Rather than a paradigm of absolute demolition and historical dishonoring, we should instead embrace a paradigm of renovation and earthquake-proofing…Earthquake-Proofing the Restoration: A Note on the “Three Tentpoles of Radical Orthodoxy”
Mosiah 3:19 For the natural man is an enemy to God, and has been from the fall of Adam, and will be forever and ever.
Period. For some reason the rest of the scripture didn’t seem to matter much. The enemy must be annihilated, obliterated, and completely destroyed. Right? Isn’t that what you do with enemies? The enemy of God must be completely and utterly defeated. That was what I believed until my life came apart. Now I see that there is a comma at the end of that phrase “forever and ever.” There is a comma, and the words after it contradict my original interpretation.
In counseling, college classes, and personal reading, I’ve learned that very smart people have theorized about the natural man in social science. There is the theory of the Id, the ego, and the superego that Sigmund Freud used to explain the conflict between conscious and subconscious impulses. If I think of the natural man as split into these three parts, a lot of things make sense. The id is the base instinct of man. Think Tarzan. No civilization, no manners, no concept of anything other than the drive for food and maybe for sex. When I first learned the theory, I thought the Id was the natural man. He is only a part. He’s a rather pathetic character wholly ill equipped to survive in a social system. Much more problematic is the superego.
The superego at first glance seems to be a much better character than his Id brother. He wants to achieve. The superego doesn’t want to sleep, eat, or do anything that might interrupt his drive for excellence. To the superego, second place is the first loser. To the superego, the drive for power is paramount. The superego isn’t content with a hot fudge sundae, he wants to own the shop. He doesn’t have time or patience for the Id who is an embarrassment to him.
The ego, much maligned in colloquial terms, is a more likeable character than his counterparts. He is the pragmatist. He is the one who tells the superego to chill out when he insists that he can run five miles in the morning, work all day, take classes in the evening, and then stay up all night studying. The ego tells the Id that eating that second box of Oreos is a bad idea. The ego has a tough job; somewhat like the exhausted mom wrangling two brothers determined to fight. (Yes, I speak from experience here.)
Most of the child rearing in a society is consumed with subverting the Id. The job of a caregiver is to provide the child with a superego and later with an ego. Sometimes, as was the case in my childhood, the superego was encouraged and enlarged and the Id was shamed and banished. The ego I formed was somewhat like a parent who shows blatant favoritism toward one of her children over the others. The superego was the favorite and the Id was the red-headed stepchild.
So what is wrong with that situation? Why shouldn’t a parent want their child to achieve? Why shouldn’t that drive for perfection be encouraged? Doesn’t that drive lead to success and happiness? I think the facts speak for themselves when it comes to my life.
An unrestrained superego leads to resentment, stress, and chronic health problems. If someone has an unrestrained Id, society will step in. Schools, jails, and social punishment will likely correct such a problem. What about an unrestrained superego? You will be hard pressed to find a teacher who criticises a student for trying too hard, caring too much, or being too conscientious. Unfortunately, an unrestrained superego leads to misery with no apparent cause. A superego driven person can achieve incredible things, have a beautiful life with everything anyone could ask for, and it will never be enough. There will always be someone with more or some greater achievement to reach. The unrestrained superego is never satisfied and endlessly full of entitlement. When failure comes, as it always does, the superego cannot process it. The rage of an out of control superego is incandescent. He will take out his rage on whomever he deems responsible for the failure. If he can find no one, or it is considered unacceptable to blame another, the ego and the id will take the blunt of his fury.
“I could have won the state championship if it hadn’t been for that idiot on my team who missed the final shot!” “I could have gotten an A in that class if I had stayed up every night all night like I wanted to! Why am I so lazy?” “I could have been the CEO of this company if I had just tried harder! What the heck is wrong with me?” These are all the rantings of the bloated superego, convinced of his own omniscience and consumed with the belief that all things are within his personal control.
There are two problems with the super ego and the reasons why I believe him to be the more problematic part of the natural man rather than the humble and much abused Id. First, the super ego has a warped sense of what perfection is. Second, the super ego doesn’t want or think he needs a Savior.
First, the super ego has a warped sense of what perfection is that is based mostly on the values adopted in childhood in the family of origin. If his parents praised and idolized a pop star, the super ego will value pop music. Even if the child is a genius at the piano, the superego may forever wish he had a different set of talents that had enabled him to sing with weird hair and strobe lights in front of a crowd of stoned fans. If a child is raised in a family that shames nerds who love science and school, he may refuse to develop his intellectual gifts thanks to a warped superego who believes such gifts are worthless. The superego believes that his perception of perfection is reality, but it isn’t. It is the vain ambition of man, blind and doomed to fall into the ditch. Rather than reflect on the values instilled in him in childhood, rather than question the validity of his own assumptions and perception, the super ego steams ahead into the folly of his own immature and unrealistic expectations into the failure he so desperately wants to avoid.
Second, the super ego has no need for or desire to have a Savior. He cringes at the thought of God’s first born son. Why wasn’t he the favored one? He wants to prove that he can achieve just as well as that humble son of God who gave his life for us. “It isn’t so hard to live a sinless life!” he reasons. When he does sin, as he inevitably will, he can justify his behavior and insist that next time, he won’t fail. And he does fail. Again. Whether or not he will humble himself depends on how robust his super ego is. How adept is he at rationalization, at blaming others, at shaming the other parts of himself? How resistant is he to self reflection? How long before he realizes that he isn’t in control? That he doesn’t have all the answers? That he needs help?
