Exponent II's Blog, page 193

Take, Eat

[image error]A small cup of grape juice and a bit of bread rest on a wooden table. http://www.summersidechurch.org/commu...

Due to travel, stake conference, illness, and general conference, there was about a four week period in September/October where I didn’t take the sacrament. I found that I missed it greatly. I’m not really much for ritual, but there is something holy about meeting together with fellow saints to remember what Jesus did for us. I also appreciate that it’s something that unites Christians across churches and denominations – it’s something that nearly all of us do in some form or another.

While they were eating, Jesus took bread, and after giving thanks he broke it, gave it to his disciples, and said, “Take, eat, this is my body.”

Matthew 26:26

Sometimes it can feel rote. It’s just what we do after we sing and before we hear talks. But there are times where I’ve experienced it as transcendent, both in LDS and non-LDS settings.

I joined the church as a Beehive. The first time after my baptism when I got to take the sacrament, I felt like I was part of the community. I had wanted to be baptized for quite some time, and my parents finally permitted it. Taking the sacrament was the culmination of what I had been yearning for.When I studied abroad in Jerusalem in law school, I was the only LDS student in my program. On Saturday, I walked the 20 minute walk to church (the buses and cabs didn’t operate on Saturday) to worship with the tiny branch there – there were about a dozen of us. I didn’t know any of the people there, but I instantly made friends. We came from all around the world, but we were all united in our devotion to Jesus. I took the sacrament while having a beautiful view of Jerusalem. I was struck by the splendor of it all.When I was in law school, I worked part-time as a caregiver for a woman whose father was a pastor in a local Disciples of Christ church. I had been invited to sing at the church one Sunday because he found out that I had sung opera in college. I sang, and then communion was served. The woman I was a caregiver for was the one who served it to me. It was a touching moment, seeing how we were both able to serve each other in our own ways.I attended law school at a Catholic university. The law school’s centennial happened while I was there, and they held a mass to celebrate it and invited the entire student body. I attended. When it came time for communion to be served, I had intended to just sit quietly in my seat because I was aware that Catholics are strict about not serving communion to non-Catholics. However, the priest specifically invited everyone to come up and said that anyone who wasn’t taking communion could receive a blessing instead. So when it was my pew’s turn, I went up there and the priest said a very brief blessing to me. I don’t remember the words, but I remember how touched I was to be included.When I lived in California, the midsingles went on an annual cabin retreat up in the mountains for a weekend. The first year I went, we had gotten permission to have a sacrament meeting at the cabin. So I sat with about two dozen other people who I had just met a few days before, and we sat around a fire while watching the snow fall. Someone blessed the bread and passed it to us, blessed the water and passed it to us, and then we shared our testimonies.When I moved into my current ward, I was spiritually battered and bruised. My previous ward had made it clear that I was unwelcome because I was single. I was denied a calling, an opportunity to be a visiting teacher, and unity with the saints because I lacked a man. (Thank goodness my temple recommend didn’t expire while I was in that ward, or they probably would have found a way to deny me that, too.) Church was agony, and moving out of that ward saved my soul. The first Sunday in my new ward, it took everything I had in me to show up. I was afraid I would be mistreated again. But I wasn’t. I was warmly welcomed. And when the sacrament tray was passed to me, I was fed.

I want to make the experience transcendent every Sunday. As I think about the times when it was transcendent, I see a few common themes. I was among friends, I was broken-hearted, and I was met where I was. Every Sunday, Jesus meets us where we are, asks us to bring our broken hearts, and calls us His friends. And when I take the sacrament this Sunday, I’m going to remember that.

Fortifying My Mormon Daughter Against Negative Messages at Church and Beyond

[image error]I have a wonderful ten-year-old girl — my only daughter. She’s quiet, observant, reserved, affectionate, and kind. She’s on the cusp of puberty, and I worry what these coming adolescent years will do to my already shy and sensitive and daughter, given the evidence that tween and teen girls’ confidence levels plummet compared to their male peers.

I doubly wonder what will happen given the fact that I am raising her in the LDS church.  Will messages about her having divine worth, being a daughter of God, and being fundamentally and profoundly important in this universe help buoy her up when the negative rumination and perfectionist tendencies kick in? Will she see and recognize the talented and smart women around her in the congregation? Or will she pick up on the cues strewn about LDS church liturgy, practice, structure, and scripture that girls are less important than boys? Will she see how men dominate church leadership, General Conference, The Book of Mormon, and even our weekly Sacrament Meetings? Will she read that word “preside” in The Proclamation and wonder if God has less faith in her than in her male peers?

