tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29894906293340812122024-02-20T08:36:45.819-08:00From Mormon to AtheistLeiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15244646511824361273noreply@blogger.comBlogger60125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2989490629334081212.post-52571781691336379862017-03-01T19:37:00.003-08:002017-03-11T17:52:05.177-08:00The Time Will Pass Anyway...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Growing up in a traditional Mormon household, my education wasn't something that was prioritized.<br />
<br />
For most of my life I believed the purpose of going to college was so that I could meet a return missionary and get married. Never did I think for a second that I would ever have to work outside of the home. Getting an education past high school would have served no purpose.<br />
<br />
I was going to go to college, meet a worthy return missionary, get sealed in the temple and have a plethora of babies. I am pretty sure I have mentioned this on my blog in previous entries.<br />
<br />
However, my plan didn't work out the way I had hoped. I couldn't afford BYU, even though I had the grades and ACT score to get accepted. So I went to my local community college.<br />
<br />
I spent my time at the Institute of Religion and in class. The first year I went because I wanted to have a strong Mormon community. I was still dating my high school boyfriend, who was Presbyterian, so I wasn't really looking for my future spouse. I thought I had already found him and just had to convert him.<br />
<br />
After Sean and I broke up, I tried to focus on meeting the real man of my dreams. I felt that any day prince charming would show up and sweep me off my feet. I met a bunch of awesome people, but none of them felt quite right. I had already been intimate with my high school boyfriend, so I was looking for someone who was as broken as I was. This was nearly impossible. People don't normally confess their sins on a first date, and I felt so unworthy of everyone I met that I ended up avoiding Mormon boys.<br />
<br />
Before long, I was married and struggling to finish what I had started. Then I had children. I tried to prevent that from stopping me, even to the point where I had to move a mid-term with the permission of my teacher because my c-section was scheduled on the same day.<br />
<br />
All of this to end up unemployed and homeless in a far away state, trying to start a new life with my two little girls and my husband.<br />
<br />
Then, a few years later, I got a job at our local university. That is when things changed. I have spent the last 3 years working my ass off. I have taken a full load of courses every semester, I worked full time, I raised my children, and I was a supportive spouse. And now here I am - two months away from graduating with my Bachelor of Science in Sociology, Women and Gender Studies, with a minor in Educational Psychology.<br />
<br />
I have already been accepted into graduate school. And I cannot believe it is happening after all these years.<br />
<br />
I keep going back to the pivotal moment when I asked my husband if he felt that going back to school to get my degree was a good idea. And he said, "Lei - you might as well, the time is going to pass anyway."<br />
<br />
He was right. The time did pass, and I may as well have worked on my degree. Yes, I missed out on making some homemade meals. Yes, I missed out on some game nights, or helping with some homework. However, I am hoping that the example I set for my little girls will stay with them the rest of their lives. I hope that my degree will give me the education I need in order to move up within the university. I hope my master's degree leads me to a doctorate.<br />
<br />
Yet, no matter what - the time will pass anyway.Leiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15244646511824361273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2989490629334081212.post-13100736069578140942016-08-11T19:26:00.002-07:002016-08-11T19:27:06.778-07:00Junebug<h5 style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin: 10px 0px; text-rendering: optimizeLegibility;">
Junebug</h5>
<h5 style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin: 10px 0px; text-rendering: optimizeLegibility;">
<strong>by her mother</strong></h5>
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<strong></strong></div>
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When they call her “sir”</div>
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she lowers her head</div>
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and stares at her feet.</div>
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With thoughtless words</div>
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adults teach her to question</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
her inclination to be unique.</div>
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“Are you a boy? Or a girl?”</div>
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“A little man? Or a lady?</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
Junebug rolls her eyes.</div>
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Ignorant people</div>
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with irrelevant questions</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
refusing to empathize.</div>
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I hold her close,</div>
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I wipe her tears -</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
her little heart is wrecked.</div>
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Her little friends wear</div>
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bows in their hair</div>
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and she - around her neck.</div>
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Why does bow placement</div>
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change the message</div>
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her endearing style conveys?</div>
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Does it matter</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
what exists between</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
my daughter’s legs?</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
A girl she is,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
a girl she has been,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
a girl she loves to be.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
But that doesn’t hinder</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
her growing passion for</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
climbing cherry trees.</div>
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She loves her pixie cut,</div>
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prefers ‘boy’ colors,</div>
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and rocks her skater shoes</div>
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To me, it’s simple</div>
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Her body, her decisions</div>
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She is always free to choose.</div>
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“Are you trying to turn</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
her into a lesbian?”</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
- I’m just raising my child.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
“What do you want her to be?”</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
- I am hoping for compassionate,</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
fearless, strong, and wild.</div>
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Nibby-nose strangers</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
constantly hint about</div>
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the ‘gender’ of her birth.</div>
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Endless, pointless</div>
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questions - yet I try</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
to reassure her of her worth.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
“Why do they think</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
that I am a boy?”</div>
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My motherly frustration takes hold...</div>
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But…</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
“heteronormative gender roles that are socially constructed strongly influence our society into forcing young children to link their gender identities to their binary biological sex assignment, which was given at birth, and is then reinforced with a cisgender discourse by asshole bigoted adults”</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
seems a little complex</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
for a nine year old.</div>
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<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 10px;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Katelyn made herself into a PPG Character.</span></div>
Leiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15244646511824361273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2989490629334081212.post-8460685404750443542016-01-01T10:46:00.000-08:002016-01-01T10:46:00.350-08:00Mission ControlMy family lived with my maternal grandparents on and off throughout my childhood. And when they moved to Apple Valley when I was 12, we lived in that same house until they sold it when I was 21.<br />
<br />
We had many different people live with us during those first twelve years. It ranged from strangers, to missionaries, to family.<br />
<br />
One of my first vivid memories of one of my grandparents tenants is that of a rather large redheaded blind man everyone affectionately called 'Red'. I don't believe I could have been much older than 5 years old when Red moved in. I was fascinated with him. He reminded me of Paul Bunyan, he wore flannel and appeared to be dirty even after he showered. At the time, I was also watching the movie "Ice Castles" on repeat. My mother had taped it off of TV and as soon as it ended I hit rewind and patiently waited to start it over again.<br />
<br />
I would close my eyes and try to walk around the house. Wondering how difficult it was for Red to navigate our home. He didn't stay very long, but during the time he was with us, I formed fond memories of his smile and kindness. Shortly after he left, we started a run of LDS missionaries who stayed in Red's room. They were busier than Red, they were constantly going to appointments and dinner engagements.<br />
<br />
After a year of missionaries living in Red's room, we had a few church members stay for short periods of time, as well as cousins and aunts and uncles. I shared my room with various female cousins and we would always pretend the floor was lava and that the beds were crumbling rock. So jumping from bed to bed became one of our favorite past times. Only second to singing Wilson Phillips songs in the backyard to clumsy choreography.<br />
<br />
After a few years of church members and cousins the missionaries returned. Elders, as they are called, don't stay long. They serve a mission of two years, which isn't all spent in one location. When they are called to serve, they are assigned an area which covers different cities. So sometimes a missionary would start off in our home with his companion, then a few months later he would be moved to a different city with a different companion.<br />
<br />
We had some really awesome young men serve as missionaries and stay with us. They would play with my brothers and me, tell us jokes, eat dinner with us, and even though they weren't quite as intriguing as Red, it was nice growing up and learning about the places these young men were from.<br />
<br />
One young Elder moved in with us shortly after my grandparents opened our home again for missionaries. He was crass and seemed not thrilled to be serving a mission. He taught me and my younger brothers curse words and racial slurs, and had an attitude that I hadn't seen with the missionaries before. My brothers thought he was awesome, and I thought he was rude. I was almost 11 years old when this Elder moved in with us. I didn't really like him, but I knew it was only a matter of time before he would be on his way too.<br />
<br />
He would sit next to me at the piano when I was practicing for my upcoming recital. The piece my piano teacher had chosen for me was Orpheus in the Underworld by Jacques Offenbach, it is also referred to as the can-can. As I would practice, he would randomly press keys and laugh and tickle me. He would whisper in my ear to call him Eric. I would smile and continue to try to play. He would whisper about how the women who danced to the song I was playing would often show off their panties to men, then he would ask me what kind of panties I was wearing.<br />
<br />
He made me uncomfortable. I told my mother about what he was doing and she told me that he was just being crude and that he would be moving out soon. I adjusted my practice schedule to times when the Elders weren't usually at home.<br />
<br />
Shortly after telling my mom about how much I didn't like Eric, he started visiting me in my room at night.<br />
<br />
The first night he climbed into bed with me and spooned me. He didn't say anything, he just existed quietly next to me. I could hear his breath in my ear and feel his arm around my waist. I thought that maybe he was sleepwalking and accidentally ended up in my room.<br />
<br />
A few nights later, it happened again. He slowly opened my door, climbed in my bed and put his hand over my mouth. He whispered how god had told him to sleep with me to protect me. That he had a feeling that someone was going to try to break in my room and hurt me or kidnap me. He told me that god didn't want me to tell anyone. That he was called to this mission, at this time and place, to protect me. And if I was a good girl, I would do what god wanted.<br />
<br />
He spooned me for a little while longer. And then left. It was difficult to sleep for the rest of the night. I kept looking at my bedroom window expecting someone to break in. I finally took my pillow and blanket into my closet and closed the door. That way if what Eric was saying was true, I would be difficult to find.<br />
<br />
During the day when Eric and I crossed paths in my grandmothers home he would smile and tell me everything was going to be alright. That god told him that this night or that night was going to be okay. He would let me know if tonight was a night he needed to sleep with me for a little while, to protect me because he had a premonition or a feeling.<br />
<br />
After I got used to him spooning with me and whispering that everything was going to be okay, I started feeling safer when he was with me. I started to worry about what was going to happen when he had to move on.<br />
<br />
A few weeks went by of spooning and comforting. I would look forward to his visits because it meant that god loved me and wanted me to be safe.<br />
<br />
He normally wore pajamas, but this night was different. He came in just his garments. He climbed into my bed and wrapped his arm around my waist like he normally did. Then he asked me to pray with him. I closed my eyes, folded my arms, and bowed my head. I remember him praying to god to protect me, and that he was so blessed to be chosen to protect someone as helpless and sweet as me. I remember him asking god for permission to touch me and then acknowledging that god granted him permission. As soon his whispered prayer ended he ran his hand down my leg and up my nightgown. I was frozen. Did god give him permission to touch me? Was I his reward for listening to god? If I were to fight back against him, would he stop protecting me? Would god be mad at me?<br />
<br />
I held perfectly still, waiting for him to go back to his room. I felt him push up against me, I closed my eyes tighter, silently asking god for help. He gently kissed my neck and thanked me for being such an obedient child of god. After he left I got up to change into different pajamas, I couldn't sleep with the cold, sticky, wet spot that had formed where he had been pushing up against me.<br />
<br />
I got back into bed and stared at my canopy. How could god think this was okay? I started singing primary school songs to myself and slowly started to feel comforted. I knew that god was helping me feel better because I allowed a man that he called to a mission to protect me and be rewarded like god intended.<br />
<br />
This continued for months until Eric was moved to a different city to serve. It happened suddenly and for the first few weeks I slept in my closet or under my bed just in case someone was still out to kidnap or hurt me.<br />
<br />
<br />Leiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15244646511824361273noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2989490629334081212.post-47686557079465612232015-11-20T06:30:00.000-08:002015-11-20T06:30:02.741-08:00Children of Married Same-Sex Couples<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
What do you do when you have LGBTQ folk showing up to your church, and you don't want them there? Do you continue to attack them? Something that hasn't worked as well as you had hoped over the last two decades. Or do you rethink your approach? Maybe you go after their children. Maybe.<br />
<br />
The Mormon church has decided to make up and enforce a new policy banning the children of same-sex couples from receiving the "blessings" of the church. This new policy was confirmed by the church on Friday, November 6th.<br />
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At first I was happy. I was truly excited that, once again, the Mormon church was showing it's true colors. By labeling homosexual members as "apostates" it was freeing all these people from the clutches of it's brainwashing program. I felt relief for these members and felt happy for the futures of their children, to be raised free of all the guilt and pain.<br />
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But that was very short lived. Ten seconds in I realized that this wasn't a lottery ticket. This wasn't what they wanted or hoped for from their church. The reason why they still attended and brought their kids along and paid tithing was because they still had a glimmer of hope that they would be viewed as real people, real children of god... one day.<br />
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Then I remembered the guilt and heavy heart I had as a member who never felt worthy enough. (And the church never came out and called me an apostate.) My heart ached for these individuals.<br />
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And this wasn't a way out, it was a slap in the face. As a straight ally, I left the church with Proposition 8. That was my breaking point. That was when my accumulative doubt added up to just too much to bear and Proposition 8 was the extra push that I couldn't handle. This wasn't the case for these members. They stayed. In the face of discrimination and judgement they believed enough to stay.<br />
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My relief quickly turned into frustration and anger. Joseph Smith and Jesus Christ never said anything about sexuality. And the church isn't bothering to focus on anything else Leviticus has to say about abominations. They aren't calling out folks who eat shellfish as apostates and prohibiting their children from baptism.<br />
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Children of murders, rapists, adulterers, and abusers can still be baptized, blessed, go on missions, get the priesthood (if they are male), get married in the temple, etc. But if your parents are in a committed marriage and love you enough to want you to be baptized and therefore 'saved', too bad so sad. The church is communicating to the world that they firmly believe that the messages you receive at home from a committed loving couple are worse than those you receive from abusers.<br />
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<b>That is a new kind of bullshit.</b></div>
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I have read plenty of Mormonsplaining and I think I understand the motivation the church has for this dickhole move. They are protecting themselves from having to ever perform a same-sex marriage in the temple. They are lashing out against LGBT individuals by calling them apostates, pushing them away by punishing their children, and by doing so they are protecting the 'holiest of holies' - the temple and their plagiarized Freemason rituals. That is how I see it.<br />
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While existing in the church between 1980 and 2008 I have heard so many discussions with Mormon family members and friends about if 'gay' marriage passes, then 'they' will try to force the church to perform 'gay' temple sealings.<br />
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This new policy seems to be a last ditch effort to protect what the church has been trying to avoid for years. Because the church firmly believes that worthy members get their own planets after judgement day, and that the planet they get needs one man and multiple sister wives in order to make spirit babies, and you can't make spirit babies with two dudes or two chicks via spirit coitus, then they must be stopped from entering the temple. And the only way to do that is to make it a belief within the church so the government can't interfere.<br />
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I hope that this change causes LGBTQ members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints to question their beliefs in Mormonism. I hope they have the support structure to leave. But I know that isn't always the case, and sometimes living an uncomfortable lie is better than living an excruciating truth. They are loved and worthy of so much more than the Mormon church has to offer.<br />
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Some LGBTQ members may believe that this policy is only temporary, like the policy regarding African American members up until 1978. Some LGBTQ members will live their lives in the closet, preferring the love of their family and community over the backlash they feel (or know) they would receive if they left the church. Some members will continue to go to church believing that 'god works in mysterious ways' and this is a test or something they shouldn't question.<br />
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No matter how you look at this new policy it hurts good people, it hurts families, and it hurts children.<br />
<br />Leiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15244646511824361273noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2989490629334081212.post-54117584929153363232015-11-17T06:00:00.000-08:002015-11-17T06:00:01.677-08:0030 Things for Which I am Thankful<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