That is when I finally come to the other half of the natural man scripture. …unless he yields to the enticings of the Holy Spirit, and putteth off the natural man and becometh a saint through the atonement of Christ the Lord, and becometh as a child, submissive, meek, humble, patient, full of love, willing to submit to all things which the Lord seeth fit to inflict upon him, even as a child doth submit to his father.
It isn’t the Id, the Ego, or the Superego that saves us. They are the warring parts within us that need to learn to love one another and live in peace. The superego needs to see the Id as worthy of love and compassion. The Id needs to let go of the resentment he has stored up. The ego, the most mature and sensible of the trio, must make the choice to learn, reflect, humble himself, and adopt a more realistic view of himself and the measure of his creation. He must entice, not force the compliance of his other parts. He must allow the spirit to enlighten the mind and enlarge the experience. Only then can the natural man become a friend to God.
So what can I take away from this? As a parent? As someone who is learning to love herself? As a person who wants to become more like the Savior? As a parent, I can see my sons as having three parts to their natural men. The key to effective parenting isn’t to drive my children to achievement, but to help those boys create harmony and cooperation between their three parts. I will model self reflection and personal growth and change. I can confess my sins before my children and share my gratitude for a Savior who shows me a better way. When my superego screams at me that, “When there’s no pain, there’s no gain,” I can pat him on the head and eat an Oreo. I can also recognize that I have ego needs. Sometimes I need to post that humble brag on Facebook. Sometimes I need to celebrate my achievements and give myself a pat on the back for the extra effort I made. In the end, if I am going to be saved, it will be all of me. All three parts.
“Maybe there shouldn’t be forgiveness!!” he shouted at me with righteous indignation that only a teenager can pull off without seeming over the top. I had to stop and think about that. All my life I was taught to forgive. Even before processing the sins of others and their full impact on me, I was supposed to forgive them. Maybe my son was on to something.
We had been talking about the shooting in Atlanta of six women at spas and massage parlors. They were all women of Asian ethnicity. The intersection of race and sex and gun violence had obsessed the collective psyche of our society in ways not seen since the Donald Trump was banned from social media. My oldest son took the tragedy especially hard. When he’s not at school, he’s watching anime shows on his phone. He won’t watch them with English translations. He insists on listening to the original Japanese voice actors because he thinks they are better. He doesn’t understand Japanese, so he has to read the English subtitles; impressive since he has dyslexia and that means significant extra effort on his part. One of his best friends at school is Vietnamese. We watches a lot of “woke” Tic Tok videos, that are heavy on societal judgement. He was angry at the world and had no patience for nuance.
We were a racist country and we always had been and nothing had changed. Looking back I think I was a little scared of his intensity. I tried to inject some calming dialogue into his raging tirade. “Things have gotten better,” I insisted. “We still have a long way to go, but it isn’t as bad as it once was.” I told him the stories my dad had told me about how it was after World War II and how people loathed the “Japs.” He gleefully leaped from the topic of World War II to the containment camps calling them “concentration camps.” I continued my futile efforts to quell my son’s righteous rage against the nation he was born into as he trashed the police officer/spokesperson who minimized the attacks by saying the perpetrator “had a bad day.”
I had mixed feelings toward that officer. He was the target of a torrent of social media driven societal judgement and fury that I felt was disproportionate to his crime. He had been insensitive. He had posted a racist Facebook post about the coronavirus and China. He was wrong and he used some bad judgement. His decisions were harmful and hurtful to the victims and the nation. I disagreed with the idea that somehow this man should become a pariah for all time as a deterrent to racists. That was where I unwisely decided to plant my flag.
I told my son that when we shame people for making stupid choices like that officer did, that we create a backlash. Millions of people have posted racist crap on social media. Millions of people have said racially insensitive things. Does that say something about our culture? Yes. Do we need to be better? Yes. Do we need to make it clear to that officer that he needs to do some introspection? Yes. Does it help to create a martyr out of a police officer that many people know and love and can relate to by publicly shaming him and disregarding anything good he has ever done in his life? No. My son wasn’t having it. That was when he unloaded on me.
I was just as bad as everyone else. Would I be defending that shooter if he wasn’t white? (Incidentally I did not defend the shooter, nor will I ever defend such acts.) Why was I so quick to jump to my forgiveness line? Why did I feel compelled to defend racist behavior? That was when he said the statement that has echoed in my mind ever since. “Maybe there shouldn’t be forgiveness.”
I’ve pondered on that sentence for a while. Maybe there shouldn’t be forgiveness. Yesterday I got a text from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints that suggested that a good thing to do before Easter is to forgive someone. I’ve pondered on my own tortured relationship with the concept of forgiveness. The way some devout members talk about forgiveness is seems like they are mistaking it with Easter candy, something we can pass out to everyone without thought or concern. It’s like in their world lives are never shattered, abuse is never a problem, and we are all carrying around petty grievances that we can choose to set aside and everything will be roses again. Maybe some people live like that. My perspective is different.
The first time I chose not to forgive someone was in fourth grade. I had been in a tortured and toxic relationship with another girl for two years. She was bad for me on so many levels. She was spiteful and vindictive and treated me like dirt. Once we were playing a game of pickup sticks and she insisted that I had moved a stick when I hadn’t. Usually I would just let her have her way, but this time, I held my ground. The game ended in a rage and I knew that she would be expecting my groveling apology so we could make up. She might take a week or so to punish me before she accepted. That was our usual pattern. This time I was mad. I was tired of her games. I didn’t apologize. Weeks went by and I stood by myself on the playground fighting the urge to go and fix our broken relationship. When eventually she came to me to make things right I told her I didn’t want to be friends anymore.
