Coming Out Monologues - What I Didn't Say.

 I wrote two different monologues.  This is the one I didn't share because I don't know if I believe it.  

Amazing grace… how sweet… the sound, that saved… a wretch… like me.  I once was lost… but now am found, was blind… but now… I see.

Can I get an Amen?

Amen

Hallelujah 

When I was but a young child, 10 or 11 small years lived, the Spirit, spoke in the softest of voices to me.  So soft that I didn’t realise it was her.  I spoke my impression to a friend, a new found realisation about self. Too embarrassed to say sex, I whispered to my friend, “I’d rather do it with a girl than a boy.”

Silence was her response.

I tried to take back my word, erase what I had said.

But I had spoken words of God for they were words of truth.

I lived in denial.  The Spirit had reached out to me, but I would not accept the truth.

How dark it is to deny the Spirit of God.  To deny truth is to walk through the valley of shadow and death, blind and alone.

Seven years went past before I glimpsed at truth again.  A friend reached out to me, inviting me to see who God had created me to be.

He knit me together in mother’s womb.

But I believed it was wrong to be me.  Not that God had made a mistake, but I lived in fear of messing up.  My friend came to me as a prophetess, and I rejected her.  That was my mistake.

You can be prophets.  Share your truth!  Let other’s reject it if they choose.  Worry not, for you shall have done your job.

Woe to those who deny the prophets, for they live in darkness.

I lived in darkness and lies.  I dated with out love, and loved without action. I lived but was not alive.

In the centre of Babylon, mourners lied down, dressed in black wailing the loss of those they loved, those who were told their love was unnatural, sinful.

God is love.  Love, all love is of God.  

Children, refused the love of God, had taken their lives.  Mourners on the street protested “this should not be!”  I sat with them, but I didn’t understand.

How lost, was I.  How far from the truth.  By the river of Babylon I had no words, no tears and no love.

“Repent!” says the spirit.  She calls to me, she opens my eyes to the hopelessness of my path.  “Repent, Turn, Love.”

I saw the warning, but I did not heed it.  Determined I carried on in the wrong direction. I damned, not only myself, on the path of destruction, but sought to bring others down with me.

This is what it means to be lost, hardened against truth, rejecting light, until it came in the form of an Angel.

My Angel came.  And just and Jesus himself did, my Angel met me where I was at.  She didn’t sparkle to the common eye, but in the lowly state she took to be with me, I saw her glory.  Her splendour was interior, but, thanks be to God, I was allowed to see it.  Her splendour was her love.  It took a while for her brilliant love to wear at the hard walls of my soul, but she didn’t give up on me.  Her patience was a river, ever flowing, ever eroding my exterior.

I am saved!  I have been found!  I have experienced the light and love of God.  Now I see.  When I ignored the Spirit of God, the prophetess, the warnings, God’s love pursued me.  He sent his Angel to rescue me.  God is love and love is love.  This love is for each of you!  This love is available now, for you and you and you.

“Come,” the Spirit cries “Come, be found.  See.”  Do not wait any longer.  Now, today is the time.

I say God is good.  You say all the time.  I say all the time.  You say God is good.

God is good

All the time

All the time

God is good.

Amen

Calgary's Proposed Ban on Conversion Therapy

These are the thoughts I sent in regarding Calgary's proposed bylaw to ban conversion therapy:

I was denied conversion therapy.

I wanted to change, and while I thought I might always be a lesbian, I was yet determined to marry a man and have kids, the traditional family. Whether or not this possibility had been explicitly taught in my faith, I had learned it, and I believed in it. I chose a counsellor of my faith, convinced he could help me to this end. Bearing fear and shame, I approached him. I read to him the goals I’d written and asked him, if not to change my orientation, to help me date boys and to lessen my attraction to women. He listened without judgment, sought to better understand me, confirmed my wishes and began by helping me realize my anxieties. I learned a lot of useful strategies, but got impatient, wondering when he would teach me how to like boys. At some point I had to realize that he didn’t believe in the outdated practice of conversion therapy. He refused to give me hope that I could happily marry a boy. He wouldn’t lead me where it was impossible to go. I stopped seeing him when I moved away. My money spent on counselling didn’t lead to a single date with a boy. But, the time I spent in counselling gave me courage to face the fear of accepting myself. I learned to deal with social anxiety. While I don’t know my counsellors personal beliefs, he followed the guidelines of counselling communities and years of research. I’m grateful that he didn’t hinder my personal development, but let me begin to explore my sexual nature in a non-judgmental environment of faith.

