’t think I will be chasing down the other parts to the racism post. I am content that I wrote about them, and for now they can drift silently away. There is still much more to my story. But I am starting to believe that there is more ahead, in the unread pages, than lies behind. The posts and the experiences I have shared have probably not done anything in the way of my defense, or to change the minds of those who are upset by my decisions. But writing them has freed me from much of the weight I carried. Each time I wrote, and shared a piece of myself openly, I felt a little bit of the pain slip away. Post by post my fears and shame about leaving the church came unbound, and freed themselves from the rest of my story.

.

Last month, I did something crazy. I loaded up my three kids in our Explorer, crammed it full of suitcases, iPads, and junk food, and drove to Seattle from Las Vegas. Luckily, my mom volunteered to make the drive with us so I wouldn’t have to pay attention to driving and children fighting at the same time. She oversaw iPads and junk food while I oversaw wrong turns and gas stations. It actually worked out well.

I was so excited to go “home” and see friends and family.  I was also very nervous. Many of the people I would be visiting were friends from church, who I haven’t spent much time with since leaving the church and starting this blog.  To be honest, I didn’t know what to expect.

For as hard as I try to set healthy boundaries and not worry too much about what people think, I still worry how my actions have affected those I love. And since the world obviously revolves around me, my decision to leave the church may have affected some loved ones.

Mormons’ lives are deeply connected. Many Mormons take the idea of “being their brother’s keeper” very seriously.  There is a loving desire to look out for one another, support, love, teach, and serve each other. There are women that I worked with in various church callings, where we poured our blood, sweat, and tears into our assignments and responsibilities. There are family members who love the church and watched me love the church as well.  There are friends who stood by me when other members of the church were vicious to me and my family. There are bishops who sustained and supported me. There are youth that I taught and loved. There are missionary companions I served with that were like sisters and best friends. There are leaders from my youth who love me like a daughter. There are people who listened to my testimony, and felt inspired to believe.

Basically, there are a lot of people in Washington, and throughout my life, who could feel very disappointed and betrayed by my actions. Who may feel like I have broken a spiritual connection that we once shared. Going back “home”, I feared seeing the look of disappointment in their eyes.

But that isn’t what I saw or felt. I felt loved.

Loved in the way I had always been at church. Not loved because I gave a good talk, did my assignment, or obediently followed the rules. Just loved for being me.

Because I am still me.

I know that I am still the same, even though some beliefs and views have changed. Sure, I do different things on Sunday now, and drink iced coffee instead of Diet Coke, and maybe drop a swear word every now and then (Who am I kidding? I always did that- even when I was active!). But there is so much of me that is the same, maybe even better. What I didn’t expect was others to be the same. To love me the same and to treat me the same. People reached out with love and kindness to me and my children. We had all night conversations, filled with understanding and respect. We had fun playing and laughing, just like old times.  We were “home”.

I am so grateful for the effort that everyone made to show us that we are still loved and accepted, even with differing beliefs. This was probably made most clear to me on the last weekend that I was in Washington. We were staying at my parents’ house, and I worried about how they would approach the subject of church on Sunday. I didn’t want it to be awkward, and I didn’t want to disappoint them. But I also did not want to go to church. My mom, who has always loved me for me, suggested that I take the kids swimming at the neighborhood pool while they attended Sacrament meeting. I was so relieved. She didn’t put me on the spot, or try to guilt me into going with her. (Which could have been really awkward since the only dress I brought was a mini skirt- and mini skirts aren’t really church approved.) She didn’t make us feel bad or uncomfortable. She found a way to show me that she loves me, supports my decisions, and a way for my kids to have a good time even while Grandma and Grandpa were at church.

These little acts of love and acceptance have brought me so much healing. Healing that I didn’t even know I needed. Thank you, Washington. (Oh, and thanks for the gorgeous weather! It almost made me want to move back…almost.)

P.S. That is a picture of Mount Rainier that I took while flying in my Uncle’s plane. Pretty cool, huh?

 

 

(This post is meant to be 1 of 3, dealing with overlapping issues. On Facebook I mentioned a post that had been very difficult for me to write, this isn’t it. However, this is the first part, that leads up to the difficult post. Stay tuned for the rest.)

He was sitting across the table, and his laughter was contagious. It was our first real date.  We had talked quite a few times, and even been out to lunch once when he was at my Cosmetology School getting his hair cut. Derrick was not my client in beauty school. He only allowed Bryan, my classmate, to touch his hair. Bryan had been cutting his hair for years, and only recently decided to go to school and become a barber. They laughed hysterically the day I asked if I could try ‘lining him up’. I remember him saying something like “No offense, but you can’t touch this fade.” He was right, after all, I had never cut African American hair, and I was not about to practice a tight fade, and perfect line on the most handsome lawyer I had ever met. I would leave that to Bryan. However, I was delighted when he added “But can I take you out to dinner?” Bryan smiled smugly, proud to be the match maker who introduced his best friend to his classmate.  And now, a few days later, I was sitting across the table from him eating dinner and reveling in his infectious smile. It was hard to not be smitten with Derrick. He was intelligent, funny, sweet, and gorgeous.  But I was apprehensive. I was 20 years old, time to start thinking about marriage, and dating a non-member was risky business.  It would mean explaining my religion, having the awkward talk about no sex before marriage, the discussion about no restaurants or going out on Sunday, and the realization that they would have to convert if it was going to last. (Over think a first date much, Katie?) But Derrick was full of surprises. When the server asked if we would like coffee with dessert, he kindly declined saying that he knew I didn’t drink coffee. Bryan had told him I was Mormon.

To my amazement, he explained how he had taken all of the missionary discussions and read the whole Book of Mormon back in college, when he had a girlfriend that was LDS. This was perfect! I was ready to set his baptismal date and start planning our wedding. While I was day-dreaming about the adorable children we would have together, he must have read my mind because his mood became somber and he said, “I could never join a church that wouldn’t allow my people into heaven.” I was taken off guard, and quickly responded that ‘his people’ were always allowed into heaven. He corrected me, explaining that the Mormon church requires the temple endowment and sealing to go to the highest heaven, and without the priesthood, a black man could not enter the temple.  I was speechless. It had never been explained to me in that way. In fact, it had never been truly explained to me at all. My mind raced through the years in Sunday School, and the few times the ban had been mentioned. I knew that there had been a ban that barred Black men of African descent from receiving the priesthood, and that the ban had only been lifted back in 1978. But it was rarely explained. And being a white female in the church, I hadn’t thought much about the ban, it didn’t really affect me. I remembered the most common explanation, “Black people had been less valiant in the war in heaven before we came to earth, so they had to earn back the privileges of the priesthood”. Looking at Derrick sitting thoughtfully across the table, that explanation sounded horrific. My face burned with embarrassment, and I could feel the hot sting of tears welling up in my eyes. I was ashamed of my church, and my own ignorance of its teachings.  I was absolutely mortified.

I had to hurry from our dinner date to a late shift at work. Running past coworkers, eager to hear about my date with “the super hot lawyer,” I grabbed the cordless phone and went straight to the bathroom to lock myself in. Sitting alone on the cold tile floor, I could finally let my tears flow.  How could this happen? How could I be a member for racist church? And why didn’t I know more about the ban and the doctrine? My testimony seemed to be trembling, just like my hand as I dialed the number. There was only one person I wanted to talk to, my Dad.

My Dad is a convert who joined the church in the 60’s, before the ban against men of African descent was lifted. He has always set an example of acceptance. I watched him serve with compassion as the bishop in a very economically and sometimes racially diverse ward. He is well read, with a large collection of books about church history and doctrine. Having never heard him make a racist comment, I knew that he would not take this lightly. With tears still streaming down my face, I called my dad and asked him how he could join a racist church?