Of course, I was living in a small town. She ended up in my ward when my family moved and we had to be friends since all of our friends were mutual. Still, she never got to treat me like dirt again. I refused to forgive. Sometimes I think its worth resisting that urge to make everything pretty again. Its so hard to do though. Like a whitened sepulchre, its compelling to continue making the outside of a rotten relationship look good. You can’t change the smell though. Time only makes it worse. Sometimes you just need to move on.
“Move on.” If I had a dime for every time I had told myself to do that I would be a wealthy woman. What makes moving on so hard to do is that you’ve invested so much time and effort into the relationship that you don’t have anything else. Toxic relationships suck everything into them like a black hole. I didn’t have any other friends in fourth grade. I spent recess alone. There was that girl or there was nothing for me. I chose nothing. If I had it to do again I would chose nothing again. I’ve chose nothing again and again rather than have the comfort of dysfunction.
“Maybe there shouldn’t be forgiveness!!” My son’s rage at me the other day revealed what both of us know. I want to jump to forgiveness with racial injustice. I want to make things pretty. I want to think that we as a society are making progress on race. I want to give grace and I want others to give grace. I want everyone to get along and sing together in the songs of brotherhood and sisterhood. The fact is, sometimes there shouldn’t be forgiveness. Sometimes we have to sit in the uncomfortable mess that we have created in this world and feel the pain of it.
There needs to be individual accountability, and society is pretty united on that. If some POS goes out with a rifle and shoots a bunch of women, he should go to prison for the rest of his life. If some officer says some stupid sh*t that makes a painful societal wound hurt even more, he needs to be reprimanded and never made a spokesperson for the department again. Society understands that people need to be held accountable for their sins. But what about collective accountability? That’s where things get hairy.
What about the person who sold the guy the weapon he used to commit the shooting? What about the friend that noticed he was becoming unstable? (Assuming someone knew.) What about the attitudes within the police department that made that officer feel like it would be okay to minimize the horrific crime against a marginalized population? What about the creator of the meme that the officer posted that made fun of the coronavirus and its origins in China? What about the former President of the United States who regularly stokes the flames of Asian American racism? What about the people who voted for him or ignored him or even agreed with him as he spouted his hatred and mockery? What about systemic racism? What about societal sins?
Individual sins are relatively easy. A person breaks the law. He runs a stop sign. The law is enforced by the traffic cop who issues a ticket. The perpetrator is punished by having to pay a fine or take a class. They are forced to confess and forsake their crime by the society before they are able to drive again. If they continue to engage in unsafe driving, their license is suspended. Nothing controversial about this process. Systemic problems are much more thorny and controversial. Sometimes healing and forgiveness can’t happen because wounds keep getting ripped open. Collective sin spreads like a pandemic.
Systemic problems run in families. Families can become dysfunctional in a heartbeat. Old unhealthy patterns and coping strategies get passed on and it seems like there is no way to change. Taking mental illness seriously and getting treatment is hard especially when families don’t want to change. Being a cycle breaker takes work and leadership. There’s not a lot of companionship when you’re blazing a trail. That’s okay. I’m with you.
There is a difference between forgiveness and healing. Sometimes moving on isn’t going to be comfortable and sometimes you have to end or drastically change relationships to do it. Moving on can be painful and lonely. Healing might seem like an etherical dream that comes to other people. It can happen. Forgiveness is harder. I’m not there yet, but I see the finish line. Someday I’ll savor that sweet draft of forgiveness. For now, I’ll sweat it out and keep moving on.
Sunday again. I didn’t dread it quite so much this week. Ben and I agreed that we would go on a bike ride this afternoon. That will give me something to think about when my soul gets sucked into the grief. I woke up to primary music. That is the hardest music for me. So simple, so direct, so unlike the feelings and thoughts inside me. My endless mental pacing is exhausting, and on Sunday it ramps up. I’m desperate to fix it; to make me whole again.
The truth will be paid for with confusion and suffering; searching and withholding judgement; patient waiting on the Lord until I am prepared to receive his truth. Patience. Long-suffering. Charity. Hope. Faith. I have to hold to those things. Tears came to my eyes again as I watched my boys leave the house with Ben dressed for church. I put on my make up and my dress today.
I started a drawing I had been planning for a few weeks. It’s a picture of two dried roses. I wanted to paint it in water colors, but I decided to just do a sketch first. I used my new light board to do the preliminary sketch. It was helpful, especially with roses since they are so complex. They make my artist brain hurt.
I thought about Eve and her decision to take the fruit. She did it because she wanted to have children. She knew what she had to do and that it would have consequences. She knew she would suffer. She knew it would be hard. She also knew there was no other way. As I drove to the church to pick up my sons, I wanted to turn around. I didn’t want to drive through the parking lot and remember who I used to be. But there was no other way.
They were beautiful playing in the sunshine under the battered and bare trees. I smiled and asked them how church was as they loaded into the minivan. They said Daddy spoke and that he was sad. I had forgotten it was fast Sunday. I thought of my tears and his. It’s so sad. I wondered again, as I have a thousand times if I should start going again. Then the words of the Savior came. “If ye are not one, ye are not mine.”