I support the bylaw to ban conversion therapy.

That Girl Who Went to the Preston Missionary Training Centre.

That girl who went to the Preston MTC in England wanted to be friendly with everyone, but found herself shrinking away in groups, becoming almost invisible. She wasn’t sure if her roots could hold her, so often she hide. The girl who went to England, knew the way of the religion she was spreading, yet wasn’t sure if she believed it. She prayed to believe, she fasted and she accepted every twitch in her tummy as a declaration of truth. The girl who went to the Preston MTC was like a plant, her leaves longing for sunshine, yet she kept them in the shadows. She was gay, she knew she was gay, but she wasn’t sure what people would say if she mentioned it, so she kept it to herself. She wore skirts. That was the expectation. She offered prayers, she knew the kinds of words to say, but found it hard to be genuine when others were listening. That girl who went to the Preston MTC made the choice to believe in a male God. She chose to believe in living prophets who commanded those with same-sex attraction to stay single or marry the opposite sex. She desired to go on a mission, to teach, to serve her church, even if she knew it would mean wearing clothes that made her feel uncomfortable for a year and a half. When the girl went to the Preston MTC, she didn’t eat much. She wasn’t hungry. She knew there were vegetarian options, but rather than choose those, she avoided the meat and picked through whatever else was given her. Her tummy hurt. In the moment she was hungry, she was told she couldn’t eat. The classroom wasn’t the place. She wished to explain herself, but rather, she held back tears and submitted. Her leaves withered. One curled up and dropped off the plant. When the girl was in the Preston MTC, she flirted with the idea of coming out. She yearned for light. In front of a crowd, she proposed to a girl, but everyone knew it was a joke. She wanted people to know who she was and love her anyways. But she was told all gay and lesbian people should go live and die out on an island. She tried not to watch the other sisters change, she didn’t mean to admire the curves of their bodies, covered in white, shaped like angels. She didn’t want to be accused of being a 14 year-old boy, though she understood how they must feel. With her companion, she joked that she’d come out later. Before her companion could say a word, she carried on with the story she was telling. Her gay foliage battered the shadows, crying out to be seen. She wondered if she hid it long enough, if her gay branch would break off and die. The girl in the Preston MTC searched for truth in her religion. She was in so far that finding truth was the only answer. Though she had questions, she trusted there were solutions which she didn’t yet understand. In England, though she hated praying, her prayers were answered, signs were received, and she could believe in her message. The signs formed her witness, her testimony of truth. A testimony that she decided was more powerful than any doubt. This was the testimony she’d been hoping for. In the Preston MTC, that girl received three compliments. They breathed life into a twig of her being. If she hadn’t been insecure, perhaps they wouldn’t have mattered. The comments convinced her that she could be a fantastic missionary, that she could teach and touch hearts, and that she could share her thoughts and change lives. She clung to this encouragement, believing that she was where she needed to be.

