His hands are as strong as his work ethic. He likes old rock music, westerns, and Mexican food. He’s a naturally loud person with an easy sense of humor. He curses like a sailor and loves his family fiercely. He believes in God but not in organized religion. He worships God by watching the sunset as orange surrenders to red, and red melts into night sky. He is married to a lifelong member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and together they are raising three children. His family belongs to a religion that he does not. He is my husband and this is our mixed-faith marriage. I met my husband in my mid-twenties during a time of questioning and rebellion and church inactivity many years ago. That was a season of bad decision making on my part and I’m often surprised that I made such a good decision in marrying him. The best way we’ve found to navigate our marriage of almost twenty years now is to work from a place of values. What morals do we want to instill in our children? We want our family to be kind, loving, and accepting. We want our family to be hard workers. We want our family to contribute to our community and society in positive ways. It is our value system rather than a religious to-do list that guides our decisions as a couple and a family. Yet when the religious to-do list appears (because it does) my husband makes our marriage easy. While he has no desire to convert to my religion, he does not object to our children being baptized in the Church, attending church on a regular basis, or being taught the doctrine. What that looks like in our home is the children and I reading scriptures together, learning from one another, and having prayers together. Dad joins us for the blessing on the food at mealtime. Every so often he sits in on a religious discussion and shares his thoughts. His thoughts and opinions are just as important as mine. If he shares something that I do not agree with, I don’t verbalize it. He does the same for me. It’s just a level of mutual respect that we have for one another and for our children. The only things that divide us are those things we allow to divide us—pride, hurt feelings, anger, fear, refusing to understand another perspective. I don’t believe those things are unique to a mixed faith marriage; they can divide every marriage, while love, forgiveness, kindness, laughter, and understanding unite us. Our extended families accept us just the way we are and have from the beginning of our relationship. I’m sure my side of the family wishes he were a member and that we were sealed in the temple but they love him and can’t imagine me married to anyone else. His side of the family probably wishes I was Catholic or Baptist or anything other than Mormon and that we were raising the kids in a different religion, but they love me and can’t imagine him married to anyone else. Neither of our families have ever voiced disapproval of our marriage and/or our different religious views. This marriage, this man, is a gift and has helped me grow spiritually by teaching me daily how to love someone so very different from myself. We are not commanded to love the people that believe like us or think like us or act like us. We are commanded to love everyone. My marriage has taught me to love my husband right where he is, as he is, without expectations or conditions. It has taught me in the tiniest way how God can have unconditional love for each of us.

Elizabeth Ostler is a theater-maker, activist, and professor living in Brooklyn, New York. She specializes in directing and puppetry, and in coaching others on how to tell their stories. A survivor of childhood abuse and of an abusive marriage, she dedicates her artistic work to advocating for other victims and raising awareness about domestic violence and human trafficking. She has felt the companionship of the Savior throughout her life, and her knowledge of His love and of her inherent value helped her find the courage to walk away from abuse, to work through her trauma, and to shine a light for others. Elizabeth is co-editor of the LDS Women Project, formerly known as the Mormon Women Project.

by Rachel Hunt Steenblik Jersey City, NJ, USA As One Whom His Mother Comforteth She showed Her Son how to mother, so He could show the world. Mother Tree After nourishing, and digging, and pruning, and dunging, and weeping, the Lord of the Vineyard remembered the Mother Tree. He brought Her back to Her children, then Her children back to Her, grafting branches into branches. Their togetherness preserved—natural branches and roots and the roots of their Mother Tree. She bore good fruit. What Nathan Taught Me He told me, It is odd that with all the birthing God does— a Son, a Holy Spirit, a creation— that God is called ‘Dad. ’Rather than a mother? I asked. Rather than Mommy, he answered. Instead of calling God ‘Abba,’ Jesus should have called him, ‘Mommy.’ In the Guise of an Angel When Jesus was sorrowful, and very heavy, He cried, Mommy. She came to Him from heaven, strengthening Him. Tree of Life When Jesus was on the cross, His Father might have been in the farthest reaches of heaven, for sorrow, and solace. (We can give Him that.) His Mother might have been right there, branches holding Him— a weeping willow, the Tree of Life. (Originally published in  Mother’s Milk: Poems in Search of Heavenly Mother . Republished here with permission from the author.)

To Always Remember Emily Porter Brooklyn, NY, USA “Walking the old hills of Judea with the beautiful gentle God by my side” -Walt Whitman Beholding the magnitude of your Grace, Enoch cried “thou art there. ”Let me remember, Lord: Thou art there. Let me be comforted. Let me lift up my heart and be glad. Let me remember: You stopped for the woman in the crowd. She, bleeding and forgotten. You stopped to give of your very virtue. Let me stop and give of my self. In your Holiness, you washed their feet. Let me remember I was washed clean in your blood. You stayed with the disciple son the road to Emmaus. You stayed, in scripture and sacrament, til they knew you. May I stay till my heart burns, and I remember you, Lord. You waited for Thomas. Help me be constant, help me wait for You. You are there when I turn back, having forgotten to thank you, engrossed in my healed self, until I remember. Let me remember to turn back and give thanks each time I am healed. Make my path sweet with Hope. Let me feel the warmth of your Grace. Fill my heart with the blossoms of Joy. Let me know I can walk along the seashore with you in silence. I don’t always remember, Lord. I know. And I know when I seek You, I find You, because Thou art there.