We are not one. We are not his. I am not one. I am not His. Trying to make sense of the schisms that exist right now in my nation and my church I feel a tearing inside. Somehow I have to keep my integrity in the midst of unprecedented pressure. To hold grief and gratitude in equal measure. I bury my weapons of social media war deep within the Earth. The battles of men don’t work the will of God. Nothing I can do will fix the broken outside myself.
God gave me responsibility for one person and that’s me. So I walk my path and submit to his will. I don’t know his design, but I know He hasn’t forgotten me. We walk together and he will give me what I need. My grief is balanced with my gratitude. In equal measure. The church isn’t a safe place for me. Maybe it never was. Maybe there is no safe place for me in this world. Still, my Savior gives me what I need. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord!
I have my children and my husband. I have my home and my art. I have so many blessings. Gratitude. Grief. In equal measure.
If I had loved her better,
If I hadn’t judged.
If I had lifted her burdens,
Instead of bearing a grudge
If I had seen the beam in my eye
And left hers well alone
Would we still be sisters?
But I hear a moan
Of time that passes empty
No phone calls, emails, or cards,
The memories we could have shared
Just an empty vase in shards
The beauty of what might have been
Fills my soul with regret
Each year that passes reminds me
That I haven’t yet
Removed the burden of guilt
I feel it on my chest
But reconciliation I fear
Will never give me rest.
So I will walk this path alone
My Calvary to find
I’ll follow my Lord to Golgotha
Pray for those I leave behind.
The other day I was reading about whole object relations. Mentally and emotionally healthy people are able to see others as they are and resist the urge to either idealize them or demonize them. That has been a skill that I continue to struggle with. Black and white thinking was all I knew for half of my life and too often it is encouraged within church society. Some people are socially savvy enough to pick up whole object relations, but many like me, have to learn it the hard way.
Donald Trump has been a particularly polarizing figure in part because people want to simply paint him as black or white. He is the savior of democracy and America or he is the devil sent to destroy it. The truth is naturally more complex. Donald Trump, in my mind, is a seriously flawed individual with a fragile self-esteem who didn’t have the skills to lead and couldn’t cope with that reality. The fact of his defeat in the election was simply something his mind could not deal with. His inability to accept and acknowledge defeat was obvious to those who understand his psychology. They predicted this outcome. His former lawyer and fixer Micheal Cohen warned us in his congressional testimony. His niece Mary Trump also warned that the transition of power would not go well. They were right.
His psychology is fairly straight forward. The national psychology is more difficult to understand. Why did so many identify in a personal way with the former President? Why did they project virtues on him that he clearly didn’t possess? Why do they vehemently protect him from any consequences he has earned including poor press coverage during his term and the impeachments that resulted from his irresponsible and dangerous behavior. Why? I assume that the lies they tell themselves about Donald Trump are similar to the lies they tell themselves about who they are. The hardest lies we face are the ones we tell ourselves.
This world is inhabited by imperfect broken people. We hurt one another and ourselves. At best, we have social structures that encourage and reward pro-social behaviors and punish anti-social ones. These structures are never perfect, but as they erode, we find that we miss them. At worst, those structures fail us and complete chaos and brutality prevail. I fear our once great nation is dissolving. It started slowly, but it is accelerating. Like the pandemic that rages across the land, the chaos, cynicism, and hopelessness are spreading exponentially. We lack the mental resources to cope.
As I posted on Facebook, I made the decision to leave the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. For now. I feel like God is calling my spirit to wander for a while. I need to embrace the fact that I am a pilgrim in a strange land and my heart yearns for a homeland that doesn’t exist on this planet. I keep going back to the same church and hoping my experience will be different, but sometimes the answer lies outside the box we place ourselves in. God is everywhere. He is in the stream and the mountains. He is in the wind. He can find me in my closet and sit beside me as I comfort a friend. He doesn’t live in buildings built with hands.
It has been tempting to see the church as evil; a deceptive organization that has hurt my recovery and shattered my illusions about God. There are times I feel that way. But when I try to conceptualize the church with whole object relations, a much more complex image immerges.
My depression accelerated when I was newly married and starting a demanding Elementary Education program, I was unable to afford treatment. My mom gave me some pills through my gynecologist at home so that I could manage my suicidal ideation. I tried to get counselling, but the student counseling center hours conflicted with my schedule as a student teacher. As I explained my plight to my bishop, he said, “I will be your counsellor.” We visited weekly. Looking back, it was a miracle that he was able to help me as much as he did. The Lord provided support for me when I desperately needed it. And he did it with a bishop who had little to no training in mental health.
After I graduated and I was able to go to counseling, I went to an LDS family therapist. He became like a second father to me. He helped me in ways I don’t think anyone else could have. When I needed to change counselors to someone closer to home, there were no LDS therapists nearby. Even though my new counselor was not LDS, my bishop still paid for my sessions when we ran out of money to pay for them. He made an effort to understand and I appreciate that. The church invested in my mental health and I will never forget that. If I can ever give back to the leadership or the members of the church, I will gladly do it.
On the other hand, I’ve seen in the members and some leaders an irrational and impenetrable resistance to the reality of mental health and what they don’t know. As the Savior said, “Forgive them, for they know not what they do.” They hurt people like me. They think they are helping. They want to help, but they refuse to see. I pray that God will open their eyes that they might be better ministers to the increasing number of suffering people.
The prophet and his apostles are trying to help us. They have provided the resources in handbooks, websites, youtube videos and manuals. Unfortunately, there are political and social trends more powerful than church leadership that have alienated members from the truths that could set us free from mental and emotional ignorance and the catastrophic consequences. There are none so blind as they who will not see.
