Guest Post: In the Shadow of the Steeple

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By Anonymous

In sacred halls where prayers ascend,
A silent echo finds no end.
The sisters’ voices, soft and low,
In shadows cast, unheard they go.
The pulpit towers, the quorum’s decree—
Yet none were built to carry me.

Emma stood with trembling hand,
The weight of Zion in her stand.
A paper, inked with heaven’s claim,
Yet branded with another’s name.
A revelation cloaked in flame—
She cast it in the fire’s breath,
Refused to share her husband’s death
Of trust, of choice, of love made ash.
Still history paints her in a flash
Of bitterness, not holy wrath.

Where was her voice when saints were led?
Why must her fire burn in dread?
Was not her heart as full of God,
Her path as firm, her knees as shod?

Eliza Snow, with poet’s grace,
Once dared to bless, to heal, embrace.
With hands outstretched, she called down light,
A priestess veiled in borrowed right.
The sick were soothed, the babies blessed,
Till power’s fear laid her to rest.
“No more,” they said. “This gift, too great,
Belongs to quorum, not to faith.”
And so the healing hands withdrew—
A hush where miracles once flew.

Relief Society, born free,
Was shuttered for its agency.
Brigham feared the women’s voice
Could challenge priesthood’s narrowed choice.
And so they paused the mighty thread—
The loom gone quiet, the sisters fled
To silence, waiting to be heard,
Their prayers like wings without a bird.

They taught of Her, the Mother Divine—
Then buried Her beneath the shrine.
“She’s too sacred,” the brethren say,
To name, to seek, to love, to pray.
Yet how do daughters know their worth
Without the One who gave them birth?

Maxine wrote with scholar’s pen,
Asked, “What of us? And where? And when?”
They labeled her a threat, a foe,
And silenced what they feared to know.
Her questions burned with holy heat—
But fire, it seems, is incomplete
When sparked within a woman’s chest;
The brethren only call it “mess.”

Kate Kelly knelt in temple square,
Not to storm, but just to care.
She asked for voice, for place, for part—
They tore her from the fold and heart.
Exiled for her hopeful plea,
While patriarchy claimed decree.
They said she fought the “wrong” way through—
Yet there was no right door to pursue.

And still today, the elder boy
Commands, while sisters serve with joy—
But never lead the flock or zone,
Though just as called, as kind, as grown.
No vote, no seat, no equal weight,
Just silent nods to close the gate.

A conference stand with suited line—
Where are the voices feminine?
The daughters taught to seek the skies
Now sit in pews with lowered eyes.
We bear the weight of untold things,
Of births and deaths and angel wings.
We build the kingdom stone by stone—
But do not speak when stones are thrown.

Oh, brothers, can you hear the cry
That echoes through the vaulted sky?
If roles reversed, would you not yearn
For seats at tables yet unturned?
To speak, to bless, to prophesy,
Not merely in the shadows lie?

We do not seek to steal or reign—
We seek to lift, to heal the strain.
To sit beside, not kneel below.
To bring the gifts we’ve longed to show.
To shape the Church with voice and hand,
And walk with you, not in the sand
That’s swept beneath the chapel door—
We are the saints you’re longing for.

So listen now: this is our plea—
A daughter’s voice, a prophet’s seed.
Not for rebellion, nor for pride,
But for the God who walks beside.
Let’s build a Zion vast and wide—
Where every voice is sanctified.
Where Emma’s tears are understood,
And Eliza’s power is called good.

Where Heavenly Mother walks the halls,
And every daughter hears Her call.
Until then, we weep, and work, and wait,
And whisper through the chapel gate:
We are still here. We are not gone.
Our fire, though smothered, still burns on.