I worry. How I worry. “God,” I pray, “let me not screw up this one chance I have to raise my daughter to understand her potential, her abilities, her strength, her resilience. Let the church not damage her sense of self-worth and make her doubt herself, as it did me for so many years. Let her not hold herself back. Let her dream huge dreams.”

My worries arise from my own experience. I held myself back. I didn’t think big as I graduated from college. I didn’t aggressively pursue a career that could sustain me and my children. Years and years of YW lessons about the importance of motherhood swirled around my head, and I worried that I wouldn’t be able to be a good mom someday if I embarked on a career. I also felt pain for so many years about the status of women in the church. The temple hurt like hell. The Proclamation was a thorn in my side. The male-dominated hymns, scriptures, and meetings were paper cuts, and I came home from church bloody every week. Additionally, I feel that messages I got about the importance of being physically attractive — messages I got at church and outside of church — did me no favors as I lived out my teen years worried that I would never be pretty enough.

Will my daughter encounter the same self-doubt, the same deep sadness? What can I do to help her be her bravest, most confident, most compassionate self? What can I do to protect her from damaging messages at church and beyond? I don’t pretend to have all the answers, but I have done a few things I’m hoping will help.

Mother Daughter Book Group: A year or two ago, I started a Mother Daughter Book Group with four  friends of mine and their daughters who were the same age as mine. We pick good books, usually with strong female main characters, read them with our daughters, and then come together to eat dinner, discuss the book, and do a craft/play a game that relates in some way to the book. I can’t tell you how much I love this book group. It’s honestly the best thing I think I’ve ever done as a parent. We discuss bullying, bravery, racism, kindness, hopes, and more. As she ages, we’ll discuss body image, sexualization of women, gender inequity, LGBTQ issues, etc. I’m hoping this group will be a place she can feel comfortable voicing her thoughts and exploring important ideas, and the fact that she’s doing so with a team of women of various faiths whom I greatly admire makes it all the better.
Good Media: Don’t laugh, but I really like some of the American Girl movies available on Amazon Prime. My daughter never was into the American Girl dolls or books, so I wasn’t expecting much from the movies. But I loved one called Melody 1963 — Love Has To Win, about a ten-year-old African American girl during the Civil Rights movement. It was so well done and provided a great opportunity to talk with my daughter about racism. I loved every moment of that hour and a half we spent watching and talking about that movie. Several other American Girl movies have been good too and have covered issues like bullying and homelessness. I’m also awaiting the day when she’s old enough to appreciate Whale Rider, one of my all-time favorite movies, about a Maori girl destined to be the leader of her people.
Selectively Participate in Young Women: I’m wary of the messages my daughter will get in Young Women. I know there will be a lot of good stuff, but I’m also fairly confident there will be a good share of things taught that I would consider damaging. Modesty (clothing) discourse? Unacceptable. Obedience to the priesthood? Uh uh. Nope. Universally prescribed gender roles? Hell no. My daughter isn’t in Young Women yet, but I’m planning to ask her leaders to let me know beforehand the topics being covered in lessons and in activities, or at the very least, to warn me when lessons on modesty, priesthood, or gender roles are planned. I’ll be sure my daughter is either absent or that I come with her so that I can talk to her afterwards.
Debriefing after Church: I’m not sure yet how this one will work given that my daughter doesn’t tell me anything about what happens in Primary, but if I ever can get her talking, I’d love to have conversations with her about her lessons, Sacrament meeting talks, etc. My hope is that she can learn early about fallible people and leaders in the church, how people and leaders are just people, usually doing their best, but that we don’t have to agree with them. Hopefully, I’ll get across to her the core traits and principles embedded in our tradition that I most value: compassion, integrity, justice, community-mindedness, agency, kindness, and “all are alike unto God.” Hopefully, she’ll find a way to escape or fight off those messages that told me that I was less than what I was — and which tell others (I’m thinking particularly of LGBTQ folk these days) that they are less than what they are.

This article lists other helpful strategies for raising confident girls, my favorite of which is to talk about your own failures openly, so she can see failure is a part of life and learn to shake it off.  Do you have ideas for raising confident girls and fortifying them against damaging messages at church and beyond?

 

Secret Combinations

When I was in fifth grade, two of my cousins moved in with us. Our family with 3 kids soon became one of 5 kids and then my youngest brother was born half a year later, so 6. Each one of us, except my baby brother, were in 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th, and 6th grades.

