Exponent II's Blog, page 152

Dear Exponent Reader

The following is the Winter 2021 Letter from the Editor by Managing Editor Pandora Brewer. This annual contest issue features all kinds of letters as well as dozens of postcard art images. If you would like to receive this issue, please subscribe by January 15, 2021.

Dear Exponent Reader, 

As I write this letter, I imagine you reading it. You discover the magazine in the mailbox, and paging through, pause to peruse these words in your front yard, in your kitchen, maybe even later that night propped against your pillow before falling asleep. I wonder what you are not doing so that you might take these few minutes. What activity you have arranged for the kids or what meeting is on mute. We have found this moment together in our busy lives to share, me in writing to you, you in choosing to read. 

I wish I could lift this message from the page and envelop it in its own wrapping, inviting you to rip the seal, slide out the paper, and unfold like a treasure map. Letters are not essays. Letters speak directly, in that unique mix of first and second person voice, more like talking than writing. Letters seem handwritten even when typed. They can be read over and over, allowing the words to seep in slowly, whether the sender and receiver see each other every day or haven’t spoken in years. In a world of digital immediacy, letters are a different communication path altogether. Within their scrawled grace, in and out of thickets of thought, we move without knowing exactly where we are going. In our search for each other, we always find our way. 

We write letters to find love. I met the boy I wanted to marry, then got engaged to another. Realizing my mistake, I tried to reconcile with the first boy, but he was leaving to study abroad within weeks.  This was before email, before text, when long distance calls were too expensive to consider. So we wrote letters. On yellow legal pads in oversized longhand loops of consciousness, I detailed my adventures in a new job and new city, on my own for the first time. And in spider fine, indecipherable runes on airmail paper, he transcribed what he was learning and why it mattered to him. We revealed, sheet after sheet, the selves beneath the surface of dating culture and expectations that had caused rifts in the relationship. A year in letters, echoing a long history of such correspondence. Some of the most beautiful writing on record is between lovers; anticipating, longing, apart yet together, clinging to a stack of paper tied with a ribbon.   

We write letters to say thank you. When our hearts are near bursting, the gratitude flows from mind to hand and onto the page, articulating in words that swirl and glow. Crammed on a small card, clutching a pen without autocorrect, we try to fit this exclamation of joy – thank you for this one thing and for everything. Your act of kindness made a difference. A letter to acknowledge, to reinforce, to celebrate our best selves. 

We write letters to make connections. In this strange year when we see less of each other in person and more of each other on screen, exchanging letters is a continuation unaffected by a pandemic. Unlike that vague frustration we feel in the just-perceptible delay in a video feed, we write and send a letter knowing our person will receive it later. Our contest this winter was to share narratives in the form of letters. A challenge that marks and transcends separation, demonstrating the ancient and yet ever relevant potential to move someone from alone to belonging in the space of “Dear” and “Yours Truly.”    

The letters we received, and you will read, reach out to a wide range of recipients. Jennifer Doxy asks in Letter to Oscar Wilde what he has learned of the human soul as he has moved through this life and into the next. Amy Sorensen’s letter writer is the omniscient voice of the feminine divine bringing comfort and strength to her mortal daughter in Motherhood is Not Your Only Making. In Katherarina Magdalena, Millie Tullis writes to a pioneer girl distant and yet not so far from what they both know about power and lack of power in their lives. Noah’s wife shares advice in her letter called Never Marry a Prophet, by Naomi Home. Luiza Kulchetscki      explores fundamental questions of existence and belief in Dear God. Expanding the conversation through time, Julie Touvi writes letters to her daughter in The Box. Throughout are postcards created by artists, each creating their version of a 6×4 space waiting for a message.

What is most important to share in this letter about letters? You, the reader, complete a process that begins with an idea – shaped, visualized, printed – surrounding you in that moment when you open the cover. You react with a smile or a frown, bringing a question to the dinner table to discuss. You are who we imagine turning every page and we write and envision every word, every color, every line just for you. 

Sincerely,

The Exponent II Editors

Grieving the Murder of a Friend

CW: Domestic violence, death

“I brought these for you. I had a feeling you’d know what to do with them.” Jenna* stood at my door, 10 wildly colored pages in her hands. As I thumbed through them, I read affirmations like “Be the Best You!” and “You Are Fabulous!” I smiled. “I know just what to do with them.” 10 LGBTQIA kiddos struggling to reconcile their divinity in a conservative church each received one of Jenna’s creations. 

She did things like that, my friend Jenna. 