Over the next few minutes, hiding in a dark bathroom, crying on the phone, my dad explained to me his views on the priesthood ban. He believed, to some degree, that many members of the church had been very racist, and might not have accepted black people into the church (which was not uncommon in the United States when the church began). He felt that God knew that the church wasn’t strong enough yet to endure the division and animosity it might cause to allow black members the same privileges. And that maybe it was just God allowing the members time to reach His understanding. I took comfort in the idea that the ban had come with prophetic foresight and that it was only done to allow the church a chance to grow- much like my understanding of polygamy at that time. It was just one of the examples of God’s ways being different from our ways. I found peace and gratitude hearing that my dad rejoiced when the decision was made in 1978 to lift the ban. He reiterated that it was just his perspective, and the conclusion he had come to. But it was enough to help me out of the bathroom stall, and back to work that night.

 

For years after I clung to my Dad’s explanation, it was much more comfortable than the ones I had heard throughout my adolescence. I had no idea if those teachings were even from prophets or just speculations made by racist members. But I always longed for a more concrete answer from the prophets. I hated the ambiguity. For a church that claimed, “the fullness of the gospel” I hated that we were left to form our own opinions on such important, eternal matters. We had prophetic counsel about the number of earrings we could wear, but nothing to clarify the ban against an entire race of people?

Obviously, things didn’t work out with Derrick. I was too ashamed to face him ever again.  But of all the first dates I have ever been on, the one with “the super hot lawyer” was one of the most memorable and by far the most painful.

I have always cherished the conversation I had with my dad that night, when he patiently comforted me over the phone. I have never doubted his sincerity and his love for the church. I embraced and taught the concepts he shared with me, believing that they had pacified my concerns and answered my questions. But years later, I found that the concerns never really went away. They were just hiding on a shelf that would one day break.

 

I know you, you are thinking, “Sure, I can write a blog. Everyone is doing it.” You think, “Yeah, I have something to say. I think I will write it, and put it out into the universe.”

So, you start a blog. You come up with a thoughtful, yet witty (albeit over played) title. You share it on Facebook. You feel pretty good about yourself because you are being all “vulnerable” and “introspective” and “authentic”, like all those cool millennials you’ve read about. You are feeling brave and strong because you are saying things you never thought you would say. You are even friends with your lap top, something that no one who has seen you with technology dreamt was possible. Things are going well.

You start to get more positive comments than negative, more hopeful emails than hateful, more understanding readers than angry. Soon, you are celebrating having 500 views on your post in one day! Remember, that’s a lot when you are still some low-budget, side-job but not getting paid, just sharing it on Facebook- where most of your friends don’t want to read about you leaving the church they love, wannabe blogger anyway. So, 500 seems super rad! Self Five! (That’s me, giving myself a high five, like I learned from Barney Stinson. It’s what you do when no one is around, or no one wants to give you a high five even though you feel you are totally deserving of one. Just take care of yourself, Self Five!) You are starting to think you might seriously know how to blog.

So, you sign a few autographs, pose for pictures with your 500 fans, kiss a few babies, and sit down with your laptop to write for the following week. What could go wrong?

Then you do it.  You make the fatal writer’s mistake, that you didn’t know existed. (Because you didn’t read anyone else’s blogs before you started your own, and you didn’t think far enough ahead to get to this place, with a magnificent 500 person viewership, and you were basically clueless about a lot of the painful healing process that comes with being a writer.) You accidentally write about something that really hurts. Of course, you thought you had processed all of this crap already. Isn’t that why you bought self-help books, started meditating, talked to your therapist, and decided you were strong enough to start this blog in the first place?

But you didn’t know about triggers. No one warned you that someday you might write something that would trigger pain. (And if they did, you weren’t listening because you were too busy writing, duh.) You didn’t know that you could write something that would cause you to panic, shut down, feel isolated and depressed. You were so clueless, you didn’t even know there was a self-destruct button hidden deep, just waiting to detonate. (Which is actually your own darn fault, you have watched enough Phineas and Ferb to know that there is always a self-destruct button!) You thought you had this all figured out, didn’t you? You thought you could write a blog.

Guess what? It isn’t as easy as you thought.

 

I am sorry I stood you guys up last week, when I didn’t post anything on my blog. Next week, I will try to share the post that was my blogging-self-destruct button. (Barring any other unforeseen breakdowns.) Don’t worry, it wasn’t some traumatic memory, or some bottled up secret from my past. It was something that I have talked about often, that I thought was a safe topic to write about. I had no idea it would devastate me the way it did. One minute I was writing, the next I was overwhelmed and angry. For some reason, I just couldn’t share it. I am not trying to be some “cliff hanger blogger” or even worse “the annoyingly vague Facebook friend” writing things like “Well, that doctor’s appointment when different than expected….” (Why? Why do they post things like that?!) I am just trying to explain why I took a little break from my blog, and how “triggers” are real.

I know it is hard for some members of the church to understand why a loved one won’t come listen to them speak at church, or why they aren’t sitting outside the temple waiting for the bride to come out, or why it seems like they don’t want to hear about the new calling in the Primary Presidency. They aren’t being jerks. They haven’t “changed” or become selfish people. They aren’t being anti-Mormon. (All things I have heard said about people who don’t seem to be “supporting” their Mormon friends or family.) They are protecting that well-hidden self-destruct button. They are trying to listen to their heart, the broken one that has been through a lot the last few months or years. They are trying to avoid a situation that could trigger some extremely painful feelings. They really do love you, active members of the church. They want to support you in a million other ways, that don’t have to include a building with a sign that says, “Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.” They have taken your feelings into consideration more than you know, fearing the disappointment they think you will feel, fearing rejection and loss, and hoping that after some time things will be different. They are smart enough to see a “trigger,” (something that will stir up the hurt, anger, or pain that they have finally overcome) and know when to avoid it. Or in my case, when it’s healthy to post it.

Wait, what? You didn’t even notice that I missed two Mondays in a row? What kind of an enormous 500 person viewership are you? Oh, the kind that has their own life and plenty of other blogs to read, yeah, I get that. No biggie.

Stay tuned for next week, when the saga continues….

(Just kidding, no more vague posts)

A woman posts a blog about a triggering experience. See what happens next…

(I just can’t help myself!! Self Five!)

 

 

 

 

 

I think many members could admit that they were a little confused the first time they felt “spiritual feelings,” often described as the Holy Ghost, a “burning in the bosom,”  a tingling sensation, or a deep sense of peace, in a non-LDS atmosphere—like watching the movie Saving Private Ryan and feeling overwhelmed with emotion, or walking into a beautiful Catholic Cathedral and falling silent in awe.  When “feeling the spirit” is always connected to the LDS church, or God, it gets a little confusing if it suddenly connects to something else. But for me, I felt like spirituality was much more than a religious feeling associated with the church.  (And, don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone that you watched Saving Private Ryan. It was rated R after all. Just pretend like you saw the edited version one night on TBS. Wink. Wink.)

In the church, spirituality is linked exclusively to a relationship with God. Spiritual experiences were usually opportunities to have your testimony strengthened about a certain principle or teaching. I had many of these types of experiences, even as a young child. Feelings of love associated with a Heavenly Father, or feelings of truth while reading a scripture. I relied on those experiences to confirm my belief in the church.  It’s taught that these experiences come directly from God, and often manifest as promptings we receive when we are worthy and listening. We are taught that those promptings will always align with what the modern prophets teach. It seems impossible, to some, to have a spiritual witness that is incongruent with the Mormon faith, or one that contradicts the teachings of the church. I think that is why so many people believe that we are “led away” or being “fooled by Satan” when we feel that we have had a spiritual witness that confirms our belief that the church isn’t true, or that we should no longer participate in the church. These people may not realize that spiritual experiences exist outside of the Mormon definition.

