Guest Post: I Know My Heavenly Mother Didn’t Create Garments
by Linda Hamilton
I know my Heavenly Mother didn’t create garments.
If She did, She’d know about the infections, the rashes. She’d know about the blood, the discharge, the stains that never come out of bright white. She’d know about the pads, the tampons, the cups, the mesh underwear after birth.
She’d understand too well the swell of the belly and ache of the breasts. She’d understand the horrible heat and sweat, the constant discomfort. She’d understand the frustration of unlatching and digging through layer after layer while a baby screams and roots. She’d understand the milk-soaked fabric that stinks and hardens, the burn of raw chapped nipples against coarse fabric.
I know my Heavenly Mother didn’t create garments.
If She did, She’d know that you cannot take a cloth designed for a man’s body and simply retrofit it to a woman. She’d know that breasts and torsos and legs all vary so drastically. She’d know that bodies grow and shrink with hormones, monthly cycle to cycle, pregnancy to menopause.
She’d understand the pain of standing in a dressing room holding back tears after trying on dress after after dress but none cover. She’d understand the frustration of going store to store, hour after hour, trying to find just a few items of clothing, while a man can walk into any store and know it’ll all work without issue. She’d understand the struggle of fighting with a spouse who doesn’t understand how much more money it takes to buy modest clothing.
She’d know about the extra layers to cover and cover and then cover again, every line and stretch of white not to be seen. She’d know about the heat, the sensation of wearing too many layers, too much restriction. She’d know about the envy of watching men with their celestial smiles and protruding white collars that no one bats an eye at, but the shame and policing of your own visible hemlines.
I know my Heavenly Mother didn’t create garments.
If She did, She’d know She had children all over the world who live in drastic climates, unable to easily wear another layer without rashes and heat stroke. She’d know that Her children all come from different cultures, with different standards of beauty and modesty, that white western puritanism isn’t supreme.
She’d understand the beauty of all bodies, the majesty of skin in all hues. She’d understand the tapestry of humanity She created, that uniformity isn’t inherently sacred.
I know my Heavenly Mother didn’t create garments.
If She did, she’d know how it feels to sit alone in a small room with a man you hardly know answering questions about your underwear. She’d know what it’s like to have a man judge her hemlines, her bra lines, to search her bottom and thighs for visible markers. She’d know what it’s like to be denied mercy and compassion for a unique body, for the sin of being born female in a male church.
She’d understand the humiliation of being told what underwear to wear, how to wear it, when to wear it, all by men; men as far away as Salt Lake City who will never see you or know you. She’d understand the pain of losing your temple recommend because circumstances keep you from wearing garments day and night.
She’d know the horror of being 12 and told your shoulders are pornography. She’d know the terror of being taught that young men cannot control themselves and that you are making them sin. She’d know the fears of hiding your skin your entire life, terrified that any slip of cleavage or line of belly will end in your rape.
She’d know too well the judgments, the whispers, the holier-than-thou comments and looks when you dare to post a picture from your vacation in a tank top. She’d know how men set women up to police each other, to shame each other into compliance.
I know my Heavenly Mother didn’t create garments.
If She did, She’d understand the sensation of invisible men’s hands on your body, of the trauma of assault victims re-living their nightmares with their required underwear. She’d understand that sometimes when you wear them, you can feel Joseph’s hands around your thighs, around your neck; the hands of a prophet who married teens and other men’s wives, who condemned his own wife for not allowing him to collect virgins as he desired and now we call it scripture.
I know my Heavenly Mother didn’t create garments.
If She did, She’d know the sorrows of begging men for change, of pleading for help. She’d know how it feels to have your underwear designed by men, controlled by men, worn for men. She’d know how cries for improvement fall on deaf ears, lead to more threats, or the tossing of mere scraps that feel like a meal because you’re starving.
And I know that if my Heavenly Mother didn’t create garments, my Heavenly Father wouldn’t either, because They are one. Because They don’t need to cling to the vestments of the past, of a tradition that worked for one man and his designs but doesn’t need to hold the future hostage. Because They love and bless, not suppress and force into compliance.
I know my Heavenly Parents trust the mind and body They gave me to guide me, to protect me. I don’t need a shield of white cloth to remind me. I’ve made my covenants, I hold them dear and ponder them often.
I don’t need a man’s blessing to dress myself, to free myself.
Linda is an author and grad student in history at Sam Houston State University. When she’s not writing, she’d probably reading or finding an excuse to go to Target. https://lindahamiltonwriter.substack.com/