Once, she showed up with a necklace pendant featuring a tree woven out of silver. On the tree were stones in seven colors forming a rainbow of leaves across the branches. “I saw this and thought of you,” she said, shrugging off my delight. But I know she was pleased with the treasure she had found, and which she had given away. She gave more of herself than maybe she should have. 

The chakra pendant Jenna gave me because rainbows

Some would say that her generosity, her ability to see good in people, brought her killer into her life. That feels like victim blaming. Women aren’t killed because of what they do or don’t do. Women are killed because some men are killers. And anyway, Jenna was no one’s victim. She landed a solid hook to his eye in her struggle at the end, and the mug shot taken after his arrest shows him in a hospital gown, testament to her ability and willingness to fight back. Her generosity was, I believe, the thing that kept her alive, that gave her motivation to push through hard things.

I want to say that her boyfriend killed her because he was wicked, abusive, destructive. Evil. But I know Jenna would be angry if I put it that way. She once told me, about a mutual friend, “She has so much pain. She just doesn’t know how to handle it. I’ll be here for her when she needs me.” She had limitless patience for our weaknesses, and gave infinite chances, even to those who hurt her. If she wouldn’t call her killer ‘evil’ what right do I have to put that label on him?

I could say that Jenna’s murderer was trapped in a system that refused mental health care to those who need it, a product of toxic masculinity that locked his emotions and trauma deep inside of him, until one day it exploded and caught Jenna in the blast.

For all I would like to be more Jenna-like, I’m full of fury. When I first wrote this, I wanted the mouth of hell to open wide for his soul. I wanted her murderer to drown in a river of boiling blood, Charon patrolling the banks. But in my mind’s eye I saw Jenna’s response to that, and it’s weighing on me. She’d stare at me, not saying anything, but sniffing in that “hmph” way she had. She’d done that before, when I suggested someone in her past who had hurt her would find justice when they met God, and that justice wouldn’t be kind to them. She didn’t believe in a God of torments. She believed that God healed, and that when we finally met divinity we would become whole through God’s love. And so I feel ashamed for hating her murderer. I’m not ready to want him forgiven in any divine sense (I’m not Jenna, after all), but maybe I can get to a place where I don’t relish visions of flames falling from the sky. Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad he’s in jail. But maybe he’ll spend the rest of his life repenting, and maybe that’s enough.

Jenna thought there was too much sorrow in the world. She wore leggings with unicorns and starbursts on them. She dyed her hair pink and purple and blue. She covered her arms and back with dozens of tattoos and plans for a dozen more, all in vibrant hues, each telling a story of her triumph, her joy, her divinity. And she never left a walk, or my house, or the beach, or the school parking lot (where we stayed too long talking about our kids) without making me laugh with her irreverent sense of humor.

For my birthday one year, she dropped off a small chocolate bundt cake. “I know how much you love chocolate, and I love you, so I brought you chocolate. You don’t have to share.”

Christ said, “Lift up the hands which hang down,” and then he made Jenna who did just that. The weakest, the saddest, the most downtrodden, found warmth and welcome at Jenna’s. I count at least 13 people who faced homelessness but who found refuge for a month or two or eight in her home. She kept teenagers from the streets when their parents kicked them out. She took in mothers and children.

A few years ago, she decided she wanted to hold a garage sale for people who would not be able to afford Christmas gifts. But this yard sale would be free. So, in November, she collected new and gently used items from everyone she could and put them in her yard. And then she set about personally inviting people through facebook groups, support groups, word of mouth. She had a friend set up his portable photo studio so parents could have pictures of their children. Another friend brought a bouncy house for the kids. She had cookies and cocoa. No one was turned away. She didn’t require proof of poverty because, as she said, “If someone says they need something, then they need it. I’m not the judge.”

The yard sale became an annual tradition and everyone was welcome to give or take, as they were able. She never did like people to feel judged. Or to be judged by them.

Once in Relief Society shortly after she was baptized, the teacher theorized on the consequences of sin, like having a child out of wedlock. Jenna raised her hand, and, without waiting to be called on, simply said, “My child is not a sin. He’s a gift.” I never heard anyone in that class refer to sex outside of marriage as a sin again.

That was Jenna. Tattooed, swearing, tongue-pierced, sleeveless-tank-wearing Goddess of generosity and love. The world is covered in shadows now. Sorrow sits on my chest, pushes my heart down, makes it hard to breathe.

The last time I saw her, it was late. She was picking up her son after a nursing shift during Covid. “I love you, Jenna. You’re a rockstar,” I called as she jog-hopped to her running car. And she responded, as she always did, “I love you, too, sister.” I hold that memory to me, a gift.