I remember the first time I took a yoga class and had a very beautiful, even otherworldly, experience. (I also remember being crazy sore all the next week. Who knew you could hurt so much from just a few weird stretches?) It was actually with a private instructor, just she and I, in her small, quiet studio. While meditating in different yoga poses, I felt a deep spiritual connection, not with a heavenly being, but with something that connected me to things unassociated with myself, my faith, and even my immediate surroundings. Until then, I had no idea that yoga was so powerful and peaceful. I just thought it was doing strange, flexible stretches. But it connected me to a much broader universe and a new concept of spirituality.  I loved it. It was liberating to feel that spirituality did not need to be connected to a specific religion or belief—it could be a personal, unique experience outside of those parameters. Some spirituality might be inspired by God. Some might come from deep within ourselves. Or it may even come from something else entirely, like the way I felt practicing yoga.

When I realized that I wanted to leave the church, I became overwhelmed trying to process many of my previous spiritual experiences. They came at me like a tidal wave—a rushing sensation that buried me under years of witnesses, beliefs, testimonies, experiences, and miracles, like the time when I felt that “I knew the Book of Mormon was true,” or the promptings that led me to decide to marry JT, or the other amazing experiences I had throughout my life in the church. Suddenly, I was forced to deal with the question of what to make of all of them. If I left the church, how would I reconcile the testimonies and witnesses I had once believed were true?  Especially when I believed that God had previously confirmed these truths through spiritual experiences. I thought that I had to have an explanation for and an understanding of each one.

I was fortunate to have a small life preserver thrown to me when the first tidal wave hit. I clung to it as the waves continued to break throughout my entire faith transition. And the little life preserver continued to pull me back to the surface, keeping my head above water and giving me time to thoughtfully process each wave. It was thrown to me by a non-Mormon cousin who was raised Christian.  She has always inspired me, and I have admired her for years. In desperation one night at our family reunion, I told her about the tidal waves. At that time, before many of the waves of doctrinal experiences hit, I was thinking about my mission. “I loved my mission,” I told her, fighting back tears. “If I leave the church, if I go to another church, or none at all, what does that mean for my mission in Madagascar?” I didn’t think I could go to a Christian church and talk about my spiritual experiences sharing the Book of Mormon in Africa. Would they think I was crazy? Obviously, Christians would not believe in the Book of Mormon. Would I have to abandon all of those amazing experiences, the little miracles, and things we considered tender mercies? Would I have to look back at them as fraudulent moments from my life as a Mormon? I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t forsake the things I loved about Madagascar—the simple things, like the smells and sounds in the streets, the hugeness of the sky and the infinite colors of the sunsets, the strangeness of speaking a foreign language, the spiritual moments that connected me to everything, and the love I felt for the other missionaries and the Malagasy people that we served. The mission meant so many different things to me. My daughter was even named after a beloved Malagasy mother. The force of that wave was enough to keep me from ever leaving, and strong enough to drown me, until my cousin reached out and lovingly said, “You can take your mission with you, if you choose.”

My cousin’s words have carried me over massive waves and through darkest storms for the past three years. Her words never prevented a church-related memory or wave of testimony from cascading down. I went through them all, but after I processed each one, and followed the spiritual light that has always guided me, I was able to keep what I wanted to keep. I was able to examine many of my beliefs in a new way. I realized that I had been basing most of my beliefs on feelings. I had been interpreting feeling inspired by a particular scripture or principle to mean it was true. But, as I looked deeper into the questions I had about doctrine and church history I found new information. And this information changed the feelings I had about many of those principles. I no longer felt the “burning in the bosom” feelings when I thought about Joseph Smith, I felt quite the opposite. Realizing that much of my testimony had been based on limited and even false information, I no longer perceive my spiritual experiences and impressions as concrete. For instance, the indescribable feelings of beauty and peace I felt at Notre Dame in Paris did not confirm to me that Catholicism is true. Feeling good is not a Truth-O-Meter. It was difficult, at first, to not feel trapped by past spiritual confirmations. But I found that I can trust my spiritual impressions and instincts, and not have to be limited by them. I can still cherish some of the amazing experiences I had in the church, and on my mission, while rejecting the teachings I find to be false.

For example, when the wave that carried my struggles with the temple came rolling in, I was momentarily swallowed up. I had to process the good things from the temple and weigh them against the bad. I trusted myself, and how I already felt about never wanting to go back. But what would I do with the rest? Then the words from my cousin came back and lifted me up: “You can take this with you, if you choose.” So, I kept the sweet moment in the Celestial Room when JT and I were all alone, almost 13 years ago, when he told me everything he loved about me and why he so desperately wanted to marry me, right before he took my hand and walked with me into the room to be married. I held tight to that moment, Celestial Room and all, as I gratefully watched the wave recede back into the sea, taking the other negative experiences from the temple with it.

Right now, while the sea is calm and I feel peace and connection, the life preserver is tucked away. I don’t need it to save me as often as it used to. To some, it may not make sense how I can continue to consider myself a spiritual person while abandoning a temple-worthy Mormon life style, or how I can still have beautiful memories from my mission, while sometimes wishing I had never gone, or singing “Mary’s Lullaby” from the Children’s Hymnbook to my kids at night, while not wanting to ever hear the song “Follow the Prophet” again. Just because I left the church and most of the things in it, doesn’t mean that I can’t take the things I love with me.

You know vomit? You know how disgusting it is, but people talk about it anyway? Like when someone’s  been really sick, and they want to tell all the details, even though you know the details about being sick, but everyone likes to share their own horror stories about it, so you listen? Don’t worry, I am not going to talk about anything gross, I promise.

I hate being sick. By the way, I always say how much I hate being sick. And then I think, “That’s a dumb statement.” I mean, does anyone like being sick? Isn’t it just a given that we all hate being sick? But then I think, “Well, I probably hate being sick more than anyone else does, so I am going to keep saying ‘I hate being sick’ so people know how much I hate it more than they do.”

There are a few things I really hate about being sick:

1. How confusing it is. On one hand, you feel miserable, and you know that your body just wants to get rid of the evil alien inside that is making it sick. (Side story: in Madagascar, if you are visiting and have a sensitive stomach to the local food you say, “Vazaha Kibo” which loosely translates to “I have a stranger/alien/foreigner/white person tummy.” I always thought it was “there is a stranger in my tummy.” Either way, it’s pretty funny imagery, right?) You totally don’t want to throw up because it is the worst thing ever. The worst. Ever. But you know how much better you will feel if all that junk is out of your system. So, you don’t want to, but you kind of do. And you are afraid to, but you keep a bucket close by in hopes that you will.

 

2. How it warps all sense of time and reality. Even if you know it is a 24-hour bug because that is all anyone has talked about on Facebook or at the bus stop for a week, you are still terrified that it may never go away. You forget what it is like to feel normal, to eat real food, to function as a human being.

 

3. How it is such a waste. You should be happy—you have a day or two to lay on the couch, drink 7up, eat saltine crackers, and watch Pride & Prejudice without any expectation that you should be doing something productive! But you feel like crap. So, the whole time you resent being stuck on the couch, only being able to drink soda and eat crackers, bored of watching Pride & Prejudice, and anxious to be productive again. And of course, three days later you wish you could “just have a sick day.”

Apparently, processing an event like, you know, leaving the church you have known your whole life, feels a little bit like the stomach flu.