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30 days of November. 30 days of Thanksgiving.</div>
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1. I am thankful for two little girls who came into my life and changed it in more ways than I ever could have imagined. I am thankful for their health and well being. I am thankful for the little whispers and sweet songs. I am thankful for the new words they teach me and who I am becoming because of them.</div>
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2. I am thankful for a husband who married a crazy lady, but loves her all the same. Who has stood by my side through the loss of my religion and the discovery of something so much more fulfilling. I now only identify with a small remnant of the woman he married, but he has always been there for me; he is my best friend.</div>
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3. I am thankful for science and medical science. It has saved my life, protected my babies from infant death, and has given us peace of mind through some very scary times.</div>
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4. I am thankful for my family. Yes, those I live with, but also the folks who still talk to me even though the years, the miles, and the lies that enveloped my youth seemed to try to block a deep relationship from forming. Those who did not have to keep in touch, yet still have. I love you.</div>
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5. I am thankful for my friends. The very close ones, who I never get to talk to as much as I would like and the friendly acquaintances who I wish I could get to know so much better. I know my insecurities and awkwardness sometimes prevents me from reaching out, but I am still so glad I have all of you.</div>
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6. I am thankful for my job. And the job I had before this. And the job Dustin had before that. I am so grateful for being able to provide for our family. Even when times were tough and we depended upon food pantries and the government for help. I am so thankful to live in a country where my children may have had to go to bed hungry, but didn't have to starve while we were unemployed. </div>
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7. I am thankful for my home. I am grateful that we own it. I am happy that even though it started as a run down house, we have made it into a warm, inviting home. Who says a 110 year old can't have charm?</div>
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8. I am thankful for my colleagues, old and new. I am thankful for Michelle and Sue. On the days I really didn't know if I could make it through the day at my last job, they were always there to help me laugh about life and help me keep my cool. I am thankful for Frank and Andrew, they always help me find answers to my questions and have helped me adapt to my new job, even though they didn't have to.</div>
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9. I am thankful for the city where we live. It is growing and improving every day and I feel so lucky and fortunate to have landed here. I am so thankful that I started here without a friend within 2000 miles and am now surrounded by awesome people.</div>
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10. I am thankful for our vehicles. They may not be the newest nor the best, but they get me to work, and the girls to school everyday. </div>
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11. I am thankful for my daughters' teachers. I am so grateful that they teach my children reading, writing and arithmetic, along with a bunch of other things. I am thankful that I don't have to pay much for my children to get a basic education. </div>
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12. I am thankful for progress. Progress in my life, in my dreams and goals, in our society, and science.</div>
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13. I am thankful for social media. It has allowed me to keep in touch with some very awesome friends and acquaintances that I would have lost touch with otherwise. </div>
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14. I am thankful for quiet moments. No matter how few and far between they are.</div>
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15. I am thankful for my dog. Yeah, he isn't the brightest, and ofttimes a little rambunctious, but he calms a part of me that I had forgotten about since I lost my dear Phoebe.</div>
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16. I am thankful for the written word. I don't have as much time for it as I would like, but it's wonderful to get lost in the imagination of others.</div>
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17. I am thankful for the freedom that my grandfather and so many others fought for. I hate that we still have to fight for many freedoms here at home, but I am grateful that many freedoms have been recently won.</div>
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18. I am thankful for the internet, Wikipedia, and oddly enough, the Craigslist ATFO. I am so thankful that I have had to opportunity to learn so many things in the past five years. Many things led me away from Mormonism, and for that I am forever grateful. I am thankful that when I don't know the answers to my daughters' questions, that I am able to hop online and we can find out together.</div>
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19. I am thankful for unconditional love. Something that I had never thought I had felt, until I had my daughters. Growing up I felt the love from my parents was contingent upon certain things being met or achieved. I am thankful that isn't my mindset in raising my daughters.</div>
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20. I am thankful for my local UU church. I don't go as often as I would like, but when I was struggling out here in a new place, feeling so alone, they helped me feel less so.</div>
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21. I am thankful for my abilities. I am thankful that I can do what I can do, even when I feel like I should be able to do more.</div>
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22. I am thankful for spaghetti, pizzelles, biscuits and gravy, coffee, chicken 'n dumplings, and every other smell and taste that reminds me of my two beautiful grandmothers.</div>
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23. I am thankful for being able to create. I am thankful that I can sew, embroider, darn, crochet, paint and bake. That even though I love them as hobbies, I know they are also post-apocalyptic life skills.</div>
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24. I am thankful role models. They are different today than they were when I was a child, but I know that I always have looked up to others and have striven to be more than I am.</div>
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25. I am thankful for charity. The charity of others that has allowed me to have things that I would otherwise not been able to afford or obtain, and the charity that I do that allows me to have those happy, warm fuzzies.</div>
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26. I am thankful for my parents and my brothers. I no longer talk to them, but I still love them. I am thankful for the strength it took to end my relationship with them, even though it was extremely painful and the hardest thing that I have ever had to do.</div>
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27. I am thankful for pictures; the few I have of myself before the age of 17, the boxes of pictures of Dustin's grandparents and mother, the many I have of my own children and little family. I don't know why, but having them makes me happy.</div>
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28. I am thankful for my sense of humor. It has kept me out of prison, has led me to a life of fandom and it has helped shaped two little girls into little sassy pants.</div>
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29. I am thankful for holidays. I love the traditions, events and memories that are made when a day is set apart from the rest to celebrate life, love and family.</div>
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30. I am thankful for this one life I get to live on this tiny speck of rock hurling through space. It is way too short and way too small, but it's mine and I get to share it with so many cool people and cool things. </div>
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I am so thankful for so much more than I could possibly say, but I am so thankful today and everyday for every single person reading this. I hope everyone enjoys their days of Thanksgiving.</div>
Leiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15244646511824361273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2989490629334081212.post-89651647275460192662015-10-05T04:30:00.000-07:002015-11-17T05:39:07.997-08:00Ramblings of a Broken Mother<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
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Some of the things my Mother has said to me have really stayed with me. They aren't all verbatim, as I didn't write them all down when they were said. Many are worded exactly how they came out of her mouth and each one shaped me into the person I am today.<br />
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~"You're too old for hugs."<br />
(I was 12.)<br />
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~"Tuck your butt in, suck in your tummy, and straighten your back. At least TRY to stand like a lady."<br />
(I was about 14 and standing at the kitchen sink doing the dishes.)<br />
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~"You have really chubby knees."<br />
(This was an ongoing comment.)<br />
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~"Boys like long, blonde hair. If you ever want to find a husband, you have to keep it that way."<br />
(Every time I asked to get my hair cut or dyed back to my natural color.)<br />
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~"You should get acrylics, I think they would help distract from how fat your nail beds are."<br />
(I think I was 15, she made mention of my 'fat' or 'chubby' body parts constantly.)<br />
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~"How dare you ask me that! Do you know how hurt your father would be if he found out you asked that?"<br />
(I was 14 and asked her if my father was my birth father after she had spent 30 minutes hinting that he wasn't... and he isn't.)<br />
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~"Don't sing. You weren't given that talent. Hopefully you'll marry a man that can sing, so you'll have someone to sing your babies to sleep."<br />
(These kinds of comments usually happened when I was singing along to something I was playing on the piano.)<br />
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~"You are so melodramatic."<br />
(This was also a constant remark. I heard this more than I heard her say 'I love you'.)<br />
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~"Now you can date a good Mormon boy."<br />
(After I had my heart broken for the very first time and mistakenly went to her for consolation.)<br />
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~"So when is the baby due?"<br />
(After I told her I was eloping with my husband. I wasn't pregnant.)<br />
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~"I hope your baby has a birth defect."<br />
(When I was doing research with my first pregnancy about possible anomalies and complications that could happen so I would be prepared. She said this, then stomped down the hall into her room and slammed the door.)<br />
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~"The reason she was born that way is because you aren't going to church."<br />
(After my first child was born with an incomplete unilateral cleft lip she let me know that god was punishing me for not going to Mormon church.)<br />
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~"Did you read the story about (insert news story about a child getting raped, murdered, abused, etc.)?"<br />
(Even after I told ehr to stop only sharing horrific stories with me because I couldn't handle it emotionally.)<br />
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~"I am going to call CPS if you don't start taking my grandchildren to [Mormon] church!"<br />
(She threatened this more after we moved out of California.)<br />
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~"I am going to file a missing persons report if you don't give me your address."<br />
(We had to go to our local police office to let them know we weren't missing.)<br />
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~"If I ever find out where you live, I will wait for you to drop my grandchildren off at school, I will go in and get them and take them home with me."<br />
(She would threaten to kidnap my children via email.)<br />
<br />
~"One day you'll understand. When the moon is in the first house of Aquarius of the morning sun you'll understand."<br />
(This was her response when I asked why she lied to me my entire life. It isn't verbatim because it was so odd, but she told me when certain celestial bodies are aligned that I would instantly gain the knowledge of her motivation of her actions.)<br />
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I could totally see all of these as motivational posters. Thanks mom!<br />
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Leiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15244646511824361273noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2989490629334081212.post-35040994424354649652015-09-24T11:18:00.000-07:002015-09-24T11:18:00.183-07:00Today is my Grandmother's Birthday<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">
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“Grandma, tell us a story,” my cousins begged in perfect unison. We all knew that if we had been well behaved that day we would be rewarded with one of my grandmother’s in depth and extremely detailed bedtime stories. My cousins, brothers, and I looked at her with bright eyes hoping we earned one of our favorite rewards. Some of the smaller cousins wiggled with anticipation inside their sleeping bags that were sporadically spaced across the living room floor of my grandparent’s house.</div>
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“Which story would you like to hear, my little angels?” She knew we all wanted to hear about the secret garden that could only be accessed through a secret passage in an old castle back in a magical place called Ireland, as that was the only story we ever requested. But she always asked us anyway.</div>
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“Grandma, can you tell us the story about the garden? The secret one?” My eldest cousin, Samantha, was always willing to ask for things. I always struggled with expressing myself because I felt like a burden, but she had no fear of burdening others. My grandmother started her story with immense detail. She would describe the castle, the stairs, the door, the flowers, the vines, the weather; almost to the point that it wasn’t a story at all.</div>
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That night, after she finished her long detailed narrative, I looked around the living room at all of the children that she lulled to sleep with her visions and voice, and I felt like I had disrespected her by not falling asleep to her story. I looked up at her and told her I was sorry I didn’t fall asleep. She smiled at me and said, “Oh, my Sweet Leilani, don’t apologize. Let me tell you another story, this one is shorter, but I think it can be our secret.”</div>
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I listened to her soft voice as it began to paint a picture, one that just she and I would share. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t as detailed as the tale she had shared moments ago with me and a handful of her other grandchildren. She started by sharing details about her mother, Polly, and her mother’s only sister, Fern. She talked about how they were the best of friends and the worst of enemies. She told me that their favorite thing to do was tease each other. Fern would sing, “Polish it in the corner” and Polly would reply with, “Furnish it in the corner.” I snuggled down and smiled as I drifted off to sleep enjoying the sound of my grandmother’s voice sweetly reciting our secret story. It didn’t matter that I didn’t understand exactly what the story meant at the time, though once I was old enough to know what curse words were, it did finally dawn on me. The only thing that ever seemed to matter when I was with my grandmother was how much she loved me.</div>
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Many children grow up living in their grandparent’s home, so it wasn’t unusual to me being raised there for almost my entire childhood. Our situation was a little different because my parents lived there too. My maternal grandparents owned a five bedroom house on the corner of North Cashew Avenue in a city named Brea, in California. It had a fenced yard and a tree swing, as well as a two story fort my grandfather built for his grandchildren in the backyard. One thing that made our situation peculiar is that we often had other people living with us. Sometimes one of my grandparents other eight children and their spouse and children would move in with us. I would share my bedroom with various female cousins, and my brothers would make room for our male cousins in each of their rooms. My parents lived in the finished garage, so my aunt and uncle would move into the extra bedrooms upstairs, near the children and my grandparent’s master bedroom. Other times my grandparents would rent out the extra bedroom, either to missionaries, or strangers, or even church members. Growing up with the rotating door that was my grandparent’s home was oftentimes a strange experience.</div>
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Out of everyone who lived with us through the years, my grandmother was my favorite. She had a way of loving that could never be doubted. I loved her more than I loved my mother, and for good reason, my mother was often mean and cruel. My grandmother would sing to me as a young child and tell me those detailed bedtime stories that she kept filed away in her memories. I remember her hands vividly; at times I am convinced I remember her hands better than I can remember her face. I recall the topography of her hands, the way puffy veins created mountain ranges and how the valleys were the place where her liver spots gathered. I know they weren’t always so wrinkly and shaky, but that is how I remember them. I remember how it felt for her hand to hold mine and I remember how my hand transitioned from feeling so small in hers, to hers feeling so small in mine. I remember how gentle she was when she did my waist length hair; my mother wouldn’t allow it to be cut and was always rushed when she braided it. I remember searching my grandmother out in the mornings, hoping she would have time to braid it before my mother got a hold of me.</div>
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I hated having long hair. It was the bane of my childhood existence. It reached down slightly past my waist, just long enough to be in my way every time I sat down. I went through the morning torture of my mother braiding it for school, and the same ritual every night for bed. She would rip the brush through the tangles, as though having to brush it at all was burdening her beyond my young understanding. I would look for my grandmother some mornings, hoping that she hadn’t left to run errands, or decided to sleep in, so that I could have her put my hair up. My mother didn’t like the sloppiness of my grandmother’s arthritic hands. And I definitely couldn’t do it myself for multiple made up reasons, but mostly because I would have pulled it loosely back at the nape of my neck, which always upset my mother.</div>
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My mother would start by putting my mane in a tight, gelled down pony tail. So tight that there were days that I felt my eyeballs were on the brink of popping out. Then she would jerk my head about as she braided over two feet of hair. The last step required a can of AquaNet as she sprayed my bangs to the point of immobility. I do not believe there are words to describe how much I hated it. I would ask daily to have it cut. She always had a boy-based answer to shatter my wish. Her favorite was that boys liked girls with long hair, and the second place answer was that she didn’t want people thinking I was a boy. No matter her reason, the answer was always no. That is, until one morning before school when I was in 4th grade. I was trying my best to stand still during the morning pain session when I asked her if I would be able to get a haircut. She snapped. Before I realized what was happening, my mother was standing behind me with the kitchen shears. She asked me over and over if I was certain that this was what I wanted and I can remember staring in the mirror at my long locks, which were happily nodding along with my head in the affirmative.</div>
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I can still see my mother shaking her head in disappointment. I remember the feeling of her pulling my hair back in one clump and the sound it made as she cut through it with one hard slice of the scissors. She pulled her hand away, holding a symbol of multiple years of pain and headache up for me to see in the mirror. I waited for her to straighten the haphazardness out, but then I slowly realized that she had no intention of helping my new haircut look cute. She was smiling at me in the mirror, still holding the tail of hair, looking very proud of herself for teaching me a lesson. I stared at her for a little too long and realized that she was rewarded by the tears forming in my eyes. I quickly looked back at myself, at the haircut I knew some of the kids at school were going to laugh at, and I realized something. I was never going to be able to be the daughter my mother wanted me to be. My new haircut wasn’t perfect, but it was too short for a ponytail and braid. That second realization caused the corners of my mouth to begin to turn upward. I really wish my mother saw the beginning of my smile, but she had already tossed the hair into the bathroom trash can and stomped away victoriously.</div>
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By the time my grandmother picked me up from school that day, my best friend and I had already evened out my hair the best we could in the girls’ restroom during our first recess. My grandmother didn’t say anything about my hair. I wasn’t sure if she was as disappointed in me as my mother was, or if she didn’t know what to say to console me. I was so relieved that my grandmother picked me up that day; I don’t think I could have stomached sitting in such close quarters with my mother. I looked over at my grandmother as she drove the winding way home and whispered that I loved her so softly I almost wished she hadn’t heard me. She took her eyes off the road, which she was known to do for extended periods of time, and smiled at me. She put her hand on the nape of my neck and tussled my hair. Her soft, wrinkled, arthritic hand in my hair caused my heart to warm my chest and the tears to start to roll down my cheeks.</div>
