Say More: At Last She Writes It

No. 28 | December 2024

*For the December issue we decided to have ALSSI team members share some thoughts that have been on their hearts and minds. Please enjoy this special issue from Susan, Cynthia and Blakelee.*

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Mom and Me, ca. 1968

Believing Hearts

by Susan Hinckley

“Grace and Peace to you from the mystery in whom we live and move, and have our being.”

I love this simple Christian greeting.

I hear it as a well-wish acknowledging right up front that none of us really knows much, but that’s okay because God knows us. If I stepped up to the pulpit and greeted the congregation with those words in our church, I’m pretty sure half would look around, sure one of us had wandered into the wrong building. Only for a second though—most members would decide I was the one who didn’t belong, and that includes my own mother. But you know what? I’d understand.

My mother is really clean. No, I mean really. The toilet paper in her guest bath is actually folded into a little point, just like a fine hotel. Her trash cans are perennially empty, the vacuum trails on the carpet forever unspoiled. It's been that way as long as I can remember. Having raised children myself, and seeming to lack any ability to stay ahead of the mail pile on my kitchen counter, I marvel.

My mother is the only person I know for whom it might be possible to call the realtor to list her home for sale in the morning, and have the agents' open house at noon, all without ever having to get up out of her chair because there wouldn't be a single thing that needed to be done.

She could also get invited to lunch at the White House at 11:00 am and show up at 11:15, not even having needed to comb her hair. This is how she lives. This is where she is comfortable. This is the world she carries or creates, wherever she goes.

A few years back, I attended a church meeting where she bore her testimony. Stepping up to the pulpit, she said she has never had a moment's doubt. That she was somehow born with perfect faith, and it has never wavered. In fact, she's never even considered the fact that it could waver.

My mother believes what she believes. She likes things how she likes them. The universe somehow complies. End of story. Bless her believing heart.

Not that I live like a slob, but I do live, and I’ve never figured out how to keep some of that living from getting on my house. I’ve been complaining about the same piles on my desk since I got this desk. When they delivered it, I set the piles on the floor while they carried the desk in. I closed the door on the delivery guys, then immediately restored the mess to its new home. The individual pieces of paper may change, but my desk-mess is forever.

But as baffled as I am by her house, I don't know how my mother manages that faith trick either. Maybe it’s because for me, faith has become something different from what it used to be. I’m with Anne Lamott on this: "The opposite of faith is not doubt, it's certainty.” For me, faith is about what I do with my not knowing anything. In fact, that popular line about ‘doubting your doubts?’ Always makes me smile. No one needs to tell me to do that—I doubt everything! This gives my mind the same lived-in feel my house has; in fact, my mind and my desk look alike most days. Someone should do a scientific study to see if that's a universal truth of some kind.

But I don't think Anne Lamott's words cast aspersions on my mother's faith—I think they just mean my own less tidy brand is of equal value. Anne is a Presbyterian who took a long time finding her way to God, and who seems to value the slog as much as she does the destination. Her brand of faith feels very close to my own, and I've decided that's because first and foremost, I feel her acknowledgement that faith is messy. I’m a Latter-day Saint who took 50 years to find my own faith—buried in the piles of my life, it really didn’t want to be found and even now expresses zero desire to be sorted. Like most of the important things in life—families, relationships, birth, death—it makes sense to me that faith refuses to behave.

I'm afraid most Church members might not share my embrace of the idea of messy faith though. We generally like things neat. We like them spelled-out. We are answerers, explainers. Solvers of mysteries.

In a recent episode I told about the line in my patriarchal blessing that says I've been “blessed with a believing heart.” Darn it, it's true. As hard and unruly as it gets for me sometimes, my heart wants to believe stuff. It’s like I’ve been cursed to dig through the piles of my own life forever, searching for god-only-knows what ... but searching. So I guess I probably did inherit some kind of belief gene from my mother, along with a hefty dose of skepticism from my dad. One of me continually pokes holes in things, one of me patches.