Finding a way to share my story without being swallowed up in it is a balancing act. There are still doors I don’t want to look behind, shelves I am afraid to talk about, and a giant rabbit hole of doctrine that I don’t want my blog to fall into. But the need to share tugs at me, like an evil stranger in the bottom of my soul, clawing to get out. Even though it scares me, I know I will feel better letting it out. And with each post, I see that the evil stranger isn’t a stranger at all. It is actually a beautiful, vulnerable piece of me that just wants to be free.

Sometimes I wonder if I will ever get past this stage—where little things are constant triggers, and where I have to work hard to change the narrative that has been ingrained in me. I worry that I will never know how to just be normal—how to trust my own instincts instead of following a “prophet.”  I find myself connecting with people and the world around me, and then hear a general authority’s voice reminding me to “not be of the world.” The voice that tells me I am just desensitized to the sin and evil around me.  Sometimes, when I laugh hard at a dirty joke, or swear out loud, or watch a rated R movie, I feel a pang of guilt. But it isn’t real guilt—it’s just a reflex from being told for so long to feel guilty about things like that. Right when I think I am adjusted, that I am past that phase, and that I am over those feelings, a Mormon idea will pop into my head and throw me back in. I can look around, and see friends and family who have left it all behind and are settled into a new life. I can rationally tell myself, “it’s just the 24-hour bug”—you’ll feel normal again soon. But it’s so easy to forget.

Lately, I have been paralyzed with the realization that I have the chance to push the Do Over button, and I don’t know what to do. I look at all the decisions that led me to where I am today, wondering which were my own and which were just the path I was on. I ask myself, what do I really want? I’m excited for the opportunity to start over fresh and change so many things, but I’m also terrified of the change and the new opportunity for failure. I’ve felt so frustrated with some of the choices that I made when I was younger, based on the principles I learned at church—choices that have affected my entire life. I’ve longed for the chance to change my destiny, my perspective, and yet, in this moment I’m so afraid. It’s like wishing for a sick day to watch Pride & Prejudice, but now that I have it, I don’t know how to enjoy it.

Sitting here next to the pool with my glass of wine, my laptop, and wearing my pajamas (I can do that now, because I am being a writer, and we get to do cool sh*t like that), I see the similarities between a sick day and faith crisis. I feel it consuming me, but I know there must be an end in sight. The Do Over button is frustrating and intimidating, but it is also exciting, and I don’t want to miss my chance to change. Most of all, I need to release the scared, delicate, not-so-evil stranger inside. Every time I write a post, I feel a tiny bit freer.  Writing that I don’t believe in the temple makes me feel less self-conscious when I run into a friend from church and I am wearing my shorty shorts and tank top. I don’t care if she’s trying to figure out why I am not wearing garments. I tell myself, “If she wants to know, she can read the blog.” Sharing the story about piña coladas (and bravely writing at the beginning of this paragraph about my glass of wine) makes me feel less paranoid about posting a picture on Facebook of me and my friends at a bar. I think, “Meh. Everyone knows that I like to try new cocktails. I don’t have to worry that they all assume I am an alcoholic. I wrote about it in my blog.” Admitting that this has been a traumatic process, a decision that I did not take lightly, and opening up about the tears I have shed, gives me strength and confidence. When someone wants me to attend a church event that I know will hurt me and trigger a lot of pain, I don’t need to feel guilty about not going. I feel comfortable thinking, “Don’t take it personally. My blog explains that this has nothing to do with you. I just need space to heal, and acceptance as I do this in the best way I know how.” The more that I share (or purge, since we are still comparing this to the stomach flu), the more free I feel, the more true to myself I become. Releasing these little bits of myself, and my story, allows me to come back to reality and opens the space to move on. So, I guess this blog is a little bit like the bucket I keep next to the couch on my sick days. Sometimes, I feel anxious about using it, but in the end, it always feels better when I do.

 

The creaks and groans from the shelves were getting louder. I wanted to avoid going into the dark recesses of my mind, and opening the closet door. I wanted everything to stay put and leave me alone. But it was hard to ignore the cracking, as if every concern locked in the closet was a giant, shifting sandbag – too heavy for the once sturdy shelves. I knew that one of them was about to break.

Alongside my white dress, I stuffed the sandbags of hurt, frustration, and confusion into my temple bag every time I went. But this time, I didn’t leave the sandbags in the basement locker room of the temple—I lugged them up the escalator into the endowment room. When that part was over, and the bags felt even heavier, I dragged them into the quiet Celestial Room.

The only reason I came to the temple that day was for the few minutes at the end of the session where I could be still in the Celestial Room.  But this time, I felt anything but still. I could feel the shelf cracking. The weight of my concerns was more than it could bear. Bravely, I looked deep into the dark bags of pain, I could see myself at the temple for the first time. I could see exactly where this all began.

I won’t get into specifics of the ceremonies. The temple is very sacred to many people that I love and I have no desire to hurt them, or share what they find sacred.

It was September of 2001, and I was 22 years old. I would be leaving the next month to go on my mission to Madagascar. After my 3^rd summer as an EFY counselor for the church, I felt prepared to spend 18 months as a missionary. Counselors focused on the most important principles of the gospel—the Creation, the Atonement, and the Resurrection. I felt that going to the temple would just be an extension of all the things I had been teaching—the icing on the cake. I thought I was prepared for what was coming.

But once I was in the temple, seated in the Endowment Room for the first time, I realized how far away I was from the church I knew. It was nothing like what I had imagined. It was not like peaceful sacrament meetings, talking and singing about Christ. In fact, Christ seemed to have very little to do with it at all. I realized that my “anti-mormon” friends from years before had been describing it pretty accurately when they told me of strange ceremonies and handshakes. (All things that I argued were not true.) I felt terrified and confused. I looked desperately around the room, wondering how I ended up there. I felt like I was part of a weird conspiracy, surrounded by all of my loved ones, who were in on it. I’d been told that it was a beautiful, holy place, but I only felt fear. I could see the glowing EXIT sign and I wanted to run. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. So, I stayed frozen in place and started dreading the end, where we would all go to the Celestial Room. That is where we were finally allowed to talk to each other, and I didn’t want hugs, and everyone telling me how happy they were for me. I didn’t feel happy, I felt betrayed, and I just wanted to cry.

At home, I held my mission call in my hand. I read it over and over. It was the familiar Mormon jargon—nothing like the things I had just heard in the temple. It promised me blessings and happiness for serving. And yet, happiness seemed to have been drained from my soul. I wanted to send the mission call back to the address in Salt Lake City. I couldn’t imagine serving a mission for the church anymore. In fact, I felt like I might have to leave the church altogether.

The next week, just three weeks from my mission, was horrible. I was so scared, I didn’t know who to talk to or trust.  When I told people how terrible the temple had made me feel, a few had the audacity to suggest it was because I wasn’t worthy to be there. To them, only Satan and sin could make me feel that horrible. Loving family members shared scriptures that they hoped would explain some of the temple ceremony. I was finally convinced by a loved one to keep my mission call and go to Madagascar. He encouraged me to trust what I had always believed and reassured me that one day it would make sense. And since I was hoping to marry him in the temple after my mission, I believed him.

I kept my mission call to Madagascar and enjoyed being a missionary there. I was teaching the familiar things I loved, like Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon.

After I came home, I went through the awkward returned-missionary stage. (Quick Apology to anyone who talked to me within the first six months of coming home. You will remember, I was really, really awkward, and totally lost for what to do next.)  The temple was still very strange to me. As I attended, I looked for ways to overcome my concerns. What I couldn’t resolve, about the ceremonies and the phrasing, I put on my shelf of “temple things that will all be worked out and make sense in the next life.” With those concerns tucked away, I found peace in the quietness of the temple. And found beauty in the thought of Eternal Marriage, hoping to one day be married there myself. (Oh by the way, the boy from before the mission didn’t wait for me. Apparently, I wasn’t really his type. But last I heard he was happily married to his best friend, a man that seemed very loving and kind.)