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My grandmother would often drive me home, humming a song from her childhood, always ready to fling her arm across my chest if she stepped on the brakes suddenly. I remember watching her twiddle her thumbs at stoplights. I remember watching her hands roll out pie crust, or knead bread dough. I remember how her hands felt on mine as she showed me how to whip eggs into merengue and how to create clothing using her sewing machine. The smell of fabric and warm oil still causes my brain to recall memories of her and how she became more and more dependent upon me threading the machine for her. My favorite thing to watch her hands do was play the piano; it was the highlight of my week. I can still see her hands gliding up and down the keys, her voice traveling through the house like a lost opera singer looking for the stage. I tried to mimic the way she effortlessly made beautiful music sing from the belly of the piano, her hands never seeming to stay on a single ivory or ebony key for too long. I remember the way I felt when she told me I was old enough to learn as my hands could easily span over half an octave. I couldn’t hold my giddiness inside, I was swinging my legs back and forth on the piano bench, like the young child that I was, ready to learn the majestic piece “Mary had a Little Lamb”. She numbered the five ivory keys starting with middle C up to the first G above middle C, with 1 2 3 4 5. She sang 3 2 1 2, 3 3 3, 2 2 2, 3, 5 5. And I followed her voice to make my own music bellow out of the gorgeous instrument that I slowly learned how to play without the masking tape.</div>
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The year I turned twelve my grandparents moved out of their house on North Cashew Avenue and I desperately wanted to go with them. They had purchased a new house in Apple Valley, California. I begged my mother to let me go. Her answer was absolutely no; I was absolutely shattered. I remember helping my grandparents pack their belongings, sorting through years of memories that I wasn’t alive for, wishing that each thing I touched could stay with me. Standing out by the moving van I saw movement from the corner of my eye, a mound of blue blankets taped together and moving on wheels; it was my grandmother’s piano. I became hyperaware of my entire body in that moment, all the emotions I had been fighting back all week became ripples on the placid surface of my expression. As my grandfather, uncles, and father struggled to get the piano on the lift gate, I struggled to hold back the beads of tears that streamed down my face. I felt someone come up beside me and I turned to see my mother looking at me with her brow furrowed together. She angrily said, “Stop being so melodramatic,” and stomped into the house.</div>
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In late 2009 my grandmother died. She died quietly on the morning of her first born daughter’s 54th birthday. She died in peace in the hospital alone, after begging my sleep deprived grandfather to head home to get some sleep, assuring him that she would be fine. I wasn’t there; no one told me she had passed away until the day of her funeral and by the time my mother told me, there was no way to make it to California in time. But I can imagine her hands, resting across her chest with her spots, and mountains, and valleys, and it breaks my heart that I will never learn from them again. I see glimpses of her in my children. Though they only met her briefly while they were very young, a part of her lives on in them. I see her hands in my own hands, as I grow and age I see mountains start to form and my freckles gather like spots in the valleys, wrinkles magically appear that weren’t there before and I know that because of my grandmother, my hands are able to do things that they wouldn’t have ever done otherwise. </div>
Leiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15244646511824361273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2989490629334081212.post-37870903490127241122015-09-13T19:33:00.000-07:002015-11-17T06:13:46.121-08:00Sometimes I WonderI was born to an unwed mother in July 1980.<br />
<br />
My parents married in Las Vegas in July of 1981. Granted, the man my mother married would not be my adoptive father until a few years later, but since he is the man who raised me, I always refer to him as my dad.<br />
<br />
My first half brother was due in April of 1982, but was two weeks late and was born in May.<br />
<br />
In August of 1983 my father adopted me, and that same year in October my brother and I were sealed to my parents in a temple ritual.<br />
<br />
My second half brother was born in December 1983.<br />
<br />
My last half brother was born in April of 1985 and shortly after that my mother under went many surgeries trying to stop cancer from taking her life. She was in and out of the hospital dozens of times between 1985 and 1993.<br />
<br />
In 1994 my parents separated, then divorced.<br />
<br />
In 1996 they remarried.<br />
<br />
In 1998 they divorced.<br />
<br />
In 2001 the remarried.<br />
<br />
In 2006 they prepared for another divorce, but decided to stay together.<br />
<br />
After they divorced in 1998, my mother decided it would be best to tell me that the man I always knew as my biological father wasn't my real dad.<br />
<br />
She reached this decision after one of their many fights. That night I had spent time with my dad and brothers at Disneyland. We were annual passholders and it wasn't uncommon for us to visit for a few hours here and there when we knew the park wouldn't be too busy.<br />
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It was my dad's weekend, but being a full grown 18 year old adult, I preferred to sleep in my own bed than on the floor of my dad's apartment. So after we decided to call it a night, my dad drove me home and dropped me off.<br />
<br />
I walked in the house, let her know I was home, then headed to my bedroom. She called to me and told me there was something important she wanted to tell me.<br />
<br />
I plopped down on the couch and she told me that my dad wasn't my real dad, that my brothers were only half brothers, that she was raped and that is how I came to be, and that I had older half siblings, but she wasn't sure. I stared blankly at her for a short while, then she said that I couldn't tell my brothers because they didn't know.<br />
<br />
I was dumbstruck. I didn't know how to process the information. I borrowed her car and drove to my boyfriends house. He held me as I cried and tried to help me process some of the emotions I was experiencing. He asked me if she could be lying to try to hurt me, and even though it wouldn't have surprised me, I knew she had told me something true.<br />
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My dad was Italian. 100% full blooded Italian. I had always had a sense of pride knowing that I was 50% Italian. It gave me a sense of belonging. I loved watching my Italian grandmother cook and I wanted to visit Italy one day. That was all taken from me in an instant. I could still go to Italy and I could still find joy with my grandmother, but I felt like a piece of me was confiscated. A piece that I realized never truly belonged to me, but something that I identified with and found pride in.<br />
<br />
When my dad found out how she told me he was furious. He felt that he should have been present when I was told the truth and that they should have done it as a team. My mom felt that I was more her daughter than his and since I 'aged out' of child support, he no longer had a say.<br />
<br />
My world was shattered. My two younger brothers who were closest in age found out almost immediately after I was told. It was important to me that the lies stopped. My mother begged me not to tell my youngest brother. He was delayed due to the medications my mother was on during pregnancy, and she didn't know how he would handle it. I decided to respect her wishes, as I didn't want to upset the already frail balance of the household.<br />
<br />
That didn't last long, my youngest brother struggled with boundaries and walked into my bedroom a few nights later when I was talking to my boyfriend about it. He overheard enough to understand that I wasn't is 'real' sister. It broke my heart trying to explain it to him and I could tell that he was equally as hurt.<br />
<br />
As time went by I started to wonder why she kept me. If she was raped, and knew her attacker well enough to know that I had older half siblings, why did she choose to keep me? I understand why an abortion probably wasn't high on her list of choices, but why didn't she give me up for adoption?<br />
<br />
I decided to ask her to tell me more about my biological father. She said his name was Michael Craig Hobbs and he was a customer that she spoke to every so often when he would come into the convenience store she worked at. She knew he was married, but they became quick friends. One night after she got off work, he stopped by and asked her to come over to his place for some dinner.<br />
<br />
That is when he raped her.<br />
<br />
She said that it was brutal enough that she had dark bruising for months afterwards and when she realized she was pregnant, she panicked. She hadn't told anyone about the incident and now that she was pregnant, she knew she had to.<br />
<br />
She said they called the police, he was arrested, she pressed charges and took him to court. But before the trial started she decided it was too painful. And canceled the court hearings.<br />
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Three years later when my dad wanted to adopt me, she said she drove me out to meet Michael for the first and last time and he signed away his custody.<br />
<br />
I felt bad for her. She was only 19 when she had me. I know working at a convenience store wasn't the most glamorous job, but because of what happened that Autumn night in 1979 she lost a lot of her choices for her future.<br />
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It wasn't until a decade later, when I was 28, when I decided I wanted to look for Michael because my genetic history had become important after my first child was born. As I searched, I found there weren't any arrest records for him in either Orange or Riverside County. I looked for court records, I looked for marriage certificates, and it was almost like he never existed. I went down to the Family Court in Orange County to try to find something, anything, that would lead me in the right direction. I came up empty handed.<br />
<br />
Because I was adopted by my dad, my records were sealed in the State of California. I didn't have access to anything. If I wanted to find out anything, I would have to ask my mother and trust that what she told me was the truth.<br />
<br />
That didn't go well. She immediately became the victim. How dare I try to hurt her like this. How dare I viciously attack the man who raised me by wanting to know about her rapist. How could I be so selfish and so shallow.<br />
<br />
After talking to her a bit more, I started to doubt there was a man named Michael. I started to wonder about if she really did know my biological dad, but they were both Mormon, if she had to lie in order to be able to stay in her parents home. I wonder if he was going to be leaving for his mission and if she had been honest, it would have ruined his life too. I wonder if she loved him and would have married him if she didn't get knocked up. I wondered if her life would have been better without me. I think there is a very good chance it would have been.<br />
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<br />Leiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15244646511824361273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2989490629334081212.post-31208211394497011812015-09-11T12:44:00.002-07:002015-09-11T12:44:18.959-07:00When the Towers Fell<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Today, I hate religion.<br />
<br />
Every September 11th, I hate religion.<br />
<br />
Ask me any other day and I will be willing to admit that there may be a limited amount of beneficial things in regards to organized beliefs. But not today.<br />
<br />
I was still a Mormon when the planes stuck the Twin Towers. A Jack-Mormon - one who doesn't follow the letter of the law though they believe in the religion - but still a Mormon.<br />
<br />
<b>I wasn't at home when the towers fell.</b><br />
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My mother kicked me out in March 2001. My mother had decided that I was a bad influence on my three younger brothers because she caught me talking about condoms with my (boy)friend who I met on AOL in November of the previous year. These are all horrible things.<br />
<br />
My choices were simple:<br />
I could be homeless,<br />
or try to impede upon relatives to whom I was not close,<br />
or move across country with a complete stranger that I had met on the internet in November 2000.<br />
<br />
After asking around to try to secure a couch until my mother 'forgave' me, I realized that I was going to be homeless. This had been the third time my mother had kicked me out of the house for trivial things that any good parent would have coached their child through.<br />
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<b>I decided enough was enough.</b><br />
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The first time she kicked me out was in September 1999 because I called letting her know that I was going to be 5 minutes late for curfew. I was with my Mormon boyfriend on a typical dinner-and-a-movie date, and I called her to let her know the movie got out later than we had thought it would.<br />
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She told me not to bother coming home if I couldn't make it home before midnight. So I slept on his couch that night. I went to church the next day and went home afterward. She told me because I didn't come home that night, that I needed to find another place to live. I moved in with my best friend Tina and her mom.<br />
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A few weeks later, my mother called Tina's mom and asked her to ask me to move back home because my brothers missed me. So I did.<br />
<br />
About midway through October of that same year, she kicked me out again. This happened shortly after her noticing that I didn't take the sacrament (body and blood of Christ) one Sunday. This was a personal decision and one that I was meeting with the Bishop about at the time. Because she didn't ask, and I wasn't about to tell, she assumed the worst. She leaned over and "whispered" rather loudly, "Why didn't you take the sacrament? You're not a virgin anymore, are you?" She stood up and left. As in, she stomped out of the quietest part of the Sunday service and went home and left me and my three younger brothers at church. Her voice almost echoed, so I knew everyone heard what she said.<br />
<br />
The four of us walked home from church that day because she never came back to pick us up. When I walked in the door she said that I was being a horrible influence on my brothers and asked me to leave. I once again moved in with Tina and her mom.<br />
<br />
A few days before Thanksgiving, my mother asked me to move back in so we could be together during the holidays. So I did.<br />
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</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
She and I never got along from that point forward. I never forgave her for embarrassing me in front of the entire congregation, and she never apologized. I tried to act like nothing happened, but she had made her mind up about the reasons why I had stayed out that one night in September and she made it very clear that she thought I had lost my virginity to a young man who still went on his mission. It's as though she believed that I single-handedly sent him to hell.<br />
<br />
I want to put this out there. Jeremy and I never had sex. Even after he came home early from his mission. Even when I slept in his apartment that September night. Even though I really wanted to and so did he. Not once, not almost, not ever. But it didn't matter. And she never bothered to ask.<br />
<br />
A year and a few months passed with me spending most of my time at work and school. I had filled my days to be away from home as much as possible. I worked overnight sleeping at the homes of elderly folk to make sure they had someone with them. If I wasn't in class during the day, I was working at my full time receptionist job. And if I then found myself with time, I was with Tina.<br />
<br />
But that didn't stop the inevitable. She picked up the phone line one night in February 2001 and decided to listen to a conversation that I was having with a boy that I had spent many nights speaking with about life, love, dreams, poetry, and sex. Had she picked up the phone 10 minutes earlier she would have heard a conversation about Disneyland. But, of course not, she picked up the phone, quietly, with the intent of listening to a conversation her daughter was having with a boy. And she heard me asking questions about condoms. Because of course she did.<br />
<br />
She didn't wait for the conversation to be over and talk to me about things one on one later that night. She didn't call my father for advice on what to do. No, she started yelling into the phone that she wanted me out of her house tonight and I was never welcome back. Terrell stayed on the line, through all of her berating and slut-shaming and name calling to make sure I knew that if I couldn't find anywhere else to go, I could live with him.<br />
<br />
So I moved to Georgia a few days later, to live in a dorm, with a boy I had never met in real life, because I felt like I had nowhere else to go.<br />
<br />
I packed up my car and drove across country. I called Tina every night to let her know I was safe, but she was the only person who cared.<br />
<br />
<b>When the towers fell.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
I arrived in Georgia with Terrell in early March 2001. I got a job at Dave and Buster's in April and we moved into a small apartment in July. No one from my family had been in contact with me since I moved out of California.<br />
<br />
I was sleeping with the first plane hit the first tower. I often worked late, so Terrell would wake up and go to class at Georgia State University in the morning and many times I would sleep in until 9 a.m.<br />
<br />
I was awoken by our phone ringing. We were beyond 'college poor' and had a phone without caller ID. I thought it may be Terrell calling from school as he drove an older Camaro that wasn't without its problems.<br />
<br />
It was my mother.<br />
<br />
She was in a panic. She was speaking really fast and it didn't make sense to my half asleep brain. She was stumbling over her words as she explained that something was happening and she just wanted to make sure I was alive. She told me to turn on the news. I flipped on the television and saw grey smoke coming out of the first tower.<br />
<br />
I explained that I was fine and that I wasn't living in a big city with tall buildings. Then my thoughts went to Terrell, he was in Atlanta at school. I started to panic. He didn't have a cell phone, we couldn't afford one, so there was no way for me to contact him.<br />
<br />
After my mother's curiosity and concern had been placated, she went back to working and let me off the phone.<br />
<br />
I watched the second plane fly into the second tower and I felt tears start to fall down my face. I didn't know if Terrell was safe, if Atlanta was part of the plan for this horrible event. They were talking about grounding all planes. The news people who didn't know if it was intentional a half hour earlier were now claiming that this all had to have been done with intent.<br />
<br />
It seemed like forever waiting for Terrell to get home from school. His parents called a little after my mother got off the phone asking about his safety. I told them when he got home, I would have him call. When he came home we both sat watching the television for most of the afternoon, trying to understand what had truly just happened and how.<br />
<br />
I cannot imagine how it felt for those who waited and waited only to find out that their loved one would never come home.<br />
<br />
I was scheduled to work from 4 p.m. until midnight. I was working the front door that night checking IDs and maintaining the entry way. When I showed up to work, it was empty. Our manager decided to close early that night. The only people who came in were the family of a girl who had planned to celebrate her 21st birthday that night, but most businesses were already closed.<br />
<br />
My mother didn't contact me again during the time I lived in Georgia. My dad would call every so often to check up on me. But I didn't speak to my mother again until May 2003 when I moved back to California.<br />
<br />
<b>Imagine No Religion</b><br />
<br />
All religion seems to do is separate us. Someone has to be the heathens or the infidels or the sinners. It paints a group or many groups of people into 'lesser thans' and it gives permission for horrible atrocities to take place.<br />
<br />
When we label people as different than ourselves, it makes it easier to no longer see them as people. It makes it easier to hate them for pointless and trivial reasons. It makes it easier for people to fly planes into buildings and for others to refuse to give people marriage licenses.Leiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15244646511824361273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2989490629334081212.post-81666094720334367982015-08-18T09:14:00.000-07:002015-08-18T09:14:00.117-07:00Anti-Mormon Propaganda<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
Blogging isn't easy for me. I am a shy, introverted girl who hates confrontation. Sometimes I go months without blogging because I don't feel like I have anything new to bring to the table; or because I am a full time worker, full time mother, full time college student, as well as a wife.<br />
<br />
It wasn't easy for me to realize I had become someone that I would have hated, for no good reason, as a youth. Coming out as as atheist, first to myself, then to my husband, wasn't easy. Nothing about realizing so many dear to your heart beliefs are lies is easy. And it's not something you can back track on. Once you realized that Santa wasn't real as a child, there was no forcing yourself to believe. Anything past that point of realization would have been fake belief; empty belief.<br />
<br />