It isn’t just my own loss that fills me with rage for the man who said he loved her and then held her down while he tore the breath from her body. It’s fury that there are teens who will now be on the streets. There are mothers facing food insecurity who won’t have Christmas gifts for their children. It’s a young child who needs his mom to stand between Relief Society sisters and him. And, yes, it is also my own grief, my own need to feel loved just as I am. To have Jenna, cup of coffee in her hand, stand next to me the way she did on the first day of school last year. I need her, when I start crying, to move just slightly closer to me, enough so that her shoulder touches mine. Not making a big deal about it. Not crying with me. Just sharing her warmth and her presence while I grieve.

*Names have been changed to protect the family’s privacy.

Any history of strangulation in a relationship puts the person at greater risk for homicide by an intimate partner. If you or someone you know needs help, contact http://the hotline.org

The Hellmouth set design from ‘Il Pomo D’Oro’ 1668 Mathäus Küsel

Come, Let Us Anew

I think it’s fairly safe to say that for the overwhelming majority of people, 2020 was a pretty terrible year. As the year drew to a close, many people, myself included, were excited for a fresh start and glad to put the year behind us. Then the predictable contrarians jumped on social media to deny us our joy. They took great glee in raining on our parade by saying that just because the calendar flips over a day doesn’t mean that anything changes.

In a literal sense, that’s true. All the stuff that made 2020 horrible didn’t disappear at the stroke of midnight like Cinderella’s dress. But in a symbolic sense, it’s still meaningful to take a fresh start. We’re not suddenly different people on Sunday when we take the sacrament, but it’s still a meaningful ritual to commit ourselves to change and to doing better every week. And the start of a new year can likewise be a chance to turn over a new leaf and put the past behind us. It’s an exercise in hope, which is a virtue that takes its place right alongside faith and charity.

Most of what went wrong in 2020 is stuff that I’m personally powerless to fix. I can’t cure covid. I can’t do anything about a president who wants to thwart the rule of law or governors who are ruling by fiat. I can’t stop police brutality. I can’t fix the economy or feed all the starving children who have been thrust into poverty. I can’t cure the mental health problems that current events have exacerbated.

But I can keep plugging along in my little corner of the world. I can take care of myself, my employee, and my clients. By caring for myself I have the bandwidth to care for others, and I relieve others from needing to care for me. And every person who is able to lift themselves and those around them will have a cascading effect, and bit by bit we can make 2021 better than 2020. And that’s why I’m going to do new year’s resolutions this year – as an act of defiance against the nihilism that is so tempting to slip into. Even though I can’t control the big things, I can work on small things, and many people doing small things can add up to something big. And we can build Zion, piece by piece.

When I contemplate my annual resolutions, I use Luke 2:52 as a guide: “And Jesus increased in wisdom and in stature, and in favor with God and with people.” I see that as four areas to work on – mental, physical, spiritual, and social. Together that makes for a well-rounded person.

I’m probably not going to keep all of my resolutions, but I’m going to try anyway. Even if I only manage 50% success, that’s still better than where I’m at now. And next year, I’ll try again.

2020 dumpster fire candle

I burned a candle on New Year’s Eve to say goodbye to the year. The candle was a flaming representation of my desire to be done with 2020. Candles, smoke, and incense have been used throughout time to represent prayer. It’s my fervent prayer that the damage of 2020 will be short-lived and that we’ll be able to pick up the pieces and move forward quickly. And small as it is, I’m going to do my part to make that a reality.

2020 Year in Review

I know it’s officially 2021 today and we would all like to put 2020 completely behind us, but I’d like to take one more moment to look a how 2020 went here on our blog.

New this year:

The Exponent II Magazine got a new Editor in Chief. Welcome, Rachel Reuckert!

We had a couple of blog series this year: Coping With Covid, and The WHO Year of the Nurse and Midwife. Go take a peek back on those great posts. Our blog series are always on-going, so if you’d like to contribute to any of our series, submit a guest post!

We have had many new bloggers: Melissa Malcom-King, Katie Rich, Kaylee, Ramona Morris, Mindy Farmer, Aimee Hickman, and Bryn Brody. Check out their posts!

Top Posts of 2020

5. BYU, Randy Bott, and Racism by Abby Hansen

4. Let Me See if I’ve Got This Straight by Violadiva

3. Freedom of Religion under attack…again. by Em

2. Guest Post: At the Crossroads of Being Black and LDS by Dumdi Baribe Wallentine

Guest Post: My Apology for My Complicity by Monika Crowfoot



Most Commented-on Posts of 2020

5. Guest Post: My Apology for My Complicity by Monika Crowfoot

4. Guest Post: Do You See Me? by Ramona Morris

3. The Eight Cow Wife: A Toxic Iconic Mormon Parable by Chiaroscuro

2. The (Male) Privilege of Partaking #CopingWithCOVID19 by Violadiva

Performing #givethanks by Liz

There were a lot fewer comments this year, but that is probably because a lot of the conversation is happening in other forums, such as our Facebook group. Join us over there, subscribe to the Exponent II Magazine, follow us on Facebook, Instagram (also our art account!), Twitter, and Goodreads!

