Trusting

 Faith is trusting without knowledge of a reward. 

I've been thinking a lot lately about faith and trust. When I realized I was lesbian, the entire reward of living a righteous life seemed to crumble. As mentioned in my earlier post, I didn't see how heaven would have a place for me, and without the promise of heaven and eternal life with God, what was the point of staying righteous?

I thought about it a lot. And I realized perhaps this is what true faith is. I'd always been a little bothered by the idea that we humans can never seem to be completely selfless, because we know that whether in heaven or on earth, every good deed is eventually rewarded. But for as long as I thought that I could not make it to the highest degree of glory in heaven due to my orientation, the reward was gone. 

So why stay?

For one, even when the reward was gone and nothing really made sense, I was happier doing what I knew was right. Which would seem like a reward in itself, and on a smaller scale, it most certainly is. But on the larger scale, I learned to trust. 

Some time ago while I was listening to a talk by Elder Eyring, I had an impression that in some ways changed everything. I'd mention the talk but it's not important in that the impression I received seemed utterly unrelated. 

First, a little theological background for those less familiar with our Church's doctrine. We believe that before we came to earth, our spirits lived with God. There, we were presented with God's plan for us to come to earth, receive bodies, and through that experience gain the ability to become like Him. The plan necessitated a Savior, and Jesus Christ volunteered. There were some that didn't like the plan, or perhaps just didn't trust our Savior to do all he promised to do. These, with Satan, left, and rejected the opportunity to come to earth, receive bodies, and progress. All this to say that those of us who are here on earth are here because we chose to be--because we trusted the plan, and we trusted the Savior to fulfill it. 

The impression I received as I listened to that talk, in this light was merely a reminder of what I once knew. I'm honestly not sure how much we knew in heaven about the individual trials we would face on earth, but if orientation is part of our eternal nature--something that isn't ever going away--then I must have known then what I know now--that I'm lesbian. And I must have known then enough about God's plan and my Savior's role to trust that despite this relatively unique trait, I had a shot at eternal life. In this way, and perhaps rather comfortingly, it's not just about trusting the Savior, but also about trusting myself. I like to think I know myself fairly well, and I know that I can be a rather obstinate fighter. I also know that I strive for perfection, almost to a fault. Knowing these things about myself, I can trust that there had to be a strong reason, and just reward for me to come to earth. Whatever I knew then, in my perfect knowledge, made it worth it. 

Ironically, I don't have any more answers than I did before. But I know that I can trust my Savior and trust myself. And right now, I trust myself to trust Him. Is that not what faith is?

Seeing

Some time ago I was told by a servant of God that I would be blessed with the ability to see things from the perspective of others. I'm now realizing what a curse that blessing was. Rather than simply gifting me with perspective, it was perhaps in some ways warning me of the many experiences I would have that were necessary for me to develop that perspective.

I have depression and anxiety. I have been married. And I've had that marriage annulled. I am a member of the LGBTQ community. I'm a graduate student at BYU. And I'm a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day saints. Sometimes these experiences have been blessings, other times they feel more like crosses to bear. But all have blessed me with an ability to see. 

In some ways, looking back, my orientation was kind of obvious, so much so that when I first told my parents almost a year ago, their first response other than to show their love was to admit that they had already suspected as much. But for the one going through it, it was so much harder to see and to accept, especially in a culture where every expectation, hope, and dream is the opposite. 

It was so much easier to think that I merely admired the women I loved, or to tell myself that I was simply not as emotionally driven as my twitter-pated peers, or to believe that I simply had yet to find that perfect man who who would set me off. And so I kept telling myself these things, because deep down I wanted, and still want, a family, and all the blessings we so often speak of coming with it. I wanted it so bad that I married a wonderful man, and had the painful opportunity through that experience of coming to terms with a truth, that in the very least for his sake, I should have seen before, and that I don't know I could have accepted otherwise. 

What followed was honestly put, a faith crisis. I was angry at God for leading me to a marriage He must have known would not work. But more so, I was angry at His conditions, which I couldn't help but see as a bias toward His straight children, and a bar to those that aren't. In our Church's cannon of scripture there is one scripture, a revelation given to the Prophet Joseph Smith, that was hardest of all for me to swallow. The gist is that in heaven there are degrees of glory, and in order to obtain the highest degree of glory, you have to be married to someone of the opposite gender as husband and wife. I imagine that it is this notion, along with the Church's focus on the eternal family, that is so hard for so many of the LGBTQ members of the Church. 

I know there are many wonderful single people out there, and my mother pointed this out to me, to show me that I wasn't alone, and also to say that surely God has a plan for them. I agreed, but I still felt a little trapped. I imagine these people who have desired their whole lives to marry but have simply not had the opportunity walking up to the pearly gates. I imagine God is there and greets them and then introduces them to a wonderful spouse. And then, hand in hand, they walk through those gates into their happily ever after. But then there's me, and all those like me, who do not have nor necessarily want a spouse. I imagine walking up to the pearly gates and God presenting me with a wonderful man. And then I'm stuck, because either I reject the offer and my opportunity to live in the highest degree of glory with God, or I accept and spend the rest of eternity with a man I may be incapable of loving on an intimate level. Either way, where in this is the happiness that is promised to the righteous?

It left me with a number of conclusions, none of which I particularly liked. Either my orientation was wrong and would therefore be fixed when I was resurrected to a perfect, celestial body, at which point I would gladly accept a husband and walk through the pearly gates OR there was nothing inherently wrong about my orientation: it was a part of my eternal nature and simply represented another one of the many trivial differences we deal with as humans, in which case I would be left with my dilemma at those pearly gates. 

So either my very nature was wrong and sinful, but at least I might have a happy eternity OR there was nothing wrong about my nature, but for the rest of eternity it would be my cross. Perhaps it is now obvious why the temptation to leave my faith was so strong. And why it can be so hard for those like me who are trying to be both members of the Church and members of the LGBTQ community. It has taken me a long time to at least see how they do not have to be mutually exclusive, and to find the answer that works for me. 

As far as BYU, Church, and nationwide policies etc, I don't have the answers, but what I hope is that we can all be a little more empathetic, and that if we can't at first bring ourselves to understanding, that we at least can begin to see. 

Candidly,

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