My Life Explained By Michael Stipe

~~~~~TRIGGER ALERT~~~~~

This post contains references to a topic that may trigger some who read.  Please proceed with caution if you are triggered by sensitive topics.

Not to date myself, but today, the lyrics from a well known alternative rock band (circa the 90s) are weighing heavily on my mind.  The year was 1991, the group was R.E.M., and the song was Losing My Religion.

That's me in the corner
That's me in the spotlight
Losing my religion
Trying to keep up with you
And I don't know if I can do it
Oh no, I've said too much
I haven't said enough....

....Every whisper
Of every waking hour
I'm choosing my confessions
Trying to keep an eye on you
Like a hurt lost and blinded fool, fool
Oh no, I've said too much
I set it up

I've heard and sung this song many times over the years, not giving much thought to what, exactly, the song was trying to convey to its listeners.  Was the writer going through a crisis of faith, was it a metaphor for a relationship (as lots of songs are), was the writer simply high and happened to pen a Billboard hit?  I am sure I will never know the definite answer.  However, no matter the medium through which the song came about, it has echoed more and more with me over the past few years of my life.

I feel like this post will be a tad bit harder to write.  Posts on motherhood and guilt resonate with far more people than those that tackle truly uncomfortable topics:  racism, politics, sexuality, religion.  These can be bitter and sore topics for those who are skewed too far to the right or left.  Nevertheless, it is one that I will choose to tackle to some degree today.  It is highly uncomfortable....

I'm choosing my confessions  Oh no, I've said too much  I haven't said enough

As I indicated in a previous post, I am a Mormon, born and raised.  I have always had a certain, true belief in my faith, even when I went inactive (mormon vocab for someone who has quit coming to church regularly) in my late teens through most of my college career.  At that time, I didn't NOT believe the church was true, I just wanted to do me.  Without the rules and constraints that (any) religion tends to expect from its followers.  Long story short:  it was crimpin' my style.  But then I met my (future) husband, and the things I wanted from life changed.  I didn't want a dual religion family.  I wanted to be married in the temple.  I wanted a priesthood holder in my life and in my home.  And over time, I got exactly that.  And I was very happy.  But happiness is often fleeting, much like my faith.

Growing up in the Deep South, the Mormon congregations that I was a part of were tiny - less than 50 active members - and were comprised of members from the same family lines, along with a handful of converts.  Most of the members weren't wealthy, and you knew intimately every.single.person with whom you went to church.  As Mormon churches are comprised of lay leadership, meaning no one gets paid, there was always much to do and many sacrifices to make.  Leaders getting up at 2:00am in the morning to get kids to the Stake Center 2 hours away to make the bus going to the temple trip.  Stake Conferences were a days long commitment.  Stake dances, programs and events required the same long hours and late nights.  Leaders were human and did the best they could.  There was no Facebook or Instagram for which to measure their efforts by.  And I loved them as they did their best to help strengthen me and uplift me in spite of a lot of the challenges that they knew I faced daily at home, while certainly facing challenges of their own.

After my husband graduated college, we moved to a lovely little town in NWA (Northwest Arkansas). {Clearly we enjoy living in sections of the country that go by an acronymn, NWA to NOVA}.  As we were moving from Alabama to Arkansas, we wondered how big our branch (Mo vocab for a church with membership of < 300 members) would be.  Imagine our surprise when not only did we discover the we would be attending a ward, but that there were several wards in the area (and these wards and stakes would split several times over the years we lived there).  Little did I realize that moving to a place where there were more Mormons would be the beginning of my crisis of faith.

As I have mentioned in a previous blog post, Mormons are very family oriented.  We believe that through the appropriate priesthood power (God's power here on earth), that families can be together forever...that if we live according to covenants we make with God, there is no such thing as death do us part, but we will live together as family units throughout the eternities.  This was one of the Church doctrines that I was unwilling to concede on, even when I had found the man I loved.  It is a beautiful doctrine and when your family unit is beautiful here on earth, it is a very comforting doctrine, especially when death and grief enter the picture.  But not everyone has perfect families here.  Unfortunately, far from it.

As we began expanding our family, it became clear that we were not going to be one of those perfect family units.  Without going into a lot of detail at this time, we were a lot of times a miserable family unit.  It's really hard to explain it all without giving details, but in an effort to protect some family members from themselves, let's just say that we became a family isolated.  We didn't attend many functions because we were concerned of what we might have to go through before the end of the evening.  We rarely invited others over because SAME.  