I never would have imagined when I was a young member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, that I would be sitting here, on my day off, a week before Fall 2015 classes start, writing what my mother would refer to as Anti-Mormon Propaganda. Which was anything that spoke poorly about the church, specific members, or the beliefs. She would always tell me that someone who didn't know the truth about the gospel must have written it. I know now that isn't always true.<br />
<br />
Sure, some things you come across on a quick Google search are written by people who were never members. It's easy to shrug off the things they say because 'they don't know' how wonderful the gospel is. I am coming from a different place. I have felt the holy ghost, I have been to the temple and felt the special feelings and I have prayed on my knees for guidance and help more times than I can remember. But none of the feelings I have felt throughout my life have been mystical or spiritual or the holy ghost, like I was told. Granted, it may still be easy to shrug off the things I write about because it's easy to push me into a different category because I am no longer a member. But the beauty of Mormonism is something that I experienced first hand. So don't tell me that writing my truth is an easy way out.<br />
<br />
I lost my friends, and my immediate family because of this. I lost family traditions because of this. I felt like I lost an entire part of my identity because of this. This small little fact that crept up on me when I was least expecting it. That I was atheist.<br />
<br />
It started off with a little research outside of church approved Mormon Propaganda. (Thanks Terrell!) That Joseph Smith was a confidence man. That he had been arrested for using a hat and seer stones to try to find treasure on people's property, the same type of hat and seer stones he used in the translation of gold plates. The same gold plates that would have been way too heavy for one man to carry from the hill to his residence, regardless of how thin they were pounded. That Joseph Smith was a Freemason, and that many of the Masonic Rituals that had been a part of that fraternity for hundreds of years were suddenly plagiarized and stolen to then become super secret temple rituals. The fact that the cryptic writing that Joseph did show as evidence, has been proven time and time again by scholars to be gibberish.<br />
<br />
The fact that DNA tests have shown that the peoples that would have been the Nephites and Lamanites haven't a single hint of the Jewish or Middle Eastern DNA that they should have if the Book of Mormon were indeed true. That the Book of Mormon mentions horses, but there weren't horses there at the time. And no, tapirs are not the same as horses.<br />
<br />
Just going off of history, anthropology, archaeology, and genetics we can see that there is no truth in the Book of Mormon. At least we can trace the Bible, we know it is a complied mishmash of stories from bronze age sheep herders that contradicts itself more times than it doesn't.<br />
<br />
Every time I came across a different fact I would try to deny it. I would say things in my head about how it was gods way of testing his children, or that religion doesn't need evidence to back it's claims because it isn't of this world. And one day, my 'reasoning' in my head didn't convince me as much as it used to. Then slowly over time the excuses I had given myself about how it's true because I believe it, or because I feel it in my heart, were no longer enough to go on believing.<br />
<br />
And it wasn't easy.<br />
<br />
I identified as a Mormon first, before I identified as anything else. I was the girl at school that carried extra Books of Mormon with me, with my hand written testimony in the front cover, so that I could help save my friends. My husband still has the one I gave to him our senior year of high school, testimony and all. Mormonism was important to me, the most important thing. I had all the movies and watched them all the time. I still think I have Saturday's Warrior memorized. I can sing all the songs from the "I'm a Mormon" cassette tape. I think I still have a few pieces of sheet music in my basement. I would play "A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief" and "I Heard Him Come" so many times my mother asked me to play a different song just so she could sing something else in her head.<br />
<br />
It's not easy worrying everyday if your boss were to find out you are atheist if it would put your job in jeopardy. It's not easy sharing my story with complete strangers nor is it comfortable. But I remember when I was shedding myself of the religion of my youth and I searched and searched for people I could relate to. I wanted to read everything and know everything about how others coped and dealt with the transition from fairy tales to real life.<br />
<br />
Over time blogging has helped me heal. It has helped me be at peace with myself. And even though my mother would consider my blog to be Anti-Mormon Propaganda, I know it's not. I am not attacking Mormonism because I hate it. I am shedding light on almost 200 years of lies because extraordinary beliefs require extraordinary evidence. And Mormonism doesn't have it.Leiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15244646511824361273noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2989490629334081212.post-26181094729599212242015-08-14T21:02:00.000-07:002015-08-16T07:40:11.484-07:00Our Visit to the Indianapolis Temple<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Our temple booties.</span></div>
<h2>
The Decision</h2>
I decided to take my children to the opening of the Indianapolis Temple.<br />
<br />
It's not the type of thing I ever thought I would want to do ever again.<br />
<br />
I have been to the Los Angeles Temple, and have performed 'sacred' rituals there; baptism for the dead as well as confirmations.<br />
<br />
I went to the open house of the San Diego Temple when I was 13 years old. Then to the open house for the Redlands Temple when I was 23, and the Newport Temple when I was 25. I attended these open houses as a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.<br />
<br />
This open house was different. This is the first time I went to an open house as a non-member.<br />
<br />
When I first heard that the LDS church was planning on building a temple close to where I live, I was a little upset. One of the wonderful things about the place we live is that there aren't many Mormons. It was a selling point when we were looking to move out of California. I didn't protest or write letters, as I understand why a temple nearby would be important to some of my fellow Midwesterners. But I can honestly say that I was a bit saddened by the idea of having a temple in my new safe haven.<br />
<br />
As the time grew closer to the LDS temple hosting its traditional open house, I debated about whether I wanted to visit on my own, make it a family outing, or avoid it altogether. It was an odd debate that I wrestled with for a few months. I wanted to show my children something that they may never get to see again, something from my past that was a painful part of my existence on this earth. But at the same time, I wasn't certain that I wanted to go back to anything Mormon, like, ever.<br />
<br />
I didn't know if it would be painful, if I would have flashbacks of guilt, if I would panic or suffer from an anxiety attack. I was curious to see what kind of emotions I would feel visiting a 'sacred' place, a place that I was brainwashed to believe was the 'holiest of holies', but this time without the power of cult mentality.<br />
<br />
As the time drew closer, I decided to make a reservation. That way if I decided to go, I would have the tickets I needed to attend. I was somewhat surprised to see how quickly time slots had already started filling up. I selected the first Wednesday night that had openings after work and made a reservation for four. I was worried that my name would be on some kind of 'blacklist' and that my ticket request would be denied. Which I know sounds slightly paranoid, but with how Mormons keep records I wouldn't have been surprised. I received the confirmation email and printed the tickets before they could change their mind.<br />
<br />
When the day rolled around my husband asked me, as we loaded up the car, if I was sure that I was ready for this. I was somewhat shocked that I wasn't worried, or panicked. I was amazed at how it felt like the whole thing was a non-issue. I started to think that I would start freaking out the closer we got to our destination.<br />
<br />
As we drove along the country roads and state highways, I found myself thinking about the other times I had visited temples. How every time I visited a temple, I always imagined getting married there one day. How I paid special attention to the sealing rooms and the landscaping outside. (Sealing rooms are where they perform temple marriages which are viewed as more permanent and long lasting than the marriages performed in other worship houses of different faiths.) I kept wondering how it was going to feel as I haven't been back to a Mormon church since we moved from California over 6 years ago.<br />
<br />
We finally arrived in the big city of Indianapolis and headed toward the city of Carmel, where the temple was built. As we got closer, I spotted the Angel Moroni, even through the cranes, tall buildings and sunshine I couldn't miss it. I felt nothing extraordinary. I smiled a little with the realization that I may be healed more from my past than I thought I was.<br />
<br />
We drove through the round-a-bouts and pulled onto the street next to the temple. Outside the temple grounds there was a pop up canopy with tables and ex-Mormons with pamphlets. I wanted to stop and talk with them, but it was pretty late in the day and I wanted to get into the Stake Center so that we could start our tour. I figured we could hit them up on the way out.<br />
<br />
<h2>
The Temple</h2>
We parked and headed into the new Stake Center for the tour video. (A Stake Center is a LDS chapel, which holds normal church services, but is also the hub for Stake wide activities. A Ward is a grouping of Mormons, and a Stake is a grouping of Wards.) We were sat with other people waiting for the tour in a classroom that is used for classes on Sundays. We were given a short spiel by a sister missionary and she played us an introduction video.<br />
<br />
It was an average Mormon video, in which they explain what a temple is for and do their best to not look unbalanced and loopy. What grabbed my attention was the amount of diversity they had represented in the video. I haven't been to a Mormon church meeting in years, but in my 28 years of being Mormon it was always very white. But that is a different topic for a different blog entry.<br />
<br />
After the video, we lined up to walk across the parking lot to enter into the temple. We got the little booties put on our feet, which is to protect the new and expensive carpet, and we were led into the side door of the Indianapolis Temple.<br />
<br />
The temple itself was gorgeous. They spared no expense to make sure that it felt luxurious. From the marble, to the wood, to the stained glass, it was exquisite. The Indiana state flower was highlighted through the entire building and they had a few commissioned art pieces displayed in the hallways. As a member, I never gave it a second thought. Of course they wanted lavishness, they believed that it was a literal house of their lord. A place for him to literally visit as a spirit. But having been removed from it all since 2008, I kept thinking about all the starving people the money could have fed, the people it could have helped out of modern day slavery, and the grandiosity didn't feel so spiritual after all.<br />
<br />
The first room we were led into was the baptism room. My daughters had the opportunity to see the big baptismal font that is on the backs of the twelve oxen. My eldest was quick to point out that it would make an awesome hot tub. A three dimensional art piece of Jesus being baptized by John the baptist, which was on the wall above the doorway, intrigued them. They heard about the ritual baptisms for the dead and how the baptismal font was used. They kept asking me questions about whether or not I had done that when I was a Mormon.<br />
<br />
We got to see the entry way where the members show their temple recommends in order to get into the temple. We were taken through the women's dressing room and they spoke about how members change from their 'outside' clothes into temple clothes. When we walked through the bridal room, where a bride would sit getting ready to be sealed; that was the first time I felt a small twinge inside me. The thought washed over me about how I grew up knowing that it was expected of me to sit there, as a virgin bride, to get ready to be sealed to a return missionary. How I even expected that of myself, and how different my life is because that didn't happen.<br />
<br />
We then went into the chapel where members wait for sessions to start and sat down in church pews. A sister member spoke to us about what the temple meant to her. She told us about the importance of temple work and how ancestry is vital in being able to do temple work. As a member I had been preached the importance of genealogy for years. The time spent with her reminded me of that.<br />
<br />
We were then led into the room where temple sessions start. They spoke about the temple sessions and what they mean to the members, but they didn't go into any of the stolen Masonic rituals that they perform.<br />
<br />
I was taken aback at how many of the church members asked me if I was a member through the course of our tour. I wasn't trying to hide my Ex-Mo status, but I wasn't trying to pass as a member either. I was even in a dress with spaghetti straps, which I would have imagined would have marked me as a non-member. I was asked by four different tour guides if I was a member. I politely said no, but so desperately wanted to ask why they thought I might be.<br />
<br />
As the tour continued on and I saw my children's reactions to the things they were seeing, I started to feel happy that I decided to attend. They were being exposed to a different religion, and they were able to see a part of me that I don't often show them. Granted, the temple is the Mormon's holy place and they didn't show us everything, but I was still glad that my daughters got to experience it and ask me questions.<br />
<br />
As a Mormon, I never questioned about the rooms we skipped. But as a non-member, I took notice. We didn't get to see the room behind the curtain of the last session room and I smiled thinking about the Wizard of Oz and the man behind the curtain. How the curtain covers up the secrets they don't want to share. I thought about how many people leave thinking that they were shown everything, not realizing how much of the absurdity we didn't hear about.<br />
<br />
The next to last room we visited has always been my favorite, and this visit to this temple was no different. The Celestial Room, which was quickly nicknamed the 'Milk Room' by my 8 year old daughter, was bright and white. It was illuminated from the setting sun through stained glass windows and crystal chandeliers. It was truly the color of milk and everything seemed to be either white, gold, or clear. It wasn't quite as grand as the San Diego Temple's Celestial Room, but it was definitely a close second.<br />
<br />
The last room we visited on our tour was the one that I was most anxious about - the sealing room. Every time I had visited the temple, I had always imagined myself with someone getting sealed. This time was a little different, as I had someone (the same someone I had imagined when I was 25), but I no longer have dreams of being sealed. As I sat in the sealing room glancing back and forth between my two children and my husband, I had a wonderful sense of peace. I realized that I had no feelings of anxiety or guilt, I had no feelings of regret or shame. I realized that I was at peace with myself and that the church no longer had control of me.<br />
<br />
As we were walking to the car we saw the ex-Mormons were packing up, but I no longer felt the need to speak with them. I experienced what I needed from our temple visit. We piled into the car and the girls asked some questions. They still didn't fully understand why the Christus had holes in his hands, as I have never told them the gruesome crucifixion story. I told them I would explain it more later, as I saw no need to give them nightmares.<br />
<br />
We pulled out of the parking lot my husband turned to me, smiled and asked, "So, you thinking about joining?"<br />
<br />
Always the smart ass.<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Wondering why he has holes.</span></div>
Leiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15244646511824361273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2989490629334081212.post-71825783369590274592015-07-10T21:55:00.000-07:002015-08-14T22:27:53.777-07:00A Life Full of LoveThis weekend my youngest turns 8.<br />
<br />
I still remember all the feelings I had when my eldest turned 8. Although they aren't as strong this time around. I am going to chalk that up to the amount of time spent away from the expectations and tenets of Mormonism.<br />
<br />
But obviously, it has crossed my mind.<br />
<br />
8 years ago I had my second child surgically removed from my body with the expectation of having so many more children. Growing up, I always wanted 17 children. I would say stupid things that ranged from being willing to give up my vote if it meant I could always be a stay at home mother to other stupid things about 'real women' and 'real childbirth'.<br />
<br />
That life I had envisioned didn't manifest itself. I admit, many of my choices prevented me from having 15 children more than I currently have, and I will be forever grateful to my younger self for choosing a path that led me here.<br />
<br />
I was raised by a woman who believes that people who chose to have no children or chose to have only one child are selfish. They put themselves before god and that it was an unwritten sin to have fewer than two children. Granted, having anything less than four children wasn't ideal either. She has said on multiple occasions that she wanted her four children to have at least eight children each.<br />
<br />
Now, I try my best not to judge other people's journeys. I don't believe having more than two children makes you selfish, or having less than two makes you selfish. I just know that I am a good mother to two children. I don't know if I would consider myself a good mother to three. And that is my choice.<br />
<br />
Shortly after having my second baby, I decided that I had reached my limit. I didn't want to have children just for the sake of having children. I knew we were tight financially and I wanted to be able to give the children I had a stable home. Which hasn't always been easy.<br />
<br />
When my husband and I found ourselves without a home in 2009, living in crappy motels with our two toddlers we knew we weren't in a position for a third child. So when we miscounted days and feared that our mistake could possibly lead to a pregnancy, I bought myself Plan B.<br />
<br />
And now, I have two healthy children who fill my life full of love and wonder. Both will have passed their 8th birthday without conversion, without baptism, and best of all without guilt. They are still learning how to be responsible humans, and I am still learning how to be a mother. And I wouldn't change anything for the world.<br />
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Leiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15244646511824361273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2989490629334081212.post-25769793204029708732014-08-15T13:54:00.002-07:002014-08-15T13:54:47.283-07:00What do little freethinkers believe in?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My eldest daughter started at a new school this year for third grade.<br />
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As with most schools, she spent the first few days setting up her desk, meeting new friends and getting to know her teacher.<br />
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Her teacher passed out a 'getting to know you' type assignment that was decked out with conversation bubbles that had prompts and empty lines for the students to fill in their answers.<br />
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The topics covered most topics that these things tend to do. Favorite color, favorite food, favorite animal, pets in the home, family members, etc.<br />
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But something on this mundane, average assignment stood out to my daughter. One of the bubbles had the phrase, "I believe in..."<br />
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While it didn't strike her as odd at first, when the class gathered to share their answers, it was clear that she was in a room full of theists. Almost every single child in her classroom had followed the above prompt with 'god' or 'Jesus' or 'god's love' or other various religious type things.<br />
<br />
This struck her as odd. She herself had written down the word 'myself'. But the first thing that her classmates thought of was 'god'.<br />
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I am not saying that third grade theists don't believe in themselves, or that the third graders didn't honestly feel like that would be the best thing to write down. I just found it wonderful that my child believes in herself over a pseudo-higher power.<br />
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The surprise in her voice while telling me this quip led me to think about the things I teach my children to believe in as freethinking children of an atheist mother.<br />
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I have taught my daughters to believe in themselves, to believe in love and to believe in me and their daddy. I have taught my daughters to believe that people are good, that life is beautiful and to believe that no matter what happens, there is always a silver lining.<br />
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We believe that even though there is no thing as literal magic, that magic surrounds us in the form of 'karma' or 'fortune' or 'souls', those feelings and forces that are difficult to describe, but easy to feel. We believe in forgiveness, strength, and bravery. We believe in Science, not because we really want to, but because it is transparent and we can question the validity of hypothesis and understand the basis of theories.<br />
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We believe that good people will do good and bad people will do bad, not because the devil or demons, but because of life experiences, and poor decisions. We believe that kindness can conquer all and that in order to be wonderful people we need to exude that love and understanding onto others. We believe in loyalty, friendship and honesty.<br />
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We believe that this life is all we get, so we take care of our Earth, of each other, and of those less fortunate than ourselves (it's their only life too). We believe that after we die, our energy will continue on, as energy never ends. We believe that through everything, we are stronger with each other and that we need to fill this life with as much wonder as we can because before too long, it will be over.<br />
