I Grieve Her Too.


I think my defection from the LDS church has run a pretty standard course, so I haven’t really felt like sharing my “leaving” story. But every once in a while, I get inspired to jot down some thoughts in poetry form.  My husband (who still believes, but it’s not quite fair to call him a TBM) and I have been talking lately about how losing faith in the church is a kind of grieving process. With that in mind, I wrote this a few days ago:


I Grieve Her Too.


You didn’t have to say it

for me to have seen it.

The mess, the chaos, the war.

I’m not who you married,

not what you signed up for.

Let’s admit, I’m not her anymore.


She baked, she painted,

she watched, she waited.

She pinned all her hopes on you.

You always loved telling

of her abundant faith.

I grieve the loss of her too.


She was bright-eyed, wide-eyed,

and blossomed under rule,

but felt guilt falling short of perfection.

She worried, she paced,

she practiced her lines,

to pass through the veil with no direction.


But then one day she wondered:

Is this really it?

The be-all, end-all, Truth?

For her gender uniquely,

the expectation seemed small.

Why would God need so little from her?


So she did as she was taught.

She followed the plan.

She searched, she pondered, she prayed.

When the answer that dawned

was so painfully different,

she wondered if she should just stay.


“I’m the first. I’m alone,”

she thought in despair.

“I’ve already made my bed.

To lie in it is all I can do.

Grin and bear it,

that’s the life that’s ahead.


But alone she was not.

No, not even close.

Twenty-six is too young to give up.

At the slightest reaching,

she was bombarded by support.

Peace and humor will fill her cup.


And now, what’s left?

A gaping wound

where that faith used to nestle deep.

Not surgically removed,

it was ripped from herself,

by an honest, but unfeeling thief.


That whole girl is dead.

She’s not coming back.

A new woman is here by your side.

And although I like this new one, I do.

I still grieve

the loss

of her too.

The North Shore Mormon Sangria Speakeasy

Very rarely when a longtime member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints disaffects does it happen quickly. Perhaps on occasion a learned morsel of truth has so aggressively resonated in contradiction with a member’s moral compass that they could walk away without looking back. Given the church’s radical, controvercial and widely hidden past, it’s actually surprising this doesn’t happen more often in the Google era. What usually transpires is a long period of cognitive dissonance. Slowly worldviews and commonly accepted truths sneak into your brain that are impossible to reconcile with the indoctrination that you’ve cherished from your youth. It is extremely uncomfortable and guilt-inducing. It is 3 days of darkness in the destroyed city of Zarahemla before a voice is heard from the heavens saying “Be calm. I don’t actually exist.”

My journey was long. It started immediately after my mission in early 2007, and it finished in the middle of 2013 when I finally became comfortable calling myself an exMormon. There are a lot of offensive and hilarious stories that occurred in that span. Over time I hope to share most of them. It would be both helpful and therapeutic to share them chronologically, but this is one that I have wanted to get out in the world for a long time. So I give you, The North Shore Mormon Sangria Speakeasy.

Laie, Hawaii is a beach community on the Northernmost part of Oahu, and home to BYU-Hawaii, the Mormon temple, and the Polynesian Cultural Center, also owned by the LDS church. To the West is the the pot-smoking surfer communities of Pipeline, Sunset and Haleiwa. To the East is the meth town of Hauula. The relative location truly makes Laie an oasis for the believers, and perpetuated an LDS ideal that I was familiar with from childhood: isolation.

Uh oh. I’m getting off-topic and I’m NOT funny. I’ll address Mormon culture and isolation at a later date. I was a student at BYU-Hawaii. Now, I don’t want to sound like a cocky asshole, but the shoe fits, Cinderella. I was a rockstar at BYU-Hawaii. Between athletics, student government, church callings and being a really eligible bachelor among women bred to be concerned with their fertility window after the age of 20, I was known by almost everyone. But it is a competetive jungle out there. Another slightly less eligible bachelor will throw loyalty to the wind if it means taking you out of the game. Therefore if you violate BYU’s code of conduct called the Honor Code, you do so at substantial personal risk. An anonymous tip to the Bishop or Honor Code office can jeopardize your 4 year education. Popularity+delinquency=scrutiny. Add the competetive rat race to temple marraige, and I had a target on my back.

But I was careful. I liked sitting on the beach with my friends, watching the waves come in, playing guitar, drinking straight from the bottle, and occasionally passing around a blunt. It was our dirty little secret. Almost every member of student government was a closet partier. In fact, we were known to the faculty as the Student Leadership and Honor Department. And we played our roles very well, and enjoyed our jobs, so we certainly had inscentive to be discreet.