Being kids, some of us formed a club. I had a club with some friends at school (Sunflower Club!) and now I had one with a cousin and a brother. And clubs, being as they are, leave people out. My sister and my other cousin were not in this club.

I’m not sure how long our club lasted- a week? Two? But fairly quickly, my dad organized an FHE and used that time to have us read about the Gadianton Robbers and secret combinations and concluded that he would not allow secret combinations in his house. I felt so ashamed. Here I was doing the same thing the Gadianton Robbers of the Book of Mormon! They’re the BAD GUYS. I felt awful and cried and our club disbanded.

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“SECRET” stamp,
Used in accordance to CC BY 2.0, no changes made

 

I have kids the ages we were when we had that club. As an adult, I try now to put myself in my parents’ shoes- if my kids formed a secret club and left out one of the siblings, how would I manage it? I look at my kids- and I really can’t imagine calling a special FHE to shame them into not having secret clubs. I’d probably just talk to them about how it makes the person left out feel. I wonder what the disconnect is between my parents and myself: is it generational? is it testimonial? is it that they were converts and I was raised in the Church?

It’s little things like this that makes growing up in the Church a little weird. Did your parents have FHEs solely to teach you lessons? Do you do the same for your kids?

The (Latter-day Saint?) Addams Family Movie is In Theaters Right Now!

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Sister missionaries meet the Addams Family.

A couple weeks ago, I took my ten year old daughter to see the new animated “The Addams Family” movie. (Unless you have kids (or really love the franchise) you probably won’t see this show, and the plot line was by no means shocking or hard to guess, but warning – major spoilers ahead.)

While sitting in the theater eating my candy and watching the show, I had an unexpected flashback to watching my nephews be ordained to the priesthood while my nieces sat in the background and applauded (symbolically speaking) their brothers. Here’s a rundown of the particular story line that triggered this reaction:

The Addams Family have two kids. Wednesday is the older, more collected and cool junior high aged daughter. Pugsley is her doofy, destructive and poorly behaved little brother.

Their parents were married 13 years earlier, and that was the last time all of the relatives had come to visit them. Now there is a sacred ceremony about to occur for Pugsley, and all of the extended family is traveling from across the country to see him perform it. He’s not practicing enough because he’d rather set off explosives and play, and everyone is worried he won’t pass (spoiler alert again – he obviously does pass in the end, just by using explosives to protect and save his family rather than the traditional sword he was supposed to be learning about.)

Meanwhile Wednesday, his older sister, becomes distant from her family and starts freaking them out by doing rebellious things like wearing pink bows and unicorn clips. She runs away and doesn’t come home on time to her brother’s important ceremony and they have to start without her, which turns out to be a good thing – because when the family is under attack by outsiders who think they’re freaks, she shows up at the last minute to rescue them.

The order of events are a little fuzzy now, but I think she comes back just in time to give them a way out and a second chance, which then gives her brother an opening to use his talents with explosives to save everybody in his family.

Afterwards they all shout to him, “Yay, you passed the ceremony and can protect the family! You are an Addams!”, and everybody is proud and Pugsley is a hero.

I was so annoyed.

First, ummm, Wednesday is older. Why did she never do this ceremony at his age? She would’ve clearly aced it. (Oh. Probably because only boys get the ceremony.)

Second, why had the extended family never come to visit in 13 years on behalf of Wednesday? (Oh, duh. Because she’s a girl and girls don’t have ceremonies that bring the family in from across the country.)

Third, why did everyone applaud Pugsley for what he did for the family and not Wednesday? (Because he was experiencing a sacred rite of passage for young boys in their family, and they were all proud of him. She was just thanked, and they moved on.)

Fourth, why did the script writers not add to her motivation for leaving the house the fact that she was being overlooked by her family in every way because she was female? (Instead she was just mad at her mom and being a moody teenager.)

I have seen the exact same thing play out in my own extended family more than once. Ordination to the priesthood meant that uncles and grandpas and cousins all came together for a big celebration at someone’s house. While the boy was the center of attention in the main living room, his sisters prepared refreshments in the kitchen and were politely thanked while their brother was cheered.

Are the writers of this movie Latter-day Saints, by any chance? Because it’s like they were writing true life events, not fiction. So everyone, please – if you go see this movie with friends and family – complain to them the entire car ride home about how weird this part of the plot was. It’s only fair that people other than my daughter get to hear this lecture as well.