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We believe that there is more to life than politics, religion, and hate. We believe in people and the inherent goodness in people's hearts.<br />
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I know a lot of people want so desperately to believe that atheists don't believe in anything, but that couldn't be further from the truth. I believe in so much more now that I have shed Mormonism. I don't just believe in a god and doubt the sinners around me. I believe in the people who surround me and doubt the existence of mythical creatures.<br />
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Not all atheists are alike, just like not all theists are alike. And it makes me so happy that even though my third grader realized just how many children in her class are theists, it didn't stop her from finding three new friends in class during the first week of school.Leiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15244646511824361273noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2989490629334081212.post-80688809123869221432014-07-24T05:18:00.000-07:002014-07-24T05:18:00.512-07:00The Parts of Mormonism I Kept<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Writing a blog about being an Ex-Mormon will lead me to write about negative experiences more often than not. With that said, I wanted to take a moment on Pioneer Day to make a list of things and loves that growing up Mormon has given me, that I may not have had otherwise.<br />
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~ 52 cousins. (On my Mormon side.) I know that isn't necessarily a uniquely Mormon thing, but with 7 aunts and uncles (some of whom remarried and brought in more cousins), it was bound to produce a larger family. (I only have 4 cousins on my Catholic side.)<br />
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~ Canning. Mormons aren't necessarily the only folks that are dooms day preppers, but they definitely perfected it. I still keep gallons of extra water, I can my own food that I rotate, and I get nervous when we hit a hard time and the cupboards start to get bare.<br />
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~ Appreciation of 1800's clothing. Especially bonnets. I know it stemmed from all the Pioneer Days I celebrated growing up. I even made myself a homemade bonnet and dress for Halloween when I was 15, which leads me to my next point.<br />
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~ Sewing. I can make my own clothes, though I still need a pattern usually. I made my own prom dress and cape when I was 17, with the help of my aunt. I have a sewing machine that I have already taught my 8 year old how to use.<br />
<br />
~ Crocheting. I was taught by my mother at 12. I have made multiple blankets, hats and scarves. I have taken that skill and moved to knitting as well, which I taught myself this past year. Without the focus on homemaking, I am sure this wouldn't be a skill I picked up on my own.<br />
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~ Baking. When I get stressed, I bake. Cupcakes, tarts, pies, cookies, etc. And I know this is something I picked up from my Mormon upbringing. Once again, I know this isn't a uniquely Mormon thing, but with Young Women's and the kitchen at church, I know that this was something that I learned as a direct result of being Mormon. My husband isn't big on sweets, but up until I went back to school, my coworkers loved this little quirk.<br />
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~ Patience. I am able to 'stay sweet' as my mother always put it. I have the patience of a well trained dog and I can tolerate a plethora of mind numbing conversation topics with a genuine smile on my face. I can speak up for myself when necessary, but prefer to sit and watch and witness, all while being neutral and sweet. I learned this from 3 hours of church every Sunday.<br />
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~ Speaking in public. Getting up in front of the entire congregation from a very young age has given me for confidence when speaking to a large group. Bearing my testimony or giving a talk at the pulpit is a voice shaking experience for an 8 year old, but I know that even though I am not the best public speaker, I definitely am able to do it because the chances I had at church.<br />
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~ Party planning on a budget. I own my own waffle cone maker, two crock pots, a three partition party warmer, a food dehydrator, and snow cone maker. If I had to throw together a last minute missionary farewell party, I am all set. (I still want a cotton candy machine.)<br />
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~ The ability to share like a champ. Growing up knowing one day you were going to have to share your husband with sister-wives gives you a brand of sharing talent set apart from most.<br />
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~ My music talents. I can play the piano, clarinet, alto saxophone and I had started to learn violin. The reason why I did this was because I was taught that a worthwhile future husband would want a well rounded wife. That is the only reason I ever picked up a musical instrument. Now, I couldn't imagine life without it.<br />
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~ My knowledge of the bible and BOM. I was the champion of the lightning round of the annual scripture hunt. I have read the bible all the way through twice and the BOM thrice. I know my shit. I memorized, highlighted and studied while in high school and went to seminary every morning through my junior year. (My mom got sick my senior year.) I know the bible better than a lot of my religious friends. The knowledge I have of the bible and BOM led me to questioning the viability of a god.<br />
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~ My knowledge of the 'unknown' verses of hymns and Christmas songs. Our music director was never one to cut a song short, even if it had 8 verses. So when others struggle with the second verse of <i>Joy to the World</i> or<i> Away in a Manger</i>, I can keep going... usually off key and alone.<br />
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~ My love for camping. Maybe this would be something I acquired if I had been born into a different family, as my parents never seemed to enjoy our camping trips. But being in Young Women's, the youth group of the Mormon church, led me on overnight backpacking trips, camping on the beach, camping with the Young Men's group (we were being pioneers), and a week long camping trip every summer.<br />
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~ Cute songs to sing with my children, that their peers probably do not know. Our favorite is <i>Popcorn Popping. </i>Though I know we have had enjoyment from, <i>Daddy's Homecoming, </i>and <i>Mother Dear </i>(which I always change to their names), and <i>My Heavenly Father Loves Me </i>(which I change to Mother Nature). It reminds me of my childhood and happy memories I have with my grandmother.<br />
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<br />
This is by no way a comprehensive list, I know there are more wonderful things Mormonism gave me. But nothing compares to the freedom and happiness I have found ditching all forms of organized religion. I am one of the first of my Mormon family to walk away from the religion, so I am a pioneer in my own right. Happy Pioneer Day!Leiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15244646511824361273noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2989490629334081212.post-59739531690862030452014-07-18T09:37:00.000-07:002014-07-18T09:37:37.598-07:00Diary of Four Women Essay<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Having been raised in a
conservative Mormon household, I </span></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 32px;">wasn't</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> taught to look to my fellow females unless it was to find an example of how to stay sweet, be a peacekeeper, a
worthy wife or a mother. My childhood heroes were princesses and females who
were mothers of multiple children. Poised, behaved women who put motherhood
first, put everyone’s needs before their own and anyone else’s feelings above
their own were what I strived to mimic. I was raised to be obedient, first to a
god, second to my father and brothers, third to my mother and one day, my
husband. Being raised to believe certain
things </span><span style="line-height: 32px;">weren't</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> meant for women, like the priesthood, or church leadership, or
even having a voice, </span><span style="line-height: 32px;">didn't</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> set me up to succeed in life on my own; I had to
have a husband to achieve the goals that were set for me. Naturally, my first
goal in life was to find myself a husband; preferably a return missionary before
I reached the ripe old age of 22. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> With my goal of tracking down a husband on the top of my
priority list, my first role model became my maternal grandmother. She was
married by 16, dropped out of high school at the end of 10<sup>th</sup> grade
to be with my grandfather and had 8 children in a 12 year span. She did the
unthinkable and married a non-Mormon, but showed her strength and faith by converting
him to the gospel. My grandparents never separated, never spoke of divorce and
had a love for their children and grandchildren that was palpable. My
grandmother could do all the things I hoped to do one day. She had her fair
share of children, she had a home, a husband, was overly maternal, and was the
best story teller I have ever had the pleasure to know. She had her priorities
straight and kept to them like the woman of god that she was. She was
everything to me. She taught me how to bake, how to cook, how to play the
piano, she told me stories that enveloped my soul, and she taught me how to be
a peacekeeper and the art of ‘staying sweet’. She had the voice of an angel and
she had the opportunity to share her talent at Carnegie Hall in the 1980’s. She
was my very first role model, my very first example of all that a woman should
be. She was the epitome of love and I miss her every single day.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> I looked up to my mother for a very brief time in my
youth, and I am hoping that I can be more than she was. I learned a lot from
her, but not in a good way. I learned how not to treat daughters, how not to
behave in a relationship, how not to constantly be the victim. Though learning
through a bad example hardly makes a role model. My world was shaken at
eighteen years old when I found out the man who had raised me as his biological
child, was not my biological father. My parents had lied, a ruse that was
supported by the church, in order to prevent me from finding out that my mother
was not married when she got pregnant with me. It was more shameful to get
pregnant out of wedlock, than it was to lie to a child their entire life about
their genealogy, about their heritage, about who they are and where they came
from. My world turned upside down, and the final soul crushing fact that my
little brothers were not my full siblings, but half-brothers, and that I had
two older half-brothers and a younger half-sister, sent me on a soul searching
mission that ended up somewhere I never thought I would be: An ex-Mormon. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> Once I had started to shed my religion, I lost my role
models, my source of examples of what I, as a woman, should be. I no longer
could look up the Joseph Smith’s wife (wives) or to the Relief Society
President, as I no longer identified with their struggle or goals. I floundered
to find conservative ‘proper’ women who I felt could give me a good footing in
what I should strive to be. I failed in that endeavor. It was a feeling akin to
being thrown into a swimming pool, first the feeling of panic when you have no
control, a moment of freedom, and then a cold, enveloping feeling that takes a
moment to get used to. You know you will survive, but it’s not going to be
pleasant. The women who are my role models now, have only been so for a few
years. They are women who I would have mocked and judged as my younger self.
They are women who I </span></span><span style="line-height: 32px;">didn't</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> feel were ‘real’ women, because they </span><span style="line-height: 32px;">weren't</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> 100%
selfless. They </span><span style="line-height: 32px;">didn't</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> set their priorities the way that ‘proper’ women did. And
I know my younger pre-adolescent self would stare at me slack jawed if she could
meet herself as I am today.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> My second female role model is my Aunt Andrea. When my
high school boyfriend broke my heart, a year after I found out about the lie
that </span></span><span style="line-height: 32px;">up-heaved</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> my world, she invited me over for pizza and ice cream. We watched movies until midnight and talked until the wee hours of the morning. She
married into my dad’s side of the family and she was a good housekeeper, as
well as had a job and career of her own. It was wonderful to see how she had
both a career and a marriage; I was awestruck. She let me know that I was still
worthy of love, even though I had given my high school boyfriend the one thing
I was supposed to hold onto until marriage. She showed me what strength was to
her, and it was so different than what I thought strength was. She became a
nearby confidant until she and my uncle divorced. My heart broke for her, and I
was devastated when she moved to Arizona, but the fact that she </span><span style="line-height: 32px;">didn't</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> let the
end of one relationship get her down inspired me. I was astounded by her
self-respect. I was raised to believe that if your husband cheats, you stick it
out because it probably your fault to begin with. She taught me that if your
husband cheats, you get to decide if he is worth staying with. She still is
someone who I turn to if everything is falling apart around me. She reminds me
that ‘staying sweet’ </span><span style="line-height: 32px;">isn't</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> always the answer.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> I had tried to fit into
the parameters set by my mother, and even though I was still so hurt that she
lied, I still sought after her love and approval. I got married as an ‘old
maid’ at the unforgivable age of 23. I knew that if I wanted to make my mother
proud of me, I had to hop on the ‘as many children as god will give you’
bandwagon and start making babies. I had my first daughter at 25 and when she
was 8 months old, I got pregnant with my second daughter. I was on the road to
true motherhood, when I hit another bump in my life journey: finally getting
rid of my religion permanently. It was a weird feeling, every goal I had ever
set for myself was no longer relevant to who I now identified as. I still
looked up to my grandmother and aunt, but I searched for examples of strong
mothers, outspoken women, independent wives, and women who did good things
because they wanted to, not because they had to. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> I was raised to put the quiet, obedient women at the top
of my proverbial list of female epitomes. As I grew in my own feminist way, I
searched deeper within people to find things that I could relate to on a deeper
level. Where before I wanted to be a girl who fit into the patriarchy
perfectly, I then found myself outside the patriarchy, searching for idols, and
finding them in places I was already familiar. I loved watching the movies and
shows that were made before I was born. As an elementary aged child, I loved
watching I Love Lucy, Gone with the Wind, The Ten Commandments, Breakfast at
Tiffany’s, My Fair Lady, and every single Doris Day movie ever made. I fell in
love with the idea of Audrey Hepburn at a young age. She was the perfect candy
coated shell of what a female should be. Everything that a woman should look
like, and behave like, came through in just her looks. Her voice was perfect
and she was breathtaking. As I went through the changes that life placed so
kindly at my feet, I developed a new love and respect for Audrey Hepburn. The
more I learned about her humanitarian efforts and her goals as a person, not
just a woman, the more I wanted to be like her. Audrey was a mother, a wife, a
partner, a humanitarian and she did all those things while working. She
believed in inner beauty and strength. And as I lost my identity, I looked to
her example. I learned that life </span></span><span style="line-height: 32px;">wasn't</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> about being an obedient, subservient
female. Life was so much bigger than that, than me, than the person I used to
be. She sent home the point that divorce </span><span style="line-height: 32px;">doesn't</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ruin you as a woman, it </span><span style="line-height: 32px;">doesn't</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ruin you for other men, it </span><span style="line-height: 32px;">doesn't</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> ruin your children and it </span><span style="line-height: 32px;">doesn't</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> mean you failed. Femininity </span><span style="line-height: 32px;">doesn't</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> require a masculine man to be present in
order for it to exist. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> It was hard for me to find four women to write about,
which speaks volumes for the kind of world and culture I was raised in. I could
easily name off four to ten men that are strong examples of what men ‘should’
be, but I </span></span><span style="line-height: 32px;">wasn't</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> raised to single out women based on their own merits. I still
pull strength from the women who I have mentioned. But lately I have found
myself finding guidance and respect from a different set of women. Women like
Hillary Clinton, Sally Ride, Elizabeth Warren, Wendy Davis, Marie Currie, Ellen
DeGeneres, and even my two young daughters. The women who I look to now have
fought to make a difference in the lives of so many other women and children. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Elizabeth
Warren is my role model right now. She fights for working moms, struggling
students, and lower class families. She is everything I hope to one day be, not
necessarily a senator, but a strong mother who </span></span><span style="line-height: 32px;">doesn't</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> stop her passion at her
children; a woman who fights for everyone. She struggled as a working mother, and I can relate to that, but she </span><span style="line-height: 32px;">didn't</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> let it stop her from achieving her
goals and finishing her education. She stands strong against the patriarchal
standards of our society and she continues to fight against all forms of
ignorance, bigotry, and discrimination. She has brought light to so many topics
that have been hidden from the people and ignored by our government. Like her,
I am not going to view my children as my life’s magnum opus, life is much more
vast and open to explore. And though it is true, that my strong girls will be
the closest to magic that I will ever come, it </span><span style="line-height: 32px;">doesn't</span><span style="line-height: 200%;"> mean that I can stop
now. There is so much in the world to fight for, to hope for, and to improve.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"> I know that the women I look up to and idolize will continue to change as I change and grow as a woman. I am hoping that no matter what, I will still be able to find the strong, independent, kind women in the masses of who society tells us is worthy of the title of role model. I hope I am able to raise my daughters to find people who inspire them, women who the would like to emulate, and I hope I am worthy to be one of them.</span></div>
<span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span>Leiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15244646511824361273noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2989490629334081212.post-79762988804812316302014-03-17T11:38:00.000-07:002014-03-17T12:32:36.563-07:00Celebrating St. Patrick's Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Ah, the drunken display of mock-Irishness is upon us.<br />
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The man many people think they are celebrating wasn't actually Irish. He blasted down Ireland's doors to shove his religion onto the native folk. Maybe not literally, but I envision it was very Mormon-esque. Elder Patrick went door by door, with his companion, asking the gentle Pagan folk if they would like to change their religion; he had a free book written by Jesus.<br />
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I have spoken before about why an atheist would ever celebrate a religious holiday. So the fact that my family celebrates something like St. Patrick's Day isn't too big of an announcement. We just do it a little differently. A little background on the holiday that I double checked with the Catholics via their <a href="http://www.catholic.org/saints/saint.php?saint_id=89" target="_blank">website-o-saints.</a><br />
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We will start off with Mr. Saint Patrick's story:<br />
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He was born in Scotland in 387. At fourteen he was kidnapped during a raiding party and taken to Ireland to herd sheep. At twenty he escaped and made it back to Britain by sailors, where he was reunited with his family.<br />
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At home, he started in the priesthood of Catholicism. His father was a Catholic deacon and his grandfather was a Catholic priest. So he was following in the footsteps of his family. He spent about 40 years in Ireland, converting the Irish from Paganism to Catholicism.<br />
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Pretty basic. </div>
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We all know that the only way a mere mortal can become a saint is through documented miracles. I am not going to break them down. But I do want to touch on one that may not be a legit miracle, but one that he is known for nonetheless.</div>