Sometimes I am ashamed to say this. At times, I long to hide my past, but I was the girl who went to the Preston MTC. Though it was more than four years ago, that was me. I have changed; I am the same. Though I’m no longer a member of a specific religion, I still pray. I try to pray out of desire, but too often it come from a place of routine and obligation. In the MTC I understood why the church told us to pray. Now I am not sure I know the reasons why I address my thoughts to an unknown being. I hope, somehow he can strengthen my limbs and branches. It has been a long time since I have fasted. When I fast next, it will be medical, so the doctors can check out my tummy. The pain is different than it was before, and while I still don’t have much of an appetite, I am not losing weight like I did in the MTC. My roots have expanded and I absorb more nutrients. I’m still gay. Some branches never die, regardless of how long we deny them. I don’t try to change my orientation anymore. In the sunlight, this branch buds and blossoms, and I realise how much it is a part of me. I married the most compassionate and understanding woman I’ve ever met. And yet, at times I am afraid. I am scared to tell people that I am married, nervous to say that I have a wife. I still fear their rejection. My leaves, however, touched by the sun refuse to stay in the shadows for long. In the MTC my teaching skills were complimented and encouraged. Now, I continue to teach, though my message is no longer faith based. I am eager to learn how to be a better teacher, but slower to accept the advice I receive. I chose to think and reason for myself. I recognise that one person’s style of teaching might not be for me, and that is okay. I continue to thrive when I am watered with praise. Perhaps it was my joy of teaching that brought me to the MTC, that sustained me there and through my time in England. I knew if I was going to teach in England, I needed to believe my message, so I forced myself to find signs of its veracity. Teaching as a missionary meant denying my gay branch, wishing it would die. It meant teaching others that homosexuality was wrong. As I continue to teach, I teach independence. It is easy for me to believe my message. Yet, I am still concerned about my students knowing I’m gay. Though my message no long dictates what people ought to do in their bedrooms, I fear losing credibility if the students knew what I did in mine. Every day when I teach, my gay branch hides in the shadows. The leaves reach for the light coming through the crack. They want the sunlight. They want to be seen. Just as the girl in the MTC hoped to one day come out, so to do I wish to live without hiding any of my branches.

Where's the Peace?

There is peace in Christ
When we’re straight like him
We’ll feel the love he felt for us
If we’re free from sins.
Listen to his words
Let them condemn me
If we know him and are cis
There is peace in Christ.

He gives us hope
Hope to be straight
He gives us strength
So we can’t move on
He gives us shelter
A closet to hide
When there’s no peace in me
Where’s the peace in Christ?

There is peace in Christ
If we sacrifice
The way he’s made us to be
If we lose ourselves
It will break our hearts
We’ll have tear-filled eyes
When we live as straight as him
There is peace in Christ.*

* Adapted from: https://www.churchofjesuschrist.org/youth/bc/youth/theme/2018/music/lyrics-sheets/peace-in-Christ-lyrics.pdf?lang=eng 

I am not bitter nor angry, just confused and not at peace.

Shame Verses Me

I have been reading a book* about a transparent people. They are so open, that they can read each other’s minds. They do not lie, they have no secrets, they are not ashamed.

I was recently learning about picture books where the pictures tell a different story than the words, not only are the stories different, they contradict each other. I wondered if I could write such a story about my life: the narrative, what goes on in my head, the pictures, a depiction of my life. Would they contradict one another?

I am not prone to cry, even less likely to cry in front of others. Recently I found myself in tears, video chatting with SJ’s mom, feeling uncomfortable as I allowed her to see my humanity.

I have secrets. I am ashamed of who I am. I constantly fear the disproval of others. I am afraid to be wrong. I am afraid that if others really saw me, they would not like what they see. Therefore, I ponder many different ideas, but I act in a way which I think will be agreeable to those around me. If I do not know how they want me to act, I freeze. I do not think people want to see the negative emotions floating inside my head. I doubt they want to hear my apathy, I can’t be bothered to share much of it anyhow. I fear that if I share my fears and anxiety, others will fear what I fear, or they will disregard my fears, and disregard me, as nonsensical. So I hide my feelings, I hide my thoughts, I hide me.

This is a challenging way to live, and it be sure, I don’t think it is at all good for my mental health. My physical health seems to be suffering too. I want to change, I want to improve. I want to change the name of this blog, post it on my Facebook, and walk around naked (at least metaphorically). Change is hard, and I am afraid. Part of me is afraid that I don’t really know me, I don’t know who I am, not sure who I want to be. A big part of me is afraid that people will not like me if they see the real me. They will learn that I am pesky and miserable. I want to be a happy person, but when I am not happy, is it wrong to pretend to be content for the sake of others? Perhaps rather I should ask, is it helpful or harmful to pretend a mood.