As I look back to my pioneer ancestors for inspiration I see that they chose to build, not to tear down. They chose to serve, not to demand entitlements. They chose to get better, not to get bitter. That’s the path I want to take. I hope that someday the church is a safe and healthy place for me to be. Until then, I will go where He wants me to go. I will serve where he wants me to serve. I will be what he wants me to be. I will give judgement to the Lord who sees with perfect whole object relations. He is ever merciful to me as I plead for His forgiveness. Can I fail to give it? No. I will forgive to seventy times seven as my Lord has instructed. His grace is enough for me and for thee.
Lead, Kindly Light, amidst th’encircling gloom,
Lead Thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home,
Lead Thou me on!
Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene; one step enough for me.
I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou
Shouldst lead me on;
I loved to choose and see my path; but now
Lead Thou me on!
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will. Remember not past years!
So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still
Will lead me on.
O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone,
And with the morn those angel faces smile,
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile!
Meantime, along the narrow rugged path,
Thyself hast trod,
Lead, Saviour, lead me home in childlike faith,
Home to my God.
To rest forever after earthly strife
In the calm light of everlasting life.
Edward Henry Bickersteth
When Trump came to power in the Republican Party, I knew I had a choice to make. I knew who Trump was and what he represented; the worst aspects of white America. Entitled, lawless, selfish, consumed with lust for the things of the world, and everything I had tried to think I wasn’t was embodied in the person of Donald Trump. I wasn’t like him! He didn’t represent me and “real conservatives.” We are good people, I told myself. As my illusions have been stripped away this past year or two, I have become conscious of the true depth of our predicament and my own enabling role in what has happened.
Rick Wilson wrote the book, “Everything Trump Touches Dies,” which has been shortened to #ETTD, an enduring hashtag on Twitter. The truth is, even those of us who have fought Trump the hardest have been touched by him. Some of us fought off his assault, and some of us froze and let him, some of us invited him in and revelled as he defiled us and others. The truth is, all of us have been touched. The question is, will we die? Will we pull together and cast off the evil that has overwhelmed us? Is it too late to heal the deep wounds that have been self-inflicted on the body politic? The defiling and desecration of the capital was the physical representation of what has been spiritually happening for the last five years. The breaking forth of white supremacists and their hateful bile spilling out into the sacred places of public trust, defiling our public offices, and wounding the soul of the nation parallels what has happened in the hearts and minds of our citizens. It is clear for all to see if they will open their eyes.
And still many refuse to see it. The Republican Party has been poisoned. That poison has been distributed throughout the nation into our churches and schools; our homes and families. Perhaps forgiveness is the path Christ wants me to take, but I am loathe to put my foot on that path until I have fully processed the trauma of what has happened to me and the deep feelings of betrayal and disillusionment I feel. To deny the reality of the awful state of the church is sin to me. It is up to the leaders of the church to address the poison within it and I pray that they can. It is up to them to make it safe for me and others who suffer from the sins of this plague of disinformation and sin. I will retreat into the core of my own soul and rebuild the shambles of my own belief system.
I wrote a few days ago a post called, “Confession.” I am exploring and reflecting upon my fears of black people; fears that had been seeded and nurtured by bigotry. Bigotry I had mistaken for culture; a culture I needed to learn to operate in and survive in. Perhaps that was true fourteen years ago when I moved into an apartment complex full of beautiful black faces. I wasn’t afraid of them until white people told me to be. I learned fear. But today I can choose to unlearn it.
Yesterday was Martin Luther King Jr.’s holiday. I thought about the schema I have erected in my mind about the civil rights movement, the red scare, the position of my church on black members and hundreds of other interactions I have had with black people since I moved to the south. I remember my dad telling me about his mission in Virginia and South Carolina where he saw horrible racist attacks on innocent black victims. He said one experience that stood out in his mind was when he saw two well dressed black women walking down the road in the rain. A car drove past and purposefully swerved into the gutter to splash the women. He told me he would never understand the kind of hatred that would inspire that kind of behavior. He said the black people he met were always kind to him as a missionary. He was not allowed to preach the gospel to them.
As a girl I read every book from Ezra Taft Benson I could get my hands on. His words spoke into my mind as though he was there next to me. His warnings about communism and socialism awoke in me a fierce desire to protect my nation and bring freedom to those who suffered under communist regimes. I read about his trips through the iron curtain to meet with members who lived there. His commitment to the principles of freedom inspired me. He lit a flame deep within my soul to fight for freedom all the days of my life for every child of God under heaven. Ezra Taft Benson didn’t say much about the civil rights movement except that communists had tried to take advantage of the racial divides in the nation to overthrow the government and institute communism.
I had always viewed Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. with ambivalence. I felt like I needed to respect him, but not too much. I couldn’t be a liberal. I think I read his “I Have a Dream” speech in school and I liked it. I thought he wanted to heal our racial divide and I wanted that too. After all, the communists couldn’t use black grievance to overthrow the government if the black people aren’t grieved. It was my view that black people just needed time and patience and that eventually they would integrate as other cultures have into the fabric of America.
Moving to the South I have seen that it just isn’t that simple. Segregation still exists. The schools are integrated, but more often than not, there is a divide between black and white. Black people in our community talk differently, interact differently, and worship at different churches than white people. Even at work, my husband seemed not to work with very many black people. I’ve encouraged my sons to be kind and accepting of all people who are different. I’ve tried to be an example of friendship and compassion. But I see that there is more I can do.
