Say More: At Last She Writes It
No. 36 | April 2025
Mormons and Lent
by Ellen Hawkins
3/5/25
Today begins the season of Lent.
It has never mattered much to me before. I’m not Catholic. I don’t like to deprive or deny myself of much of anything as the tradition requires. As an LDS woman, most Fast Sundays were spent wanting food and seeking it out without my kids finding out. They always did.
I had my right kidney removed last week. Does that count as giving up something for Lent? It probably should, right? I mean an entire body organ. On the one hand, that’s a huge sacrifice. On the other hand, I had no choice but to give it up. It didn’t help anyone except me. It was taken to keep cancer from spreading throughout my body. So how does that work? It’s really got me thinking about Lent this year.
During the Easter season I’ve often wished I could become a Catholic and then exit. I don’t want to be a Catholic; I just like the way it is celebrated and honored at Easter and Christmas. As a Mormon girl growing up in Utah in the 70s-80s, there were not many opportunities to learn about Catholicism nor many people who cared to know. Did I even know any Catholics? Probably a few, but I’m sure I didn’t ask them to explain their rituals, just like they didn’t ask me why the bus dropped me off at the chapel for primary on Tuesdays after school. (Unless I invited them to come as a missionary effort as encouraged by The Children’s Friend.)
Catholics and Prayer: I like the concept that there are certain prayers for almost every need, desire, or event, and that you can say a prayer that’s already made up—someone who lived a long LONG time ago did the work for you. It’s wonderful that you can add your own voice to that of a Saint who lived a thousand years ago who maybe was as confused and frustrated then as you are about your life today. Times change, but are people’s hearts all that different?
Catholics and Sin: I like the idea that sin can be dealt with in dignity through a private conversation at a specific time, place, and with a specific person, and that it’s possible to have that burden lifted sooner than later. It’s comforting that the person hearing your confession isn’t looking at you eye to eye, gauging your level of penitence, shame, guilt, or passing judgment by the expression on your face.
Catholics and Cathedrals and Singing: Growing up there was the Cathedral of the Madeleine in downtown Salt Lake City that I visited a few times. I thought it was magnificent. There were flickering candles and glorious stained glass—not fluorescent beams that sometimes flashed when the bulb needed changing at my local Mormon chapel. The Christmas Choir Concert truly felt like Jesus was being sung down into the congregation. The children sounded pure and sweet—like angels. The benches were horribly hard—not a cushion in sight—but I loved the kneeler that made praying seem almost fun. When you’re certain angels are singing around you, hard benches don’t matter. The powerful hymn Amazing Grace, though not written by a Catholic but by John Newton, a reformed Anglican minister, spoke to me as a person who sinned and needed all the grace I could get.
Catholics and Rosaries: As a teenager I was fascinated by rosary beads. In movies and books they were mysterious and magical. They were all shapes and colors and were adored and cherished by their owners. I thought they must be precious above rubies. What happened when you rubbed them together, I wondered. Did God visit you? Did He tell you things? Were you healed? Above all, where could I get some? I would hide them under my pillow and never forget to pray. I felt robbed of something beautiful—gypped even. My Merrie Miss badges, my Personal Progress certificates, and my CTR ring that turned my finger green did not cut it! I didn’t want to be Catholic—I just wanted those magical rosary beads.
Catholics and Mary: When I became a mom, that first Christmas changed my world. The concept of nativity became more precious than ever before. I felt like I knew Mary a little. She had been real. I was real. Jesus was real. My baby was real. We were connected because we had both given birth like every other mother, and I wanted to know her more. In Catholicism, Mary was everything. Everything. A mother was everything. Did I have closer access to Jesus because I was connected to Mary? And could I pray to her? Yes! It’s one of the rosary prayers. (One of 59, I have since learned.) It’s the Hail Mary!
Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death. Amen. Perfect.
In Mormonism, we don’t pray to anyone but God in Jesus’ name. Not Heavenly Mother, in whose image I am created. We don’t even talk about Heavenly Mother for some reason that no one can explain to my satisfaction. Nor Mary. We talk about her as the mother of Jesus at Christmas. So the thought that I could pray to a female and that she could hear me, care for me, comfort me, and direct me is more meaningful than I can express.
Pope Francis: I would like to meet the man who has accomplished so much good for the past 12 years and been bold enough to rebuke a Christian world that seems devoid of Christ. And now that his time is short, I hope a new pope will preach compassion, tolerance, and kindness to those who claim to be Christains but have shunned those important values.
There are 40 days of Lent. I’m going to figure out a little bit each day about what that means to me. I won’t ever be a Catholic, but I respect and honor this tradition that requires thoughtful reflection about what I can do to give more of myself to a world that will always be hungry and thirsty.
Layers Shed
by Kim Oborn
Growing to Know My God
by Kaitlyn
I can’t remember where I heard it first:
you’ll see God as you see and know yourself and the world around you. What I do remember is hoping that I would grow in my understanding as I grew older—increase in wisdom, if you will. (I hate to be stuck.) And have I?
My God began as Father—a loving dad (older than mine, obviously). All white haired and soft bearded and obviously white, who knew waaay better than I did about everything. He makes all the rules, and I show him I love him by obeying, always. I’d be good enough to live with him in his white mansion in the sky and Jesus when I got perfect (Jesus is gonna help me with that). He spoke in male terms “children of men” and all, but of course that really meant all of us. He is safe, comforting, strong, loving, and would tell me what to do when I asked.