It is also important for me to remember that I am allowed to change. Though posting on the internet is much like writing in indelible ink, and my past has very much shaped me, it does not define who I am today. My feelings, positions and perspectives are allowed to change, and are encouraged to do so. The aforementioned book* discusses how changing and improving are crucial in our lives, and provide us with purpose and meaning. The people have names that change and develop as they learn and become new beings. They celebrate who they become, they celebrate their accomplishments, not to boast, but as a way to acknowledge the goodness in and around them. They know who they are, they recognise their value.

Who am I? I am a child of God. Perhaps my greatest value in this life comes from being a child of God. Because he is my parent, I have potential to become like him.  I am human.

I am a daughter of God. I do not believe I fully understand or appreciate this part of me. I do not mind being female, but I wonder if there are ways I can better be motherly towards children and youth.

I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I am a follower of Christ. I have chosen to take the name of Christ upon myself, and make and keep sacred covenants with my Heavenly Father. I desire to become like and follow Christ in all I do.

I am gay. I am particularly attracted to one woman, and I desire to express my love for her in a way that aligns with the pure love of Christ and the covenants I have made. I desire to speak more openly about my sexual orientation, but even when given an opportunity to share, I most often shy away. On a deep level, I am still ashamed that I am gay. Since I have yet to fully accept this part of myself, I cannot expect others to accept me.

I am a teacher. I love teaching! Perhaps one reason I so appreciate my job is that I can stand in front of my class, make a fool of myself and still be accepted. My inner class clown, the attention seeker I’ve always suppressed, has an opportunity to shine.

I’ve been taking anti-depressants for about 6 months now. I think they are helping, but I don’t want to rely on them for the rest of my life. I think if I can learn to be, love and appreciate me, I might not need anti-depressants any longer.

I am an auntie. I love my nieces and my nephew. I love spending time with them, though I feel like often my energy in inadequate.

I like to run, I like to bake, I like to write and I like to create, but interest in these hobbies waxes and wanes. These hobbies do not make me who I am.

These sorts of thoughts are not new to me.  They are not new to my blog.  I hope posting this post is the first of many steps to change. The process of reconciling myself with myself, may not be easy. Perhaps the next step will be changing the name of this blog, coming out to a few more people, or crying openly. Change may not be easy, but I believe it is possible, I believe it is worthwhile.

*Morgan, Marlo. Mutant Message Down Under. (HarperCollins, New York, NY: 1994)

Eyelash

We had transformed our basement into a theatre. The large room at the bottom of the stairs was divided into a seating area and the stage. The rooms which linked around the basement felt like secret passages and acted as our backstage. I sat with Celine it what was an undeveloped laundry room turned into our hair and makeup studio. I would have objected to the idea of makeup, but I knew I didn’t have a say. I had already heard her articulate the importance of stage makeup, and it was opening night. As she applied mascara, she commented on my eyelashes. They were long, and she said beautiful, and I didn’t care. “Someday,” she promised, “you’ll be grateful for them. They will catch the attention of all the cute boys.” I shuddered at the thought. She discredited my discomfort, and guaranteed that when I was a little older, I’d be grateful for my eyelashes, I’d want to know how to apply makeup to them, so they would jump out and capture the attention of men.

Age came, but I remained indifferent to my eyelashes. Beauty was something I hid rather than embraced. Baggy clothes offered a picketed fort of protection from where I could fire warnings at any male who got too close. More often than not, however, I just hid. I was glad that I was so successful, most of the time. Occasionally I’d wish someone would notice me. Honestly, I was always longing for attention, but I didn’t want the sort of attention I would garner by wearing makeup or stylish clothes. It didn’t seem to matter how much my age increased, my desire for the attention of cute boys, or men, never came to be. And just as I felt uncomfortable when Celine complimented my eyelashes, I continued to feel bothered every time someone suggested that I am beautiful. That suggestion had me worried that I might attract the attention of a man.
However, when SJ tells me I'm beautiful, I do not retaliate. When she tells me, my defence system is not triggered. When she tells me, I don’t think for a second that what she is actually communicating is, “don’t worry, some day, some boy will be attracted to you.” When she tells me, it is never with the suggestion that I wear mascara, fix my hair, or engage in any other activity to enhance my looks. She is talking about me, just as I am. When she tells me, she speaks both of my interior and exterior qualities. When she tells me, she believes it. And sometimes, when she tells me, I almost believe it myself.  When SJ tells me that I am beautiful, suddenly I care. I don’t want her to ever change her mind. I look at me in the screen and wonder if my nose is too pointy, if my wrinkles are to pronounced, yet I know SJ thinks I am beautiful. I also trust that as my wrinkles become entrenched, and all my hair turns white, she will still find me beautiful.