The Savior wants me to look forward and not obsess about my sins which he has paid for. He also wants me to face the uncomfortable truth and change to live in accordance with it. I bought the book Strength to Love by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. I think perhaps if I listen to him and others who brought the civil rights movement into existence, that maybe I will have some subjects to talk to black people about. Maybe if I take the time to see Dr. King’s vision, I can see myself in it and find a new path to Zion.
The end of one road is always the beginning of another one. The Savior tells me to keep the faith and put one foot in front of the other, like my ancestors did as they crossed the plains to the Salt Lake Valley. I have a dream that one day I will sit down with the suffering and feel the embrace of true fellowship. I have a dream that one day I can be surrounded by people who value and love me. I have a dream today.
They have rights who dare maintain them; we are traitors to our sires,
Smothering in their holy ashes Freedom’s new-lit altar-fires;
Shall we make their creed our jailer? Shall we, in our haste to slay,
From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral lamps away
To light up the martyr-fagots round the prophets of to-day?
New occasions teach new duties; Time makes ancient good uncouth;
They must upward still, and onward, who would keep abreast of Truth;
Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires! we ourselves must Pilgrims be,
Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the desperate winter sea,
Nor attempt the Future’s portal with the Past’s blood-rusted key.
The Present Crisis by James Russell Lowell
“I can totally make my own dog food,” I thought to myself confidently. We usually feed Pepper the best dog food from Kroger; the expensive kind that has to be refrigerated. We combine it with the dry kibble she won’t eat otherwise. She has always been a little small and slow to eat, so finding the right food has been something of a challenge. It has been almost two years since we brought her home as a tiny pup. When the grocery store stopped giving us her food they said they were out of stock.
I did some internet research. I’ve had some quinoa sitting in my pantry for a long time because the kids won’t eat it even though it is really healthy. Sure enough, doctor google confirmed, quinoa was a good food for dogs. I cooked especially prepared chicken with no seasonings, shredded it up, combined it with cooked quinoa, shredded carrots, squash, or sweet potatoes. Even though the websites like the American Kennel Club insisted that a veterinarian should approve the recipe, I was sure that the food was just what Pepper needed. I threw in a handful of grated cheese for flavor. She loved it and ate it up. I’ve been happily feeding her the homemade food for about a month.
Pepper has been one of the few things in my life right now that has brought me peace and joy. My depressive symptoms have resurged and I am struggling to function. Pepper never judges me and that is a precious gift. She sits in my lap and licks the tears from my face. She has been a constant source of comfort. No wonder when I saw her squatting on the carpet with blood dripping from her bottom, I panicked. She couldn’t die! I had just finished telling my Bishop that I wanted to leave the church on good terms. I had just had one of the most difficult moments of my whole life, and now the little animal that had been by my side through every trial of the past two years was vomiting and pooping blood. Pepper couldn’t die.
I pleaded and cried to my Heavenly Father. I wrapped her in a blanket, called the veterinarian and Ben and I rushed her to the animal hospital. She was vomiting and bleeding and peeing everywhere and whining piteously. They admitted her to the hospital and the tests revealed pancreatitis, a disease that is usually caused by excessive fat in the diet. I found out that it can also be caused by mites in old dogfood that is not properly stored. I threw away the dogfood I had made for Pepper as well as the old dry food bag just in case it had mites.
Little Pepper suffered a lot. She was in the hospital for three days and now she is recovering at home. Today Ben carefully measured out the prescribed dogfood and I mixed her medicine into it. She wouldn’t eat it unless I scooped up small pieces in my hand and held them out for her to lick the food and medicine from my fingers. As I provided Pepper this simple service, I thought of the food I had lovingly made for her. I don’t know for sure if that caused her pancreatitis. She might have eaten something out of the trash, or it might have been mites in her old dry dogfood. It doesn’t matter whether I intended to hurt Pepper or not, I likely did hurt her. In my confidence fed by online subject matter I didn’t fully understand, I decided not to consult authority. I thought I knew of myself. I thought I could skip the important step of checking the diet with Pepper’s veterinarian.
The internet can make us feel like experts. We have vast amounts of information in our pockets. This can lead us to think we know things we don’t. I threw away the dog food I made for Pepper because I love my dog more than I like being right. I am now feeding her a strict diet of prescribed food until she is completely recovered which will probably be at least a month. When faced with a big veterinarian bill and a very sick puppy, I had to face the reality of what I didn’t know. If I continued to feed Pepper the food that made her sick, I might kill her. She is much more important to me than my own ill advised dogfood experiments.
God sends us experiences to teach us wisdom. I learned a lesson about myself and my internet “research.” I learned that an innocent mistake made with loving intent can still hurt. Those hurts must be treated, just like Pepper’s pancreatitis had to be treated. Sometimes it takes time. Sometimes we have to change the way we do things. Sometimes we have to listen to those who know more than we do.
Another lesson I learned was in the face of my eleven year old son. When we got home today, he went in the house and brought Pepper out to me while I was still in the van. Pepper, weak and sick with the hair shaved on one tiny leg, was still just as happy to see me as ever. She licked my face and wagged her tail as I cuddled her close. My son beamed with joy as he watched the reunion. The love and care and patience that I show to Pepper and the unique bond between us teaches my sons about Christlike love and service better than any family home evening lesson. As I knelt on the floor with wet stinky dogfood in my fingers feeding my sick fur baby, my sons were upstairs. They didn’t see that quiet moment of service. They didn’t need to because they have seen me do such acts before. For their brothers, for them, and for anyone, or animal, who stands in need.