I’m a Sisyphus of faith. I don’t think I’ll ever stop pushing the boulder up, even though I don’t expect it to ever stop rolling down after I do.

LDS poet Emma Lou Thayne’s words on faith have also resonated for me over the years. In her essay Seeing Without Seeing, she wrote:

"I believed it all—the seeing without seeing, the hearing without hearing, the going by feel toward something holy, something that could make her cry and could lift my scalp right off, something as unexplainable as a vision or a mystic connection, something entering the pulse of a little girl, something that no matter what, would never go away. What it had to do with Joseph Smith or his vision or his gospel I never would really understand—all I know to this day is that I believe. Whatever it is, I believe in it. I get impatient with people's interpretations of it, with dogma and dictum, but somewhere way inside me and way beyond impatience or indifference there is that insistent, infernal, so help me, sacred singing—All is well, All is well. My own church, inhabited by my own people—and probably my own doctrines, but my lamp, my song—my church. I would be cosmically orphaned without it."

And so would I. Darned messy, mysterious, imperfect, impatient faith. Darned believing heart.

Some of you might remember the story of me getting hauled into the bishop's office after a Relief Society lesson I taught about the priesthood. Shortly after, the woman who raised such a ruckus about me was put in the RS presidency, and my first thought was, "Amen to my teaching." We saw everything so differently; I simply considered us to have Irreconcilable Latter-day Saint Differences.

I happened to teach my next lesson—because of who I am—from the perspective of someone for whom the oft-heralded Mormon concept of joy didn’t really resonate at all. I'd spent my life wondering what people were blabbering about with all their joy-talk, she being one of those people. So I had some dread as I saw her take her place in my class that day, sure I was in for significant pushback, with all my talk of the okayness of lunar spirituality as opposed to the full-solar certainty that characterizes our church. (An image from Learning to Walk in the Dark, by Barbara Brown Taylor, which I can't recommend highly enough, btw.)

I set the stage by speaking about my own struggle for a bit, then I turned it over to the women in the room to talk about theirs, and you can guess who was the first to raise her hand. She began to cry. She said, "You don't know how inspired you were, taking this approach to this topic. For the first time, I truly see you. And I understand you. We are different, and I suddenly understand God created us this way, and I'm just seeing that for the first time."

Which made me also weep, standing in front of everyone. Because all I could say to her was, "We're so different. I've always known that. To have You, of all people, say that you understand me is powerful medicine of the kind I'm not sure I've ever received in church."

And then the whole room was crying, because it was obvious that the impossible was happening right there in Relief Society.

Messy faith, meet certainty. Now hug each other. You’re both going to be okay! How can that be possible? Well, I think it’s part of the mystery.

After class, she hugged me like she would never let go, sobbing into my shoulder. It was an apology, I think, and so gratefully accepted. Whatever about the Church, I know sharing our real selves when we gather as a body of Christ is True. Whether you’re my mother or you’re me—doubting or not even willing to entertain the possibility that you could—the beauty of a world grounded in mystery is we don’t need to see God clearly to see each other. Our own church, inhabited by...us. As long as we’re both willing, we’re going to be okay. All is well, All is well.

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Bridge Building & Batons

by Cynthia Winward

In our recent episode,

Who Deserves to Hear My Story?, you heard me say that I now share less of my journey at church and also with leaders. But it wasn’t always that way. I am reminded of a time five years ago when my ward got a new bishop. I walked into sacrament meeting and could see that seated on the stand was the stake presidency, the current bishopric, and then eventually the new bishopric was invited to sit with them as well. By the time we began the sacrament portion of the meeting we had nine men, all in dark suits, sitting on the stand. It was a Picture Worth A Thousand Words. I thought—yup, this is us…male clergy who pick other male clergy. If I leaned hard to my right I could see a female chorister and a female organist, sitting behind the organ. Women silently serving, but never in charge.

photo by Cynthia Winward

I felt something in me snap. Or rather I felt the weariness that inevitably comes to bridge builders—deep weariness. I hung my head and wiped tears all throughout the rest of that meeting. For years I had been bridge building with the men leaders in my stake and ward, carefully having conversations about women’s issues, gently suggesting that there are different ways to do things within the current (broken) framework.