I am gay, and that's okay... but I am not sure what that means.

When I told my bishop that I am gay, he told me “that’s okay.” I’ve been wondering ever since exactly what that means. Does it mean it is okay that I like rainbows and the colour purple?

I suppose it is difficult for me to say what it means for me to be gay, because I don’t like stereotypes. I can’t say that the reason I like playing soccer is because I am gay. Maybe I just like playing soccer. So, perhaps I can stick only with the basics. I am gay, that means I am attracted to women, and that is okay. God made women beautiful, and it is okay if I notice that beauty.

Perhaps a better starting point would be: “I am me, that’s okay, but what does that mean?”

My identity and my understanding of myself has changed a lot in the past 7 years. I was once held the belief that Mormon’s were very wrong, and headed to hell. Now I am a Mormon. I once thought that being gay was a choice, and that being gay was a wrong and bad choice. Now I identify as gay. I once thought I’d be a Christian youth worker, now I teach adults in a secular environment.

I’m a Mormon, and that is okay. Generally I have come to terms with this. I have grown in my faith and confidence, and my love of the Book of Mormon and our living prophets. It is still tricky around my family as I try hard to avoid offending them, and as I fear I cannot fully talk about that part of my life. At times I feel like they do not want to hear much about the church. At other times, being a Mormon is hard for me, and I don’t want to express these struggles in a way which might make the church look bad. I am a Mormon, being a Mormon is hard, and that is okay.

I am gay, and that’s okay. It took me many years of life to accept my orientation, and even now, I am not sure I fully understand what it means. I am coming to understand that being gay is about more than dealing with certain temptations. Yes, there are certain temptations that come with being gay, but there is more to being gay than being tempted. Perhaps being gay is more than okay, perhaps it is beautiful. God didn’t just make me okay, he made me good. He has a plan and a purpose for me, yes, even for the gay me. We are not all meant to be the same. We are beautifully different, and gay me has something unique to contribute. I am gay, and I hope one day I will fully see that I am gay and that’s beautiful.

I am a teacher, and I really do love my job. Sometimes I feel bad for leaving behind the dreams of my youth, but I am happy to do what I do, and to allow this job to become part of my identity.

Another addition to my identity which I picked up nearly 5 years ago is the title “Auntie.” I love being an aunt, and I seek to be the best aunt ever. At times this is very hard, as depression and anxiety keep me from engaging as fully as I wish I could. But, I love being an aunt. I love my nieces and nephew.

I am me, and that is okay.

Death or Life

The blogpost I read yesterday left me feeling pretty hopeless.

What I took away from it was that the only way to find happiness in this life is to hope for, seek for and hopefully find, a romantic partner, where both partners feel strong romantic feelings for the other. One idea that was strongly presented was that denying oneself of the pursuit of a romantic relationship resulted in dying, in becoming more and more anxious and depressed and far too often in suicide. While he did not quote any sources, he spoke with one having authority, and I cannot deny his struggle nor the struggles of so many like us.

Am I depressed because I don’t seek for a girlfriend, because I don’t allow myself to hope for a romantic relationship with someone I could love?

Is there no other way to be happy but to search for a romantic partner?

Even if I take anti-depressants, if I exercise and socialise, am I fighting a losing battle? Is the battle to become a happy, faithful Latter-day saint one that I can never win?

Am I dying? Am I killing myself slowly by denying myself of an intimate relationship with a woman?