And Happy Halloween (unless you live somewhere that doesn’t celebrate this holiday, in which case – I’m totally sorry, because Halloween is awesome!) Now go enjoy your trick or treaters, and of course – duh-nuh-nuh-nuh. *snap, snap*.

Book Review: Girls Who Choose God: Stories of Extraordinary Women from Church History

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     Authors: McArthur Krishna & Bethany Brady Spalding,

Illustrator: Kathleen Peterson

In mid October I received a package in the mail that was clearly not the iPhone screen protectors I was expecting from Amazon. Instead I pulled out the third book in the Girls Who Choose God series and found myself tearing up at this readable work of art.  My spirit is hungry for women’s voices and women’s power, and this book does not disappoint.

Authors McArthur Krishna and Bethany Spalding have created a lovely formula in these books that teaches and engages the reader while never feeling didactic. Each historic figure is introduced as they face a dilemma and have to decide to act on their faith or not. As the title tells us, they choose God and we are told of the outcome, which is often not simple or easy. Then the reader is asked a question that follows from the story. For example, after Emma Smith chose to accept the Lord’s call to teach the Saints and create a songbook, we are asked, “When have you chosen to be extraordinary?” I love the use of “when” in that sentence,  because it assumes that we all are more than ordinary and capable of greatness.

Reading the book I was delighted to see a variety of ages, ethnicities, and occupations featured. We encounter grandmas and young girls; women of color; doctors, homemakers, missionaries, politicians.  There is no “ideal” model of womanhood laid out, no worshiping of motherhood or marriage. Each girl presented has value because she is a child of Heavenly Parents. And each of us can change the world, one choice at a time.

Let me now turn to the gorgeous artwork of Kathleen Peterson. Her images are captivating. While we can easily recognize well known figures like Eliza R. Snow and Jane Manning James, Peterson’s distinctive style lends girls and women a saintly air. There is something almost Byzantine in the way Peterson uses tiny dots of yellow gold as tessarae to surround these figures. Our heroes appear to have either halos or laurel wreaths encircling their heads, indicating divinity or wisdom, and in the case of Zina Young, a dove hovers above her as she blesses an ill woman. Whatever motif Peterson employs, the effect is the same: these are holy women exercising their God given power to bless others. Each picture is vibrant and alive with possibility. Every page is frameable.

Do not be fooled by the word “Girls” in the title into thinking this book is solely for the under 12 crowd. I showed it to my 87 year-old mother who is insisting on buying it for her granddaughters, aged 14-28, as Christmas gifts (it’s available on Amazon). In a time when more and more Mormon women and girls are asking questions about their roles in the Church, this book illuminates the past deeds of early saints and in the process shows us a possible future where women own their power. In simultaneously looking to the past as a model for the future, this book is  a brilliant beacon of hope.

 

 

Guest Post: No Room at the Inn, No Place at the Table, Nowhere to call home

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By Melissa Malcolm King

I am left with many mixed emotions following so many recents events that have taken place in the media, within the church walls and in my personal life. I had an awakening of sorts and realized that I have been cast aside many times throughout my life. Like the story of the Christ, I was born with no room at the Inn…cast out, misunderstood and persecuted for being who I am. Like the Savior, I am still determined to fulfill my mission and stand with those who also have no voice. I find myself unwelcome in so many circles that I yearn to call home.

As a Religious, Queer, Disabled, Person of Color there is no table for me. There is no place I can call home. There is no refuge from the storm. There are safe places, good friends and affirming allies. Yet I find that my seat at the table is invisible. I have no voice. No platform. No place where all of me can be heard, seen, and valued. I constantly have to choose to hide part of myself in order to blend in, be approachable and get a sliver of tolerance. The many intersections of my life most often leave me in tangled web of anger, pain, distrust and remorse for the life I wish I could have. For many years, I yearned to be loved for me …all of me … .

I spent a great deal of time trying to bask in the sunlight while missing out on the glorious opportunity of life’s sunsets . For the longest time, I could only focus on waiting for the Sun to rise, dismissing the rest of my life.

I now know that is during the sunsets of our life that we can take a moment for reflection, sacred connection, and like the sun, we can rise again. In the sunsets of my life, I have had the privilege of walking alongside the defeated, lifting up the downtrodden and paving the way for others .