I can look back and see certain things done differently in my ward and stake because of my efforts. Crumbs, if I am honest. For crying out loud, I’ve lived in this stake almost 30 years. Trust me, nothing much has changed. In that moment I felt like a hopeless hamster furiously expending her energy and never getting anywhere. Because when I look up at the stand I still just see all men in charge. And lots of them. Only men preside. Only men choose the leaders. Only men choose the speakers. No amount of my bridge building can ever change that.

At that time I had been serving in the library, but after that teary Sunday I decided to ask to be released from that beloved calling—what I affectionately call the ‘dry bartender’ of the ward—because I needed the freedom to craft my Sundays in a way that would fill my cup instead of depleting it. I didn’t need to keep breaking down in sobs if there was anything I could do about it. Even though I loved that calling (what extrovert doesn’t want to just visit with anyone who needs crayons, or anyone who is wandering around in the Hall Class?), I needed the freedom to ask myself each Sunday if I just needed to go home after—or even during!—sacrament meeting.

I decided to talk to my stake president and explain all of this to him and encouraged him to talk to the Area Authority. I suggested a script like this, “Maybe you could say, ‘Elder So and So, I am tired of losing good women. We have got to move faster.” He said he would share my thoughts, but I’m not confident he ever did. By then I had already learned to separate the outcomes from my efforts or else I’d go mad.

In that same meeting I gave him a copy of Bridges: Ministering to Those Who Question by David Ostler, and read aloud to him a page about another stake, in Africa, where the needs of women were also not being met:

While on our mission in Africa, my wife and I traveled to a different branch each Sunday. As the mission president, I was the presiding ecclesiastical leader in each branch we attended. On Sundays, my wife and I would meet with the branch presidency prior to sacrament meeting and ask them to observe when they felt the Spirit. Afterward, we would gather again and discuss their observations. I recall one time when a branch president said he had particularly felt the Spirit during the talks, which were all given by men. I asked why he thought he felt the Spirit, and he said the talks related to his life and the challenges he faced. I asked if he thought the women in the congregation felt the same about the talks. We discussed how women's experiences might be different than men's and how women can often relate better to talks given by other women. He got the point immediately, and from that time on, he involved more women in meetings. This point has stuck in my head. I regularly see ways in which women are treated as lesser participants in meetings. As mentioned, it remains disproportionately common for men to receive the respect and gravitas that comes with speaking last in sacrament meeting or for there to be more male than female speakers. Out of curiosity, I timed our last stake conference and found that out of one hundred minutes of speaking, only sixteen minutes were taken up by women. We need to do better.

The poet Henry Wordsworth Longfellow characterizes the feelings many have about how men can inadvertently treat women:

“…. For it is the fate of a woman, Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is speechless

Hence is the inner life of so many suffering women

Running through caverns of darkness, unheard, unseen, and unfruitful.”

After I finished reading the above passage, I gifted him the book, he said thank you, and that he was excited to read it and that maybe he would buy copies for all the stake leaders. I have no idea if he ever did. He never talked to me again about that meeting, or if he read the book. Looking back, of course he never got back with me! He doesn’t answer to me, or any woman. That meeting was a light-bulb moment for me. I decided to take a big long break from my self-appointed calling of baton-carrying-bridge-builder after that encounter.

photo by Cynthia Winward

Five year later, I can say that I never really picked up the baton again. Oh sure, I’ve had several conversations with priesthood leaders in the last five years—even giving one more book to a past bishop. [Ironically, the brother to David Ostler, Richard Ostler’s first book, Listen, Learn, and Love : Embracing LGBTQ Latter-day Saints.] Well, to be honest, in my weariness I had passed the bridge-building-baton to my husband Paul by then, so he is actually the one that gave that book to him. Once again, we never heard anything about that book either. Maybe I’m sounding cynical, I hope not. I think I just got to the point where I realized a couple things—

First, it’s not my job to ask male leaders to be more curious, or to think outside the box. I’m done giving books to leaders. If they’re curious, they’ll do their own homework. They have Google. And podcasts. And they have members like me—and you!—whom they could ask questions on various issues. They just have to ask. That’s their side of the street.