With these heavy questions playing through my mind, I got to bed late, only to wake up early to head to the temple. While the temple has motivated me to stay faithful before, I wondered if it is really worth it. I go to the temple regularly, I enjoy my time there, but it hasn’t brought lasting peace into my day to day life, it hasn’t made me happy. It hasn’t taken my depression away. I am still dying on the inside.

Before the session began, I found myself focused on a picture I had never noticed before. It is a picture of Jesus Christ standing on a hill outside of a city. I wasn’t sure if it was depicting a specific story. What I did notice, however, was the light radiating from the character of Christ. I was reminded of my institute class from yesterday. “I am the light and the life,” Jesus said.

It struck me, Jesus Christ is my source of life. No potential lover can take his place. While I believe that (and I also believe looking for such life from humans will lead to disappointment), I also believe there is value, a lot of value and a lot of good that comes from human interaction and human intimacy. It isn’t good for Patricia to be alone.

As usual, I struggled to stay away during the session. Suddenly, a phrase hit me, jolting me awake, having me wish I could rewind and listen again. It was a phrase reminding me of a covenant I made with God, a covenant I made to sacrifice, to sacrifice, if necessary, even my life. If the aforementioned blogger is right, if foregoing any hope of a lesbian lover causes me to die inside, even death is not a reason to forsake my covenants, for dying is what I have covenanted to do.

I didn’t get any warm-fuzzies, while I was in the temple, telling me that my life would be easy and happy, but I was reminded that I do have hope. I hope for that which God has planned for me, I hope that his plan is greater than my plan. I hope, indeed, I have faith that what he offers is greater than the joys I could find in a romantic relationship. I don’t know what God envisions for my life, but I know his vision is greater than mine and so I have hope.

I hope that hope is enough to keep me going and to keep me living. Not just to keep me physically alive, but to keep me alive, and thriving, inside.

Freud*

I am sure Freud would say

I have some sort of repressed memory

Something that happened

That makes me the way I am,

But what if

I am just the way I am?

Perhaps if I

Make up a reason,

Create a repressed memory,

I’ll have something to blame,

Something to call wrong,

So it will no longer be me

Who is wrong.

If I create a repressed memory

I’ll have somewhere to start.

A place from where

healing can begin.

If Freud is right

Maybe I can be alright

After all.

*I took an introduction to psychology course about ten years ago.  That is all I know about Freud, in other words I am not an expert and have no idea what he would say.  I don't think I have a repressed memory of a dramatic event, but I do at times think it would be nice if there was a reason why I have the struggles I have.  It would be nice to have something to blame so that I don't need to shoulder the blame.

What Do These Letters Mean to Me?

I could put myself within LGBT, find some belonging and identity.  Perhaps a label is not all it is cut out to be.  Does it help me understand me better when written on the inside of my eyelids is LGBT.  Does that help me understand what I see?  Should I leave the letters behind and be free, and just be me?  Yet, they seem to find me.  They want me to agree.  They beckon to me, “we are the you, just be true.”

Saying Good Bye to My Past

As I have been unpacking my belongings, I have found all sorts.  Notebooks filled with stories, a bag full of dreadlocks, clothing I forgot about, a box of photos I have yet to look through, and three hockey pucks (but I have yet to locate my skates).  among all of this I have also found reminders of who I used to be and what used to be important to me, bits of my past with which I can no longer identify.  Though I know this, I do not want to let go.  I am great at trying to justify my reasoning.  After all, isn’t having my selves lined with books that speak agains my beliefs evidence as to how strong my faith really is?  After all, I still do think that closets are for clothes.

Those are the two categories of belongings onto which I am holding.  Many of the books which speak against the Church i have never even read.  Sometimes I think I ought to read them to get my money’s worth.  My knowledge as to what critics say against the Church is no indication as to how strong my faith is.  I knew much of the critique before I has any faith.  Furthermore, I have no intention to read the literature, and just having it on myself is not going to do anyone any good.  I could give the books away, but I do not think they will do any good for anybody.  