While this is a journey I did not want to take,a path I wish I could avoid and a bitter cup I do not wish to drink, I am honored for the privilege to do so. I came across this clip from the Green Book which describes my journey in a way I couldn’t express before :

After watching this, these thoughts came to mind :

You tell me I am not Black Enough

You tell me I am not Gay Enough

You tell me I am not Disabled Enough

You tell I am I am not Religious Enough

You tell me that I am only meager portion of my many intersections.

You tell me that if I can just cut one piece here and another there, I will earn a place at the table.

Why can’t I be all I am ?

I am not a percent of this or that. I am not broken. I am not photo that needs to be retouched. I am not broken. I am not jigsaw with a few pieces missing. I am not broken.

I am whole. I am here. I am Afro Latinx . I am here. I am Disabled. I am here. I am Religious . I am here. I am Queer. I am here.

I will never be just enough. I am more than your expectation. I am more than your stigma. I am more than your hate. I am more than enough. Simply because I am me. I am not broken. I am HERE.

Emblems.

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photo credit – Mike Hansen

“I miss it. So much”

I looked at my friend. They were telling me how much they missed taking the emblems of the sacrament. They had been excluded from partaking.

Bread and water. Symbols of flesh and blood. Emblems of Christ which we swallow, take within us, where they mystically transform from vicarious objects into literal sustenance. Our physical and spiritual body receives nourishment from these emblems. These things that are reminders of a being who became us so completely. He felt all we feel, all the complexity, so deeply. He bled.

He did it because he loves us.

Water is the emblem of blood. Living water. To remind us of a life and language that invite us to see that God is here, with us now. The kingdom we build is what we create here, now.

Bread is the emblem of flesh. The bread of life, from a living being. Flesh that moves to come to us. Body that sits among those who are alone, rejected, seen as unworthy. Hands that bless and heal. Christ, the being who invites all to come. Not later. Not maybe, or only when you are a certain way.

All are invited.

Now.

I look at my friend. I see pain. Pain so deep. I see blood throbbing in the flesh of their temples. I feel unworthy to sit in the sacred space of their grief. Yet they invite me to sit with them.

I see their hunger. I see their thirst.

I ask…

What is bread?

Flour, water, and salt.

I can do that.

I can pour it together, mix it between my fingers. My hands invite it to connect, to become one. I persuade it into dough which expands and rises. Rises to become. It fills all places where there is space for it.  Intense heat transforms it into bread.

My hands lift the loaf, perfect in roundness. I tear large, abundant pieces. I open the vessel of creamy oil, and anoint it to be the Christ, to nourish us as we are nourished by God. To remind us that we are saved by the bond of love that is stronger than death.

I bless it with my love.

Love that is sacred has no condition. It requires no agreement. It is not earned.

I offer it freely, as freely as God has offered me grace.

Take. Eat.

Remember.

When I look at my friend, I remember God.

We sit together, the least of these.

We partake.

Of God.

Sacred Music Sunday: For All the Saints

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I love big, bold brassy hymns, and anything written by Ralph Vaughan Williams tops my list. One of my favorites is For All the Saints, written to the tune Sine Nomine, which means “without name”. It’s a tribute to all of the unnamed saints. In popular culture and in some religious traditions, a saint is someone extra special and extra holy. However, in the New Testament, Paul frequently reminds us that all followers of Christ are saints. [1] So, this hymn is for you, this hymn is for me, this hymn is for that person in the pews who annoys you, and that religious blogger you disagree with.

All too often, when someone in the church points out an area for improvement or an unintended consequence of a policy or procedure, they’re shut down with a terse “This is Christ’s church, not yours.” However, as we’re reminded, the full name of the church is The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. So, yes, it’s Christ’s church. But it’s also our church because we are the saints. And we are the church.

Paul uses the metaphor of a marriage to describe the relationship between Christ and the church. He didn’t use the metaphor of a dictatorship. Christ isn’t sitting somewhere giving orders and expecting us to stand up and salute. He is running toward us with open arms to welcome us into His embrace, ready to give us rest and heal our pain. He has promised to bear our burdens if we cast them on Him [2], but the only way we can cast those burdens on Him is if we identify and articulate what those burdens are.

The rest might not come right away, but it will come. And as we continue to cast those burdens on Christ, we’ll receive the promised rest. And then, as the hymn says, we’ll be able to continually praise God.

