Religious Ruminations

I am a Latter Day Saint. To most of the world, I am more commonly known as a Mormon.

Let's clear some ridiculous notions up:
I do not have horns. And yes, for hellz sake, we celebrate birthdays and are allowed to have parties, (that might have been one of the most ludicrous things I’d ever heard) we don’t, in fact, drive around in covered wagons, and my husband has only one wife. ME. No men that belong to our church have more than one wife. If Big B did, I’d give him a swift kick to the nutters and walk away.

I have never outright mentioned my religion on my blog. I’m not sure why. Certainly not because I am ashamed of it. More because I write about my daily shenanigans and occurrences, and my beliefs are usually an integral part of that; of me.

I always grew up going to church, every Sunday, for the entire three hour block. I liked church. My parents were (and still are) very active members of our church, so I was taught the principles of our beliefs at a very early age. I was baptized when I was eight years old. In junior high and high school, I didn’t drink, I didn’t smoke, and I didn’t roll doobies out behind the school. I was a Good Girl. I got straight A’s, was a member of the seminary council in high school. I prayed morning and night. I read my scriptures every evening.

And then, when I was a senior in high school, I was shipped off to treatment for anorexia. And that is when my faith began to falter. Why would God allow me to hurt so much, I wondered? Did He care? I still believed in Him and His gospel, unequivocally, but began to doubt that I was worthy of His love or attention. I didn’t think I was any good.

But still, I went to church. I was no longer as enthusiastic about it, because I felt wrong, out of place in a roomful of people that I thought must be so spiritual, so much closer to God. I did not realize, as I do now, that we all hurt. We are all imperfect. But the beauty of all that is that God does not discriminate. He is not a vengeful god, or a spiteful one, looking for any opportunity to punish us. He is loving. And that is all encompassing, whether you be a sinner or a saint.

So for the past few years, that is how I have remained. A Cafeteria Mormon, I called myself. I did what I could, picked this or that, but wasn’t a member that had my heart and soul into every meeting, every activity, and every aspect of church. In fact, if I could get there in time, with Cade’s untidy hair combed, and with his slacks relatively wrinkle and stain free, it was a Good Sunday. But as the years passed, and as my eating disorder continued to corrode both body and soul, my faith wavered. Not in God, but in myself. I questioned if I was good enough, if I deserved blessings that He wanted to give me if I would only ask. I almost completely stopped praying, because I did not know how to pray for myself. I was alone, as I felt I deserved.

But last night.

Last night I was hurting. It was a degree of mental anguish that any words I could ever try to write to you, my dear readers, would be a severe underestimation. My anxiety over the course of the past month has become almost incapacitating. There are so many changes happening in the near future. I am trying desperately to eat and recover. I’m trying to be Good. A good mother, a good wife, a good friend, a good employee, a good human being. And yet I feel that I am failing utterly at all the responsibilities I have or have been given.

So last night, as I sat at my desk, staring blankly at my computer screen, legs tapping a mile a minute, tears stinging my eyes, I got down on my knees.

And I prayed.

It was a selfish prayer of me, really. I did not categorically thank Him for everything that I have. I simply asked – no, begged – for relief. I asked for Him to slow my heart and my body and my mind, to allow me to sleep. I asked for peace. I asked for faith to replace my fear. And, as I was closing my prayer, I said, “I know that I do not deserve your help and your love, but I am asking anyway. I'm so sorry.” And as I said that sentence, something hit me. Something glowing, and soft, and warm, and inviting. And I felt in my heart, something that might have said, “You are deserving of good things. I am not disappointed in you. I am glad you are finally asking for help. I have been waiting. I have been waiting for a very, very long time.”

And then I burst into tears. Brandon was out on the sofa and I came to him, crying. I crawled on his lap and sobbed like a baby. What is the matter honey, he asked me, alarmed?

And I said, nothing, honey, nothing.
These are tears of happiness.
Of relief.
Of peace.