I’ve spent a lot of time and energy trying to save the world online. The truth is, the Savior has already done that. Its my job to learn. I keep coming back to him who is Mighty to Save. He sees the mother in her humble role. He sees the child and the dog. He gives his love and his light to all those who come unto him in faith. He doesn’t live in buildings built with hands, but in hearts crafted in the furnace of affliction. I will sing his praises all the day long and into the night. He will sanctify my tears and magnify my witness.
Don’t steady the ark. It is one of the oldest of admonitions. There is good reason for not trying to work against God’s will and substitute your judgement for his. And yet that has been what I have been trying to do for decades. Judging, admonishing, pleading, and hurting trying to steady the ark.
God has his church, he has called his prophets, it is his job to fix the broken that has poisoned the church culture. It is his job to do those things. It isn’t mine. My job is to come unto Him and live. My job is to go where he wants me to go. My covenants that I made with him were not with my bishop or my stake president. They weren’t with any church leader or member. My covenants were with Him. To obey His commandments and follow His direction. To hear him and listen to Him.
Faith bends. Faith is the tree in the storm that won’t be moved. Faith endures through the storms of doubt that batter it. When the calm follows, the voice of the Lord is clear. Serve a broken world. Find where you fit. Find where you are valued. Find where the spark of your spirit is welcomed and encouraged. Surround yourself with people who help you develop into a more Christlike version of you.
Will I serve the homeless? The refugees? The elderly? The women’s shelter? I don’t know. I will see where I fit and find my place. I will roll up my sleeves and serve. I will listen to the voices that need to be heard. I will observe God in their faces and in their lives. I will learn compassion.
The sacking of the capital shook me to my core. There is no doubt in my mind now that Trump and his supporters are desperate to prop up a racist, classist, and economically oppressive system. That is what fuels the movement. That is the motivation behind the hate, suspicion, and fear is a desperation to preserve the privilege of the few, over the voices of the many. It isn’t so simple as my words suggest. Most of Trump’s supporters are not powerful or privileged. The forces at work in the movement of Trumpism are complex and many faceted and everyone is accountable to God for their choices during this period of social and political upheaval. As for me, I have sinned.
The conservative talking points that used to resonate with me make me feel ashamed now. They were the thin veneer I used to protect myself from the reality that I have ignored and neglected my duty to hear and understand the voices of those who suffer. My eyes have turned away from George Floyd and his people who suffer in a broken world that has hurt them and continues to hurt them. I’ve listened to voices of people who have told me what I wanted to hear and not the ones I needed to hear.
I have lived in Texas for fourteen years and yet I have only two black people I would call friends. I know so little about their stories it’s embarrassing. I make excuses. I’m a busy mom with many responsibilities. I have fragile mental health and I might not be able to handle the suffering of others. I make these excuses while trying to fit into a world of white privilege I want the acceptance of. Outwardly I have worshiped Jesus Christ, but inwardly I worshiped an idol of gold.
This is my fault alone. I have stumbled around with a beam in my eye while trying to cast out the motes in the eyes of others. I’ve judged unrighteously. I’ve sinned. God will judge Trump’s supporters. In judging them, I hoped to shame them into repentance. That isn’t the Lord’s way.
At the same time, I cannot worship with them. I cannot go to the temples and churches where they worship. My soul is grieved as my illusions have been stripped away and I see the sin that has festered there; the worship of money and power, the craving for the honors of men, the closing of my ears to the suffering. I have condemned Trump vehemently for the sins that I saw reflected from me in his privileged face. I cannot surround myself with those who excuse and encourage that sin in me.
My writing may seem confusing and contradictory to some. How can I condemn Trump supporters while at the same time repent of condemning them? What I have learned in my suffering and my prayers is that the reason I fought Trumpism so hard, the reason I preached and posted for the last five years was because I was trying to protect myself from the sin of Trumpism that still resided in my own heart; the need to believe that my conservative beliefs are righteous at their core. Since I have purged the sin, I no longer feel that urge to fix Trump’s supporters. I’m not one of them anymore. I don’t have to “cleanse the inner vessel” because after seeing my own sin, confessing it, and forsaking it, I know that I am nothing like those who defiled the capital or those who make excuses for them. They have their path. I can stop trying to fix them. I can stop trying to steady the ark. I can stop trying to worship with them. They aren’t my people.
My people are the downtrodden and the lonely. My people are the abused and the mistreated. My people are the suffering that don’t fit and don’t belong. Its time for me to join my people, not in temples with soft chairs and glorious chandeliers, or catered parties, or in fine clothing. I don’t judge those who have chosen a different path, but they aren’t my people. My people are in the places of suffering. God wants me to worship with them. To pray with them. To suffer with them. I didn’t want to before because I was afraid of the darkness. I didn’t think Christ was enough to help me bare the burdens. Through suffering, my heart is drawn to Him. He is enough. He is mighty to save.
For those who have prayed for me, I thank you for your prayers. For those whom I have judged, I’m sorry. I was wrong. God only knows what is in your heart. He will judge between me and thee. I pray that God will make me a better witness. I lay my sins at his feet. I promise to put Him at the center of my heart and purge myself of the false gods I have worshiped in the past.