I thought our secret was tight, likeunto a dish, until one night at about 10 pm I get a text message from a friend of a friend that read: “Some of my friends have never tried drinking before and they are curious. We just want someone experienced we can trust to come with us so everything is ok.” Shit. My secret is out there. And about to be blown significanly more open. More than the need for secrecy I didn’t want to be misunderstood. I didn’t equate disobedience with disbelief. Partying was a “quirk” about me, and the anonymity allowed me to distance myself from a “sinner” identity. It let me justify my full participation in the church, and I couldn’t expect anyone to understand that. But my name was clearly out there in this small circle, so I figured I had better get out there and do some damage control. I hurried to the spot we had decided to meet, and greeted the girl that had invited me. Behind her was a gaggle of 19-year olds, and one that I instantly recognized. Molly was the gorgeous, well-liked girl I had asked to the upcoming school dance days earlier. “Shit” I repeated, this time out loud. “Don’t swear in front of me” she retorted. Does she not realize I am taking her on her first booze tour? To the best of my knowledge Molly was the physical embodiment and literal namesake of the “Molly Mormon”. If you are unfamiliar with the term, it is a slur used for a bland, narrow-minded Mormon girl who never does anything wrong. But it’s too late to back out, so I lead this indiscreet cheer team to my predetermined spot on the beach where I pour everyone a moderate serving of vodka or rum with a healthy portion of pineapple orange juice as a mixer. Then the shitshow began. They were lightweights, but they weren’t shy. I dragged girls out of the jungle and the ocean, all the while trying my best to be responsible as Molly Mormon laid me down, staddled me, and took her shirt off. Oh God. Why is this happening now? This poor virgin is only doing this because she is experiencing alcohol for the first time. The whole premise of me being there was to make sure everyone was ok, so the fear of God that I still maintained dictated that I got the fuck out of there. I carried girls home, I tucked girls safely into bed, and then I passed out on Molly’s couch.

The next morning I took Molly and her first hangover out to breakfast. We sat in a parking lot, eating pancakes in my car and I listened to her tell me we were still on for the dance, but she comes from a pioneer family, and therefore should know better, and it would never happen again. Ridiculous. Molly believed her polygamous pioneer ancestors were watching, and that guilt was going to take the wheel during her college years. It makes me angry all over again, writing about it for my first time since it happened years ago.

Molly has long since gotten married in the temple and had a child. Good for you, Molly. You made your bed. You can sleep in it. What I learned from this experience was that there was a market for a safe place to misbehave in Zion. There were 2 other guys living in my house, both of whom were in my student government club of misfit Mormons. One was in the Elder’s Quorum Presidency. The other was a pot dealer. We started testing the water with people we suspected might be on our team.

Here’s how you do that:

1. Identify a likely candidate based on Facebook pictures. Party attendance, association with known perpetrators, and immodest dress were all clues we factored in.

2. Extend a bold invitation in a sarcastic tone. Just say something like, “Do you want to come over for wine night tomorrow at our house?” But you say it in a joking tone so one of 2 things will happen. They will probably laugh and say “yeah, then you can come to my house for crack ha ha ha!” This is not the person you are looking for. On the other hand they might narrow their eyes, meet your gaze, wait for a second and in a low voice say “…seriously…?” This is probably your person. Sound sarcastic enough that they have to ask a few times, leaving you the option to back out and say you were joking in case you misjudged their genuine interest.

3. Follow-through. Have the friends you trust with you so the new member feels a sense of community and belonging that doesn’t have the strings attached that your FHE group did.

After we started opening our doors to the public it was amazing how much of a demand existed for the service we provided. A safe, non-jundgemntal place where nobody asked about your feelings about the church. It was totally irrelevant. I certainly didn’t want anyone asking about mine because I was having so much fun ignoring them. By the time we had enough people in our “community” that was bound to silence by the overshadow of mutually assured destruction (of our ecclesiastical endoresments of higher education), we no longer needed established “wine nights.” We had an open door policy, with the understanding that if you bring someone into our house, they are your responsibility. It could have been expensive stocking liquor for an entire college town, so I always kept a few vats of sangria on hand. It was cheap, plentiful, and even new drinkers liked it. The North Shore Mormon Sangria Speakeasy was born. And led to the eventual end of my education at Brigham Young University-Hawaii. But that is another story for another day.

In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.Sangria40L