Fast Forward: I fell madly in love with JT and married him in the temple. We continued to attend regularly for years.  I rationalized a lot, ignored some, and listened to people who came up with more palatable explanations that helped me find temporary comfort and avoid the cognitive dissonance I felt. Eventually, most of the discomfort dissipated, and I began to enjoy the temple. In the quiet of the Celestial Room, I always found peace. There were no strange covenants, handshakes, or uncomfortable submissions there. It was a beautiful room, with a gigantic crystal chandelier, and comfortable couches where I could quietly pray, meditate, and seek answers to spiritual questions. I believed it was the only place I could feel such peace.

But when I would let my guard down and listen carefully to the promises I was making, I felt the questions and confusion resurfacing. I found it difficult to find any type of concrete explanation—not even from the temple presidency. When I tried to talk to leaders about my questions, they made me feel like I wasn’t worthy enough, faithful enough, attending often enough, or listening enough, and that if I had, my doubt and confusion would disappear. I mean, the temple didn’t bother anyone else, did it? So, of course, I found myself back in the closet, bottling up my worries and concerns, and hiding them on the shelf, next to the others.

Back to the day in the early fall of 2014, when I heard the loud groaning of the shelves.

There I sat in the Celestial Room, staring at the bulging sandbags that I had ignored for so many years.  This time felt different. It wasn’t just the shelf in my mind—the weight seemed to be pressing down on my heart as well. What my mind had hidden my heart could no longer ignore. The flimsy excuses, explanations, and justifications were the first to crumble from their perfectly ironed rows on the hangers—excuses that had always kept me from looking at my shelves. Things like, “It is a blessing to be submissive to my husband, and it is God’s way,” “If I don’t understand a covenant it is because of my own pride,” and, “I don’t need to understand what this promise means, as long as I stay faithful to it.” Suddenly, these “explanations” rang so hollow and empty. Why would I be expected to make such hurtful or ludicrous promises to God? Should I even be making promises or covenants that I don’t agree with, and that no one explained to me before I went through the temple the first time?  I was engulfed in sadness.  Does Heavenly Father really want me to feel like this?

*CRASH

 Could anyone else hear that? My entire shelf just snapped in half—the temple shelf, in the back of my mind, holding and hiding the enormous sandbags of my fears, doubts, and conflicts, just came crashing down, while I sat on the beautiful couch, wearing my white gown, in the Celestial Room.

Sprawled on the ground, invisible to anyone else in the room, was my broken shelf and its entire contents—the sandbags of anger I felt when I found out about the striking similarities to the Freemasons’ ceremonies, that I had never been taught. Next to that, was the feeling that I didn’t accept the standard of temple marriage that was being portrayed. Piled high was the hurt of not wanting to raise my hand and make a promise that I fundamentally did not agree with. Off to the side, I saw my love/hate relationship with garments. The love I had for them based on the fear that if I took them off, I would be in danger. And the hate I felt for having no control over my own underwear or how I wore my clothes. Oh, and there was a frothy, steaming Starbucks cup that had a firm line drawn around it. There was no getting past that cup of java. In the name of “health”, it was blocking the way to heaven, while, ironically, gigantic, artery-clogging fries slid right through the pearly gates. And spread out, next to my disdain for the process of determining “worthiness” through temple interviews, was the tithing I paid for the price of admission.

Then, out of the corner of my mind’s eye, I saw my older sister. She sat stalwartly waiting outside of the temple in the rain to be as close to my wedding as she could get. I saw her fighting back tears of humiliation, pain, and sorrow, knowing she couldn’t see her sister be married. Next to her was a shadow of myself, desperately pleading, “You can see me get married, you just have to give up everything you believe and come back to church. Doesn’t that seem like a fair trade?” Why had I never seen this before? I didn’t even realize that memory was tucked way back on my shelf. How did I walk past her, so many times, and not see the painful shame she was swallowing to demonstrate her support?  Why did I even equate sitting on the outside with support?  The love she had always unconditionally showed me was enough. Thinking of my sister, I wanted to run for it, the way I wanted to run the very first time I ever went to the temple.

I knew if I left the temple then, I would never go back. My shelf had finally shattered, and the thing that brought the shelf crashing down, was the thought of my Heavenly Father. Would my Heavenly Father really want me to feel like this? I closed my eyes and pictured the loving Heavenly Father I had always believed in. It wasn’t the recent carrot-dangling God that made me feel afraid of error or sin. It was the Heavenly Father of my youth; that I thought of whenever I heard the beautiful song “Where Love is, there God is also”.  I knew he wouldn’t want me to feel this way, and that the groaning shelf, with everything on it, was preventing me from feeling His love. The horrible burden of the newly broken temple shelf lifted, and was immediately replaced with a new sense of love and peace.

I stood up, noticing the rubble from my broken shelf had been swept to the side, and a cleared path leading out of the temple was made for me.

I walked out, and never went back.

A Facebook friend recently asked an intriguing question: “Why do people seem just as obsessed with the church (if not more) after they’ve left the church than while they were in it.” I’ve often heard other people pose a similar question: “Why can people leave the church, but they can’t leave it alone?”  This friend compared our departure from the church to his pet cockatiel: “When we let him fly free, sometimes he just stands there in his cage, and it breaks my heart.” The image of a timid bird, paralyzed by fear, with his cage wide open was very thought provoking for me, and actually stirred up quite a few emotions. I am glad that he asked the question, and that I have had a chance to reflect on it this week.

Of course, like everything else on this blog, I am only truly speaking for myself. But since this is more of a general question, I am also going to try to answer it in a more general way. While I can’t speak for everyone, and I think our reasons for holding on or letting go are as individual as we are ourselves, I will share a few insights.

First of all, I really don’t believe that most people fit into the category of people who obsess over the church after they leave. In the past year, I’ve made quite a few friends who have also left the church. Of those friends, I honestly can’t think of any that obsess over it. I am not saying it doesn’t exist; I just believe it is a small minority. My sister, Beth, is a great example. She explained to me that she would prefer to just sneak out the back of the chapel and never talk about church again. She has been pretty successful at that. I’ve never seen her make a negative comment about the church on Facebook, or complain about it to anyone outside of our close circle of friends. She has a somewhat reserved personality, keeps her private life very private, and prefers to work through things on her own. Although still painful, her healing has been a very personal process.

After JT’s initial struggle with leaving the church, his experience was somewhat like my sister’s. He was definitely angry at first, and talked to a select few people about his frustrations, hurt, and betrayal. But now that he has gone through that process, he rarely discusses it. He has always had other aspects of his life that have been fulfilling. His career, his hobbies, and his friends are a great source of strength for him. And for years, many of his friends have been outside of the church, like classmates, colleagues, and teammates. I think it has helped tremendously in his transition to have such meaningful relationships and pursuits that have not been connected to the church.

I, on the other hand, am completely different from my sister and my husband. I process everything out loud. (I think that is why I was always in trouble for talking too much in school— okay, that and maybe talking about boys and stuff.) I’ve always loved to hash things out, ask other’s opinions, get new perspective, and share my insights. Often, I don’t feel like something is real until I have shared it. In the church, I found that bearing my testimony felt like a wonderful release of things that were important to me that needed to be shared, and the desire to testify didn’t necessarily stop when I left the church.  Since I returned home from my mission, the church has been my life. I loved being Mormon. When I left work full-time to stay home with my kids, I lost most of my connection to the world outside of Mormonism. I found my closest friends at church, and we did everything together. We served together in callings, wrote Mormon Mommy blogs, had play dates, attended church activities, and made a deep connection through our shared beliefs. I also found the most fulfillment (outside of my family) in the opportunities I had to speak and teach and share my talents at church. It was true that most of my happiness seemed to come from the church.