Cynthia, “self caring” in Puerto Rico

Second, self care is important. If you’re burnt out, stop. Stop whatever is rubbing against your soul. Stop whatever is making you feel less than. Stop whatever is draining your precious finite energy. Lie in hammocks. Listen to birds. Eat really good pie. As Mer Monson said on Episode 157, you need to ask yourself the question: ‘Is this good with my soul?’ and for now, my soul knows it’s perfectly fine to keep ignoring the bridge building baton.

"If I want more energy, I don't need to go out and find more energy from some outside source. I only need stop wasting the energy that I already possess on stupid sh*t."

~ Elizabeth Gilbert

Self portrait circa 2014

My Inner Guide

by Blakelee Ellis

I was recently asked the question, “Would you rather be

the smartest person in the room or the funniest?” For me, this question is nearly impossible to answer. My dad was a doctor and always stressed the importance of education during my childhood. He told me I was smart, and thankfully, I believed him. I value my intelligence, but there is nothing quite like getting everyone around you laughing until water sprays out their nose. Do you need a loud, goofy, extrovert? Look no further. It’s me. When a great song comes on in the grocery store, I’m the one singing out loud, dancing in and out of the aisle. What most people don’t realize is that I’m a loud, goofy, extrovert to hide my lack of confidence. If I’m loud enough, no one will see that I’m ugly. I’ll do everything I can to label myself a goofball before anyone around me can really see that I’m untalented and incapable.

The truth is, I’ve spent much of my life being so scared. Scared of failing, of looking stupid, of being my authentic self. I constantly worry that what I think, feel or decide is “wrong.” And if I’m “wrong,” my mask will slip, and everyone will know me as the true failure that I am. So, I go around being indecisive and assuming that everyone around me knows better. These traits seem to be baked into my DNA and has affected every aspect of my life including my spirituality. And if I’m honest, the church didn’t help me much in this area either.

I remember being taught from a very young age that I was just a human who wanted bad things, and I needed to constantly seek guidance from the Holy Ghost. I couldn’t trust anything I thought, felt or wanted. Church reinforced the idea to look external to myself before making decisions and to defer to someone else’s knowledge that was surely greater than my own.

I wanted to be a doctor, but my seminary teacher told me there was no higher calling than motherhood. I wanted to serve a mission, but my bishop was certain I should wait to put in my mission papers because the right man was just around the corner. I wanted to receive my endowment, but my bishop told me to wait until I was married. It would be more special with a man. I was convinced that my gay brother was being mistreated by members when he came out to people in our ward. The stake president assured me that God speaks to His prophets, and I should trust what was revealed about “the gay lifestyle.” I covenanted to God that I would counsel with my husband while HE counseled with God. Deference to external authority is baked right into LDS doctrine. Defer to a leader. Defer to a bishop. Defer to a stake president. Defer to a husband. Is it any wonder that I learned that a man would always know better than me?

This habit of deference coupled with my lack of self-confidence crippled me, but I never truly knew it until my faith crisis hit. I found myself in my mid-30s grappling with the fact that what was happening in my heart didn’t align with outside authority. I was lost. I was heartbroken that authority was telling me I was in a “fallen state” (yes, a bishop literally said this to me), but feeling more spiritually invigorated than I had in years. I was so afraid that God was mad at me. I spent hours crying at God, asking how He could be mad at me when my desires were so vast, and my intentions were so pure.

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In that moment, I saw all the goodness, love and wisdom inherent in myself.