Let’s hope we can make 2021 better for everyone. Happy New Year!

Social Distancing, Maasai Mara
Used in accordance with CC BY 2.0

An anxious faith

Photo by Nitesh Meena on Unsplash

By Emily Larson

One thing I haven’t missed one bit about this pandemic is attending church.  Our church services shut down fairly early into the pandemic, and for a while, we were simply encouraged to do services in our home.  We did that a couple of times, but we fairly quickly evolved into having quiet Sundays at home, simply because it was easier to do nothing than it was to plan and carry out a Sunday meeting and lesson.  Eventually, our ward moved to Zoom meetings, and we have opted not to attend, mostly because we forget, but also because we’ve come to really love our quiet Sundays without any church.

I don’t think I realized until this pandemic that Sundays could be lovely!  Whenever people referred to it as a “day of rest,” I would sarcastically grumble that it’s only restful if you aren’t trying to wrangle four little kids into a pew and throw enough snacks and books at them to keep them quiet.  As my kids have gotten older, and as my relationship with the church has become more complicated, attending church became a source of profound anxiety and distress.  While most of it was fine, there would always be one talk, or one testimony, or one comment in Sunday School that would get under my skin.  Sometimes it was a truly racist/sexist/bigoted comment, but sometimes it was something entirely faithful and benign, but would remind me of the heartache I felt around many church issues (like attending the temple).  I would spend at least 3-4 hours after church processing the experience, and trying to help myself stand solid in my own truth and relationship with God, while also holding space that everybody has a different experience.  I felt strongly that I could believe a certain way, and other people could believe a different way, and that’s ok, because a diversity of viewpoints and experiences is the whole point of attending church based on geographical boundaries.  But in order to get to that point, I’d have to expend a lot of emotional energy unpacking and repackaging whatever happened at church that week.

I remember reading a blog post on Zelophehad’s Daughters a few years ago that really stuck with me.  Lynnette wrote about attending the Episcopal church, and how attending it was such an edifying experience, and she didn’t realize that attending church could be a net positive in her life.  She wrote,

The thing is, without even realizing it, I’d developed a religious identity centered around angst. And part of me liked that. Part of me even believed that faith that wasn’t completely wrenching maybe wasn’t the real thing, maybe wasn’t worth pursuing. And I liked that image of myself, of the person whose faith was so real, so committed, that I wouldn’t let even the hardest aspects of the church, the things that were so difficult for me, take away my connection to it or my willingness to stick with it. I’d adopted a narrative about there being something extra virtuous about going to church when it’s kind of a brutal experience. I mean, anyone can go to church when it’s easy to do so, when you mostly like it. But it takes someone special, I figured, to keep going when it feels terrible. I don’t know that I ever consciously articulated this point of view to myself, but it was lurking underneath, and definitely influencing my decision to stay.

I resonated with this deeply at the time, but I feel it even more now.  I told myself that it was a feature, not a bug, that going to church was so hard!  It’s a measure of true discipleship to really wrestle with your faith, that the struggle and the suffering made my faith deeper and more rooted.  But what I’ve come to realize is that my wrestle wasn’t always a wrestle – sometimes I was just getting punched in the face.  And now what I’m trying to pick apart is how much of my church attendance is painful because it’s growth, and how much of it is painful because it’s injury.  Is spiritual growth supposed to be this hard?  Is it ok if I just don’t do anything on Sundays and feel edified?  How much church do I need in my life?

As I’ve taken a step back during this pandemic, I’ve learned that Sundays don’t have to hurt.  And it’s a scary thing to realize, because what if all of the energy I put into my angsty faith wasn’t actually virtuous?  What if it’s not supposed to hurt?  And can I really consider myself a spiritual or faithful person if I just watch TV with my kids and do puzzles on Sundays?

I don’t know that I appreciated how lovely our Sundays had been until I got a text from my bishop, asking to meet about a calling as our ward attempts to meet in person again soon.  All of the anxiety came flooding back into my body, and I was almost paralyzed with the familiarity of feeling like I had been punched in my soul.  “Oh yeah,” I thought.  “I remember feeling like this.”  All that anxiety, just from a text!  And I realized that while some of the pain I’ve experienced really has been from growth, a lot of it really has been unhealthy and damaging.  And, like Lynette, I am beginning to believe that “faith could still be meaningful and worthwhile and genuine without quite so much angst and internal conflict. That there might be a different way of being religious, and that gritting your teeth and continuing to attend services that regularly beat you down isn’t necessarily virtuous, or admirable, or even wise.”