Betwixt by Trisha Smith-Pierce Bangkok, Thailand The river gushes down my face Tears twist and turn Dodging knuckles Pressed against my cheeks I peek between finger slivers And cloudy pools Seeing a hydra ocean surge Justice ready to shroud me It’s coming to claim me Teeth snap and snarl An unyielding desire Covets, waits to consume But it cannot For He is there Standing star-shaped Stretched wide, legs, arms He stays the cresting wave White light radiates Filling the vacancy Betwixt me and justice His love rushes around me Tears dry and waterless Bowing my head Lowered in a song of praise.

Awakening Elisabeth S. Weagel Albuquerque, NM, USA Mother pricked her finger And so we all fell asleep Dreamily waiting for the Prince’s kiss. Sometimes dreams feel too real We forget that this isn’t where we came from We forget that we are sleeping But one day we will open our eyes again We will see His face And we will understand Only she could paint our dreams And only He could bring the morning.

Psalm By Meredith Marshall Nelson Charlottesville, VA, USA We love to talk about the rain that makes a garden grow—dismiss the dung that drives it from below. We celebrate the sun in its sublime ability—forget the flies and fungus feeding this fertility. Wrinkle our eyes when we talk about flies. Turn away from decay. Perhaps we would have liked a god who stayed up in the sky, who made each yellow melon never wither never die. But in the garden God is in the mud beneath my toes, to rot the fruit break down the root so something new can grow. Watch Him descend again and again below them all, to know them all—to grow them all. A thousand daily deaths divide beneath my garden moss. He made death matter when he died himself upon the cross. And blood to monthly blood I bear with Him salvation’s yoke, each drop a draft of life, a bondage broke. The seed, the weed, the bloom, the blight, cabbage, kraut, and dew and drought, fear and faith spin round about one day know and one day doubt life caves in, new life crawls out. The veils crack, the stone rolls back the bitter cup is swallowed up. Beneath the mound worms till the ground and peeking out—a little sprout.

An 18-Year-Old Psalm of Praise and Joy by Elise White Forbes Orangevale, CA, USA If I am a garden, then he holds the hose Gives life to me and to all those that bloom Immerses me the water as John once did Tells me the hose won’t run dry, if I look to the cotton candy silver lined heaven clouds If I am a kite, then He is the wind Blows icy air through my tattered wings Directs my nose to hopeful colors on the horizon Teaches me how to free my tail without tangling my glory in the vultures who appear to soar If I am stone, then He is the sculptor Shows my roughest corners how they can be softened Let’s me touch His scarred palms, so mine can be perfect Watches me do my own carving and helps me even when my circles become squares and nothing makes sense If I am a sister, then He is my older brother Letting me have the last slice of chocolate cake Listening to my she said he said, but I thought that – ughSacrificing His life for our family to live on and on and on and on forever into the eternities

The Bridge to Heaven’s Gates Kayla B. Bach Orange, CA, USA No head need I but Jesus Christ My Savior, Lord, and King For through His loving sacrifice Salvation He does bring He lives, my Savior of my soul He fills my soul with light He, the light of this great world Dispels the dark of night To Eve the promise in Garden given The devil to her seed would fall The promise fulfilled in Jesus Christ The Redeemer of us all For black and white, gay and straight, Female, male, and more – He died for every one of us The rich, the lost, the poor. The bridge from earth to heavenly gates Is washed in tears He shed On the path Home to Them By Him we shall be led. For we are children of our God The King and Queen of all Cleansed by Christ’s redeeming blood We’ll enter Their heavenly hall.

Burnished Stones by Jana Peterson Pawlowski Herriman, Utah, USA If I could write a sonnet to help thee gather me in; it would embrace the noblest words—etched in fine detail— upon some passing stone. And beauty unspoken Would grace the bareness there—until Thou chose to fill me, Lord, and burn to life the barren stone.

All Rise by Lindsey Price Jackson New Haven, CT, USA All rise, the Eternal Judges enter God the Parents take Their throne I tremble, I kneel, I cry at Their Glory Their might and majesty beam I hide behind Christ’s robes I cover my eyes; I can’t speak My heart aches with shame They will never accept me A sinner, a publican A harlot, and charlatan I am all of those things; I should not be here. But without hesitation, Christ begins my defense: Behold, Your Daughter. And the Gods behold all. Remember the struggles She fought her way through Remember her learning For which she praised you Remember how she helped So many of Your children Remember how she chose to try When peaceful times did end Remember, Mother, Father, please The price I paid for her, Remember how I suffered death That she, too, could return? We remember, Son We remember it all. She battled earth’s hardships That came from the Fall. She trusted in you, Son, As her precious Savior. For her faith and her works It is Us who now thank Her. We love you, dear Daughter Into Our rest please enter. But first, stand, and come now, We’ve waited long to hold you You’ve finished that life, You’re redeemed and you’re new. You let our Son cleanse you, Now we shall exalt you.

Cold ChristmasAn acrostic sonnet By Nancy Roche Rexburg, ID, USA Just and unjust step we onwards, wise men. Endless night around us and our chosen, Shifting course. Alone we face the frozen Umbra, sure we’re ever fallen again. Save our footsteps, only shadows sound here; The silence leaves us lonely with our thoughts Halfway thought, and then abandoned. The dots, Each footprint, our ellipsis dogged by fear. Choose your course against the winds of terror. Hold steady in the killing cold of sin. Rise up, a hand is stretched out even in Impenetrable shade of our error. Snow, lit from beneath, glistening, and white: The color of each soul He bought that night.