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Lately, life has felt particularly hard. On the verge of a nervous breakdown, I finally decided to practice some self-care. So, I searched up “mediations to let go of anger” and played a meditation from Tune Into You Meditation Podcast by Jennifer Davoust.

The description of the episode read, “This is a meditation to let go of anger and regain a sense of direction and reconnection to yourself and what you want. Use this meditation to shift your attention back to what you do have control over and let the wisest part of you create your plan of action.”

I turned off my bedroom lights, laid down, and closed my eyes. I was ready to work on letting go of my anger. After some deep breathing the crux of the meditation began.

I’d like you to imagine that you’re standing in a beautiful meadow…

Notice the texture of the earth beneath you. Notice the scent in the air or any sounds you can hear. The wind through the trees or the singing of birds.

And now we’re going to invite your wise loving self, your inner guide to step forward into this space with you. Imagine your guide standing before you and just allow yourself to get a sense of what they might look like.

Either see it in your mind or form a concept.

Any colors. Any shapes.

And most important, get a sense of what this guide feels like.

What it feels like.

If someone asked you to manifest your inner guide in front of you, what would it look like? At different points in my life, my inner guide would look so different. As a child, it would have been Casper the friendly ghost. As a teen, I imagined my spiritual guide to be a white, angry bearded man. As I got older, he became a different man. He was less angry, but had a HUGE list of unrealistic expectations for my life. Eventually, that man morphed into a loving mother figure and then somewhere along the way, became a shapeless form of colors.

But in the middle of that meditation, when my wise loving inner guide stepped forward, I was looking at myself.

No one else appeared before me.

No man, no woman, no shape.

Just me. My mirror image.

And I cried.

In that moment, I saw all the goodness, love and wisdom inherent in myself. I understood in a totally new way that I could show up for myself. I could be my own authority because I am good. I am full of love. I am full of wisdom.

Perhaps they give you a warm embrace. And your wise loving guide is here to let you know what you already know. And your wise loving guide is now going to let you know what it is you’re really afraid of.

And so… Your wise loving guide hands you a message, or perhaps they whisper it into your ear.

Now begin to imagine the most beautiful outcome you can imagine, setting all barriers aside just for this moment and allowing yourself to indulge completely in your vision of a bright future…And know that no matter what happens, you are safe.

Through my spiritual journey, I have become better at trusting myself. But this experience was completely unique. I can’t quite explain it, but in a very distinct way, I stepped up as my own spiritual guide. It turns out that I have all the authority I need baked right into my spiritual DNA. I believe God made me and because God made me, I am inherently divine. I believe I am good. I am full of love and wisdom. I believe I am safe.

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Contributors:

Susan Hinckley

These days my whole life seems to be full of people and things that refuse to behave (including me), so I’m erasing the lines wherever I find them. Kids, grandkids, a messy body, a church and country that don’t want my advice—what’s a girl to do but keep yelling into the void? Give me the whole box of crayons and every inch of space to use them for as long as I have left on this planet. I’ll need the best thesaurus and plenty of blank pages, too. I’ve decided from here on out it’s all one long prayer—even the sweary parts.

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Cynthia Winward

Everything about December for me is hard. It’s dark at 4 damn 30 and there’s way too much pressure to buy all the right gifts for people I love. To soothe my decemberness, I walk every afternoon for an hour with cooking podcasts in my ears. Then I spend the rest of my evening under an electric blanket, surrounded by a pile of books, but only watching TV because my brain feels fried, with a cup of tea in hand. Despite all this, I still find myself singing in my kitchen when I fry my morning eggs. It’s a good sign to me that this too shall pass.

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Blakelee Ellis

Every time I look in the mirror I seem to look a bit more tired and a lot a bit older. I’m trying hard to ignore all the noise from the beauty and diet industry telling me that I need to lift, suck, fill and smooth every area of my body before I can be truly beautiful. I want to KNOW that I am beautiful simply because I am capable, strong, compassionate and interesting. Unfortunately, there’s not much I profess to know, but I’ll keep you posted.

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