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Snakes.</div>
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Rumor has it that Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland. The only problem with that is that there were never snakes in Ireland. Snakes are not native to the island and at the time of Patrick, they hadn't been introduced. There were literally no snakes for him to banish after they allegedly attacked him during a 40 day fast on top of a hill.</div>
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Some people may offer a different interpretation of the story of the snakes. Snakes have been a long standing symbol for the Pagans, specifically the Celts. So Patrick never drove out serpents, he drove out the Pagans.</div>
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Now, what is wrong with that? For what seems like eons people have been bringing their religious beliefs to the people they have conquered, or people who are different or people who are poor. Funny thing about religious beliefs is that people aren't usually so quick to give theirs up. Usually it takes force, persuasion or syncretism. And even though Patrick himself didn't subjugate an entire race of people, the many missionaries that followed in his name did.</div>
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It's important to remember that Patrick himself didn't walk around the Emerald Isle with his mighty walking stick, slaying dragons and Druids and anyone else he didn't agree with. Saint Patrick has fallen prey to the mythos that comes with being more of a symbol than the person you once were.</div>
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So today is the day where I make sure my children have some kind of green on, as to prevent the mean children at school from pinching them. I smile as my children bring home colored sheets of rainbows, pots of gold, and three leaf clovers. And I try to plan a meal at home, as to not deal with the college kids who are one green beer away from vomiting.<br />
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I also take it as an opportunity to teach my children a few important things.<br />
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We learn about Ireland. We learn about different beliefs and why pushing beliefs that have no backing is wrong. We learn about the Celts and Pagans and their rich history and tales. We learn about the symbolism of the snakes. We learn about accepting others for who they are and doing our best not to cast judgement on others. We learn about Irish folklore. We learn about leprechauns and the little people. We learn about fae folk and banshees. <br />
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Today my girls and I are going to make snake wreaths to celebrate the real snakes of Ireland, and enjoy the Pagan stories that were almost forgotten due to the way Christianity tries to snuff out every other religious practice.<br />
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<br />Leiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15244646511824361273noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2989490629334081212.post-68695765358768503192013-12-11T10:23:00.000-08:002013-12-12T06:44:08.646-08:00The Worst Christmas Pageant. Ever.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My children attend a public elementary school in the Midwest.<br />
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So each Winter Concert there has always been at least one Christian Holiday song. That might bother some atheist parents. Surprisingly enough, it hasn't really bothered me. Maybe because I once loved and cherished those songs. The two that seem to appear each year is "Silent Night" and "Away in a Manger". Usually the kindergarten children play the hand bells along to them. I think it's sweet and they are rather easy songs. I can see why the music teacher selected those two songs for the youngest students in the school.</div>
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This year, their music program was called, 'Paint the Town December'. For the past two months, I heard my children sing the songs they were learning at school while they played at home. Based on the songs they were singing, it was going to be a wonderfully diverse program.</div>
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We arrived at the auditorium and took our seats. The 5th grade band played "Jingle Bells" and the older children sang some songs. Then the kindergarten children took the stage and played "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer" and "Away in a Manger" on the hand bells.</div>
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So far, it had matched each Concert that the school had put on since my children started attending there three years ago.</div>
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The first through fifth graders started walking down the aisle towards the stage and were looking around for their parents and waving when they found them. Parents were standing up trying to get their students attention. I was trying to locate each of my children so I knew where to look during the performance.</div>
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Once the students were settled and ready to go, they started with a non-religious song called "Paint the Town December", and it was really sweet.</div>
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From that point on, the Winter Concert became something other than what it should have been. I couldn't believe how many racist stereotypes were blended into something that I was expecting to be so very diverse.</div>
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As the children with speaking parts took the stage dressed in berets, white painter smocks and thin mustaches, I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. Their role in the Concert/Play was the painters. They were walking from store front to store front offering to paint the windows in the town with holiday themes. (Paint the town December, ah, I get it.) But every time one of the students opened their mouths to speak, a thick, stereotypical French accent came out. I glanced at my husband and he gave me a look that said, "Give it time, maybe they just missed the mark on this part."</div>
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I wish it had stopped there. I really do. But every time they represented any culture or people who weren't Caucasian Christians, their portrayals were steeped in stereotypes.</div>
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The next song was a Hanukkah song. The children with speaking parts came out with yarmulkes and side curls. They spoke with heavy Yiddish/Hebrew accents. </div>
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Then it was time for Kwanzaa... Same deal. Offensive stereotypical accents and garb. </div>
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Even the secular song, "Up on the Roof Top" ended with a little boy yelling, "God bless us, everyone." You would think that would have been the only moment to offend someone who is atheist. Nope. They kept going.</div>
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Next, they had a little girl in a hijab walk out on stage. She spoke briefly about Ramadan. They didn't make her speak in a heavy accent. But they also had no song. Granted, Ramadan was celebrated in July this past year, and only rarely falls in December, (last time was in 1999 and the next time will be 2030), but I could see how they were trying to touch on as many religious holidays as possible, even if it meant leaving out a few that actually are celebrated every December. (Chalica, Human Light, Saturnalia...)</div>
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I am from Southern California, an area that is alive with the wonderful Hispanic Culture of so many different races. So when the children were setting up for the song, "Las Posadas", I was cringing before they even opened their mouths to speak.</div>
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The children were wearing over sized sombreros and ponchos that were made from small area rugs with holes cut in them for their heads to fit through. The fake accents were sloppy and offensive and I couldn't believe how the entire performance was riddled with pigeonholing and stereotypes.</div>
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Well, almost the entire performance. The one song that wasn't misconstrued by ignorant backwards thinking was the song that represented Christmas. The song was 'Shepherd Boy' and the children spoke in their normal accents, which weren't as 'country' or 'Southern' as they could have been. Or even should have been considering the running theme. They were reverent, soft and respectful. Did the store owner come out in a wife beater holding a shotgun? Nope. Did the children with speaking parts have bright white teeth and tans or speak like Valley Girls? Nope. They were just average, normal sounding children. There were a lot of American accents and stereotypes they could have chosen from. But because it represented THEM (mostly the person in charge of the performance, considering these are primary school children). It was something she could relate to, something that seemed 'normal' to her.</div>
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By the end of the performance, I was racking my brain for ways to un-educate my children who were obviously miseducated about so many wonderful cultures and so many different religions. We had already been celebrating Hanukkah, so I know that would be something that I had already, recently, put the foundations for in place.</div>
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I was so disappointed. I went in with such high expectations of diversity and well represented cultures and religions and I walked away with such a bitter taste from the pigeonholing that only stopped for a brief moment when the children sang a song that represented the majority of the school, and the music teacher.</div>
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I wanted to write a letter to the school, but I don't even know where to start. I loved the premise, I hated the execution. I wasn't planning on making my children's Winter Concert into a huge learning lesson at home, but now I know I must.</div>
Leiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15244646511824361273noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2989490629334081212.post-9511720087321926502013-12-10T08:47:00.000-08:002013-12-10T08:47:00.047-08:00Our Atheist HanukkahNeither my husband nor I were raised in a Jewish home. I had never considered celebrating Hanukkah until after I had children. As a child I was always curious about my friends who celebrated the holiday.<br />
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The past few years we have lit our Menorah, read Hanukkah stories and played dreidel. This year they even sang a Hanukkah song for their December Concert at school. (More on that later.)<br />
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This year we focused on the story of the Maccabees, the Jewish rebel army who fought back to take control of Judea. We spoke about how the temple had been taken over and Judaism was outlawed. We learned about the re-dedication of the second temple and the oil in the lamp. We spoke about religious freedom. We spoke about standing up for what we believe in.<br />
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We discussed the point of what a 'miracle' is. What defines magic, what defines logic and what we can conclude from our discussion.<br />
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My children are in first and second grade. So our discussion didn't get too deep, they were focused on the dreidel playing they knew would be taking place after mommy stopped talking. But I know that if we use this holiday as a way to have an open discussion each year about religious freedoms, and discussions about what makes a miracle, I know that the holiday I spent time wondering about as a child, will become a sweet family tradition.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Our Menorah on the 8th night of Hanukkah 12/2013</span><br />
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Each night of Hanukkah this year, they received a small gift. This was our first time doing more than the candles, stories and dreidels. My husband and I felt that it was time for us to make this our main holiday for the year, instead of focusing so heavily on Christmas. It felt really awesome seeing how much fun the girls had celebrating something so foreign and different to my husband and I. To me, it proved that there were already so many awesome holidays in place, that I didn't need to create any of our own.<br />
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I am hoping to celebrate Chalica next year alongside Hanukkah and maybe Christmas. I want my children to learn more about the origins of Saturnalia and we may end up nixing Christmas altogether next year. I am hoping to find a way to mix all of the December holidays together, but I am thinking it may just evolve into a month long celebration of Thankfulness and lessons in religious freedom, science and history. As soon as I figure it out, I will let you know!<br />
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<br />Leiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15244646511824361273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2989490629334081212.post-76232581495651234242013-12-08T08:24:00.000-08:002013-12-09T08:51:03.105-08:00Taking the Christ out of ChristmasOne of the most difficult things to learn about while I was unknowingly shedding myself of religion was that Christmas wasn't originally Christmas. It was a Pagan holiday called Saturnalia. I know what you are thinking, that I just made that up. (I totally thought someone out there on the internet was messing with my mind.) But I assure you, the entire December birth in Jerusalem is <i>probably</i> not even true. Which is also something I read on the internet that I had originally thought was anti-Mormon propaganda.<br />
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Now, maybe it wasn't a shock to you to learn that the holiday we celebrate as Christmas used to be celebrated for a similar, yet entirely different reason. They celebrated the birth of a son as well, but it was the Sun God. Christians snagged the holiday for their own and totally ruined it. I really wish they would have let it be. (Actually, there is a ton of things I wish Christianity hadn't tainted.)<br />
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This Pagan story is totally cool and equally fictitious, but I like how it's more about family and the days getting longer after solstice. It is the re-birth of the sun. And nothing makes a holiday more enjoyable for little ones than faeries and woodland critters do.<br />
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I don't think the story of Christmas is harmful to children. (Avoiding the part where <strike>Zeus</strike> God has sex with a mortal to get a demi-god son, per Mormonism.) I have taught my children the birthing story of the Christian god, as to give them knowledge they may need at school. But I didn't tell them it was fact, mostly because biblical scholars will tell you that Jesus was born in March or maybe early April. We even have a Matryoshka doll with Joseph, Mary, a sheep and Jesus that serves as the Christian Nativity in our home. This year we will have a Pagan Nativity as well. It's important to me to give my children as much knowledge as possible, and the Winter Holidays are perfect for teaching various wonderful lessons that have nothing to do with the supernatural. (And some that do.)<br />
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It was difficult to find Humanist or Atheist holiday traditions on-line. When I went looking during my first holiday free of religion, I couldn't find much of anything. The first thing that I came across that really made me feel like I may actually find usable ideas was this:<br />
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<a href="http://www.nukees.com/d/20071214.html">http://www.nukees.com/d/20071214.html</a><br />
Instructions for an atom snowflake.<br />
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I know that may seem trite, but when you feel like you are starting something steeped in tradition from scratch, little things can really mean a lot. And that little snowflake got the snowball rolling for me. I found it difficult to truly blend my love for science with the religious muck that seemed to be everywhere at first. Don't get me wrong, I think it's important for traditions that are not ours, to be respected, understood and cherished; to me, that is important in raising children with character and compassion. Sometimes people are going to believe crazy things, that doesn't mean we can't love them. I just wanted something of my own, something of great importance to me and my family to become part of December. It took me a while to realize that I didn't have to start from scratch, a lot of the religious traditions I grew up with could be tweaked to fit our family and my new beliefs.<br />
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Besides the atom snowflake, I have collected little ideas here and there and I figured I would share them here.<br />
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There are a lot of things that I want for my children. I want them to be understanding, compassionate and loving. And I know that in order for me to give them the best chance at understanding those around them, is to expose them to many traditions and cultures, as well as teaching them about why science is the most awesomest thing in the entire whole of existence, not forgetting, of course, about teaching them about human rights and what truth really means.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Picture of the Fellowship Baptist Church we passed on the way home one night.</span><br />
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<br />Leiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15244646511824361273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2989490629334081212.post-47504447729691568642013-11-11T06:15:00.000-08:002013-11-11T06:15:00.030-08:00Life After Mormonism<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The further away from 'that' time in my life, the harder it is for me to identify with any part of it.<br />
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It was a piece of who I was for so long, too long, but now it seems so far away.<br />
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I never thought I would get to this point when I was first losing my religion. At first it seemed like it would always be there, haunting me. Hovering over me like a paranoid parent. But 5 years after my first big step away from life as I knew it, it seems so silly, so small and very much not who I am.<br />
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It's hard to think back to who I was when I was Mormon. I still know the tenets of the religion. I still know how to pray, how to worship, and how to dress if I were ever to end up in the middle of a Sacrament Meeting. But I feel so distant from the girl I once was.<br />
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I don't normally try to focus on the past, it only brings me down or causes me to focus on regrets, but I have been stuck in a circle of thoughts focusing around my eldest child. She will be turning 8 years old this coming February. Not normally a big stepping stone in the eyes of most, but in Mormonism, that is the age of accountability and the year children are baptized.<br />
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My daughter will not be baptized (I know, it's shocking); but I can't stop feeling like it's a big birthday. It is one of those things that I never thought would matter now that I walked away from Mormonism. It was a small thing that I didn't think of when I was stressing out and debating with myself and researching. But here I am, definitely not Mormon, but wanting this birthday to 'be' something.<br />
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I definitely don't believe that 8 year old children are old enough to truly to be accountable for much. She has been accountable for her actions for years now. So that doesn't really apply. She is too young to be accountable in financial or worldly ways, so I don't believe that truly applies.<br />
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A part of me wants to push these weird, inapplicable thoughts to the back of my mind. Back where I keep things I can never remember, like the social security numbers for my daughters or the reasons why I dated certain guys. But that quirky part of me wants to have a celebration, but make it secular. How do I make a strictly religious thing secular without it becoming a mockery of Mormonism as a whole? (As much as I can and do mock Mormonism, it's not my goal in life.)<br />
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As I was browsing the internet for some meaningful ideas, I happened across some posts about unbaptisms. You can even get a certificate. I smiled for a second thinking how cute she would look in a white unbaptism dress... but that wouldn't be something for her. That would just be for me. She has never been baptized, nor was she blessed into the church. (Mormons bless their babies within the first few months after birth. They give it a name and a blessing in front of the entire congregation.) Katelyn wasn't blessed into the church because my husband didn't have the correct 'level' of the priesthood to do so. A lot of my Mormon friends have pictures of their beautiful 8 year old daughters in their baptism dresses. I think I entertained that thought just to feel like I thought I one day would, if I had stayed Mormon.<br />
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As of today, I haven't truly decided what, if anything, I will do when my eldest hits the big 0-8, but I know that even if I decide to let it roll by like the 2-7 years did, it will be a birthday that will remain in my memory as the year she would have been baptized. And I will be happy with the thought that I saved her from it.Leiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15244646511824361273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2989490629334081212.post-34710635865542195822013-11-07T08:15:00.002-08:002015-08-14T21:52:31.553-07:00A God Shaped Hole<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Nl0uRWXabuhol1ZHdgACJ91F_t8ciPa71qZqX98_pRuG_F1kB3nOBEqlHP9I-VjHpU2Qcu5eB0pGF_CSob4cZ-WYUh08ALjmcwYuiISLvj_QNMyfQcFQfEoC4bmwNgY4pJcPe34PJ4yY/s1600/1381538_10200698828539370_744533644_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Nl0uRWXabuhol1ZHdgACJ91F_t8ciPa71qZqX98_pRuG_F1kB3nOBEqlHP9I-VjHpU2Qcu5eB0pGF_CSob4cZ-WYUh08ALjmcwYuiISLvj_QNMyfQcFQfEoC4bmwNgY4pJcPe34PJ4yY/s320/1381538_10200698828539370_744533644_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