Has your relationship with the church changed because of the pandemic?  If so, how?

Sacred Music Sunday: Jacob’s Ladder

I remember when I was in seminary we learned one day about the story of Jacob’s vision of a ladder with angels going up and down it. I hadn’t heard the story previously, and I gave it little thought. People were always having odd visions in the Bible, and as visions go, it was less remarkable than winged beasts, giant statues made of various materials, or eating books.

A few years ago, my ward choir sang Jacob’s Ladder, which is a hymn about this story, tying the vision into the mission of Jesus and the eventual rest that awaits the righteous. It was rehearsed as part of our Christmas program. It’s a catchy tune and a fun song to sing, but I didn’t immediately connect it to Christmas because it’s not about the birth of Jesus specifically. It’s more about His death and ascension and our eternal future. But none of that would have happened without His birth, so Christmas it is.

It’s hard to pick a favorite line because it’s all so well-done. But one that really speaks to me is: “and remember, each step that by faith we pass o’er, some prophet or martyr has trod it before.” Sometimes walking the road of discipleship can be lonely, especially when we don’t fit the mold of our wards and stakes. But someone before us has walked this road, and when we reach the top of the ladder, we’ll be welcomed in, and we can meet those who went before.

Dear Believer

Dear Believer,

I know it sometimes feels like you don’t know me anymore and that can be disorienting. I feel very much like the same person but I realize that in one very important way I have have changed and in that way we are now very different. I get that difference can be scary, and I try not to take it personally if you cross to the other side of the street when you see me coming or avert your eyes and pretend you don’t see me in public. In all honesty, I don’t always know how to interact with you either. Its hard knowing that you are disappointed in me. One of you sent the missionaries to my house to talk to me. That’s really awkward. I really wish you wouldn’t. One of you brought a church manual by the house for my family. Again, I really wish you wouldn’t. I’m not trying to convince you to believe like I do. If you want to talk about our beliefs sometime, I might be willing to do that, but only if you can approach it in mutual curiosity and respect. I’m not interested in having you bear your testimony to me, sorry. But I am happy to lend you a cup of sugar, or get your mail when you are out of town, or help paint your fence.

Sometimes you say you miss me and that’s confusing. I live in the same house. Half of the years we lived in this house, I showed up at church every week with my children. Half of the years I didn’t. I’m easy to find. I assume you mean that you don’t see me at church anymore, and that’s true. But we really never talked or connected there anyway. If you want to be my friend, I need those now more than ever. It is lonely living amidst a very LDS population when you are no longer believing or practicing. (When we’re not in the middle of a pandemic) I still like lunches with friends, book clubs, moms nights out, and even service projects (but not if I am expected to listen to a lesson).

Do you want to be my friend? Can you tolerate differentiation? If I admit to drinking a coffee or wine on occasion, will that scare you off? If I use my Sundays for family outings in the park rather than church services, will you assume I’m a bad person? If I wear a tank top working in my yard in the summer or my shorts are at the middle of my thighs, will you judge me and my values? I promise I didn’t leave in order to do these things. I left to preserve my mental health, and because of my integrity in living according to my beliefs.  Is it hard for you to be friends with me because I changed? Its hard to be friends with someone who judges.

Your friendly neighborhood apostate

Dear Believing Family Member,

Sometimes it feels like there is an elephant in the room. I try to avoid talking about my change in beliefs because I know it hurts you. I know your idea of heaven requires me to believe and do as you do for us to both be there together someday. Unfortunately I don’t believe as you, and therefore a few of my actions are not in alignment with your beliefs. I still think I’m a good person, but I’m afraid you don’t think so.

I’m aware of the note you sent to one of my children begging them to be more faithful than their parents. It hurts when you tell my children I wasn’t valiant enough and I was deceived. Even if that’s how you see me, I don’t think its appropriate to tell my child that. I don’t tell your children that I think you’re deceived. I’m also aware of a note scrawled on another child’s birthday card that reminds my child to pay tithing on their birthday money. Please don’t teach them to follow your religion. I don’t try to teach your children that they should believe as I do. I know you wrote a letter to my husband telling him how disappointed you were that we weren’t making our 8 year old get baptized and our 12 year old get the priesthood. You compared it to making kids do chores or homework. My husband and I feel really differently about these things. Please respect us by keeping your opinions to yourself. I promise you it is not your responsibility or purview to call us to repentance or chastise us for how we raise our family. I also recognize that it is not my place to preach to you and your family about my opinions.