Over the years, we have realized what those choices have done to us on a social level, but as young parents, we only did what we thought was best for our family.  We were embarrassed and ashamed that our family was not the picture perfect family we saw in so many of our friends.  

Trying to keep up with you  

We were frustrated and angry with God for turning his back on us when we were trying our best to live up to all we had promised Him that we would.  We spent money and time on therapists and medications that were only stop-gaps and not true solutions.  We spent many nights on our knees and cried many tears and still the answers NEVER came.  We felt abandoned and broken.And I guess I largely still do. 

 And I don't know if I can do it.

Before we left NWA, I had reached a breaking point.  Another well-known aspect of Mormonism is that we are very service-oriented folks.  From delivering casseroles when a new baby is born, to clearing snow from the widow's driveway, to giving blood at the local blood drive, Mormons try their best to emulate the Savior in all of the things they do and say.  The Savior showed his love for others by serving them - whether it was as momentous as raising someone from the dead or as lowly as washing the feet of the disciples, he always taught that those who were greatest among us would be our servants.

Another tenant of our faith is the idea that a person can receive revelation for himself.  It is the idea that, under the right circumstances, and when necessary, the Lord will send promptings to us to warn us of danger, inspire us to proceed in a particular direction, calm us in distress, or convey a call to action.  When put together, this dynamic duo of revelation and service, many miracles, both small and great, can occur in the lives of those around us.  We literally can perform the work of the Savior if we listen and obey the promptings that are sent that allow us to love and serve God's children as He would.

I'll be honest.  The idea of serving others has never been a real problem for me.  I enjoy using my talents to bring someone enjoyment or respite, whatever may be required.  Revelation, however, has been a much more elusive talent for me to hone.  Being completely open, I cannot convey one single time where I unequivocally could say that the heavens opened and the Lord spoke directly to me (still small voice or otherwise).  But my crisis of faith didn't begin by my not receiving revelations on others' behalfs; you see, what I needed was someone to receive revelation on mine.

During the very darkest moments of my life, it was literally agony to walk through the doors of church.  At every turn, I heard stories and testimony of how others were loved and served by those who had followed promptings to simply show up at their door unannounced.  In their moments of need - things such as an overwhelming day with small children, the loss of employment, a wayward child, a broken down car, etc., revelation paired with service reinforced and strengthened the testimonies of both giver and receiver.  Sadly, I never became a part of this great equation.

Like a hurt lost and blinded fool, fool 

Many days, and there were many, many extremely hard days, I literally could not function as a parent.  I would lock myself in my closet and cry.  I felt trapped in a world that I certainly had not set out to create.  I felt like a disappointment to my husband and kids.  I felt unworthy, unloved and unable to emulate the perfect families that I saw gracing the halls each Sunday.  Each day brought more guilt and anguish, to the point that at times I even considered taking my own life.  I couldn't, and still don't, understand why casseroles and car rides would be more important than someone's own life.  I waited and waited for someone to receive the revelation to show up at my door, but no one ever came.  Not as a savior, anyway.

The opportunity to move to NOVA came unexpectedly, but I viewed it as a blessing.  I hoped that by moving to a different area, that I would be able to find the light that had grown so dim over the past few years - and it has sparked a bit here and there.  But for the life of me, I can't seem to find the faith that I once had.  That simple childlike faith that God is my Father, and that I am His child.  I do believe in God.  I believe in Jesus Christ.  I guess I'm just not so sure that They believe in me.  It's just so hard to find Them these days.

When I do see Them, it is in the beauty all around me - a beautiful sunset or a morning blossom in my garden, just opening.  It is rare that I find Them within the walls of my church.  I go to church not because I know.  I go because I don't know.  And because I need my children to be grounded in something that gives them purpose and a desire to live a good life.  But, as with so many other things, how am I supposed to give them a firm foundation when the one I am standing on seems so irreparably cracked? 

Please don't misread this post.  I have many good, beautiful Mormon friends who I love and respect.  Most of my best friends are members of my faith.  My path has just not been the same as theirs.  I envy those who are secure in their faith and who's testimonies are unwavering.  I am still constantly searching for that revelation that will give me the peace of mind for which I am seeking.  I know it's an earnest and worthwhile cause.  But, until that time... 

That's me in the corner  That's me in the spotlight  Losing my religion