I grew up being taught that the worst type of people on Earth were not the rapists, nor the murderers, but the atheists. My uncle on my father's side was an atheist and every flaw he naturally had as a human, was automatically blamed on his atheism.<br />
<br />
He gambled.<br />
He drank.<br />
He didn't volunteer.<br />
He never bought us birthday cards.<br />
He got a divorce.<br />
He wasn't loyal to his wife and married the lady he was rumored to have left her for.<br />
<br />
::Gasp::<br />
<br />
As a rational adult, I don't see how any of those things on their own or as a whole immediately call him out as atheist. I think those traits can apply to any human, even a Mormon one.<br />
<br />
But I was taught that my uncle did those things because he had a god shaped hole that he was trying to fill. He tried to fill it with vices and he would never fill them until he found the truth of the gospel.<br />
<br />
My uncle was raised by Catholic parents. Italian Catholics. They didn't go to church the same way I did growing up. They went on Christmas and Easter. And possibly Ash Wednesday, if I recall correctly. That was it, short of a Communion, or wedding.<br />
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And, as a child, I almost felt like my grandparents must have failed him if the belief in god didn't even stick with him. My aunt was still Catholic and my father had been converted to Mormonism. But they knew god was real, even if my aunt had everything else all wrong.<br />
<br />
But not my uncle. He was a lost sheep. And because of that, my mother did not want me to get too close to him. Atheists are the worst, they can use their logic, reasoning and anti-Mormon propaganda to pull even the most devout of Christ's followers away from the gospel.<br />
<br />
So I never got to know my uncle the same way I was able to get close to my Mormon family members. I saw him every Sunday night at my grandmother's house for our weekly spaghetti dinner.<br />
<br />
My aunt would buy us gifts for Christmas and birthdays, and write his name on the card beside hers. My mom made sure to tell us that they weren't really from him, our aunt was just trying to be nice to him.<br />
<br />
Granted, my uncle was only about 12 years older than I was. So when he didn't buy me a gift for my 8th birthday, I don't truly believe it was because he was a heartless, soulless atheist. I believe it was more than likely because he was a 20 year old college student, focusing on mid-terms and girls. But you wouldn't have received that answer had you asked my 8 year old self.<br />
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My mother did her best to make sure myself and three younger half brothers knew that everything wrong with my non-Mormon family was due to them not being Mormon.<br />
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Grandpa smoked because he didn't have the gospel.<br />
<br />
Grandma drank coffee because she didn't know the truth.<br />
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Our uncle gambled because he didn't have the light of Christ.<br />
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Our aunt lived with her boyfriend because she wasn't Mormon.<br />
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Any good traits or strong examples they set for us, were swept under the rug. As though everything 'bad' thing should be attributed to them not having the gospel of Christ, and every good thing was just a silly coincidence, they were acting as a follower of the gospel and unaware, or was because they were trying to showboat.<br />
<br />
But my uncle was always the worst offender. I sometimes think that it was because being an atheist prevented him from having a way to repent. Did my mother feel like he couldn't truly be sorry for any wrong doing because he never repented? Or did the option of repentance being non-existent, make him come across as a narcissistic asshole? I am not sure. But I do know that he was the example of the type of person that was definitely going to hell.<br />
<br />
Was he a rapist? Nope. (You can repent for that.)<br />
Was he a murderer? Nope. (You can repent for that too.)<br />
Was he a pathological liar? Nope. (Another 'repentable' offense.)<br />
<br />
He was an atheist. And all my opinions of atheists were formed at a rather young age, all based on my mother's biases. All of which made it so much more difficult for me to come to terms with facing my own cognitive dissonance. And made it damn near impossible to utter the words aloud, that I am an atheist.<br />
<br />
My uncle is an awesome man. He is an awesome father and an awesome person. I hate how I was raised to see him in such a negative light, all because he didn't believe in a god or gods. I hate how I was raised to look at my Catholic family with such disdain for their beliefs. I hate that I wasn't raised to love them as purely as I loved my Mormon relatives. I don't understand how my mother thought that would be a wonderful idea. It only hurt me, disabled me, and stunted my growth as a good person.<br />
<br />
Judging people, even people you love, based on something so trivial, is mind boggling to me.<br />
<br />
I hope that I can raise my daughters to love freely, without having to view people through a kaleidoscope of labels.<br />
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<br />Leiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15244646511824361273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2989490629334081212.post-88592861928465489602013-10-11T17:05:00.002-07:002013-10-11T17:15:47.620-07:00Is my Marriage Recorded in Heaven?<div style="text-align: center;">
10 years ago today, my best friend and I eloped to Las Vegas.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpiV7cc-vsp35Dj4AXgJvX54HRvJmDPXIGdEbxkhVxgngDvsx9GlLtgnRCRyRH1158JCcSb0zkfgdeyYz6jw_-ajZ5Y89l9NEHGOJNMPFmDgcaWqN0s1XEAvOLvc3iVTBmQ-yhZXWonc6P/s1600/anniversary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpiV7cc-vsp35Dj4AXgJvX54HRvJmDPXIGdEbxkhVxgngDvsx9GlLtgnRCRyRH1158JCcSb0zkfgdeyYz6jw_-ajZ5Y89l9NEHGOJNMPFmDgcaWqN0s1XEAvOLvc3iVTBmQ-yhZXWonc6P/s320/anniversary.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<br />
We had decided 4 days prior to get married and, for a brief moment, I had visions of wedding plans and bridal showers. Then I remembered who my mother was and I realized that those things I'd been dreaming about since I was a little girl were not going to happen for me.<br />
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The problem? I still identified as a Mormon, and my best friend was not.<br />
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So my options were to get him baptized immediately, then wait the mandatory year before we could be sealed in the temple, or marry him outside of the temple and hope he would join the church eventually, so then after he accepted the gospel, and a year had passed after his baptism, we could be sealed in the temple.<br />
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I knew that the first option was not going to happen. It takes time for someone to accept the gospel. And Mormons aren't about baptizing people without making sure they were going to be committed tithing payers the rest of their lives.<br />
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The second option didn't look good either. I didn't want to end up paying for two 'weddings'. I also wasn't sure that my buddy would ever want to be Mormon. Funny thing about that was that I didn't really care. I had been a Jack-Mormon for the three years prior and had already started to lose the foundation of my belief system. I loved him and I wanted to be married to him. Sucks, huh?<br />
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I realized shortly after we decided to get married that my love for him and my simple want to be his wife was going to cause drama and 'hurt' between my mother and I. (She would pretend to be the victim and end up hurting my heart.) <br />
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I had know him since we were 12. He and I went to Junior High School together. We were both in High School Marching Band and Color Guard. We were both in Concert Band. We would walk home together after school and he would carry my overstuffed backpack for me. We never dated then, but we were always really good friends. He was trust worthy, loyal, funny and kind, and I had fallen in love with him. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him.<br />
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After we decided to get married, I started to get excited, but that quickly turned into concern about my mother's reaction. Her capability to be truly happy for me was clouded by her belief in certain principles of her (our) religion.<br />
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I didn't tell her about my plans when I returned home that night. I started to think that not telling our parents would be best. Instead of setting a date for the next year, I figured we would 'sneak out' on Saturday and call our parents after the fact, as to beg forgiveness instead of seeking permission.<br />
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I knew my mother would rather me marry a lying, cheating ass of a man, as long as he was Mormon over a wonderful non-Mormon. I tried my mom's plan for me; I had dated Mormon guys, Return Missionaries, and boys about to leave for their missions. I was not impressed.<br />
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My plan to keep my big mouth shut was going swimmingly for an entire day, until my future husband told me that he had told his mother and she was so excited and wanted to come along. I felt like a deer in headlights. I didn't know what my next move should be. Should I avoid drama now and invite my parents? Or should I continue with my plan and just never, ever tell them? The latter choice was still looking like the best option.<br />
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My future husband, being the loving guy he is, strongly recommended that I tell my parents and invite them to come too. So I did. I could see the disappointment on my mother's face. My dad seemed taken aback. Almost like he couldn't believe it. My mom kept asking if I was sure. She was truly concerned about him not being Mormon. She kept telling me that even though he was willing to marry me that wasn't a guarantee that he would get baptized for me. (You know, after you give him the milk, there was no guarantee he would join your cult.) I kept telling her I was sure and she ended up pouting the rest of the evening in her room.<br />
<br />
They avoided the question of joining us on Saturday the rest of the night. It wasn't until the next evening, two days before I was hoping to elope in peace, that my mother told me that they weren't going to be able to go. She wanted me to delay the wedding day, she wanted me to pray about it longer. She wanted me to give god more time to talk me out of it or something. I started to wish I hadn't told her. I didn't want to keep living my life around her.<br />
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She was still a champ about it. Even though she wasn't going to go, and even though I wasn't marrying a Mormon boy, she still took me out to buy a wedding dress. Of course, it had to be temple appropriate, so it wasn't the one I wanted. But it was still better than the simple white blouse I had purchased for myself.<br />
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My future husband and his mother picked me up from my parents house that Saturday morning and we headed to Las Vegas. My mother spent the morning crying and refusing to take any pictures for me. I left the house trying to shake off the guilt my mother piled on me for making one of the best decisions of my life.<br />
<br />
My future husband's mother paid for the entire weekend. She even made sure we had our pictures taken so we would have that keepsake. I guess she wasn't as upset that her son was marrying outside their non-denominational Christianity as my mother was that I was marrying outside of my cult.<br />
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We were married at 11:45 pm that night. Just myself, my new husband and his mother were present for our wedding. (We opted out of having an Elvis.)<br />
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I wish I could have had a wedding like most of my friends had. One I could have planned out, stressed about and had wedding showers for. I wish my family would have supported that. But I know that if I had planned out a wedding, my mother would have spent everyday trying to talk me out of my decision. She would have argued and debated me on every choice that was made. Just like she did with my dress and my choice of husband.<br />
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My mother-in-law mentioned that she wanted to throw us a reception for family and friends after we eloped. My mother seemed excited about it. Then the topic of alcohol arose. My mother-in-law wanted wine, beer and champagne at the reception; and my mother lost her shit. She wasn't going to help plan and pay for a party where alcohol would be offered. For a moment I thought my husband and I were going to have one 'dry' and one 'fun' reception. But no. We ended up not only with two mothers who wouldn't speak to each other, but also ended up without a reception. My mom then held the idea of a reception hostage. She said when we decided to 'really get married' (she meant in the temple), <i>then</i> she would invest in a reception.<br />
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I had to take a step back and refocus myself. I was legally bound to my love and I now shared his name. That was all I really wanted and everything else would have been a bonus. And having to deal with my mother and her guilt for anything else wasn't worth it.<br />
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For the next few years, my mom would ask when my husband and I were going to get sealed in the temple. You know, because our 'Earthly Marriage' wouldn't count in heaven. If I wanted to be married in the after life, we were going to need to get sealed in a temple. It was the only way a marriage survives death. And for a while, my husband and I spoke about possibly getting sealed one day. We debated going to the Las Vegas Temple, to add some sentimentality to it all. But before we even got close to that, everything that was once important to me, became a bunch of silliness.<br />
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So a decade has passed. I am still married to my best friend. And it is okay that we never had a celebration of our love with our family and friends. We have each other, we have made it through so much together and I know we can make it through anything. And it's okay that we are only married until 'death do us part', mostly because death has the final say in every relationship anyway, no matter what anyone says about it here on Earth. And I know that we are going to cram every wonderful thing we can into the life we have here and now.<br />
<br />
Happy Anniversary Dustin. I love you more than I thought was humanly possible.<br />
<br />
<br />Leiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15244646511824361273noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2989490629334081212.post-18570140430019542372013-10-10T10:05:00.000-07:002015-08-14T21:37:42.076-07:00Allowing Children to be in Public<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;">I read this on a friend's facebook page in response to my friend posting an article from a father who had a bad run in at a local grocery store while his child was having a melt down...</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fafbfb; color: #4e5665; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;">"Parents, control your brats. I'm sick of hearing ear-piecing screaming everywhere I go. Not all the world is a Chucky Cheese restaurant. If you can't control your brats keep your goddamn legs closed long enough to buy a box of condoms. Don't bring your screaming toddlers into the movie theater two minutes before the movie starts and sit right behind me. Don't bring your crying babies into the coffeeshop where people are trying to read and have conversations. Don't bring your children incapable of lowering their voices to indoor level into restaurants where I budget money to have a nice night out at a place where people are supposed to be able to spend precious time with friends and hear each other. Leave the kids at home. Start a baby-sitting coop where mommies take turns watching each others kids. Establish public behavior expectations for your kids. If you can't keep them quiet, keep them away from people. Keep them home. They're not as adorable to other people as they are to you. Stop letting them pick their noses and grab cookies and put them back on the serving plate. Stop letting them take a bite out of cookies and put them back on the serving plate. Stop letting them eat sticky candy and touching everything and making the whole world sticky." ~Mary Hunt</span><br />
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<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;">I wanted to respond on facebook, but I didn't want to butt into a conversation that I wasn't invited to. Plus facebook isn't always the best place. My blog, on the other hand, is perfect. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;">Both friends are skeptics/non believers/atheists etc, so what better place to vent a bit, than my atheist blog. </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC5V9g135mYqi4T1sBsFYdHdmckNvWrfpTpNsGMooyqT9A5ISRMaXj6VXCvGk90jRlLeBuOI5FgYPC1P8BuG8c2xKmP5dYXBr1VQTh416DHnxYtJ7bzb64tn82zpPhu5_hv8CfEkX4JADL/s1600/dress.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC5V9g135mYqi4T1sBsFYdHdmckNvWrfpTpNsGMooyqT9A5ISRMaXj6VXCvGk90jRlLeBuOI5FgYPC1P8BuG8c2xKmP5dYXBr1VQTh416DHnxYtJ7bzb64tn82zpPhu5_hv8CfEkX4JADL/s320/dress.jpg" width="246" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;">Where do I start? Is there even a place to start?</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;">I have as much control of my children as I do of ignorant bigots and idiot strangers. Okay, maybe that isn't entirely true. I can bribe and punish my children more effectively that I can others, but that isn't to say that sometimes parenting small people, who have their own decision making skills and their own unique personality flaws, doesn't almost seem impossible. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;">My mother always told me that the more children I had, the easier mothering would become. My mother is a pathological liar.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;">Parenting is difficult. I made the choice to become a parent (with each child) and I stopped at two children, but that doesn't make parenting any easier or harder than someone with one or twenty children. Having that much responsibility on your shoulders to raise responsible citizens that don't turn into serial killers is sometimes marginalized or looked at as being an easy job; and if we can't handle it, then we should magically go back in time and chose not to have children. Sorry peeps, it doesn't work like that.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;">I have ofttimes witnessed the eye rolls of others, judging the struggling parent who is juggling grocery shopping while trying to teach their child the proper way to behave in public. Children are stubborn little things. They don't always have the cognitive power to understand the 'why' behind mommy not letting them eat the grapes she just put in the basket right this instant, or the 'why' behind mommy saying no to the sugary cereal. It's not easy to explain things in easily understandable words to small, young people. And it's not easy rationalizing with them either. Nor is it easy feeling like the 'bad guy'.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;">To be clear, my children are angels. Sweet little demonic angels. I have been lucky that screaming tantrums didn't grace my children. When I was walking through the grocery store, saying no to all the wonderful treasures my children thought they absolutely needed, they would play opossum. Not kidding. My little K and her Irish twin sissy, little M, would lie down in the middle of the aisle and NOT MOVE. Luckily that doesn't bring the kind of attention as a flailing, screaming child does. But I didn't train them to do that. I didn't threaten them within an inch of their little precious lives, I didn't practice at home with duct tape and rope... nope (I know, what kind of mother AM I?) That is just how they chose to express their frustration. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;">...Mommy said no? Okay, I'll just practice the civil disobedience mother patiently taught me at home and refuse to move away from the sugar coated, frosted chocolate, diabetes themed cereal and become practically immovable dead weight... </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;">They didn't scream, kick or bite. They just 'died'. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;">Do I consider that a tantrum? HELL YES. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;">Did I handle it in the same way that I would have if they had been screaming? Yes. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;">They were not going to get their way. <b>That would be horrible parenting</b>. No parent worth their weight would give in; THAT could turn a child into a brat. A child pushing their limits does not make them bratty. We ALL push our limits. We just do it in different ways.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;">I push my limits while driving, while planning my day, when asking favors of friends, when I really want something from my husband. We all do it. Just little young people are still learning how to do it effectively. Positively reinforcing negative behavior isn't how you teach someone positive behavior.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;">Children should be taught to express themselves in a regular tone of voice, they should be taught to debate and stand up for themselves, but those lessons are learned over time. It's not a miraculous thing. Neither is learning to walk or ride a bike. Sometimes people fall, sometimes things don't come out right, sometimes people overreact. The same thing applies to children. How can anyone hold a small child to expectations they cannot met as an adult with decades more experience? How pathetic. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 14px;">Just to set the record straight, my children are also not allowed to act crazy in Chuck E Cheese either. What an ignorant thing to say. My children are expected to use their indoor voice at all times. Sometimes it doesn't happen and I have to gently remind them. Adults do the same thing. That doesn't mean that adults shouldn't be allowed to enjoy public spaces.