I was confused and somewhat offended by the church-themed gift you gave my family. You know we no longer believe or practice. We don’t buy you coffee or alcohol, or ask you to do things on Sundays that wouldn’t be in alignment with your beliefs and practices. It comes off as passive aggressive if you give us lesson manuals, scriptures, church artwork, or other religious themed gifts. If you would like ideas of gifts we would appreciate, just ask. We still like doing art projects, playing together as a family, outdoor outings, and above all fun experiences to make memories. We’d love to have more fun adventures with you.

I really would like to have a strong loving relationship with you. Can you love me if I believe differently than you? Will you judge me when my values aren’t the same? I really think we have much more in common than different, though sometimes the differences feel very profound because they are new and on matters you find very important. I know what you believe and I remember what I was taught in church. I still believe most of the same values. My reasons for being good are different, and very occasionally my idea of what is good is different. I just don’t believe in your religion. I don’t revere your prophets. I have no desire to slander them in front of you, but if you bring up church history and I try to share something I have learned that you don’t like, that doesn’t make me a liar or deceived. If you choose not to learn about all of the messy history, that is fine for you. But it is not fair for you to say I am deceived because I chose to learn. Or that my conclusions are wrong. You can’t possibly know that. You can only choose what is the right conclusion for you. Let’s try to respect each other’s positions.

I get that sometimes people are so invested in their worldview that they need to let go of people who no longer share it. If that is the case with you, I will feel the loss. But I can’t pretend anymore just to keep you comfortable. I hope you understand that.

Your apostate daughter, niece, sister, aunt, cousin

Guest Post: The Sacrifice of George Bailey

Guest Post by Anelise Leishman. Anelise is a BYU English grad and an avid writer, podcast listener, and general consumer of media. You can find more of her work at aneliseleishman.com.

Each year on Christmas Eve, my family watches Frank Capra’s “It’s a Wonderful Life.” And each year—especially now, as I begin to settle into adulthood—it holds more and more meaning for me.

For the uninitiated, “It’s a Wonderful Life” walks us through the life of George Bailey: a man who, despite his ambitions to travel the world, spends his whole life in his hometown of Bedford Falls running the Building & Loan company his father left behind. He struggles to keep the business afloat and prevent the villainous Mr. Potter from taking over the entire town. At the end of his rope one Christmas Eve, George is given the “rare gift” of seeing what the world would be like if he had never been born. Without his influence, George sees his little world of Bedford Falls in a bizarre, fallen state, the people closest to him destitute and alone in “Pottersville.” He realizes how much his life—one that before he saw as wasted in a “shabby little office”—is really worth.

Frank Capra’s Catholic faith figures heavily into his storytelling. One of the biggest clues is the name of Mr. Potter’s housing project: Potter’s Field. This presumably takes its name from the New Testament, from the “field of blood” that the chief priests purchase with Judas’s tainted silver pieces after his suicide: “And they took counsel, and bought with them the potter’s field, to bury strangers in” (Matt. 27:7). With this in mind, George Bailey emerges easily as the film’s savior figure. Without the Building & Loan and George’s kindness, the town is condemned to poverty and depravity in the potter’s field—death without salvation.

In George’s life, we see Christ’s humanity, His desperation—and, interestingly, a different type of sacrifice than we usually associate with the Savior. George spends his entire life yearning for a sense of purpose, wanting to do “something big, something important,” but his dreams of adventure are constantly thwarted by duty: instead, he carries out a life of service and sacrifice to continue his father’s legacy. It was never about what he wanted—“not my will, but thine, be done.” He sacrifices his youth, his desires, and his personal wealth to fight on the side of righteousness in the struggle for good and evil in Bedford Falls. He even undergoes his own temptation: “You wouldn’t mind living in the nicest house in town, buying your wife a lot of fine clothes, a couple of business trips to New York a year, maybe once in a while Europe? You wouldn’t mind that, would you George?”

Ultimately, the movie’s conflict centers around a debt that has to be paid. In the end, George is able to pay it with the help of his friends. His kind deeds and many sacrifices over the years are repaid to him tenfold, and we see that his sleepy life in Bedford Falls is bigger and more important than any lofty adventures he might have had otherwise. One by one, we see all the people who George has saved, and the impact that one man’s life—and even his death—can have in his own little universe.

Each year I watch this movie one year older, as my grasp on what “faith” is becomes more complicated, often tied up in dogma and politics. But I find that this film grounds me in what a life of service looks like. It remains to me one of the strongest and most tangible allegories of Christlike love and sacrifice, and what it means to touch as many lives as possible for the better.