When I found myself in a faith crisis that lasted a few years, it wasn’t an option for me to sneak out the back of the chapel quietly. (I mean, really, when have you seen me do anything quietly? Let alone sneak out of somewhere. Ask JT—he has to drag me out of any social setting, kicking and screaming.)  I knew I needed to talk to people, ask questions, listen, and eventually find my way. But when I finally found my way, which ended up leading me out, I felt completely lost.

I have never felt more alone and isolated in my whole life as I did deciding to leave the church. Yes, I had JT, and I am grateful for that. It can be hard on a marriage to have one partner leave and the other stay.  But JT couldn’t relate to the void I felt. I had nothing else. New to the Las Vegas area, I didn’t have many friends, and the few I had were LDS. I didn’t know how to connect with them or relate to them anymore. I couldn’t join the conversations about Primary lessons or ward temple night, and I didn’t want to.  I also didn’t want to start a conversation about the things that led me out of the church. Those conversations get really awkward really quick, you know, like my blog. I didn’t have a fulfilling career outside of motherhood, or even hobbies that I knew how to transfer to non-Mormon life. I was like the pet cockatiel, so excited that the cage was finally open, but not remembering how to fly. I didn’t just lose a place to go on Sundays—it felt like I lost everything I had ever known.

That’s when I realized I was entering the grief process. The process people go through when they lose someone or something very special to them.

These are the 5 stages of Grief or Loss

1. Denial and isolation
2. Anger
3. Bargaining
4. Depression
5. Acceptance

The stages don’t always move in order, and I think it is possible to go through some of them simultaneously. Not everyone experiences them the same way, although I think everyone who leaves the church does experience them.  I spent a year drifting back and forth between isolation, depression, and anger. They would come and go unexpectedly. Some mornings I would wake up shocked to feel anger about the church. I would practice gratitude, go to the gym, look for distractions, but the anger still lingered. I was impacted the most by depression and isolation.  I tried to reach out and talk to loved ones, but inevitably it made them uncomfortable. (Remember, most of my loved ones were still active in the church, and hearing my grapples and frustrations with the church they still loved was very difficult for some of them.) Every time I tried to write about it, the anger side would manifest. There was no escaping it for me.

That is when I first heard someone accuse ex-LDS people of “not being able to leave the church alone.” I felt an immense sense of shame. I hated that I couldn’t just move on. I desperately wanted to. Hearing those accusations also reignited my feelings of isolation. Here I was, absolutely lost and alone, but I was being told that I shouldn’t talk about it. I should just leave it alone. But how could I? What about the years I dedicated to the church? My mission? My tithing? What about the betrayal I felt as I found hidden stories and facts that I had never been taught? What about the damage and pain I felt from the attempts at conformity? What about the confusion I had over determining a new way of life, when every choice I had ever made somehow related back to the teachings in Mormonism? Like putting on a tank top for the first time in 14 years (besides my gym clothes) and the immediate feeling of shame and embarrassment that my in-laws would see my shoulders? Or the knee jerk response of deferring to priesthood authority? What about the mean and horrible things members of the church said to me, and about me behind my back, for leaving the church? Was I not allowed the chance to defend myself, share my new testimony, or have any voice?

As I struggled to figure out how to not be one of “those” people who “can’t leave the church alone” I realized that the church was not leaving me alone. I received invasive texts and messages from friends, demanding to know my feelings about the church. And often chastising me for my beliefs. Visits from the missionaries, determined that they knew the answers to my questions and ways to resolve my concerns. Attempts from family and friends to continue to preach to me their beliefs, with expectations for me to maintain their standards, as if the understanding that things were “done out of love” justified the excessive hurt it caused. Even talks from the apostles and general authorities that belittled my pain calling it a “paddy-cake, taffy-pulled experience”, or labeling those of us who leave as lazy, or without conviction. The church I loved and the apostles I had once believed in were dismissive of my pain and judgmental of my choices.

So, when my friend asked this question on my Facebook page, many of these feelings returned. I have spent the last few days sorting through this array of emotions, asking myself why I became so defensive, hurt, and upset. To me, it feels similar to victim blaming. We see it all the time with abuse victims—that it is somehow their fault, their making, their problem. Maybe the victim shouldn’t have been in that dark alley at night, or worn a tight skirt, or trusted a family member. Maybe the abuser is really a good person most of the time, and it was just a small mistake, so they should be forgiven and forgotten. Maybe the victims are just exaggerating their pain, and should move on. These are examples of sickening attempts to silence the voice of the one who is already suffering. It justifies the abuser, it belittles the pain, and it leaves the person with added sorrow and shame.  I wouldn’t expect a victim of abuse to keep quiet, and just move on. Just as I can’t assign someone an amount of time that is acceptable to grieve the loss of a loved one. It may take months, years, even a life time to heal.

I would ask the same compassion be shown to those of us that mourn the loss of our religion.  Those of us that might feel betrayed, confused, sad, regretful, angry, and alone. But I believe that through compassion, acceptance, understanding, and love, we will find our way through to the other side. We will find our wings, and the courage to fly out of the cage.

For me, this blog is my first set of non-Mormon wings. It is the way that I process this experience. I waited until now to begin this blog because I wanted to be in a healthier place than I was a year or two ago. I didn’t want it to be burdened with anger or the feelings of despair. Of course, those feelings resurface, and may find their way into my posts. That is what makes me human, and I don’t want to hide that side of me. I want to help others out of the isolation they have felt, show them they are not alone, whether from leaving the church or any other life experience that may relate. This is not persuasive writing with the intent to de-convert anyone. It is not about showing the hidden secrets of the church, spewing hatred, or creating doubt. It is simply a place to connect with my emotions, and allow others to share in my experience. I have never viewed it as a way to obsess over the church. In fact, that is why I have chosen to only post once a week. I don’t want this to take over my life and retrench me in the pain. And although I am somewhat consistent at posting, it is in no way the most important thing that I do, or my greatest passion, or my only legacy.  It is just a piece in the complex puzzle called Kate. I don’t know when it will end. I don’t have a deadline or time frame, and I don’t need one. As long as I feel there is something to say I will stay right here in the middle of my narrative, enjoying my new wings.

 

 

Don’t you hate it when someone ruins the ending of the story? When there is a movie you have been dying to see and someone tells you their favorite part? And that favorite part just happens to be the entire climax of the film, so now you can’t watch it the same way, because you are trying to figure out how the main character ends up sky diving off the Eiffel Tower, even though it is clear from the start that she is afraid of heights? I hate that. But I think I am going to be that person—just this once, because I really, really do hate it when people do that!

I know there is a lot left to my story—like the entire plot—but I want to skip to the end first. I promise I will come back and go through the ups and downs, twists and turns, and fill in all the holes. But before I do that, I want to jump to the ending.

Another annoying thing is when someone doesn’t see the movie but thinks they know all about it. Maybe they say that they have seen a similar movie, so they can tell you what they think happens. They may say that you don’t even need to see the movie—they can just tell you what they think, or heard, or what they want you to believe about the movie that they have never even seen, and that should be good enough for you. Clearly, because they saw one movie that ends in Paris, they are now the expert on all movies that include the Eiffel Tower. Don’t get tricked! If this is a movie you are interested in, or has deeply affected someone you love, go ahead and see it for yourself.

