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,

Cookie

What You Need to Know

Charles and I are getting our marriage annulled.
We both felt it was the right thing to do to get married, and, perhaps confusingly to some, we both felt it was right to get it annulled. The decision wasn't easy, but it was mutual.
We have both learned and grown much from all our experiences, and I can still honestly say that I am grateful to have met such an amazing and good man.
Family and friends have been incredibly supportive and I am grateful to everyone for that. I have a place to live for now and am doing fine.
I know you may have questions, and that's okay--people are curious. I appreciate the concern; however, if I haven't shared more with you already, this is all you need to know.

What did you expect?

The small lip of an awning over the chairs outside the sushi restaurant only shaded the left half of my body as I sat facing my friend, but I didn't think anything of it--until two and a half hours later when I was unlocking my bike and realized I had a dark sunburn on only the right half of my body. My right leg, right arm, and right half of my face were all dark red. So I did the next logical thing: I stopped by the bookstore and went down to the nearby park to read while I let the sun bathe the other half of my body, determined to even out this burn.

I didn't get much reading done. I called my mom first and talked for a while, and then I found myself talking a little to God. I was in the middle of this latter engagement when a boy who looked to be a slightly older or just graduated college student sat down at my picnic table. Beside him he plopped down a milk carton that read "Hope & Sesame." The side of the carton facing me read something along the lines of "Life is made of simple things" and then told a short story about the miraculous contributions of the sesame seed. I didn't actually read it because from the time the man sat down to the time he left I don't think he ever stopped talking, except for the occasional brief moment to take a swig from the carton.

I was honestly a little annoyed. I don't get all that much alone time, the park had been relatively quiet and peaceful, and God and I had been having a pretty good talk. But perhaps because he had interrupted in the middle of a prayer I carried a small expectation that perhaps there was something I was to learn from this man, and so, feeling safe in a well-occupied park and not having a whole lot else to do, I listened intently.

We had a relatively interesting discussion about our purpose in life, our expectations for others, what we look for in people, and the possibilities of change. He had a heavy accent that was hard to understand and spoke in a disjointed manner that would have made it hard to follow his train of thought even in perfect English. Occasionally he would ask a question but then it was clear later on he hadn't really been listening to my answer. That annoyed me a little and I didn't actually walk away with much, except for one word from the conversation that had seemed to etch itself in my mind: expectations. Expectations are a powerful predictor of pleasure and satisfaction--or dissatisfaction. 

It was my roommate who first pointed out to me this relationship. To illustrate, she had related the story of her first time trying red velvet cake. Not knowing quite what it was, she saw the dark red color and expected a nice fruity cake--strawberry or raspberry. Consequently, she was much disappointed at its lack of fruitiness and since then has carried a distaste for red velvet cake. 

I learned a few things from my roommate and from my conversation with this man about expectations. First of all--I had expected to learn from him, and so consequently, I did. When we expect the best, that is more often what we will find. Secondly, as I thought of how often we can feel disenchanted or disappointed because of our expectations going unmet or unrealized, I thought of some of my own expectations that might benefit from adjustment. What are your expectations for yourself? For others? Are they fair? Do others know what the expectations you have of them are? 

Next time you find yourself disappointed or unsatisfied by an outcome maybe one place to start is by asking yourself, as I have done, What did I expect? 

I Believe You Need Help

There is a dice game that my husband, Charles, and I like to play during our meals. It involves rolling six dice and hoping to gain points with ones, fives, or sets of triples. Normally the game is played until one reaches five or ten thousand points, but seeing as we play it so often, we decided to keep a continuous score tally until someone reached one hundred thousand. Charles had reached the game-ending score, leaving me with one more chance to pass his score and win. It would take a miracle though, and my dice had not been rolling well.