From Earth’s wide bounds, from ocean’s furthest coast,
Through gates of pearl streams in the countless host,
Singing to Father, Son, and Holy Ghost
Aleluia, Aleluia

For All the Saints – Text by William Walsham How – Public Domain

[1] see, e.g., Romans 1:7, greeting the church in Rome and telling them that they are all called to be saints; Romans 15:24-26, telling the people he is on his way to Jerusalem to minister to the saints there; Romans 16:2, telling the church members that he is sending Phoebe the Deacon to them and instructing them to receive her as saints.
[2] see Matthew 11:28-30

Guest Post: For My Mother Divine

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By Kim Layton

The bonding gaze

‘tween babe and mom.

“She loves me

and so I’m ok.”

Securely anchored

to face the world.

“I’m ok

because she loves me.”

Years pass.

That child grows,

becoming a mother

of her own.

Needing a Divine Mother

of her own,

to fill the gaps.

And like that babe

from years ago

she gazes up.

“Mother are you there?”

I’ve looked for you

between the lines

of history

written by men.

About men

with only whispers

of the story’s

other half.

So many women

whose lives matter,

remain untold.

Like Yours.

“Mother do you care

to see your children here below?

We feel motherless.”

“We need you

Mother.

Please show your face

to us.”

If babes without

a mother’s bond

hold veiled hurt

for life,

How much hurt

have human hearts

held?

Without knowing

A Mother’s love

that fills the gaps.

That tenderly reaches

across time and space.

Mother, I believe

you are

All powerful, All knowing,

All loving and Divine.

You are Creator

and Comforter.

You are strong, wise

and good.

“Mother, I ask

to see you more fully

so that I might more fully

see myself.”

 

Kim Layton is a wife, mother of four, personal trainer, Ironman finisher, pickleball player and seeker of our Mother in Heaven.

Why I write.

[image error]The 2019 post-graduate school,
fall version of this photo

By LMA

October 2019

When I moved away to start graduate school 2,000 miles away from my home, it was the most provocative thing I had ever done. Being so far away and doing something so hard helped me gain independence/ skills/ confidence/ competence in a way I wouldn’t have otherwise.

There’s a picture of myself that I took almost five years
ago in a grocery store parking lot. It was during my third year of graduate
school on a very cold and snowy winter day. Several inches of snow had
accumulated on my car while I was in the store. Bundled up, I put my groceries
in the car and then cleared the snow off my car. I wanted to take a picture of
myself to remember how independent and brave I felt taking care of things all
on my own. My cheeks are rosy from the cold. I look young and innocent, because
I was.

I think often of that picture and that part of myself and consider what I wish I had known then about myself, my situation, and my faith. That part of me in the picture symbolized all of the many, many ways I was trying to be good because I had been taught I needed to be good to be loved and accepted. It symbolized the parts of me that held so much guilt and shame about being imperfect, about having the body I have, about having sexual feelings and a sexual self. That version of me had no information about her body, about sex, or her right to pleasure. She didn’t know she deserved safety, and comfort in whatever forms were right for her.

That photo symbolized all of the intricate and complex gymnastics I was doing to make so many different things work because I didn’t know I had any other options or that I could listen to what I was feeling in my body to guide my choices. She didn’t know she could choose to take a break from her faith if she needed to. That version of me knew very little to nothing about intersectional feminism. She had no idea she could choose what was right for her or protect her safety or well-being. She needed someone to tell her so many things.

When I write, I think of her.

I write to the parts of myself that need to know it’s okay
to have deeply complex feelings about your family and your faith.

I write to the parts of myself that feel ashamed and shy and embarrassed about speaking their mind and saying how they are feeling. I tell her, “it’s okay to speak and use your voice. I’m listening. Others are listening.”

I write to the parts of myself that needed to be told it’s
okay to listen to your body and your intuition, even if that means doing things
that threaten others’ ideas or belief systems.

I write to the parts of myself that felt so much shame and guilt and embarrassment about being a sexual being, especially as a single person. I tell those parts, “you deserve to feel pleasure. You deserve to feel safety and comfort, like anyone else.”

I write to the parts of myself that feel afraid to show
themselves and to be who they are.

I write to the parts of myself that were wronged, and have
questions and anger and pain.

In turn, I think of others who have parts that need to hear
these things.

I write to the parts of you that need to know it’s okay to
make decisions that are right for your body, your situation, your well-being,
your safety, your pain.

I write to the parts of you that need to hear someone else
say your mind and your judgment and your decision-making abilities are
God-given.

I write to the parts of you that have been taught it’s wrong
to be assertive or powerful. I write to tell you those parts are precious and
important and needed.

I write to tell all of us all the parts of who we are, the intersections of our identity, and our intricacies are needed, precious, and a gift.