I have heard plenty of people try to tell my story. They heard a story like mine, and think that gives them the right to make assumptions about mine. They don’t know the details, the characters, the emotions, or plot twists—they just heard part of the end and made assumptions for the rest. Some of these people even sound pretty intelligent or convincing. They act like they have some sort of divine insight into my life. But they are not the authors. They aren’t even the viewers. They have never come to me and listened. They have just hijacked a somewhat familiar-sounding story to convince you not to waste your time listening to mine.

By the way, you totally don’t have to listen to mine. Just don’t tell anyone that you have seen my movie if you never have. And now, with all this movie talk, I think I should probably charge admission. Oh, what? No one will pay if they can read it on line for free? Okay, fine. No charge.

So, to ruin my own ending and at the risk of everyone closing the book and saying they don’t need to see the rest, here it goes:

I left because I no longer believed the church was true.

I have heard so many reasons given for why someone, including myself, would leave the church. And before I left the church, I believed them. It wasn’t until I left that I realized I had been listening to people who did not know the story. See if any of these stories are familiar to you. None of them are mine—or anyone that I know, for that matter.

STORY #1

 She was not studying her scriptures or praying enough.

When I found myself in the middle of a faith crisis, I was as shocked as anyone. I was hurt when leaders or family would tell me that I just wasn’t studying enough, or with the right intentions. If you know me, you know how much I loved the scriptures and looked forward to hearing the apostles speak at General Conference. I felt ashamed that it was somehow my fault, even though most of my questions arose from attending the temple and reading my scriptures. I had always been promised that if I studied the scriptures I would find the answers, so, I searched for answers, spent nights on my knees in tears, hours in the temple, afternoons seeking counsel from bishops, and many days fasting. I am sure I prayed more earnestly about my doubts and fears than I did about any other choice in my life. With all my heart, I wanted the answers. I wanted a peaceful reassurance to stay in the church. But in the end, that is not the answer I received.

Story #2

 She was offended by someone at church.

This one would be laughable, except that people really do believe it. Since leaving the church, I have met a lot of other people who left, too. I have listened to their stories, seen them cry, and shared their heartache. Never once has anyone attributed leaving the church to being offended. If I were going to leave the church over being offended I would have done it years ago, like when the woman I served with decided to slander my name and spread rumors about me and I felt friendless and walked the halls of church alone; or the time I was gossiped about over the pulpit, even after I moved away; or maybe the time a bishop didn’t like what I said and told me if I didn’t do it his way, he would take away my Temple recommend. You read that correctly. This bishop was so angry that someone taught differently than he would have (by the way, what I taught was straight from the scriptures and the essays on LDS.org), he tried to manipulate me into teaching his way by threatening to take away my Temple recommend—as if my temple “worthiness” was determined by compliance to his wants.

Through all of those times and many others, I never once thought I would leave the church. I knew that the church was made up of ordinary, imperfect people. I was also aware that I was just an ordinary person, probably offending others in the church without even realizing, and I wasn’t going to let someone else determine my salvation. Those of us who loved the church would never leave it based on the offensive actions of another member.

Brief Intermission:  As I am writing this post, I realize how defensive it sounds.  JT keeps reminding me to not lose “my” voice—not just the “standing up for myself” voice, the unique, sometimes funny voice that says, “Oh yeah, Katie wrote this! I can tell by her delightful wit, her captivating storytelling, her brilliant sense of humor, and her vulnerable relatability. She deserves a Pulitzer for her amazingness, talent, and beauty!” Did I go too far? Anyway, as much as I am trying to keep my own voice, to not sound defensive, to not be boring or repetitive, I am also trying to show how hurtful these accusations are. Ok, the popcorn break is over, back to your seats, the regularly scheduled blog post will now continue.

Story #3

 She just wanted to sin.

 I am ashamed to say that I believed this one about other people. I remember friends struggling with the church and assuming it was because they were hiding some sin. Then, if they ended up leaving, I believed it was to continue to sin without guilt. Saying it out loud makes me realize how ridiculous that was.

Turns out, according to the New Testament, everyone sins. Everyone. So there is no point in leaving the church to sin. You can stay in the church and keep on sinning. In fact, it is just part of life. Everyone is doing it.

I always believed in repentance as well. I believed that I could sin and God would still love me. I believed I would be held accountable for my actions, but that it would never lessen God’s love for me or my worth. I never needed to hide my sins from God. Believing in the church, I didn’t want to sin. I wanted to do what I was taught. When I did make mistakes, I knew how to correct them. I never would have considered leaving the church because of those mistakes. With repentance, the love of God, and the knowledge that everyone sins, there was no need to leave it for sin.

Oh, and by the way, if you think that someone would leave to sin, you might reevaluate the purpose of church, and who can attend, and what God teaches about it. If you believe sinners need to leave, you don’t see the scriptures the same way I do.

I realize, now, that even “sin” is not as concrete as it may have once seemed. Each bishop had different ways of handling sin and repentance. Some were stricter, some were more lenient. Some put more emphasis on certain sins, while others let them slide. We called it Ecclesiastical Roulette—you never knew what you would get, but always hoped to end up in a ward with a merciful bishop. Also, what is considered a sin to a Mormon is not always a sin to another person, even another Christian. I know that there are people judging the choices I am making, and calling it sin. They think that now that I have left the church I have started sinning (or gone off the deep end) and to them it proves that I left it to sin. It hurts to see the disproportionate weight given to certain sins. Somehow, a lifetime of good can be outweighed by an iced vanilla latte.

My Story

There are probably a million other stories being told, other blanks being filled in, and movie ruiners who want to you to believe their version without finding out for yourself. If you know someone else who has left the church—someone who doesn’t spill their guts in a blog for everyone to read—you should ask them for their story. I think most of them would be happy to share the real reasons they left, and you may find it is not what you assumed.

Like I said, I promise to fill in the blanks, to show the process, to answer the questions. But first, I want to be very clear in spoiling the end.

I didn’t leave the church because I wasn’t reading my scriptures or going to the temple, or because I was offended by someone or some obscure doctrine, or because I believed that church is only for perfect people so I would need to leave it in order to justify drinking coffee and going shopping on Sundays.

I left the church because I no longer believed it was true.

 

 

How to Leave the Church Without Feeling Anger

This post is my first How To. Yay! Who doesn’t love a good How To? What would Pinterest and Youtube be without the How To? So, of course, my blog is totally deserving of one.

There are a few times it is acceptable to be angry. Righteous indignation is one—when God has been wronged and we need to defend truth. That is a pretty solid reason to get angry, like when Jesus gets mad outside of the temple. Solid. Or when he makes the fig tree shrivel and die for being a hypocrite. A little intense, but solid. Or, according to the Book of Mormon, when we need to stand and fight for our families, beliefs, and freedom. I always loved the imagery of Captain Moroni ripping off his shirt in anger and creating a banner to be used to rally his troops to protect their families. (When JT reads this, no doubt he will make a comment that I probably just like the idea of a “warrior ripping his clothes off.” Good one, babe. Yes, that is also a great image, I will enjoy that, too.) Captain Moroni’s anger was heroic and valiant.

But predominantly, anger has been an emotion to avoid. It is usually viewed as an icky feeling that we don’t want to have. It is, after all, “of the devil.” It’s an emotion or expression that had been used to identify a lack of the spirit. Many believe it is a feeling we can overcome with happiness.

When some people leave the church, they seem angry. It appears, to some, that they have lost the spirit. It seems like having the spirit is linked to a perceived demonstration of happiness.  I believed this too, so I really didn’t want to be angry or bitter while leaving the church.