In my family, we grew up serious competitors in this game. The dice had roll-outs where we rolled all the dice from a large bag, selecting the best ones to play with based on the results. When dice "misbehaved" we put them in timeout. We scolded our dice, taught them, whispered to them our desired rolls and strategies, and even tried to sabotage the other players' dice by telling them to roll bad numbers. Sometimes they listened. Most times they didn't. But that was an easy matter--we would just put them in timeout and get new ones that would "listen."

The game was down to one final role--one last chance to beat Charles. Talking to my dice, Charles said, "I believe in you," to which I responded, also in reference to my dice, "I believe you need help."

Afterward, we discussed that little exchange. Often we are apprehensive about asking for help. To do so can seem like admitting some deficiency or defeat. Are we not strong enough? Good enough? Smart enough?

I have been married a week today. It's wonderful, exciting, and slightly terrifying. There are a lot of adjustments and a lot of sacrifices. At times it can seem overwhelming. But I remember the exchange over the dice and am reminded that the most beautiful thing about marriage is you get to face everything together. I believe that I can do this. I believe that I need help. I believe in my sweet husband. I believe he needs help, too. And isn't a beautiful thing that we can help each other?

Sometimes though that isn't enough. At such times we call upon outside help--family, friends, our Savior. Not because we can't do it, not because we're weak, but rather because we believe in us.

And believing in us means we are willing to get help and work through challenges. We believe we need help because we believe in us. As my husband and I discussed this concept, he remarked quite insightfully, "You know, that sounds a lot like the Savior: I believe in you. I believe you need help."

We know we need the Savior's help, and we know He came to help us. We also know that His offer of grace, rather than belittling His belief in us, is a testament of his firm belief in who we can become. So next time you find yourself needing help, don't think of it as a defeat or a disgrace. Rather, think of it as an opportunity to exercise belief in yourself and in the change and progress you can and will make--with a little help ;).

Imposter's Syndrome and Answers to Prayer

While I was on my study abroad I had the opportunity to attend Shakespeare’s play Measure for Measure. It was one I had never read nor watched before and I was struck by one quote in which Lucio comes to tell Isabella that her brother is imprisoned and sentenced to death and that perhaps she can persuade the Duke to pardon her brother’s sentence. When she doubts her ability to do so, Lucio persuades her, saying, “Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt.”

It made me think of this past spring when I applied to intern for the Ensign magazine and the first information meeting I went to where I looked around at a room full of well-qualified applicants and, thinking I didn’t have a chance against one of them, almost got up and left.

I stuck through the meeting, but when I left I tucked the application in the back pocket of my folder, and while I can’t say I forgot about it, I didn’t do much with it either. Finally, after about a week of indecision I decided to apply, only to find out in my editing class that morning that due to a confusion on my part, I had missed the deadline.

Sometimes you don’t realize how much you want something until it’s out of your grasp. And I was beginning to realize, as I struggled to hide tears, that this was something I really wanted. By the time my friend Sarah arrived I had lost the battle with my composure and we went to a small, unused classroom nearby where she in her wisdom suggested we pray.

I had been so afraid to email the Ensign and ask for an application extension because I didn’t want to start off the application process which such a low mark, but I got off my knees determined to do so.

It wasn’t the first time a prayer had put me on this path. Backing up a couple months, I was trying to decide what position to apply for in my capstone editing class. The class would be producing a travel magazine and we each had to apply for a staff position. I was trying to decide whether or not to apply for managing editor and once again, I thought, there’s no way, and even if I got the position, how would I fulfill it?

The evening before the application was due my ministering brother, Matt, came over. We talked for a bit and then when he was getting ready to leave he asked me if he could leave me with a prayer. He asked whether there was anything specific he should pray for and I told him about the decision I had to make. During his prayer the answer was clear: I needed to apply.

Applying for and receiving the position of managing editor may have been the best thing I did in terms of preparing me for an internship with the Ensign. If nothing else it gave me some of that confidence I lacked. It also proved a great addition to my resume and gave me something to talk about in my interview, along with my job in which I researched and wrote articles for a religion professor at BYU.