In that mind frame, the temple felt familiar and church like home. I knew *of* Heavenly Mother, but never gave her much thought—nobody talks about her, why should I?
And then I became a mother. The door to the feminine divine creaked open. And God expanded, for I am divine as She. God, my Parents, they who love and know me as Their beloved child. They are full of wisdom, and guidance, and reach out to me often. Their love is with me always. They no longer feel inaccessibly “perfect,” They are Whole. Perhaps with wrinkly wise skin, rich and brown like the earth beneath my feet, a glimmer of joy, knowing, calm hoping in their eyes. They trust me because They Know Me, and expect me to mess up (often) and to repair and become (often). They carry out Their parental responsibilities together—working out our salvation (if you will) hand in hand. Mother is not silent (rather quite grounded in Her wisdom and power), Father is not overbearing, nor does He leave all womanly things to Mother (rather, He embodies charity and nurtures alongside Her with equal power). They want me to come Home—which in my mind’s eye feels cozy now, not white and lofty but not too squished together either. The furniture is welcoming and soft, our little creations on Their walls and the best comfort food on Their side tables. I knock on Their door often—Jesus always answers and welcomes me with a hug, and I chat with my heavenly team on the couch in comfortable prayer. (Though my distracted soul often misses what They say.)
This God, my Parents God, feels more expansive and inclusive and deep. And with that the familiarity and comfort at church and in temple has shifted into an ache—a hole full of silence and exclusion and gaps. (When will you See Them?)
And though I feel decently comfortable here … I feel decently certain that there is more to see and understand, that God is yet more expansive and just … MORE. (If there is space for Mother in the divine, what about my gay friends? How are they reflected in the divine?) I hope there will always be More.
Chicka Chicka 123
by Julie Heaton
As a mom of 3 boys aged five and under, the words to my kids' picture books are frequently on my mind. Because I think about children's literature more than many, I often analyze these books on a level that would make a high school English teacher proud. Such was the case as I was driving the other day. One by one each number is taking its place on the number tree, and these words repeatedly spoken by the number zero came to my mind ...
"Chicka chicka 123, will there be a place for me?"
Will there be space for me as I lean more into wherever my faith journey is taking me? Is there space for feeling and seeing things differently than the standard church narrative? Is there space to express the parts of the church that bother me? Will there be space for me if I show up authentically to church, with my messy lack of knowledge on some things and rejection of other things?
Chicka chicka 123, will there be a place for me?
I wonder each Sunday as I sit through sacrament meetings full of certainty and othering. I wonder as I strive to be a Young Women's leader and convey to these strong high schoolers that they do not need to be perfect and they are "worthy" just as they are. I wonder as I strive to teach my young children unconditional love and the power of diversity.
Chicka chicka 123, will there be a place for me?
Another policy. Another excommunication. Another video or talk or fireside that misses the mark and feels devoid of love and Jesus. Another clampdown and male leader pleading for women to sacrifice more and do more.
Chicka chicka 123, I will make space for me.
I'm unsure how to show up authentically at times, but I will try. I will try to make space-opening comments and add my perspective to the conversation. I will find God in books, movies, nature, and wherever I am or my fellow humans are. I will seek to humbly use my voice to further inclusivity, and I will listen and learn when my fellow humans are suffering. I will listen to how God speaks to me personally, and I will try to make change when and where I can.
Like zero was the hero of the number tree, I will be the heroine of my own spiritual tree.
Contributors:
Ellen Hawkins
Ellen Hawkins teaches junior high special ed reading and writing, and English. She has always loved writing, but has put it on hold for many years. While recently recovering from surgery, she had time to put fingers to the keyboard again and write several essays about topics weighing on her mind. She is looking forward to other writing projects. She has four grown children and one adorable granddaughter who lives too far away. She and her husband live in Utah.
Kim Oborn
Kim is discovering how to live her best life even when life doesn't always go as planned. She is busy finding new paths and new dreams. She lost her voice when her faith crisis hit, but recovered it through finding wise mentors, expanded scriptures, understanding friends, therapy, and searching for her True Self. She has a passion for Creative Non-fiction and she can be found on Substack reinterpreting the stories of her past, analyzing her religious beliefs, and opening up about her current faith journey. She loves traveling with her husband, loving on her grandchildren, writing, and her new passion, watercolor painting and figure drawing. And one day she hopes to improve her artistic skills to turn this poem into a painting.
Kaitlyn
Julie Heaton
Julie is a teacher, grad student, mom, partner, friend, and runner. She was born and raised in the Washington, DC area and now lives in Utah trying to help three active little boys develop emotional intelligence and fight the patriarchy. Julie enjoys reading, hiking, and going to see plays, particularly musicals. She is working to unlearn perfectionism and people pleasing, and working to learn self-compassion and unconditional grace.
Isn’t this a great space? We hope you’ll share ALSSI with anyone you think might benefit from our community. More voices, please!
Each contribution is amazing. Sincere thanks to each contributor; you have helped me think about and see your topic from a new POV. That’s always an uplifting experience for me, and I feel spiritually enriched 🙏🏻❤️
Beautiful. Thank you for a great beginning to my day.