JT ended up leaving the church before I did. That was pretty shocking. I had been praying, studying, and crying over my concerns for a couple of years. I spent a lot of time fasting, going to the temple, seeking out the counsel of church leaders and friends. I was trying desperately to find a way to stay in the church. But JT got through that process much faster and decided to leave. When he left, it seemed like something changed. He was angry and bitter for the first time in our marriage.

I saw his anger as a bad thing. To be very clear, he didn’t become an angry person. He has never been violent, mean, abusive, or hurtful. It was never directed at me or our children. He was, simply put, very mad at the church. If you have been around JT for any amount of time, you will agree he is one of the nicest, happiest, most loving people you will ever meet. But any time the church came up, a cloud came over him. I didn’t like this anger, it worried me. I always believed it was bad to feel contention, and that anger was a feeling you needed to get rid of as soon as possible. I wanted him to just get over those feelings and be happy.

I also knew many people who had left the church that were very happy—actually happier than ever. That was the kind of transition that I wanted to have leaving the church. That was the thing I wanted to teach in this blog: How to Stay Happy the Whole Time You Leave the Thing That You Always Believed Brought You All of Your Happiness.

•  Never ever talk or think about any of the new things you have learned in your faith crisis.
• Don’t reflect on or examine the false doctrines, the errors, or the pain.
• Don’t ask questions.
• Don’t dig any deeper.
• Never think about what choices you made based on your original beliefs—choices like going on a mission, marrying in the temple while your family was stuck outside, allowing shame as a teaching tool, wearing underwear that you hated,  judging nonmembers as being “part of the world,” defending Joseph Smith, trusting the things you’ve been taught since a child, or paying 10% of your income.
• Don’t tell anyone else how you are feeling.

I guess that is pretty much the only way I can think of going through this kind of faith crisis without ever feeling any anger. Unfortunately, I sucked at following those guidelines. As much as I feared anger and wanted to avoid it, I succumbed. I knew other people saw it. I could tell how uncomfortable it made friends and family that are still members of the church. And because feeling the spirit is often equated with happiness, I knew that people believed that because of my anger and bitterness, I had obviously “lost the spirit” and was no longer happy. People even made comments to me about not seeing “that light” in my or JT’s eyes. It hurt terribly. I didn’t want to be seen as angry, bitter, or without light. I didn’t want that to be used for an excuse for why people can never be truly happy when they leave the church. I didn’t want to be judged for “not having the spirit”. And as a bubbly, outgoing, extrovert, I didn’t want to be perceived as unhappy.

But I also couldn’t shove down or ignore the feelings of hurt, pain, and anger. I felt an extremely hurt when I first read that Joseph Smith had multiple wives—possibly up to 40. I had even used his quote, “What a thing it is for a man to be accused of committing adultery, and having seven wives, when I can only find one,” to argue with non-believers that he wasn’t a polygamist, defending what I had always been taught.

I was sad when I learned more about the temples, where the ceremonies come from, and what the covenants actually mean.

It hurt to look closer at the church’s racism and homophobia, and to see the damaging effects it has had on many people in my life. Just today, I heard about a young woman from South America who had been baptized into the church who, through reading the Book of Mormon and the teachings of the missionaries and the prophets, came to believe that her skin was darker because of sin, and that being righteous would make it lighter. Her shame and sadness broke my heart.

These are just a few of the many things I found hurtful.  When I thought about them—the pain they caused me, and pain they caused others—I became angry. I was upset that I had been so trusting. I was furious with the people trying to quiet my voice. I was mad that I had looked for ways to rationalize many of our teachings, and even taught those rationalizations, as insights, to other people. I was irritated with the white-washed stories I had been taught. I was infuriated that I had given so much of myself to an organization that had not been honest with me. And I was enraged at the way these teachings had hurt me, my family, and my loved ones. (Check out my awesome use of the thesaurus option! So many great words to say “I was really effing angry.”)

I sort of felt like ripping off my shirt (that part is for JT, you’re welcome), making a giant flag, and waving it to tell other people that I will always seek for truth, follow my conscience, and fight to protect the people that I love from being hurt by any institution. Sounds a little dramatic, I know.  Also sounds familiar—like a totally acceptable reason to be angry.

As far as How to Leave the Church Without Feeling Anger, I guess I am not as qualified to write it as I wanted to be. I can’t really teach what I couldn’t do. I also can’t really judge what I have never gone through. No one should expect me, or any other person, to leave behind something we have loved so passionately without any resentment, pain, anger, or scars. I hate that I was so hard on JT, and expected him to not feel or show his anger. I wish I could have recognized that what many saw as a lack of light was just the dark shadows of his hurt and confusion. I hate that I underestimated the level of betrayal he felt from the church. I especially regret that I believed his anger to be a sign that he had lost the spirit, when it was just an emotion that he had every right to feel. I never should have wanted him to suppress his feelings or his pain so that I could feel more comfortable. He hasn’t lost any of the light that he has always radiated. In fact, he is truly happier and filled with more light now than he ever was before.

So, I guess I should change my first How To blog post. Instead of How to Leave the Church Without Feeling Anger, it will be

How to Be You, While Leaving the Church:

• Go ahead and feel any emotion you need to.
• Be sad if you want—I felt like I was mourning the death of a loved one.
• Find people who will accept you and love you and listen to you. Quick shout out to “my people,” the ones who have actually, really, truly, unconditionally, always accepted me with love, kindness, and open-mindedness during this faith crisis. Thank you. If you don’t know who you are, just text me and ask. If I am not talking about you, it’s going to be kind of awkward. Sorry! But if I am talking about you, you will probably feel really good for being such a cool person.
• Shout it from the rooftops if you have to—especially if you already sacrificed two years of your life telling the world about the church, you’re allowed a couple years to tell people your new beliefs with the same fervor.
• You do you, however that looks.
• Try to be patient with yourself and with the people you love. Change is hard for everyone.
• Do what feels right for you. That is all that will ever matter.
• Be brave—this may be the hardest thing you have ever done.

I may not be qualified to give advice about leaving the church. I may look back in ten years and say, “Wow, I totally sucked at leaving the church.” It isn’t exactly a skill that I practiced for my Personal Progress Award in Young Women’s. Sure, I sometimes still feel a lot of anger. That shouldn’t be a surprise. But I have found a way to make room for the hurt and the pain, and I feel much more peace than I did in the past. So, I think I will take a break from How To’s for a while, maybe leave that for Pinterest, and just write what I know.

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Epilogue (My first post with its own epilogue! That’s just the fancy way of saying P.S.)

You should know that it has been very challenging to start this blog. Yes, it is extremely fulfilling, especially as so many people have reached out who have had similar experiences and who have been grateful to feel like they have been given a voice through mine. That means a ton, and keeps me writing. But I know that my audience is varied, with different expectations and needs. I know that if I come across as angry, bitter, and argumentative, I will be discredited to many readers. They may see my anger as an indication or proof that I am in error and unhappy. And yet, if I try to keep it all light, and positive, and optimistic, I run the risk of being disingenuous to myself and end up minimizing my own pain and struggle to make sure others feel comfortable reading.  Hopefully you can see how incredibly difficult that is—to not allow my anger to be louder than my message, while allowing it a place to still be heard. I guess what I am trying to say is be patient with me. I am still finding my voice.

Link to the quote from Joseph Smith http://www.utlm.org/onlineresources/sermons_talks_interviews/smithboastingandpolygamydenial.htm

I found the actual quote here, after years of paraphrasing, when I was determined to defend Joseph Smith and continue to believe that he was not a polygamist. Before the essays came out, and made me feel like an idiot for believing him.