The other category could be summed up as gay pride.  As I was driving earlier this week I came to understand that pride cannot be part of my life.  I feel this is counter-cultural, and all of societies reasons are my means of justifying holding on to this piece of my past.  I echo the words of society, it is who I am, I cannot change, i am not bad.  And perhaps it is part of who I am, perhaps it will never change, and quite certainly God created me good, but all that considered, pride is not the way forward.  If the opposite of pride is denial, that is not the answer, nor is the answer somewhere between those two points.  I would posit that it is some place two feet above.  I can acknowledge and accept that I am attracted to women without making it a point of pride.

Philippians 3:7-8: “But what things were gain to me, those I counted loss for Christ.  Yea doubtless, and I count all things but loss for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord: for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and do count them but dung, that I may win Christ.”

I must put my past behind me, recognize that it is rubbish and rest in the rewards Christ has offered.  It is time for church, but I must pass by the recycle bin first.

On General Conference

I have often stayed up to date in the happenings of the MoHo world as I follow blogs and read about what people are saying.  I read of people who feel sad, hurt or angered by things the general authorities say and wonder why they stay in the church.  I wondered if anyone I'm following would have posted about this morning's conference.  I noticed rather, a post about a new car.  Not a word about conference.  I'm a little jealous of those that can live today and not care about what the general authorities are saying.  Since no one I follow has yet remarked about the anti-gay doctrine reiterated at conference, I feel ahead of the game.  I watched conference this morning at the stake centre. I knew about this before I joined the church, I'm not sure Elder Neil L. Anderson said anything new, but it was still very painful to hear.
I noticed his slow approach to the topic.  I hoped he'd skirt around the issue and move on, talk about the dos and not the do nots.  At the first hint that his talk was going to make me uncomfortable I wanted to get up and leave, but I sat through it.  I starting fidgeting with my pen, I put down my journal.  Somehow I felt betrayed, let down by the church that was supposed to be supporting me.  The more he glorified families, the more I felt like I didn't belong, could never belong.  There was no place for me to be single.  As he spoke about the laws, I felt opposition.  I am fully for marriage equality.  Let all men practice their religion however they want.  Let gay people get married, have rights, and lovely families.  What's wrong with that?  How better can we show love for people than by letting them love, be loved and be protected by law.
One of the most painful statements, though it seems nice enough, was "The Savior taught us not only to love our friends, but also those who disagree with us."  That sounds great, but that's not really what Jesus said.  Jesus said love your enemies.  Am I your enemy, Elder Anderson?
I started texting my sister missionary after his talk.  I wanted words of consolation, but she wouldn't soften what Elder Anderson had said.  I hope he's wrong, but she just reminded me that he's an apostle.  I don't care.  She said I didn't like it because I don't understand, but frankly, I don't think he understood.  She suggested that his words are God's words, given to make us happy.  They might make some of us happy, but traditional marriage doesn't work for everyone.  She told me to pray.
"God... I don't know what I want...  you don't care what I want anyhow."
Why does what I want matter to God?  If he knows what is best, my desires are forgotten.  On a better day I'd have an answer to this, I know it's out there, but not today.
I thought I should try praying again.
"God, help me to want what you want."
I left the conference a few minutes early.  I didn't want to talk with anyone.  They might ask what I thought about conference...  Then what would I say?  I thought the first half was good.  The Church, however, is an "ism" that must be accepted as a whole; the seemingly good along with the seemingly bad.  If I thought I were a better judge of truth than some old men in suits I might forge my own path, but for now, I know no better way.

Shameless Self-Promotion

To contribute to a growing awareness of God's presence...

Christopher Hinkle, leaning on St. John of the Cross writes something in his article "A DELICATE KNOWLEDGE: EPISTEMOLOGY, HOMOSEXUALITY, AND ST. JOHN OF THE CROSS" that I really like:
"Specifically, one must be prepared to leave behind homosexuality if it does not genuinely contribute to a growing awareness of God's presence. Of course the same standard is to be applied to all activities and convictions, particularly to the creation and enforcement of anti-gay doctrine."