The trauma of this year is pretty intense. A lot of the writing I’ve done on this blog has been about processing “little t traumas” from my past and modeling some thinking strategies that I use in my journaling to keep my past hurts from getting in the way of my present and future opportunities and joy. Because of the ever present trauma of the pandemic and related disasters in the present, I get overwhelmed when I try to process it. That makes me feel blocked as a writer and that’s part of the reason why I haven’t posted much recently. I just can’t process the trauma right now or I won’t be able to function as a mother to my kids and do what I need to do to just survive this moment.
That’s okay. Getting through the trauma is what is important right now. The brain compartmentalizes and represses trauma for a reason. There is a time and place for healthy emotional processing and it usually isn’t in the moment we are going through the trauma. I have been journaling, but a lot of it is pretty dark. I read through my last post and it is pretty dark. I end up feeling worse after I write sometimes and that really isn’t very helpful right now. What I have found has been very helpful is to zoom in to the present moment, focus on the beauty and joy in small and simple things, and explore my creativity in new ways.
I realize that not everyone has access to the time and resources needed to create the things I will discuss and demonstrate in these blog posts. (I plan to do several). My intent with these posts is simply to give you some ideas for integrating some regenerative creative projects into your lives that might help you cope with life right now. Hopefully you can tailor these ideas to your own needs and constraints.
Most of us live our lives immersed in creativity. We watch T.V. and movies where performers act, sing, and dance. We walk past sculptures, live, work, and shop in architectural creations. We listen to songs on the radio or streaming service. Seldom do we consider that we are capable of actually creating ourselves. The brave and expressive among us may sing in the shower or as we drive while listening to our favorite songs. Maybe some may even join a community or church choir. Some may paint, draw, write or do crafts, but afraid of being judged or criticised, they don’t share their work.
I’ve come to the conclusion that we have created a society in which we are consumers of art and yet not creators of it. We have outsourced our creative duties to a selective restricted few who are judged by the free market or those with means to have the kind of expression that is worth amplifying. The rest of us become the passive recipients of mass produced art that doesn’t really have much soul in it. This phenomenon leads to a kind of emptiness in our society in which we feel disengaged and uninvested. This disengagement can fuel mental health problems, lethargy, cynicism, and as we’ve seen with the rise of populism around the world, leave us vulnerable to the flattery and lies of a demagogue.
I have a vision of a society that is saturated with art. I have a vision of every man, woman, and child having the opportunity to have their own creative expressions heard, seen, and valued. Bob Ross, that cultural icon of painting, inspired millions of people as he shared his talent with all of us. He was no Picaso. That didn’t matter. He could make beautiful paintings and he believed that you could too. How many lives are more fulfilled because he shared? Social media, with all its problems, has become the ideal medium for artists to share their work. Pinterest is a gold mine of artistic inspiration. Facebook allows artists to share with friends and family, or join groups where artists share tips and tricks. TicTok has small videos of bite sized inspiration.
As a mom, I’ve tried to inject some of these artists and their work into my sons’ online diet. Often art is considered a girl thing, so finding Bobby Duke Arts YouTube channel was a Godsend for teaching my sons that creativity and art are for men and boys too. Here are some links to my favorite Bobby Duke videos.
https://youtu.be/2iZmLUHiASI Majora’s Mask
https://youtu.be/O5au9HWjKFM Thor’s Axe
Bobby Duke has teamed up with various other online artists who have created and inspired creative instincts in millions who watch their videos. With a few inexpensive tools and a lot of guts, you can make some pretty incredible things! Here are some other videos I have watched with my boys.
https://youtu.be/xC6J4T_hUKg Lightsaber build
https://youtu.be/u2sSSZDZ-SA Wood dress
https://youtu.be/ALbt17LLH54 Link sculpture
Metalwork, woodwork, stonework are all very appealing to my sons who love working with power tools. The other day my oldest son decided he didn’t like how the attachment to his Nerf Gun worked. He decided he could reengineer the attachment to work better. His dad helped him use the saw to remove the attachment and after he had removed the screws, he had it in pieces and ready to reinvent. I loved the expression on his face when he proudly showed me his stripped down Nerf part. Yes, it’s messy. No, he probably won’t be as successful as he hopes he will be. Yes, he will learn a lot about taking risks and using his mind and creative power.
It’s human nature to be focused on the outcome. “What will I make? Will it be valuable? Can I sell it? Will my efforts be worth it? What if all I make is junk?” What I have learned as an artist is that when I focus on the process and not the product, I make better art. I let my heart and soul tell me what medium to use. Maybe it will be something new. Maybe it will be something old and familiar. Maybe I will try to make something original, or maybe I’ll copy someone else’s work. Maybe I’ll just pull out an adult coloring book if nothing is coming to me. The product doesn’t really matter. It’s the process. Whether people appreciate what I make doesn’t matter.
One of my most consistent sources of inspiration is ancient cave artists. Everytime I think I don’t have the right tools to make art or I don’t have enough talent to make something meaningful, I think of those ancient cave painters. They had poor light, crude materials, a difficult surface, little to no training, and very little leisure time. Yet they created. They took the time to express their experiences and they are beautiful. If they can make art, so can I. Art is not a zero sum game. There isn’t a limited amount of talent or ideas in the universe. God is an endless source of inspiration. He waits for you to muster the faith in yourself to actually make the effort to express. Once you do, he will provide you with the tools and opportunities you need. Focus on producing quantity, not quality. When you finish a pad of art paper, celebrate! When you use up your paints or chalks, pat yourself on the back. Eventually, you will make something that you can’t stop looking at. You will fall in love with it because it is the concrete representation of God within you; unique, divine, and fascinating. It won’t be perfect, because art never is. The flaws will be beautiful too.