The Sacrifice of George Bailey

Guest Post by Anelise Leishman. Anelise is a BYU English grad and an avid writer, podcast listener, and general consumer of media. You can find more of her work at aneliseleishman.com.

Each year on Christmas Eve, my family watches Frank Capra’s “It’s a Wonderful Life.” And each year—especially now, as I begin to settle into adulthood—it holds more and more meaning for me.

For the uninitiated, “It’s a Wonderful Life” walks us through the life of George Bailey: a man who, despite his ambitions to travel the world, spends his whole life in his hometown of Bedford Falls running the Building & Loan company his father left behind. He struggles to keep the business afloat and prevent the villainous Mr. Potter from taking over the entire town. At the end of his rope one Christmas Eve, George is given the “rare gift” of seeing what the world would be like if he had never been born. Without his influence, George sees his little world of Bedford Falls in a bizarre, fallen state, the people closest to him destitute and alone in “Pottersville.” He realizes how much his life—one that before he saw as wasted in a “shabby little office”—is really worth.

Frank Capra’s Catholic faith figures heavily into his storytelling. One of the biggest clues is the name of Mr. Potter’s housing project: Potter’s Field. This presumably takes its name from the New Testament, from the “field of blood” that the chief priests purchase with Judas’s tainted silver pieces after his suicide: “And they took counsel, and bought with them the potter’s field, to bury strangers in” (Matt. 27:7). With this in mind, George Bailey emerges easily as the film’s savior figure. Without the Building & Loan and George’s kindness, the town is condemned to poverty and depravity in the potter’s field—death without salvation.

In George’s life, we see Christ’s humanity, His desperation—and, interestingly, a different type of sacrifice than we usually associate with the Savior. George spends his entire life yearning for a sense of purpose, wanting to do “something big, something important,” but his dreams of adventure are constantly thwarted by duty: instead, he carries out a life of service and sacrifice to continue his father’s legacy. It was never about what he wanted—“not my will, but thine, be done.” He sacrifices his youth, his desires, and his personal wealth to fight on the side of righteousness in the struggle for good and evil in Bedford Falls. He even undergoes his own temptation: “You wouldn’t mind living in the nicest house in town, buying your wife a lot of fine clothes, a couple of business trips to New York a year, maybe once in a while Europe? You wouldn’t mind that, would you George?”

Ultimately, the movie’s conflict centers around a debt that has to be paid. In the end, George is able to pay it with the help of his friends. His kind deeds and many sacrifices over the years are repaid to him tenfold, and we see that his sleepy life in Bedford Falls is bigger and more important than any lofty adventures he might have had otherwise. One by one, we see all the people who George has saved, and the impact that one man’s life—and even his death—can have in his own little universe.

Each year I watch this movie one year older, as my grasp on what “faith” is becomes more complicated, often tied up in dogma and politics. But I find that this film grounds me in what a life of service looks like. It remains to me one of the strongest and most tangible allegories of Christlike love and sacrifice, and what it means to touch as many lives as possible for the better.

The Creation of Anna and Mary

The Virgin Mary and her mother, St. Anne.

Last Sunday I listened to a gorgeous celebration and meditation on Advent, presented by Gina Colvin and Maxine Hanks. The rare conjunction of Saturn and Jupiter was mentioned, along with apocryphal accounts about the immaculate conception of Mary in the body of her mother, Anna, as well as the conception of the Christ child in the body of his mother, Mary. They spoke of the bringing together of contraries, and the powerful energy created in that kind of space. Just as the disparate and distant heavenly planets of Jupiter and Saturn appeared to connect and create a new light in the sky, these women from long ago created a divine presence of God on earth from their lowliest of positions in their society.

Anna was shunned by her temple and church leaders. She listened to the divine call to create life in a way that was unheard of, and not in line with the established way.

Mary also heard and accepted the divine call to create the life of God in the world. She did so outside of the law. She did so, fully aware that the cost could be her life, her existence. She had to trust, to have faith, that her part of creating something that was considered illegitimate in her world, could bring about a way of being, a life of love that would transcend human law, and reveal a higher divine law.

We discussed the role Mary’s mother must have had in all this. What had she shared, and taught Mary? Was she there for the birth of her grandchild? Did Mary go to her cousin Elizabeth right away, because she had learned from her mother to recognize the divine role women played in Godlike creation, even and especially when inspired messengers declared news that was outside the established law.

So much of this story is not something to be known, or answered, or proven.

The unanswerable, mystical nature of it spoke to me, and I relished this discussion. I find the core messages of the restored gospel to be very mystical. Not so much about provable, definite answers of certainty, but rather much more about a created, divine journey of seeking greater life.

