Essays

As anyone that has sung in a ward choir I’ve directed knows, I love a good praise song. I find exuberant harmony, declarations of God’s goodness, and a joyful “Hallelujah” irresistible. I may have even had the primary children hold neon scarves and shake musical instruments while we paraded around the primary room singing “Praise to the Man” when I was the primary music leader.

As we approached 2022, I felt worried and intimidated. After the last three years studying Come, Follow Me, I felt a close connection with those books of scripture that I simply did not think I would have with the Old Testament. To add to this, I was asked to give a talk about the importance of the Old Testament.

Although the conversation happened several years ago now, I still think of it often. While serving in a leadership role, I was meeting with another church leader. We had been discussing several women who had left the church or who stood on the very precipice of leaving. Although each woman had her own circumstances, a deep-seated concern with gender inequities at church was a central thread in their unconnected stories.

As a young adult, I began to identify as a feminist while remaining an active member of the church. I clung to and cherished the gospel truths I had been taught as a young child, while also choosing to ask questions and consider different perspectives through a feminist lens.

When I was a baby, I was adopted by two wonderful, loving parents. I was given love, safety and security, and every opportunity to grow. My talents and abilities were fostered and encouraged. I really could not have asked for a better life, and how the Lord had guided me and protected me through that vulnerable time as a baby and led me to parents who would also guide me and protect me.

There is a Bible story you won’t be learning about this year as part of Come Follow Me and Sunday School. It’s the story of the Woman of Thebez found in the ninth chapter of Judges. I see this oversight as a tragedy. This single chapter of the Old Testament contains incredible imagery relating to prophecies in the Book of Mormon, the Pearl of Great Price, Isaiah, and the New Testament.

“Pilate . . . said unto him, Art thou a king then? Jesus answered, Thou sayest that I am a king. To this end was I born” (John 18:37).

The first person to whom Jesus announced his ministry (at least recorded for us) was the woman at the well. When Bethany Brady Spalding and I were writing our Girls Who Choose God for the Bible, we had to sift through a lot of options, but this one was a shoo-in.

One hand guiding the soft wooden casket, the other hanging awkwardly by my side, I shuffled next to my cousins and siblings, guiding my grandmother to a place of honor for her last mass.

Several years ago, a friend and I signed up for a triathlon. Neither of us had ever completed one before. In fact, neither of us had ridden a bike much since we were kids or had swum in a lake more than just splashing around. Over the next six months, we swam, biked, and ran. We purchased wetsuits and tri shorts and put together training schedules.

This very morning, my five-year-old daughter wailed in obvious distress, “I know I am supposed to ask God but how do you get an answer when you don’t know HOW to get an answer?!?” Honestly, I sat there stunned.

President Henry B. Eyring’s district president once counseled him, “‘Hal, when you meet someone, treat them as if they were in serious trouble, and you will be right more than half the time.” The pews of the church are filled with members whose bodies bear the burden of trauma from hard experiences.

Since the first time missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints exposed me to the teachings of modern day temples, my soul was hooked. It was like a magnetic pull that drew me to participate in proxy baptisms for the dead. The spiritual experiences I obtained in the baptistery firmly confirmed to me there is a God who intimately cares about each individual soul and His presence can be felt inside the temple. Despite my love for the temple, natural disaste

I was raised as a member of the church, but gospel principles weren’t taught in the home, and they certainly weren’t lived. My parents’ relationship was fraught with problems, colored mainly by my mother’s serial adultery. We were all aware of it but nobody spoke of it. My dad withdrew from all of us, not just my mom, leaving her alone to parent, which created an environment that was sad and toxic. Of the four children in my family, both boys became drug dealers, and both gir

When I was 20, I was raped. I won’t go into that story itself, but for years I thought the story was that I had put myself into a situation where I had sex with a man and didn’t really want to. At the time of the #metoo moment, I learned that I had indeed been raped, but I still blamed myself for putting myself into a vulnerable situation.

During a Stake Women’s Conference I found myself overwhelmed in many ways. I came feeling so out of place, ashamed, and yet desperately seeking forgiveness and peace. I sat alone on a pew as the opening hymn began.

Several years ago, I was planning on leaving the continent for at least several years, so my siblings and I decided to have a reunion. Since we are spread across multiple states, provinces, and countries, we thought Las Vegas to be a fun place to gather. While there, between the fun and food, we thought that one of the best things we could do together was attend the temple. Since we had just flown in for the weekend, we all rented our temple clothes, and proceeded to an or

A few months before my first husband passed away from cancer, his doctor called and told me I needed to come right away—he wasn’t doing well and they were very concerned. We were still newlyweds in our mid-20s. He was treated and hospitalized 250 miles away, and I had to stay home with our baby to work, which meant I could only visit him on the weekends.

I love the variety of windows in temples. Having taken a stained glass class, I appreciate the intricate effort needed for these architectural additions, as colored glass is selected, shaped, and soldered together. My quarter-century of temple worship is like a stained glass window—various facets make a beautiful picture through a delicate, time-intensive process that enhances my life.

In April of 1937, my grandmother was sitting in a restaurant with her husband when he suddenly collapsed. Ralph was 25 years old when he died of unknown causes; they had been married just three years. In that same week, the Hindenburg crashed not too far from my grandmother’s Philadelphia home; Fascism was gaining power in Europe, and politics at home were contentious.