The Quilt: Layers of Meaning and Losing My Faith

My mom is a gifted quilter. She started the tradition of giving each of her grandkids a personalized quilt at each of their baptisms when her first grandchild turned eight (roughly eight years ago).

Our oldest was baptized in January 2020. My husband performed the ordinances, and I got to be an official witness. Framed pictures of our son holding the Book of Mormon lined tables scattered with food; this ritual was well on its way to being a precious memory for our whole family, continuing a generations-long tradition.

My mom presented his quilt at his baptism. Various fabrics that reflected my son’s interests were cut into the shape of books. Some included “CTR”, the Angel Moroni, and depictions of temples sewn on their covers. The design included repetitive patterns and were methodical and predictable, much like our beliefs at the time. Many hours of both planning and labor went into this work of art. Other grandkids’ quilts have similar LDS themes and personal touches. It remains a treasure, at least in my mind, but truthfully, I couldn’t even tell you where it is in our home right now.

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Just months later, the pandemic took over the world. Our little family stayed physically healthy through it all, but my mind and heart and soul were being held over the fire, fighting to stay in the church. In-person church was on hold, but we continued to practice, even if it looked differently with our daughter insisting on passing the sacrament to her brothers and parents. I was released from my calling in the Young Women presidency as activities were canceled. We eventually went back to in-person church, but it became too painful to sit through lessons that focused on doubters and how dangerous they are.

It was at church that I was grateful for wearing a mask to shield my red face and catch my tears. I could feel my faith transforming into something that didn’t match what was taught over the pulpit or in lesson books. I often thought, “Where is Christ in this place?” and I raised concerns from time to time. I yearned for more knowledge about Joseph Smith’s wives and their stories. I felt embarrassed that the church’s homepage featured a countdown to President Nelson’s birthday celebration instead of featuring Jesus Christ, whom we claimed to revere and worship. In sacrament meeting I sat quietly in protest instead of singing “Praise to the Man.” I angered at the church’s policies of our LGBTQ+ community. I questioned the decisions being made at the top of the church hierarchy and wondered if any women were in the room where it happened.

In the summer of 2022, I had the painful and nerve-wracking conversation with my parents that our family would no longer be attending church. I expected them to verbalize their disappointment in this decision, but thankfully, they handled the news with grace and love. With tears streaming down my face, I pleaded with my mom to please not penalize our other two kids by not making them quilts even though they would not be getting baptized at age eight. It was the only thing I asked for in that difficult conversation. She assured me that she would still get their quilts made.

Our daughter turned eight, but there was no baptism scheduled. We tried to cover that sore wound by throwing money at a giant birthday party with everyone she knew. I’d never seen so many presents.

No white dress. No pictures holding the Book of Mormon. No ritual. No covenants. No ordinances.

And no quilt.

I would be lying if I said that I was fine. I was not fine. I had a lot of meltdowns and moments of mourning leading up to her January birthday. Invitations to her friends’ baptisms had been rolling in; my fear of her feeling isolated in our Utah neighborhood were glaring. I hid many of these and tossed them in the recycling bin. I worried about her and I don’t know if hiding invitations was the right move. We were the first in five or so generations to opt out of baptism, and that was synonymously freeing and gut-wrenching. My daughter was unaware of this quilt that I stewed over, and for that I was grateful. She wasn’t waiting for this physical manifestation of love and acceptance like I was.

Nieces and nephews were getting baptized, and I’d get pictures in the family group chat of my mom holding their beautiful quilts. My heart would shatter, seeing that these younger, out-of-state cousins were receiving their quilts. I addressed this with my mom and let her know how painful it was for me, especially receiving texts and pictures of her quilts for her active LDS grandchildren. I offered to help her with the design of the quilt if she needed ideas. She assured me that my daughter’s quilt was coming but was just taking longer. I was beginning to not believe her.

Our daughter turned ten this year. She had a small party with close friends, and my parents asked if they could come over to give her a present.

It was her quilt.

And it was the most beautiful quilt I had ever seen. The colors and flower patterns showcased my daughter’s personality perfectly. The design was intricate and colorful, even a bit chaotic, but in the best way, much like our beliefs now. I asked that it not be religious, but encouraging and values-based, and my mom honored that ask. It has phrases that I imagine my mom wants for her granddaughter that I even identify as blessings for her:

Have faith
Make time for yourself
You are funny, beautiful, crazy loved
With brave wings, she flies
One blessed and precious life
Choose happiness
Love deeply
Be kind

I am relieved that my daughter has her own special quilt because she should never feel less than for not being baptized. I’ll be damned if she ever feels unworthy of love based on church attendance. To me, this quilt symbolizes my mom’s love for our family despite us paving our own path deviating from tradition. The fears and panic I felt in the last few years concerning our decision to leave the church have nearly ceased. My children’s friends are still their friends. My community has not banished us. The world has kept spinning and we are living life outside of what was expected. Like my daughter’s quilt, we are a little more chaotic and don’t have a set pattern or timeline for what life will look like as the kids grow. But my life is beautiful, layered with interconnectedness and resilience. I may have lost faith, but I have not lost love.