That job came about by way of a disappointment that proved a tremendous blessing. I had been applying to the religious studies center to be a staff editor for their publications. I made it through the editing tests and interview and a few days later received a phone call. I had been one of the final two candidates for the position. They had gone with the other candidate. But, I was told by the hiring manager on the other end of the phone, my application was strong enough that he had taken the liberty of sending it out to the religious education faculty to see if they needed an assistant.

Though flattered, I was still rather disappointed.

Within a matter of hours, however, I received an email from one of the religious education professors, Sister Woodger. She wanted to interview.

Five minutes into the interview, I had a job.

I started out transcribing, then substantive editing, then copy, and finally writing. I helped write a chapter for her book on the beatitudes, then sections on her book on significant Church artifacts, finishing with a lengthy research paper on a notable figure in Church history.

In the meantime, I had decided to take a class on Christ and the Everlasting Gospel. It wasn’t necessary—I’d fulfilled the required credits for religious studies already—but had decided it couldn’t be a bad thing. Between my work for Sister Woodger and the journals and write-ups we were required to do weekly for my religion class, I had all I needed to draw on to compile  my portfolio for the Ensign application—something I certainly wouldn’t have found time to do otherwise.

The Ensign replied to my request for a deadline extension and in one afternoon, after returning home late from my ski class, I took the required spelling and editing tests, wrote some short essays of intent, and sent it all in.

Then came the waiting. I waited. And waited. And waited. It felt like eternity.

At last the call came in. I’d gotten the position. I was ecstatic!

But the story doesn’t end there.

Maybe you are familiar with the imposter syndrome. In late July it began to hit hard. I wouldn’t start for another month and a half, but just thinking about it I began to worry that they had picked the wrong candidate and that I would never be able to deliver on their expectations.

At the time I was on a study abroad trip in the British Isles and Ireland. We were in a beautiful coastal town in Wales (Llandudno) when I decided to go for a long walk up to the tops of some of the nearby seaside cliffs. It was early evening, but it was one of those long summer evenings where the sun seems to be merely in the act of setting long into the night.

Except for the sheep and some occasional mountain goats (and the hundreds of large slugs) I was alone. I took the opportunity to tell God how nervous I was starting to feel about my upcoming internship. I also told him that I still had no idea what I wanted to do when I graduated and that that was starting to worry me at least a little.

The breeze off the ocean had been sweeping up over the cliffs and hills quite rapturously, but the moment I prayed, the wind stopped and it was silent. I got up, and walked back to our hostel.

The next day was Sunday. We attended church in a small building with an even smaller congregation and when one of the speaker’s called in sick, one of our professors was asked to fill in. He shared how inadequate he feels at the start of each school year and how inadequate he felt when he started his Phd program.

He had taken a long break between his masters and Phd and his Phd program was a different subject area from his masters. When he came back from one of his classes having understood very little, his office mate asked him what was wrong and then remarked, “The faculty in this program know you. They saw your application. They interviewed you. They brought you here. They trust you to succeed.”

When my professor shared that I knew it was the answer to my prayer. I just hadn’t expected it to come so quickly! It was just what I’d needed to hear.

Afterward, I thanked him for his talk and he talked to me more about the internship (he had worked for the Church before and had a number of students work there as well) and I felt much more at peace about it.

While I had been up on the cliffs in Llandudno praying I’d had a very clear thought: God did not get you this far to let you fail.

If there is anything more certain than my not failing, it’s that God got me here. Just a few days ago while I was packing things up to move apartments I came across a small stack of papers: applications for the Ensign internship from as far back as my Sophmore year—all of them untouched. I’m so grateful that God finally helped me find the courage to apply.

I’m still nervous. But I am so excited to start this next adventure. All I can think of now is a quote that has sat on my desk for the past four years: What if I fall? Oh, but my darling, what if you fly?