During this Advent discussion, I kept thinking of my Mary and Anna stained-glass window.

24 years ago, I was in London helping my dad with his Theater Study Abroad student group. I spent one Saturday morning at the marketplace on Portabello Road. I noticed a few very old stained-glass windows outside one of the shops. I was captivated by one of them, which was unlike what I had seen in any of the many churches and cathedrals I had visited.

It depicted a woman, whose face resembled that of my great grandmother. The face of the young girl kneeling before her looked very much like the face of my eldest daughter.

I kept looking at each detail of this small, exquisite window. The woman was teaching the girl from a script. The girl was humbly listening.

Then I noticed the title near the top of the window.

The Virgin Mary and her mother, St. Anne.

This was Mary, being taught by her mother. She was learning of her heritage. I knew the scriptural accounts of the women in Mary’s ancestry were of women in the margins, women who did not fit into the acceptable or expected traditions or laws.

I went into the shop and asked about the window. It had been made in the 19th century, by a company that was known for the unusual colors of its windows. It was made for a church that was built in 1850. The church had recently been demolished. This shop housed the salvage company which had removed anything from the building that could be saved. I looked at other items in the shop – large, exquisitely carved altar pieces, and huge windows depicting scenes of scripture stories.

I expressed wonder that a church which held such a beautiful window would be torn down. The owner patiently explained that there were not always resources to save, maintain, or repair the old churches. He said that some were demolished without any attempt to salvage any part of them. He was grateful to be a part of saving pieces that could still be appreciated, even when the building was no longer of benefit.

I thought of how vehemently some, including myself, might cling to old traditions and structures that were no longer working to expand God’s kingdom, God’s love here on earth. At what point can I let go of something that I have grasped, sometimes just because it has been around for a long time? Can I look for what it is about tradition, paradigm, stories and histories that is worth salvaging and continuing, and then let go of what should no longer be maintained?

It is a complex and difficult place to be – acknowledging a past once cherished which cannot continue as is, and embracing what can and ought to be salvaged, examined again, and created anew.

It is a place of contraries.

I thought of how Christ came to fulfill, complete, and do away with the old law. From this tradition, he became the savior that brought the new and great commandment to love one another.

I was able to purchase the window. The owner listened to me tell him about my great-grandmother, and daughter. About my love of the Nativity story, and collection of handmade nativities that expressed the individual nature of the artists. I was moved when he gave me a small section of another window, the only part they could salvage. He said the large window was of the angels appearing to the shepherds and proclaiming the good news. The small section he gave me showed just a hand, and part of a banner that had the words “Earth, peace”. I am grateful for his generous gift.

Today, I look at this unusual scene on my Mary and Anna window. A mother, teaching her daughter where she comes from, and who she is. I can almost picture Anna laying her hands on Mary, and anointing her to be the creator of divine life. There is no human-made law, or tradition that can speak more clearly, or inspire more deeply than this kind of blessing.

Would this image have been as moving to me if it were not so unusual? I don’t know.

I would love images of inspired, prophetic, divinely creative women to be displayed and encouraged everywhere, and not just in the Relief Society room, or the sister’s locker room in the temple. I would love images such as this to be used to teach boys and girls and everyone on the gender spectrum about the universal qualities of creation, and about how we can each be a part of bringing the life of God into the world, each in our own, uniquely creative way.

I find value in structure and pattern and practice. Daily prayer, and reading, and pondering, and study has helped me learn to listen, and serve, and show up, even when it is not easy or convenient, even when I don’t feel like it, or don’t want to deal with seeing God in people I don’t agree with. The practice helps me challenge what is known, to have room for what is beyond my knowing. It teaches me to be open to the divine voice. The structure and the practice are an important part of my journey, but the journey is not for the practice itself. It is meant to carry me further, without end.

Anna, and Mary, and others whose lives were shaped by strong faith practices, were not led by an angel to follow tradition, or past practices, or wait for permission from church authority before accepting the call to create a new life for themselves and others. This might seem to be something assigned only to these women, but it is very much in line with what Christ did with his life, and the example he asked us to follow.

This is a message for all of us.

I look at this scene of Anna and Mary, I am reminded of the power, the need we have to share our moments of recognition. Those moments when we see something divine within us, within each other.

I look at the small window piece that is salvaged from wreckage that once depicted angels reaching out, proclaiming the good news… “And on Earth, Peace. Good will toward men.” There on this piece is the outstretched hand, and the words “Earth, peace.”

This is the message of the good news of the gospel that brings me hope at this time of the longest, darkest nights.

And I look forward to the coming light.