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;">No one is perfect. And people should not throw stones, regardless of housing situation. People misbehave, no matter their age. Children know how to irritate their parents, they know their parents so well, they know the exact pitch to hit with their screams in order to get the fastest response. Trust me, while my children would go all opossum on me in the store, restaurants were so very different. I assume because restaurants tend to be loud, my children felt the need to scream above the noise to be heard. I have removed my children from restaurants to take them outside and have always done my best to help them reset. Does it always work? No. But as a parent, raising a child who I hope will one day save the world, I am doing my fucking best. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;">Maybe instead of being such a judgmental shrew, Mary could rethink how SHE could be a better person in that kind of situation. Did you see a mother of two tending to one child who was hurt or needed help, and witness the child behind her take a cookie, bite it and put it back? How about you walk your lazy ass over, pick up that cookie and any others it touched with a napkin and dispose of it. Mother's don't automatically get eyes in the back of their head once a child in placed in their arms. Crazy, I know!</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;">I hate to be the one to remind you, but this world isn't a man's world, it isn't a childless person's world, it isn't even a child's world. What kind of narcissist would expect people to live around HER? Should I ask permission prior to taking my child out to eat on their birthday? Some days people feel awesome and ready to conquer the world, other days, people don't feel so great. The same applies to young people. Just because we are out to celebrate, doesn't mean my child feels like it. Sometimes they don't tell me because they are still learning to put their emotions into words.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;">Granted, there are some lazy parents, parents who have given up, maybe they didn't want to be parents to begin with. Maybe they have struggles that you don't see. Maybe the child has special needs that aren't apparent to the judgmental eye of folks. Sometimes the child screaming is screaming because they can't get their parent to understand them and the parent could not care less. But <u>every single parent</u> I know does their best. They love their children and want their children to behave themselves too. But it's a work in progress. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;">No one thinks their child picking their nose is adorable. When I see my children itching themselves or picking at things, I try to guide them to do it in private and to use a tissue. Children itch what needs to be scratched, they are still being modeled to be accepted into our society as 'normals' and sometimes it takes practice. What a dumb thing to say. I have never told my children that picking their nose and touching things is socially appropriate, how did you come up with this stuff?</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;">Sometimes it feels like we are so used to complaining about and bashing others that we don't take a moment to have basic human compassion and empathy for them. I understand how frustrating it can be to plan a date night, budget in money for a movie and dinner (AND a babysitter) just to sit down next to a table full of rowdy children. Does it kinda suck? Sure, but I've been the mother at that table of loudmouth, excited children. I can sympathize and it's not a crime to ask for a different table or move to the bar. I've done that as well, because I am a full grown adult that understands that people don't live around me. If I am uncomfortable, whatever the reason, I remove myself. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. Life goes on.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;">I don't want to touch upon the misogynistic things she said about keeping legs closed, that is an entirely different can of worms that my feminist punk ass won't get started on. Dude... whatever happened to not saying things if you don't have anything nice to say, especially when what you have to say is borderline vicious? Maybe Mary's mother should have done a better job raising her. Since raising perfectly proper children is obviously as easy as tying your laces.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;">We no longer live in an era where children are seen and not heard. Same with women and mothers and minorities. Don't like it? How about you stay at home and not go out in public since it seems like you don't even have the skills you require to be out with the rest of the world.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;">One last thing I want to point out:</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;">No matter how much you clean your kids or wash their hands or prevent them from eating sticky things, most children, by nature, tend to be sticky. (That is why most parents carry around wet wipes.) Fucking deal with it like a gawd damned adult.</span></span>Leiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15244646511824361273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2989490629334081212.post-91940429973983844312013-08-12T07:00:00.000-07:002013-08-12T07:00:03.963-07:00Celebrating 4 years!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I have been free of the grasps of religion for four years now.<div>
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It wasn't instantaneous like I ofttimes enjoy thinking it was. It's been a slow work in progress. But four years ago today, in the darkness of my bedroom, I let that edifying thought parade through my head: I am an atheist. I knew it was true the moment I allowed myself to dwell on it. And every day since I have let that sweet freedom live in my heart.</div>
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I know some atheists have always been non believers. I know some atheists don't call themselves atheists. Not every atheist is angry, not every atheist is nice. When I first came to the realization that I was atheist, I wanted to badly to belong to the atheist group, the atheist mothers, the atheist society of intellectual hierarchy. It took me a long time to realize that groupings just don't exist in atheism the way that it does in religion.</div>
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It was difficult to deal with the sudden and inevitable sense of loneliness. I was a stay at home mother in a brand new city, in a brand new state, in a brand new region of the country. It wasn't the most opportune time to realize that I was atheist, one more thing to isolate myself even more than moving 2000 miles from home already had done.</div>
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Four years has gone by so quickly. Time has given me exactly what I needed in order to settle into my new, yet older, self. It was terrifying at first, a fact that I had finally accepted was now the elephant in my head. I tiptoed around telling my husband. Atheism isn't an easy thing to sugar coat. Especially when I had to tell the man who started out not Mormon, but had been baptized because of me. Yeah, I felt ashamed for deciding that the path I urged him to go down years prior was a path I no longer wanted to traipse along. We had brought two children into the world with the understanding that we were going to raise them to believe in a god. And now that they were already here, I was putting a immediate halt on any and all god talk, and wanted to throw it into park since I had decided on a completely different journey for them.</div>
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As scary as it first seemed, everything since that day has been beyond worth it. The response that I received from my husband was a humbling one. He said he has loved me since we were 12 and he would love me until we die and if there was life after that, he would love me then. He let me know that his love for me wasn't based on my belief in anything, he loved me because of so much more than my choice in religion. I felt silly being timid about telling him, he has always stood by my side, and I know he always will. My children were too young and I hadn't started indoctrinating them, so it wasn't a change for them. I do love hearing my children think about things rationally; debating ideas with two young elementary school children instead of telling them 'because I said so' has been oddly educational for me. (And them I hope). I never had imagined I would be that kind of mother.</div>
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As I have mentioned before, I found a lot of support online during the hardest period in losing my religion. I didn't decide to be atheist and then subsequently tossed Mormonism in one fell swoop. My journey started as a young child of Mormon parents who built this wall of 'faith' up for me and as a twenty something my journey took a turn in a new direction with that wall being taken down one brick at a time by doubt and research. The wall wasn't completely down before I realized I was an atheist. I looked for a god before I realized there isn't one. I tried to 'save' the building blocks of what my parents had put so much effort into building. But once I realized that what they had built for me had no sustenance, I couldn't help but admit my atheism and continue to raze what little was left.</div>
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Now, four years later I am overjoyed to say that all traces of the myths I once believed in are all distant, faint memories. Broadcasting my atheism is less of a fear and more of a thing of pride. And nothing brings me more joy than hearing my kids ask each other questions about how the world works, and when they don't know, they say 'let's google it' and come running over to me for help on the computer. </div>
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I thought I needed a network of atheists to feel like I still belonged to something bigger than myself. But I found that isn't true. Atheists are everywhere. Non believers make up about 16% of America, maybe more, which is more than the percentage of Mormons. And as much as it gives me comfort to know that I am not alone in my non belief in gods, and I know I have been able to pull knowledge and strength from online atheist communities, I was able to find myself in the loneliness. Which I find comfort in, because even though I knew the loneliness would pass, I found relief in the fact that a god never appeared through it all. The loneliness I felt was pure unadulterated loneliness, so as I walked through the darkened room looking for a sign of a higher being, I found myself. </div>
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And I know that without the loneliness, I would never have learned to rely on myself. Which is something I never learned how to do in Mormonism.</div>
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Leiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15244646511824361273noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2989490629334081212.post-56023412705844719452013-07-31T16:18:00.001-07:002015-08-15T07:47:39.222-07:00My Patriarchal Blessing<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSFVZRpOh20aQUAp2xGG2Xn1WmkUQpdgupskczeATMY2GYC_ag99rQk9GLfh_HyIHk2t8Uskkeagj1PkRCEihMKGFLAoKLQjur11GPXnCf3dekUufNzT2OgpKA6xloQEyhyphenhyphen2owPCn7cFku/s1600/wheel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSFVZRpOh20aQUAp2xGG2Xn1WmkUQpdgupskczeATMY2GYC_ag99rQk9GLfh_HyIHk2t8Uskkeagj1PkRCEihMKGFLAoKLQjur11GPXnCf3dekUufNzT2OgpKA6xloQEyhyphenhyphen2owPCn7cFku/s320/wheel.jpg" width="217" /></a><br />
Every Mormon child looks forward to receiving their Patriarchal Blessing from their Stake's Patriarch.<br />
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To help that sentence make sense, let me explain. First, the word Stake. Think of a Parish; Mormons are divided up into Wards (congregations), which is based on geography. I attended Brea 1st Ward growing up. Some of the friends who went to school with me were in my Ward, but some attended Brea 3rd Ward, which met at the same building, but at a different time. Now Brea is a city in California and it had enough Mormons dwelling within city limits to warrant three Wards.<br />
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Now if you took those three Wards, plus a handful of others from neighboring cities, they make up a Stake. For example, the Brea Wards and the Placentia Wards made up the Placentia Stake. Every Stake or region has a patriarch. Still following? Good.<br />
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A patriarch is a man that is 'called of god' and is the only one who can bestow a Patriarchal Blessing. He is usually an older gentleman, who has been a Bishop before and possibly even a Stake President. It's a big deal to get one, because you are promised that, if you live righteously and follow the gospel, the blessings that the patriarch promises you will come true.<br />
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A fun fact: The church used to charge $1 for the blessing back in the 1800s, and bumped the price up to $2 (which was like $50) before they forbid charging for them in the early 1900s.<br />
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Now, I know what you are thinking; maybe images of Tarot Cards or fortune tellers are popping up in your head. But allow me to reassure you that the church frowns upon those kinds of thoughts. That stuff is silliness, this patriarch stuff is totally for real.<br />
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To be fair, the blessing is based upon Jacob's blessings to his sons. (Genesis 47:29-49:32) Though I am pretty sure Jacob didn't charge...<br />
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The patriarch that gave me my blessing was Patriarch Ray Lowe. I was given my Patriarchal Blessing on November 15th 1994. I was 14. I was excited, and it was expected of me to go.<br />
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It reads:<br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">"(My full maiden name), by virtue of the Holy priesthood vested in me and in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, I gratefully and humbly lay my hands upon your head this night and pronounce upon you a patriarchal blessing. This blessing will be a means of comfort to you, be a guide, a source of strength and faith as you listen to the words that come to you through the power of the priesthood.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #0b5394;">Your life here is an important part of your journey back to your Heavenly Father. Because of the setting and nature of our mortality we are faced with many decisions and with many temptations, but you will know that the Lord knows and loves you and knows the end from the beginning and thus those things which will come to you will be calculated to give you experience, to help you grow in your faith and testimony, to give you direction so that you will live the life that will accrue to you the blessing of those who are faithful.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #0b5394;">Your existence in the premortal life has much meaning for you. You were found worthy and faithful and thus have the privilege of coming to earth in this important time when the Kingdom of God has been established in the last days for the last time, peopled with those who have the spirit of Christ within them and a desire to be teachable and humble, to be led and directed by the Holy Spirit to respond to those principles of righteousness that they may find joy in this life and be prepared and qualified to return to our Heavenly Father.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #0b5394;">You are of the House of Israel and through this heritage you are rightfully worthy of the blessings of Abraham, Isacc, and Jacob, and especially through the lineage of Ephraim comes to you the privilege of being a member of the Kingdom of God with great responsibility to live your life in an exemplary way with great love for your fellow beings and with an understanding that what you do is important in building the Kingdom of God on the earth.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">You have received many gifts from your Heavenly Father, not the least of which is a love for others, faith in the Savior Jesus Christ, a knowledge of the reality of your Heavenly Father and of His great purposes.So I counsel you to continue to study faithfully and deeply, prayerfully, that this great understanding may increase to fill your whole soul, that you may have the courage and strength to make the proper decisions as you go through this life.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">You have a heritage from those who have gone before, even your parents, your grandparents, and so on and many of the things you enjoy this day come from them, through their faithfulness, through their desire to bring to their posterity a way of life, the way to life eternal.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #0b5394;">You will be a leader among your friends and associates in your immediate surroundings. You will be and influence for good. You will lead them to do good and be an example of righteousness. You will learn that the calling that you have in the Kingdom of God is to prepare yourself to teach the gospel through precept and example and to prepare yourself to teach you very own, even your children, those who will come to you as gifts from God. You will have the privilege of going to the House of the Lord, eve the temple, there to receive understanding and learning and an increase in your faith through the gifts of the Lord to those who qualify themselves for those great priesthood blessings.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">I commend you for your sweetness, that in your tender years you have been willing to comply with those commandments which the Lord has given, for being honest and upright and clean and pure, being willing to live the law of chastity. And now as you are at an age in preparation for seeking greater learning in your schooling, I counsel you to apply yourself well, to listen to the teachers and to discern truth from error, and to base your growth and your decisions upon righteous principles.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">I bless you in your home that you may be kind and considerate. You will do your part to make it a place of love and peace. You will be a steward over many things both physical and spiritual. You will can for those things properly and do your part to have a home of order and love, a home of glory, a home of God.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">I bless you that you may seek those who need friendship; be a friend to all. Live the principles of righteousness and by so doing you will be a blessing to those who know you. If you will continue to be teachable and to prepare yourself in all things, the Lord will call you to be an emissary in His name, to carry this great message to those who know it not. You can be in your own right, a savior on Mt. Zion. At this tender age you may also have the privilege of seeking out understanding and knowledge of those who have gone before, particularly those of your own line, to know who they are and if they have not received the blessing of life, the gospel principles, the saving ordinances, it will be your right to prepare those things necessary so they may receive this great gift from you through the blessings of the Holy Ghost and the power of the priesthood.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">I bless you that you may learn the things that are important are those things which will help you to be a friend to others, to make that area of your life in which you will spend the most time, even your home, a place of comfort and cleanliness and joy, where the spirit of the Lord will bring light and warmth as each day begins and ends with prayer. And you will seek a companion who will be equal to you and possess the same righteous goals to be truthful to the principles of the gospel and to establish an eternal family. These blessings are great.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">There are many ways in which we may serve. If you desire to develop your talents and abilities to do things for the blessing of others you will have great joy therein.</span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #0b5394;">I commend you for the preparation in your life and would exhort you to be aware that the next few years are very important. If you will follow through and listen to your teachers, priesthood leaders and parents as they attempt to teach you by example and precept those things which are eternal, you will prayerfully seek obedience to those righteous principles which come to you. You will be strengthened and blessed to overcome all temptation of evil, you will be safe in the hands of the Lord, you will walk peacefully through this life on the pathway of righteousness, knowing that Satan will not have power over you greater than you have power to resist and that you will be able to fulfill your earthly stewardship here and rejoice in the peace of the Lord as you are called home to receive that great reward to be with Him.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">I pronounce these blessings upon you knowing that you have much to do and you have been given the qualifications and the ability to fulfill all of these requirements-- going through this life peaceful and happy and content to know that the Lord knows you and loves you and desires all that is good for you.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">I bless you that you may be able to listen to your teachers in seminary and institute and that you will seek the areas of understanding. God will bless you in all your desires in righteousness.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">I send you forth with the blessing that all is well and that you will be able to find much strength in the knowledge that the truth is here, that God is in the heavens and that our Savior Jesus Christ has made that great sacrifice, the atonement that we will live again.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #0b5394;">I seal upon you these blessings together with all others which are rightly yours through your obedience and send you forth in the name of Jesus Christ, amen."</span><br />
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Now, I was told to keep this to myself and not to share it, ever. The one exception would be my one day husband. It's hard to keep things mysterious and unique if it's out for the world to see. So there it is. My personal <strike>horoscope</strike> blessing. Generic? Maybe. Can apply to almost anybody? Sure. But trust the church when they say that, "the blessings' fulfillment are often conditioned on members' faithfulness to the church, helping keep members obeying the church leaders and blaming themselves instead of the patriarchs' accuarcy when the promises are not fulfilled." So if the blessing ends up being wrong or misleading, it's not the patriarchs fault, it's yours.Leiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15244646511824361273noreply@blogger.com29