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?